"Stone's Fall" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pears Iain)

CHAPTER 7

Until that evening the day passed uneventfully. I went to Sloane Square, where I knew there was a bank, and asked to open an account. The Midland and County (a joint stock bank, I learned, as opposed to a private bank – these things become important when you study them) seemed quite enthusiastic when I mentioned the regular payments of #163;6 14s 8d that would be credited to my account every week. They were not so enthusiastic when I informed them that in fact I had absolutely nothing to give them at that moment, but dealt with the disappointment in a manly fashion. They gave me a book of cheques, with strict instructions not even to think of using one until I had deposited some money.

I went then to the Chelsea library to plunge into the world of money. Banking – joint stock, private, discount. Bills of exchange. Bills on London for forward delivery. Consols. Debentures. Issue at, below or above par. Yield. Dividend. First preference (or second preference) shares. Bonds, international, domestic, government or commercial. Clearly this capitalism was a more sophisticated beast than I had thought. I had considered it to be a means of theft that was more or less magical in its operation, but slowly realised it had its rules. Arcane and incomprehensible they might be, but rules nonetheless. Some people, at least, understood how it all worked. And what they could understand I could understand as well.

This determination was the sole result of my morning in the library. That and a headache, and the information that Mr Theodore Xanthos was, alas, only a salesman working for Ravenscliff's shipbuilding company. A pity. I had hoped he would have been more important than that, but it seemed he was only a minor figure whose enthusiasm to assist came from a desire for a mention in a book which would never get written anyway.

I walked down to the World's End for a sandwich and a pint, and returned to easier, more familiar matters in the afternoon. The death of Lord Ravenscliff. The obituaries. Journalism. Things I could grasp standing on my head. McEwen said start at the end and work back, and it was good advice, even without his own particular interest. I needed to know and understand the man; and a man's death is often very illuminating.

I summoned the papers – The Times and the Telegraph, as well as the financial papers as they always report on their own more fully – and read until my eyes popped out of my head and the library closed. I learned a little, but very far from enough.

The death first. Here the newspapers were singularly uninformative. Lord Ravenscliff had been discovered by a passer-by lying on the ground outside his house at two in the morning of 27 March 1909. He was still alive, but had died soon after. Death was due to head injuries sustained from a fall from a second-floor window. It was believed he had tripped on a carpet. He was sixty-eight years old.

The details were much as his wife and McEwen had related, and gave little else besides. The similarity between the various reports was striking. Evidently not a single one of the reporters had written the account himself. They all had a common source, who must have more or less dictated the report. More than that, the brief summary of events appeared in all the papers some three days after the death – that is on 30 March, an unusual delay in reporting the sudden and violent death of a peer, even if one of recent creation. Ordinarily events would have proceeded thus: Ravenscliff found, police summoned. Police go back to their station to report, man on desk informs journalist, who comes in for routine enquiries, as one does every morning. If it is not the stuff of which great scoops are made (and this would not have been considered such), he informs his colleagues in the pub at about eleven. All make whatever enquiries they see fit, and the first account appears in the evening, the rest the next morning.

In this case matters went along differently. The enquiring journalist was not told of Ravenscliff's death, either that day, or the day after. Why not? I decided that this would be my first enquiry. I had to start somewhere, and it piqued my interest. Besides, I had seven years; I was in no hurry.

It would give me something to do, and would place no great strain on my patience or intellect. I looked forward to it, for the rest of my time in the library was passed in much less interesting reading. Only the Financial Times gave Ravenscliff much of an obituary, and even there the details were sparse. Ravenscliff was born John William Stone in 1841, the son of a vicar in Shropshire. School, university. In 1868 he had set up the Gosport Torpedo Company. Then followed a blizzard of complicated dealings that made my head spin. Gosport Torpedo had been bought by Beswick Shipyard in Newcastle, which was listed on the Stock Exchange in 1878. Beswick then combined with the Gleeson's steelworks in 1885, then bought out the Yarnton chemical works, then the Salford railway factory, iron-ore mines in Yorkshire, and coal mines near Edinburgh. Then in 1890 he had put all his holdings into the Rialto Investment Trust and sold that on the Stock Exchange as well. The result, the obituarist told me, was an extraordinary construction which could begin by taking dust out of the earth and change it, bit by bit, into a fully operational and equipped battleship, without ever having to purchase a single object from an outside company. The entire combine was run with a legendary efficiency, so much so that it boasted that it could go from mine to battle on the high seas in less than twelve months.

Even more curious was the phrase 'among his business interests'.

The obituary dropped a similar hint later on: 'the most publicly known of his financial concerns . . .' What was the author leaving out? What was he not saying? What more was there? McEwen had said he owned the Chronicle; Wilf Cornford had mentioned hotels and banks. Is that what they meant?

As in most obituaries, the author said little about the man; they rarely do. But the reticence here was greater than usual. It mentioned that Ravenscliff left a wife, but did not say when they married. It said nothing at all about his life, nor where he lived. There were not even any of the usual phrases to give a slight hint: 'a natural raconteur' (loved the sound of his own voice); 'Noted for his generosity to friends' (profligate); 'a formidable enemy . . .' (a brute); 'a severe but fair employer . . .' (a slave-driver); 'devoted to the turf ' (never read a book in his life); 'a life-long bachelor' (vice); 'a collector of flowers' (this meant a great womaniser. Why it came to mean such a thing I do not know.)

More browsing through The Times Annual Index produced other articles of a general sort, but I could not face reading them that day. I had enough in my notebook at least to present a tolerably intelligent face to Franklin that evening, and I found the bombardment of names and share prices and capital ratios too bewildering to be contemplated on an empty stomach. So I took the bus back down to Fleet Street, where I went into the King and Keys for a pickled egg and a drink.

This was the Telegraph's pub, and a dingy little hole it was, with smelly gas lighting needed even on the brightest day as there were few windows to let in either light or fresh air. It stank of sweat, tobacco and sour beer. Why the Telegraph liked it I do not know, but there is no accounting for the loyalties and tastes of reporters. It just happens like that. On the positive side, Ma Bell the landlady was fat and amiable, always ready to extend credit or even lend money to regulars, and kept the place open all day and all night. It was for the Telegraph what a university common room was for dons, or the Reform Club for Liberal grandees. A place to call home. Also, I suspect that the squalor of the place was its main attraction, rather as some people form an affection for a mangy old cat because it is so revolting and unlovable.

Hozwicki was there, as I had hoped. Not an easy fellow, Stefan Hozwicki, but his appeal was his diligence. He was unpopular amongst his fellows, with a reputation for being somewhat superior. This was unwarranted; he was merely very antipathetic. It was near impossible to like him and few had tried. I had made some efforts – thinking when he had begun about eighteen months previously that I could show him the ropes, as others had done for me. Hozwicki did not want instruction, which he considered patronising, and in truth he was a good reporter. Alas, he had never realised that writing good stories is only a small part of the job. Standing around, complaining about editors, moaning about this, that and the next thing is far more important. Camaraderie is all.

By all means keep a scoop to yourself; that is expected. But do not hoard the unimportant. Most stories are picked up because a colleague tips you off, and expects to be tipped off in turn. Hozwicki saw all of life as a competition. He would never tell anyone anything. Instead of relying on, and contributing to, the pool of information offered up in the bar every morning, he went round all the police stations on his own. If he discovered something others had missed, however trivial, then he would keep it quiet. He was ambitious and was determined to make something of himself, no matter what others might think.

I do not know whether he would ever have achieved his ambitions; he died at the Front in 1915, the victim of his own diligence. When others became war reporters, he joined up, determined to show himself a true Englishman, despite his name and place of birth – which was, I believe, Poland. And while his fellows kept their heads down in their trenches, he volunteered for night-time scouting. His body was never found.

He greeted me with little warmth, but at least he didn't sidle off down the bar as I approached. 'I've been doing the Hill End murder all day,' he said. Conversation did not come naturally to him. He either spoke to communicate information, or he was silent. At least it spared me the burden of having to make light conversation in return. Hozwicki was the only reporter in London who would not be offended by directness.

'Did you write about Ravenscliff when he died?'

He grunted. Was I about to point out a mistake? Offer some supplementary information? Was an answer to his advantage or disadvantage? He could not yet tell.

'Yes,' he said.

'Tell me. It's an old dead story. You lose nothing. And might gain something in the future.'

His eyes narrowed. 'What?'

'Whatever I discover. Have you heard that I've resigned?'

He hadn't. I felt a little offended. As I say, we are a gossipy bunch.

I didn't flatter myself that my departure would have been high on the list of interesting anecdotes, mind, but I had expected word to have gone around a little more quickly.

'I have. So anything I find which might make a decent story will not be written up by me. Do you understand?'

He nodded.

'Good. I want to know why it took three days for Ravenscliff's death to appear in the papers.'

'Because the police didn't tell anyone before then.'

I frowned. 'But why not?'

'I imagine the family wanted it that way. They do that, these people. They ask the police, the police obey.'

Something to ask Ravenscliff's widow on our next meeting. 'How do you know this?'

Simple, in his account. He had gone to Bow Street police station, as he always did, at half-past nine in the morning. It was his last call of the day; he lived in the deepest East End and started with the City police stations at about five, working his way west on his bicycle round about the same time as I was heading east to work.

'Normally, they just turn the duty book round and let me look at the entries. Then I ask about anything which interests me, and they give me a summary. Simple enough. You know the routine.'

I nodded.

'Not that morning. It was the hairy beetroot on duty.'

It was a good enough description. Sergeant Wilkins weighed considerably over twenty stone, and had a complexion that ranged from deep red on his cheeks to purple at the end of his nose. Even standing up made him wheeze with effort, and going out on the beat was so far beyond his abilities that he had long since been confined to the desk by sympathetic colleagues. According to the regulations he should have been dismissed as unfit for duty, but the police always look after their own. Wilkins was a sort of saint, universally liked even by the criminals whose cases he processed day after day. The sort who looked as though each crime was a personal disappointment. Normally a more helpful and accommodating person could not be found.

But that day Wilkins had refused to let him see the book and merely read off a couple of entries. 'Nothing else today,' he said heartily. When a very loud, violent, singing drunk was dragged in by the feet a few minutes later, Wilkins had wheezed over to the door to see what was going on, and Hozwicki had quickly spun the book round to have a look. He only had a few seconds, but it was enough: '2.45: 379 to St James's Square. Body found. Refer to Mr Henry Cort FO.'

'Refer what?'

Hoswicki shrugged.

'Henry Cort?'

Another shrug.

'FO?'

He shrugged again. Annoying habit.

'So why no story?'

'I was curious, so I went to the morgue, and they confirmed it. A body had been brought from the Charing Cross Hospital, identified as Ravenscliff. I went back to the office, and started to write it up. Just a holding story, as I was going to get it to the desk then go out and get some more information. I also told the editor, so he could get the obituary ready.'

'And?'

'And nothing. I went back to St James's Square to start knocking on doors,' I wrinkled my nose here; Hozwicki was fond of this sort of vulgarity in reporting his stories, 'but before I could get anywhere one of the runners found me, and told me I was wanted back in the office.'

It happens; it had happened to me often. All newspapers then had their runners, a collection of lads who congregated in the main entrance waiting to earn a penny or two carrying messages. They were often remarkable boys, dirty and cheeky, but the best were exceptional and knew London like the backs of their hands. They would cross town at amazing speed, hanging on to the backs of buses, running; I even saw one going down Oxford Street on the roof of a taxi once, waving insolently to bystanders.

'So back I went,' Hozwicki continued, 'and was given a dressing down by the day editor. I was not to waste my time on the death of someone so stupid that he had fallen out of a window.'

He paused and looked at me. I didn't respond, so he went on. 'How did he know he had fallen out of a window, eh? Someone had talked to him about it.'

'Do you know who?'

'All I could find out was that a very proper-looking man had arrived in the office a couple of hours previously, and talked to him for about half an hour. Even my short account of Ravenscliff's death was then removed from the paper, and ten minutes after he left, the runner was sent off. The story was squashed, and when it did appear, it wasn't written by me.'

'Who did write it?'

He shook his head. 'Not someone who works for the Telegraph,' he said. 'I did ask the editor later, but he brushed it aside. "Sometimes you just do as you are told," he said. But I think he was referring to himself, as much as to me.'

I finished my beer and thought about that. I was sure that Hozwicki was telling me the truth; he seemed positively pleased to share his indignation. Obviously editors are wayward people; everyone knows that. They drop stories on a whim, or to do personal favours, or because of the owners. It happens all the time. But normally you can see why, even if you don't approve. Why sit on a fairly straightforward story?

'Wait a minute,' Hozwicki said, 'What do I get in return for this?'

'Nothing yet,' I said cheerfully. 'Except my thanks.'

He scowled.

'And my promise that when I have something to give in return, you will have it. Think of it as an investment,' I said. 'It may diminish to nothing; it may pay rich rewards in due course.'

I saluted him, and left, walking up the fug-filled steps into the open air of Fleet Street, so fresh after that dingy basement it made me feel dizzy for a few moments.