Iain Pears - Stone's Fall

I climbed up the servants' staircase at the back of the lobby, all seven flights of scrubbed, cheap wood set against poorly painted walls, in contrast to the richly polished, carpeted appearance of the residents' staircase, until I reached the corridor at the top which led to the tiny cubicles that the servants slept in under the eaves. Halfway along there was a skylight, which I opened. It was noisy, but I knew there would be no one to hear, and I levered myself out onto the roof, and manoeuvred into a position where I had a clear view of the cathedral.

I kept my head low, and scanned the small square in front of the entrance with my binoculars; a faint sound of singing told me there was a service going on. A few people were hanging about, and I thought I saw what I was looking for. A man, well dressed, sitting on a bench reading a paper; another by the door looking at the order of service pinned up in a small glass case. Two more talking by a tree to the left.

My heart sank. It was all so amateurish. Drennan was too old to fall for that. A man reading a newspaper in the semi-dark? People idly chatting in the cold? He wouldn't go near the place. One glance and he'd take fright.

And then I saw him; he too was coming early, walking along the street bundled up, hat pulled down over his head, dressed anonymously, not scruffily, not respectable. Like a shopkeeper or clerk. Only his walk, long and loping, gave him away. He also wanted to get there first, to be able to see me before I saw him. He'd taught me that; I had anticipated him.

He took no precautions: all the methods and techniques he had so painstakingly and painfully drilled into me he didn't use. He didn't look around, didn't pause to check the landscape, did nothing. He just crossed the street, walked across the little square, began to climb the steps. I was puzzled. He was coming to see me, but he was taking no precautions, almost as though we were on the same side, as though he considered me no threat.

The man by the order of service moved to intercept him, going close, taking him by the arm; I saw the bench man drop his newspaper and begin moving forward; the conversationalists started to spread out, one to each side, forming a circle behind his back.

Drennan turned, his hand went into his pocket. I heard nothing, it was too far away, but he fell onto his knees, looked up. The newspaper man came up close behind him, stretched out his arm to point at his head, and Drennan collapsed onto the stone steps of the cathedral.

It was done. One problem, at least, had been taken care of. I was back at Elizabeth's house, washed and changed, in time to welcome Wilkinson and Goschen when they arrived in John Stone's coach from the Gare du Nord at eight o'clock.

It was a soirée to remember. One by one, they arrived, and I was only sorry that it had to remain entirely confidential. It would have had more of an impact on Elizabeth's reputation than the arrival of the Prince of Wales had done. Not that many streetwalkers entertain the Chancellor of the Exchequer, the British and Russian ambassadors, the French Foreign and Finance Ministers, the Governor of the Bank of France and a smattering of Rothschilds and other bankers at one go. Not that it was a social occasion; these were men of affairs, and it was what they were good at. I might even hazard a guess and say they all enjoyed themselves. From nine in the evening to five the next morning, they huddled in corners, disappeared in pairs or groups into side rooms, shouted at each other, looked tense, angry, worried, elated, relaxed and made jokes, then began the cycle of meetings anew. Those who were not engaged gathered round Elizabeth like chickens round a hen, and she distracted them with her conversation and charm, creating an atmosphere of the possible in a way only she could manage. Her chef, the incomparable M. Favre, excelled himself, and her wine cellar impressed even M. de Rothschild. I am firmly of the opinion that the slow onset of calm she generated did more to ensure an agreement than any other factor.

For my part I had little to do, but I was given the liberty of attending the private meetings of the English delegation, and the rare occasions when the meeting, more or less by chance, became more general. It was, however, made clear that I was to offer no opinions of my own. And I rarely had the opportunity of talking to any of the Russian or French party.

Count Gurunjiev did, however, take my arm shortly after he arrived. 'A word, Mr Cort,' he said quietly.

'It seems you were right,' he said. 'A man was shot this evening as he was about to go into the Russian cathedral. He had no papers or identification of any sort on him, but he answers your description perfectly well. And he had a loaded revolver.'

'He caused no harm, I hope?'

'No. After your warning we were not prepared to take any chances. He was accosted, tried to run and was killed. We are currently persuading the police it was a murder among thieves, and best forgotten about. I'm sure they will agree; there have been too many of these incidents recently for them to want more publicity. What is puzzling is what he planned to do.'

He went off to pay his compliments to Elizabeth, leaving me with only a deep sense of relief. All I had to do now was discover where Drennan had lived, and then collect the diaries, and I had time enough for that now. The urgency had gone out of one part of my life at least.

And now the meeting proper was under way; the English were in Elizabeth's salon, the French took over her library, the Russians were closeted in the sitting room. The dining room served as neutral territory, where all could talk freely. A ridiculous amount of time was lost in small talk, enquiries about the voyage from London, earnest entreaties that good wishes be communicated to everyone from the President to the Tsar to wives and sons and daughters. There was talk about hunting and politics as they slowly got the measure of each other, sidled towards the main subject which all knew must arise sooner or later, then backed away again.

It was necessary, all this, it set the tone, gauged emotions and nerves. Then, all of a sudden, as though some hidden decision had been taken, some sign given, Count Gurunjiev began:

'I fear Mr Cort was trying to pull the wool over my eyes when we met the other day,' he began. 'I discover that what he so skilfully described as a small matter of accounting is nothing of the sort.'

'And how is that?' Goschen asked.

'I do not understand finance: in that Mr Cort was quite correct. But you make a mistake in thinking I do not understand politics, or diplomacy. His little matter of accounting seems to involve a fundamental shift in Russian foreign policy. And of French.'

'I think that is an exaggeration.'

Here it comes, I thought. They've been talking about it, they've agreed a joint strategy. Rouvier, I knew, had been bombarded by the Rothschilds all day, one banker after another presenting the case for intervention, for reversing the policy, and offering who knew what inducements; he was the only senior French figure who wasn't there. Delayed by the Chambre des Députés, someone said. Will be along when he can leave. No doubt those who wished to pursue the matter and go ahead had also been putting their case as well. The Count was about to give the first hint of which side had triumphed.

'I imagine the interest rate that the Bank of France would charge for lending gold to the Bank of England will be very high. Naturally, you cannot expect the Russian government to accept a lower reward.'

Better than saying there could be no deal at all. But he could still set the price so high that it would be unpayable.

'I never expected for a moment that would be the case,' Goschen said a little grumpily. 'Of course, your assistance would be rewarded, and acknowledged in public, if you so wish.'