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

CHAPTER 10

I was apprehensive as I was conducted into a little sitting room in St James's Square. A different room, more cosy and intimate than the grand salon where we had met last time. A fire burned in the grate, making it pleasantly warm and suffused with a smell of apple wood. On the mantelpiece there were trinkets of all sorts – mirrors, pieces of framed needlework, little statues in bronze. A handsome blue porcelain bowl. The walls were lined with books. Evidently Ravenscliff was a great reader. And an accomplished one. These were not there for decorative purposes, as you see sometimes in great houses. These books were to be read. Had been read, in fact. Novels in French and English and German and Italian. Works of history and philosophy; medical journals, books of travel. The classics – in translation and the original languages. Dictionaries and reference books. I knew many of the English titles, and had heard of some of the others. Zola, Tolstoy, Darwin, Mill. Marx, I noted with curiosity. Know thine enemy. Books on sociology and psychology. Even a few on criminology. It was an impressive range. Lucky the man with the leisure and energy to read them all. Ravenscliff, of course, was not a man of leisure. Curious. It made me feel a little self-conscious about how much time I spent in pubs.

And on the far wall two paintings, the larger a portrait of Lady Ravenscliff, painted some twenty years ago, I guessed. I could see the appeal. She was one of those people painters must love; her left shoulder was facing the viewer and her head was turned so it faced out of the canvas. She wore a golden red dress, which showed off her long, elegant neck. There was no jewellery of any sort; she did not need any; her face and hair were quite enough. She had been, and still was, a lovely woman.

'Henner,' came a soft voice behind me.

I turned. Lady Ravenscliff was standing at the door with a faint smile on her face.

'Pardon?'

'Jean-Jacques Henner. He died a few years ago and I suppose his fame has faded, but he was one of the finest portraitists of his generation. That's me in 1890 before I grew old and wrinkled.'

'You are hardly that,' I muttered. I really didn't feel like paying compliments. In fact I never did, and I had had little practice.

'And this is John.' She pointed to the smaller portrait, tucked away in a corner of the room. 'He hated having his portrait taken. He only consented because I demanded it as a birthday present. He grumbled incessantly, and would only have this little thing done. It's so tiny you can barely see him.'

I looked. So that was Lord Ravenscliff. I peered intently, but it gave me no clues. He seemed nothing remarkable; there was no look of bestriding arrogance or pride; no hint of cruelty or kindness. It was just a face, that of a perfectly prosperous gentleman, looking calmly out with only a hint of weariness about having to waste his time to placate a demanding wife. He looked almost agreeable.

'May I say I'm surprised he found the time to read so much?' I said as I gestured at the shelves. 'I thought these men of business worked all the time.'

'He liked reading,' she said with a smile at my condescension. 'But this is my room. John's is upstairs. He preferred less well-upholstered surroundings. He did not like to get too comfortable when he was working.'

'Ah.'

'That's right. I can read.'

'I didn't mean—'

'Yes you did,' she said brightly.

I blushed.

'It doesn't matter. In this country it is quite usual for women of my position to regard reading a book as somehow inelegant. However, you must remember that I used to live in France, where it is not considered wholly inappropriate. But I have loved reading all my life. We must talk more about this some time. I always think it important to know what a man reads. Tell me, what do you think of this?'

She picked up the blue bowl and handed it to me casually. What was I to say? It was a blue bowl. With patterns on. Blue ones. I shrugged. She put it back.

'Well?' I said, I hope a little coldly. 'You wished to take your revenge by revealing my ignorance and you have succeeded. You might as well enlighten me.'

'Oh, it is nothing of importance,' she replied. 'And you are right. That was offensive. I apologise. Shall we begin again?'

'Very well.'

'So. Tell me, have you made any progress since we last met?'

'A little. I have talked to a few people and done some background reading. But I have to say that I have questions which must be answered before I proceed any further.' I did not like this. The meeting had not got off to a good start.

'Dear me,' she said with a smile. 'That does sound serious.'

'It is.'

'Well? Go on,' she prompted as I lapsed into silence. I had never done anything like this before, and I wasn't quite sure how I should phrase the questions. Thinking of what to say, and actually saying it now she was standing in front of me, were very different.

'Mr Braddock? Are you going to say something, or just stare at me all afternoon?'

'It's difficult to know where to begin . . .'

'At the beginning?'

'Don't make fun of me. What I need to know is whether you are being honest with me. All the evidence suggests you are not.'

'And what,' she said, definitely cooler now, 'have I said or done to make you think such a thing?'

'Were I a reporter once more, I would leap to one obvious conclusion,' I said, feeling better now that I had got under way. 'Your husband dies and you instantly go to his desk, remove whatever evidence there is about the identity of this child, and hide or destroy it. Then you call me in to look for something you know cannot be found, so that you can appear to be a dutiful and obedient widow, carrying out her husband's wishes. In due course, all the money which should have gone to this child comes to you.'

She looked evenly at me. 'In that case you are a very bad reporter. Someone with a flair for a story would also have considered the possibility that I discovered, one way or another, something about the provision in his will. That I was so overcome with jealousy that I not only did as you say, I also pushed my husband out of the window.'

Was she angry, or distressed? She held her jaw so tightly that I knew it was one or the other, but her self-control was so great it defeated any attempt to penetrate further.

'I have considered that possibility,' I replied.

'I see. So are you here to tell me you do not wish to continue in my employ? Or are you trying to discover a way of keeping the money, even though it comes from a murderess?'

She was quite calm as she spoke, which convinced me that she was furious with me; so furious that I doubted whether it was going to be my choice.

'I am trying to discover what happened. Which is the job you gave me. Part of it, anyway. I must say that I do not really think you are a murderess. But I need to get circumstances clear in my mind. You ask me to find this child, and the task would be easily accomplished if the evidence was where your husband said it was. Someone moved it. It might help considerably if I knew who.'

'So? Ask.' She had not forgiven me, nor entirely resumed her pose of calm, but I could see my remarks had mollified her a little.

'Did you move it?'

'No. Do you believe me?'

'Who did move it?'

'I don't know.'

'Who could have moved it?'

'I don't know that either. Or rather, I could give you a list of people who have been in the house long enough to occupy you for months. I imagine it would have been in the large drawer which contains a strongbox. It would have been locked. Only my husband had a key.'

'Forgive me for asking, but could I see this desk?'

'By all means.' She stood up and walked to the door. She was not the sort of woman whose clothes needed smoothing down, however long she had been sitting; they simply fell into place. That was expensive couture, I guessed. Or maybe she was simply one of those people who was like that. My own clothes looked rumpled even when they were fresh back from the laundry.

'Was your husband disturbed or preoccupied at all in his last few weeks or months?' I asked as we walked up the stairs. I walked beside her out of modesty, as the sight of her from behind was too enticing to be polite.

'Perhaps. He had been different, more distant for some time before his death. And in the last few days he was very preoccupied.'

'In what way?'

'I could see something in his eyes. Worry. I think it was a premonition.'

'About his death?'

'Yes. The human mind is a strange and complex thing, Mr Braddock. Sometimes it can see the future without realising it.'

'Did you ask what concerned him?' I said, steering the conversation away from this topic as fast as was seemly.

'Of course. But he simply said there was nothing which I should worry about. That all would be well. I never doubted it until he reassured me.'

'But you have no idea . . .'

'None. I assume it was something to do with his business affairs, because I can discover no other possible explanation. Although I saw less of him than usual.'

'Why was that?'

'He was working. He would be out late. Ordinarily, he would return in the early evening, and he rarely left the house again. He preferred to eat at home, then we would read together. Sometimes he would have work to attend to, but only in his office. Sometimes he would read his papers sitting by the fire, with me next to him. In the last few weeks he would go out again, sometimes coming back late at night. But he never told me why.'

'Do you know a man called Cort? Henry Cort?'

She gave no reaction, either of pleasure or anything else. 'I have known Mr Cort for more than twenty years,' she replied evenly. 'John also knew him for a long time.'

'Who is he?'

'He is . . . I don't know how to describe him, really. He was once a journalist, although I understand he gave that up long ago. He was a correspondent for The Times in Paris, which is where I came to know him.'

'So he was not an employee of your husband?'

'Oh, no. He has independent means. Why do you ask?'

'A name that came up,' I replied. I still didn't know what FO meant. Some religious order? 'Was your husband a Catholic?'

She smiled. 'His mother was, but John was brought up as an Anglican. His father was a vicar. But he was not a great churchgoer.'

'I see,' I replied.

'Here we are,' she said, opening a door on the second floor. 'This was his office. And where he fell.'

It was a room about eighteen feet square, the same size as the sitting room we had been in a few moments previously. And, presumably, directly above it. A simple but masculine room where the other had all the touches of a woman's hand. In this room brown dominated; the woodwork painted as mock oak, the curtains heavy velvet. A smell of tobacco hung in the air; heavy wooden filing cabinets filled one wall, and there were no paintings, only a few photographs in heavy silver frames. Family? Friends?

'All his family,' she replied. 'His parents, sisters and their children. He was fond of them all, but they rarely met after his mother died. She was a remarkable, if rather strange, woman. Foreign, like me. He got much of his drive from her, his kindness from his father. They all live in Shropshire, and rarely come to Town.'

'Would one have been close enough for him to have confessed an indiscretion?'

'I wrote and asked, but they said they knew nothing. By all means ask again, if you wish,' she replied. 'Now, this is his desk, and I had assumed that these documents would have been in this drawer.'

I saw that the whole left-hand pillar keeping the desk up was in fact one drawer, which, when opened, revealed a metal top. It was clearly immensely heavy, but slid out on hidden rollers underneath, which bore much of the weight.

'He had this built to his own requirements,' she explained. 'It was the sort of thing he liked to do.'

'He was a practical man?'

She laughed, thinking fondly. 'No, not a bit. He was the most impractical man I have ever known. I don't think I ever saw him do anything at all with his hands, besides eat, write and light his cigar. I meant he liked solving problems to his own satisfaction. Then he would get other people to turn his ideas into reality.'

I pulled at the lid on top of the strongbox; it came open easily. There were bundles of papers inside.

'Examine them if you wish,' she said. 'But you will find they are all deeds of our houses, and insurance policies and other domestic documents. I have looked carefully, but do so again if you want to.'

'Later, perhaps. Was the drawer locked or unlocked when you first came to see what was in here?'

'Locked. And the key was in John's pocket. At the morgue.'

'Is there another key?'

'I don't know.'

I stood and looked at the drawer for a few minutes, hands in my pockets, thinking. That was a waste of time; no blinding flash of inspiration came to me to solve the problem and make everyone's life easier. I even considered ridiculous possibilities, and lifted the carpet to see if a sheaf of papers was underneath. Lady Ravenscliff looked on impassively.

'I have searched thoroughly,' she commented.

I looked at her carefully. 'I know you have,' I said. And, for the first time, I really believed it. This was not a conclusion that would appeal to anyone with a fondness for tales of detection. Ask me why I concluded that she was telling me the truth, and I could give no satisfactory reason. Nothing had changed since I had walked the streets deciding that the exact opposite conclusion was the more likely. I merely wanted to believe her so much that my desire became reality. Instinct, guesswork, self-interest. Call it what you will. From that moment on I worked on the assumption that my employer was an honest and innocent woman.

She was not, however, particularly grateful for my faith. She scarcely seemed to notice it. Instead, she gestured at the window. 'This is where he fell,' she said quietly.

I walked over to the tall sash window in the wall opposite the desk. It was gigantic; some ten feet high as they are in buildings of this sort; stretching low and almost to the ground. The bottom of the frame was less than a foot from the floor, the top only a couple of feet from the ceiling. The two sashes were held shut by a highly polished brass clasp.

I tried to open it; it was stiff, but shifted eventually; the sash slid up only with difficulty and some noise. It was a long way to the ground, and looking out I could see that immediately underneath was a long stretch of thick, spiked, iron railings.

'How tall was your husband?'

'A few inches shorter than you,' she said.

'And not athletic, I assume?'

'Not in the slightest. He was not fat, but set no great store by exercise. Shortly before he died, he was wondering about installing one of these new elevators at the back of the house so he wouldn't have to walk up and down stairs.'

I smiled. 'Good for him. I was just wondering how he managed to fall out of this window. If he tripped on this carpet here, and stepped forward to regain his balance' – I performed the manoeuvre myself to show what I meant – 'then he should have cracked his head on the bottom sash. Certainly even the clumsiest of men should have been able to steady himself by grabbing the window frame.'

She was sitting in the little plush-velvet bucket chair by the fireplace now, her hands clasped together in her lap. 'I don't know,' she replied sadly. 'I didn't come up here until much later. I was out that evening, and did not get back until late. The police were waiting for me. They told me there had been an accident and I went directly to the hospital. He was already dead. I didn't come up here until late that day.'

'And the window was open?'

'No. One of the servants said he had closed it; it was raining and the water was coming in. And he tidied up the room as he does every morning.'

'And was it unusually disarranged?'

'That depends on what you mean by unusually. Once John was finished with a book or a newspaper – or anything, really – he would just drop it on the ground. I very much doubt he would have noticed even if the room was never tidied up. He lived in this house to please me, and because he thought it was the sort of house a man of his standing should live in. It isn't, of course; had we lived in such a place we would have bought something very much bigger. But he really had no taste for ostentation. We have another house in Paris, which was bought solely for my benefit. He was utterly uninterested in expensive living, although he did like good food and wine. And the sea. He always wanted to live by the sea, but had never managed it. We had planned to buy a house on the coast somewhere. The trouble was we couldn't agree where. I wanted Biarritz, he wanted Dorset. Curiously, he was a very simple man. You would have liked him, had you given him a chance.'

This sentence was added on so gently I almost missed it. 'You think I wouldn't have done?'

'I think you assume all rich men of business must be cruel and greedy by nature. Some are, no doubt. But in my experience they are no better or worse in general than any other class of man.'

'How many people were in the house at the time of the fall?'

'No more than twelve. My husband and the servants.'

'Everyone but your husband was asleep?'

'I imagine so. Although I have no doubt that some of the servants misbehave themselves when they are not watched. As long as they do their jobs, I do not interest myself in such things.'

Another one of those comments which took me slightly unawares.

'Why do you ask?'

'Because, squalid little reporter with an eye for a story that I am, I still cannot rid myself of the idea that your husband did not fall. I have heard he had a terrible fear of heights. Is that correct?'

She smiled. 'Yes, it was. It was what made me fall in love with him.'

'I'm sorry?'

'We were walking over a bridge in Paris, and he suddenly turned pale, and grabbed hold of me. I thought he was making an advance, but in fact he was simply feeling dizzy. It was the first time I realised he had any frailties. But he needed to pretend, so he did kiss me, merely to cover up his weakness. I teased him without mercy until he confessed, and he was as shamefaced as a schoolboy.'

She had such a sweet smile as she remembered this that it was almost a pity to bring her reminiscence to an end, but I did find her memories inappropriate. So I continued on remorselessly.

'So would he have walked up and down by an open window?'

'Not usually. But he did love his cigars, and he knew I hate the smell of cigar smoke. He was prepared to take grave risks, when necessary.'

'Then let me ask you directly: would anyone want to murder your husband?'

'Absurd,' she said promptly. 'In his life he was the kindest of men. In his business he had a reputation for fairness. He had rivals, no doubt. But not enemies. He was an easy-going employer to the servants who, in any case, naturally referred to me first of all. Besides, even the most violent and detestable men generally die in their beds.'

'But you know nothing of his business affairs.'

'That is not entirely true. We talked a great deal. Although rarely about the details. I was not greatly interested, and he thought of me as a sort of antidote to work. He was not obsessed with his work. Methodical is a better term.'

I shook my head. 'I wish I could say our conversation today has helped me,' I commented, 'but it has made me the more confused. I do not think I am giving you very good value for money at the moment.'

'You have a long way to go,' she said. 'I do not despair of you yet. What else confuses you?'

'The same question that has always worried me. Why are you bothering? Why do you want me to look for this child?'

'I told you; to respect my husband's wishes.'

'And I am not convinced. After all, he did not respect his own wishes enough to make the task easy.'

'It is all I can offer you. Have you some further unfavourable interpretation?'

'Ah . . .'

'You might as well say. You have already accused me of being a murderess, and on the whole I think I took that fairly well.'

'Henderson told me that the will cannot be settled until this matter is cleared up. So you are dependent on the generosity of the executor until then.'

'Oh, I see,' she said. 'So rather than respecting John's wishes, I am selfishly looking after my own. Is that what you are saying?'

'Well . . .'

'In that case I would hardly have hidden the papers. Besides, I did not come to this marriage a pauper. I have more than enough money, even if I receive nothing from John at all. There is no motive or reason for you at all there. Do you understand?'

'I have offended you. I apologise.'

'I would rather you say these things, than think them in secret. And I suppose they are reasonable. We rich people are cruel and heartless, are we not? Not like ordinary people. Not like you.'

'As I say, I apologise.'

'I will tell you when I accept your apology.'

She stood up. I was dismissed. Or maybe not. I did not know.

'Is there anything else?'

'No. Except – who is this other woman mentioned in his will? This Italian lady?

'Signora Vincotti? I don't know. I have never heard the name before. I assume, as I suppose you have already done, that she was his mistress.'

'Does that upset you?'

She looked gravely at me. 'Of course. I am distressed he did not trust me more.'

'Pardon?'

'He kept a secret from me. That wounds me. He must have known that I would not have caused a scene over such a trivial matter.'

'It seems he kept more than one secret,' I pointed out.

She looked at me stonily. 'Any more questions?'

'Yes. To leave that amount of money to this woman suggests she was not trivial.'

'That is true.'

'Are you not . . . curious, at the least?'

'I suppose I am. What do you suppose I should do about it?'

'If you wish, I could visit this lady on your behalf. I understand she arrives tomorrow and will stay at the Russell Hotel in Bloomsbury.'

She thought about that. 'I have a better idea. I will visit her myself. You may come with me.'

A vision of two jealous women rolling on the floor trying to scratch each other's eyes out floated before me. 'I don't think I would recommend that.'

'It is not for you to recommend anything. I will send a note this afternoon and make an appointment.'

That put me in my place. I could either go with her or not; it would not make any difference to her decision. I decided to go.

'And at the same time,' she said lightly, 'we may discover something that will put you out of a job.' Tears welled up in her eyes as she spoke, and I looked on, horrified at the thought that I might have to witness her embarrassment. She was a woman deceived, and had discovered it under the most terrible circumstances.

'I'm sorry,' I said. It was not a useful remark, and she paid it no attention.

'I had no children,' she said eventually. 'John said he didn't mind, that it was enough to have me. That I had brought him all the happiness in the world, and he wanted no more. I am a fool to be so distressed. Of course he had the right to do as he pleased; it made no difference to our life together, and does knowing really make any difference?'

'Yes?'

She nodded. 'I should have been able to do that for him. Not some other woman who was so unimportant he never even mentioned her existence. Now, if you will excuse me, I have some matters to attend to. My husband's papers are in those cabinets over there. You may look at whatever you wish. I have instructed the servants that you are to be allowed into the house at all times, whether I am here or not. You see, I have nothing to hide.'

And she left. I contemplated beginning on the daunting array of filing cabinets – which, I considered, would be most likely to contain something of use – but could not face it. The interview had left me disoriented, shaking almost.