Stone's Fall

by Iain Pears

  Having achieved my aim of getting into the party, I realised that I hadn’t thought too much about what I was meant to do next. I wanted to see Elizabeth, to warn her, to talk to her. But how to find her, even if she was there? All the women were in masks, and although I reckoned I could count on her to be more beautifully turned out than anyone else in the room, it was impossible to tell which one she might be. Some of the masks were tiny and did nothing to disguise the identity of the wearer, but a fair number were very large. All I could do was wander around, hoping she would notice me. If she was there, she didn’t. Or maybe she was, but didn’t want to acknowledge me. I was rapidly beginning to think this had been a bad idea.

  “Glad you could come,” said a hearty voice besides me as I retired to the wall again and tried to be as visible as possible. I had attracted the wrong person. A tall, grey-haired man with a bristling moustache and a red face—mainly from a collar two sizes two small for him, so the fat of his neck hung down over it—was standing beside me, looking vaguely hopeful. He seemed bored with the whole thing, and desperate for any reason not to have to compliment some absurdity in frills.

  “Good evening, sir,” I said, then remembered who he was. “I’m pleased to see you again.”

  Tom Baring peered at me, uncertainly, a look of vague panic passing across his face. He knew me; had met me; had forgotten who I was. Such were his thoughts, I knew. Nothing quite like embarrassment for making someone try harder.

  “A meeting at Barings last year,” I said vaguely. “We didn’t meet properly.”

  “Ah, yes. I remember,” he said, surprisingly convincingly in the circumstances.

  “Family duties, you know…”

  He looked a bit more interested. I had a family that had duties.

  “In fact, the only interest in the meeting was the possibility that I might have been able to ask your advice. About a piece of porcelain.” A fairly desperate way of winning his confidence and establishing a connection, but the best I could do. And it seemed to work. He brightened immediately.

  “Oh, well. Only too glad. Ask away, please do.”

  “It is a dish of some sort. I was given it. It’s Chinese.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, it is meant to be,” I continued with perfectly genuine vagueness. “I was given it as a present, you see, and I wouldn’t trust any old dealer to tell me truthfully what it is. I’d be too easily deceived, I’m afraid. I was wondering if you could tell me of an honest one.”

  “No such thing,” he said cheerfully. “They’re all rogues and scoundrels. Now I will certainly tell you the truth. Unless it’s really valuable, in which case I’ll tell you it’s worthless and offer to take it off your hands.” He laughed heartily. “Tell me about it.”

  “About nine inches across. With blue foliage—bamboo and fruits, that sort of thing.”

  “Markings? Any stamps?”

  “I believe so,” I said, straining to remember.

  “Hmm. Not much help. From your description it could be 1430s, or made last year and sold in any teashop. I’d have to look at it. Where did it come from?”

  “I was given it. It used to be on the mantelpiece in Lady Ravenscliff ’s sitting room.” To say she had given it to me was stretching a point, perhaps.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Not the Ostrokoff bowl?”

  “I think that’s the one.”

  “Good God, man! It’s one of the loveliest pieces of Ming porcelain in the world. The whole world.” He looked at me with new interest and no little curiosity. “I have asked to buy it on many an occasion, but have always been turned down.”

  “I’ve been using it to eat my breakfast.”

  Baring gave a shudder. “My dear boy! The first time I saw it I almost fainted. He gave it to you? Do you have any idea what it is worth? What on earth did you do for Ravenscliff?”

  “That, I’m afraid, I am not at liberty to say.”

  “Oh. Well, quite correct. Quite correct,” he said, still quite breathless and flustered. The thought of my boiled eggs had so rattled him that he was no longer in full command of his faculties. For my part, the memory of it flying past my shoulder and smashing into the wall came flooding back to me. An extravagant gesture. I almost felt flattered.

  “Well—I shouldn’t. But—well, battleships.”

  “Oh, you mean Ravenscliff ’s private navy?”

  I smiled, and tried to look nonchalant about the whole thing.

  “I suppose you know about that?”

  “Of course. I had to be brought in over moving the money around. I was very doubtful, I must say, but, as you may know, we owe Ravenscliff a great deal.”

  “Just so.”

  “What exactly do you do…?”

  I looked cautious. “I keep an eye on things. Quietly, if you see what I mean. Did, at least, for Lord Ravenscliff. Until he died.”

  “Yes, indeed. Great loss. Very awkward as well. Bad timing.”

  “Ah, yes.”

  “Damnable Government, dithering like that. Although Ravenscliff was remarkably sanguine. All will be well, he said. Don’t worry. He knew exactly how to persuade them to take the plunge… Then he dies. Typical of the man that he foresaw even that possibility, though. When we heard I must say we rather panicked. If the shareholders found out what’s been going on…”

  “Difficult,” I said sympathetically.

  “Can you imagine? Telling our shareholders that the bond they thought was for a South African gold mine was in fact for a private battle fleet? I’d be picking oakum in Reading gaol by now. But at least I’d be in good company.” He laughed. I joined in, perhaps a little too heartily.

  “Yet here you are.”

  “Here I am, as you say. Thanks to Ravenscliff putting some nonsense in his will so no one can look at the books for a bit. It has bought us time. Although not much. I’m damnably worried about it.”

  “So is his widow, I understand,” I said.

  “Ah, yes. I suspect she may know more than she should. There was little Ravenscliff didn’t tell her.”

  “How is that?”

  “Well, I don’t know exactly what he said, of course, but I hear that she has hired some man to find this child. Which, of course, has the effect of making its existence all the more real. The more he bumbles around, asking questions, the better it is.”

  Oh, God, I thought.

  “Are you all right?” Baring asked.

  “No,” I said. “I’ve had a bit of a stomachache all day. Would you think me terribly rude if I excused myself?”

  “I’m so sorry. By all means.”

  “Is Lady Ravenscliff here, by the way?”

  “Of course not,” he said. “She’s in mourning. Not even in Cowes.”

  “Really? I was told she was staying on the royal yacht.”

  “Certainly not. I was there for tea this afternoon. No, I imagine she is still in London. I know she is no respecter of convention, but even she would not…”

  I didn’t really care one way or the other. I turned round and walked out of the ballroom, as slowly as I could manage, got to the big French windows which opened on to the garden and, when I was out of sight, broke into a run, heading for the wall where I’d come in as quickly as I could.

  And there I sat, for an hour or more, half-listening to the sound of the orchestra, the occasional footfall as a couple walked past, or the men came out for a cigar, the women for some fresh air, but not really interested in any of it.

  Everyone had been right. I had been chosen because of my complete unsuitability. My job really had been to confuse matters. The child did not exist, had never existed; it was a safety net, designed to protect Ravenscliff ’s companies should he die before this great undertaking was completed. The Government wanted battleships, but dared not order them. Barings and Ravenscliff put up the money, and gambled they would change their minds. Of course it had to be secret; the slightest whisper could bring the Government down and Ravenscliff ’s empire…<
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  And did I care one jot? No. I had comforted her in her distress, sympathised with her loss, worked desperately to find the information she wanted, come to her with my little discoveries, been deceived by the look of gratitude in her eyes when I assured her that all would be well. And when I began to find out more than I should, Xanthos turns up to give me a good fright. Dear God, but I hated the lot of them. Let them fight it out between them.

  I got up finally, stiff and cold even though the night was warm, and crawled over the wall into the freedom of the normal, ordinary, mundane world, where people tell the truth and mean what they say. Where honesty counts, and affection is real. Back into my own world, in fact, where I felt comfortable and at home. It was my own fault, really. I should have listened.

  I’ve mentioned that I tend to sleep well, most of the time. The great gift did not desert me that night, fortunately. Even though Jackson snored abominably, and the floor was hard, I fell asleep by two o’clock, and slept as though all the world was well. In the morning I had to work to bring back the memories of the night before, but found when I did so that I was free of them. So I had been made a fool of. Used, manipulated, deceived. Not the first time, and not the last. And at least I had figured it out for myself. Even the thoughts of revenge which had flickered through my mind the night before held no more attraction. Yes, I could have told my two snoring companions everything. But I couldn’t really be bothered and, besides, what good would it serve? I could destroy Ravenscliff ’s companies, but they would only be replaced by others just the same.

  And it was a lovely, fine morning, of the sort when it was good to be alive. I even took Gumble’s complaints about having stolen his clothes, and Jackson’s insistence on keeping my plaster lobster as a souvenir, in good part. I was resolved to think no more of the matter. I would spend Elizabeth Ravenscliff ’s money, I would think no more of battleships—let alone of mediums, anarchists or any other rubbish. None of it was my business. I did not care. I would become a journalist once more, and go back to my old life, somewhat richer than I had been to begin with. What possible reason did I have to complain, anyway? I was paid well, and if it was to make a fool of myself, so be it. I was a well-paid fool, at least. And that evening, I decided, I would go to Southampton, and I would get on a boat and I would go to South America, having posted Xanthos’s cheque off to my bank first of all. More money. If they wanted to give it away, why should I turn down the offer? I’d earned it.

  I bought my two colleagues breakfast—a good breakfast, the best that Cowes could provide, with lashings of bacon, black pudding, eggs, fried bread, fried tomatoes, tea, toast and marmalade, the works, and then decided that, as Jackson was going on the press jaunt to the Sandrart, I would go with him. I now had nothing better to do. I was a free man, unemployed, my own master.

  Oh, yes. The Tsar of all the Russias. Nicholas II. You would have thought, no doubt, that having such a grand gentleman in town would have caused a stir. It was not every day, after all, that the world’s greatest autocrat, the last true absolute monarch in Europe, dropped into a small town off the south coast. In fact, he hadn’t. He hadn’t even put a foot on shore. The only evidence of his presence was the shape of the imperial yacht, the Sandrart, about half a mile offshore, anchored a few hundred yards from the Victoria and Albert and with a collection of navy gunboats posted around doing guard duty. As a sop to the journalists, who wanted something to put in their daily bulletins, there was to be a tour of the yacht. I had expected that Gumble would come along as well, but he turned his nose up at the idea. “You don’t think that the Tsar is going to be on board with a lot of smelly journalists tramping all over the place, do you? Either the entire family will take refuge on the V and A, or they’ll come on shore. And I may have fallen low in the estimation of my editors, but I am damned if I am going to spend my time looking at imperial curtains. I am going to walk up to Osborne. If he’s on land, he’ll be there.”

  So Jackson and I went; I merely curious, Jackson trying to pretend he wasn’t. The main thing I discovered from the morning was that I have a tendency to seasickness in very small boats—we were rowed out in the yacht’s cutter, which was fine until we were about a hundred yards offshore. Then it wasn’t; my only consolation was that half of the press corps—well, about four of us, out of ten or so—also began smiling bravely.

  Nor was it worth it; Gumble was quite correct in thinking that the imperial family would make themselves scarce; not even an imperial nanny remained on board. All we had was a bunch of Russian sailors, whose outright hostility to His Majesty’s loyal press was palpable. We were escorted round the apartments at military speed; nothing was pointed out or explained, no questions were taken, no photographs allowed. All I got from the experience was a sense of wonder at how unnautical it all was—the state apartments were decorated like any house you might have found in Mayfair thirty years ago, with padded chairs, chandeliers and even a fireplace in the corner. Only the disconcerting rocking motion reminded you that you were on a boat—sorry, a yacht—at all.

  And then we were put back into the cutter and rowed back to the shore. Not even a glass of vodka, but Jeremiah Hopkins did at least take his revenge by vomiting in the bottom of the boat just before we arrived back on land. “Compliments of the Daily Mail,” he muttered as he stepped over his donation to get off. “A messy business, the freedom of the press,” he added as he straightened up and walked unsteadily towards the nearest pub.

  For my part, I didn’t think that was the best solution to the problem of my stomach; steady land and fresh air seemed a better idea, so I decided to walk to Osborne to find Gumble; he had been correct in his judgements so far; he might be right now. I walked to the ferry, crossed over and strolled up York Avenue to the main gate. I was not alone; clearly news of some event had got around.

  “The royal family and the imperial family,” said one woman in tones of hushed awe when I found myself walking beside her. “They’ll be coming out when they’ve finished their visit. They’ll drive down to the Esplanade before going back on board their yachts. Isn’t that wonderful and thoughtful of them?”

  We walked in step, this reverential matriarch and I, strolling together like two old friends in the warm sunshine of the early afternoon. She told me—how she had found out so much information from her kitchen I do not know, she should have been a reporter—that the two royal families had crossed to Osborne’s private landing stage by boat, but intended to show themselves to the town before returning. Two monarchs, two consorts and a bag of children would be on display; I could not really see the attraction of just watching people drive by, but I was clearly in a minority on that one; when we arrived there was already a crowd of a few hundred, mainly townspeople by the look of them, lining the wooded path which ran from the road to the grand entrance gate.

  Gumble was there also, looking extremely displeased with the situation. His request to go inside had been flatly turned down, there would be no interview and he had to stand there like some common shop assist ant, with not the slightest chance of coming up with anything worth writing about at all.

  I commiserated. “But there wasn’t much chance he would have said anything interesting anyway,” I concluded.

  “Not the point. I wanted an interview. What he might have said was irrelevant,” he replied.

  “You could always make it up,” I suggested.

  “Well, in fact, that’s what got me in trouble in the first place,” he said reluctantly. “I quoted Habibullah Khan on the reforms he was introducing in Afghanistan. Unfortunately, he was out of the country at the time and had just reversed them all, so he complained…”

  “Bad luck,” I said.

  “Yes. So no making things up for a while. I do wish they’d get a move on. I want my lunch…”

  I had stopped listening. I was staring over at the other line of spectators, a blur of expectant faces, all patiently waiting. Except for one, who came into sharp focus as I looked, then looked aga
in. A poorly dressed woman, with a cheap hat pulled down over her face, clutching a handbag. I knew she had seen me. I could see that my face had registered, that she was hoping I had not seen her; she took a step back, and disappeared behind a burly man and a couple of squawking children who were waving little flags on sticks.

  “Oh, my goodness,” I said, and looked up and down the row of people, to see if I could catch sight of her again. Nothing. But I did see PC Armstrong, my sceptical constable of the day before.

  “Still hunting anarchists, are we sir?” he said cheerfully when I walked up to him—this was a long time ago; there were no barriers or controls on people then.

  “Constable…”

  “Is he here, then?”

  “Not that I’ve seen, but…”

  “Well, let me know and we’ll deal with him,” he said complacently.

  “I’m certain he is, though.”

  Armstrong looked sceptical but ever so slightly worried. “Why?”

  “I’ve seen someone he knows.” I pointed, and he called over another policeman on duty. Both then strolled over and began walking up and down, looking out for anyone they considered suspicious.

  They had seen nothing and found no one by the time the great gates swung open, and a murmur of expectation swept through the crowd. In the distance a line of three black automobiles, Rolls-Royces, came slowly down the driveway; the canvas tops were open, so they wouldn’t obscure the view. As they turned the bend, I could see that the leading car had two men in the back, resplendent in uniform; the second had two women. They were wearing hats, tied over their heads with scarves.