Iain Pears - Stone's Fall

Eventually she lifted her head, but to Stone, not me. 'I imagine you will want to leave now, Mr Stone,' she said so quietly I could only just hear her. 'You realise, I am sure, that everything Mr Cort said is true.'

Stone put his face in his hands and breathed deeply. I was no longer in the room for them. I didn't exist. I stood up. Neither of them noticed. When I got to the door I turned.

'One more thing.'

'Go away, Cort,' he said wearily. 'Leave this house.'

'I will. But I need to say this. Elizabeth, I am sorry. I did what I had to. But at least I have taken care of Drennan for you. He is dead. I will recover the diaries and deliver them to you, unread.'

And here Stone whirled round. 'What?'

'It is not something that concerns you, Mr Stone.'

'I think it is. You say Drennan is dead?'

I frowned in puzzlement. 'You know him?'

'What happened?'

'He was shot this afternoon.'

Stone turned pale. 'Oh, my God. What have you done? You killed him?'

'I didn't kill him. The Russians did. It was part of the deal you wanted. Part of the price. It made them trust me enough to listen to me. Why?'

'You told me your servant had robbed you,' he said to her, ignoring me. 'You didn't say what had been taken. I assumed it was some jewellery. I asked Drennan if he could help, I've known him for years. It was to be a surprise, to show you . . .'

He looked at me in total disbelief. 'You killed him?' he repeated.

'Just trying to make the world safe for business,' I said. 'It's what everybody wanted.'

I left, leaving the final part unsaid, the bit about why Stone seemed almost relieved when I had tackled Rouvier. Almost as though he was glad he did not have to. I couldn't put the pieces together. I am still not sure. Besides, it was nearly three in the morning. I was tired. Perhaps I was imagining things.

It really was over. Rouvier concluded that a small guaranteed triumph was a better bet than a bigger prize that might be torn from his grasp. Three hours later the cables started going out to newspapers and agencies that the Bank of France and the Bank of Russia, in a spirit of international solidarity and to ensure the smooth operation of markets, had agreed to deposit extra gold at the Bank of England. It turned the tide; Barings collapsed and the family was all but ruined, but it resurfaced in a new guise soon enough, although it was only ever a shadow of its former self. The markets recovered from their nasty fright and settled down to normal business after a month or so. The City's reputation was damaged, the prestige of France and Russia climbed, but London's position remained unchallenged and the beginnings of a mutual understanding began to emerge. Russia and France signed a secret alliance, and French money began pouring in to build up the Russian economy and army. London banks, often enough, didn't even compete.

John Stone got to work. The construction of the port of Nicolaieff on the Black Sea produced only token and ineffectual protest from Britain, surprising considering that such a thing might ordinarily have been enough to start a war. It proved that Russia was not as backward as everyone had thought, considering that it was able to mobilise the resources and technology to construct such a vast enterprise without outside help.

And in the spring of 1891, John Stone married the Countess Elizabeth Hadik-Barkoczy von Futak uns Szala at St Oswald's church in Malpas, Shropshire. I was not invited to the wedding. I scarcely came across them for years although, now I have finally returned to England because of Mr Wilkinson's death, we inevitably meet occasionally. We are formal and polite.

We never talk about his wife.

I was not intended by family, education or natural instinct for a life of, or in, industry. I still know surprisingly little about it, even though my companies own some forty factories across Europe and the Empire. I have little real idea how the best steel is smelted and have no more notion of how a submarine works. My skill lies in comprehending the nature of people and the evolution of money. The dance of capital, the harmony of a balance sheet, and the way these abstractions interact with people, their characters and desires, either as individuals or in a mass. Understand that one is the other, that they are two separate ways of expressing the same thing, and you understand the whole nature of business.

A few months ago I read a book by Karl Marx on capital. Elizabeth gave it to me, with a smile on her face. A strange experience, as the author's awe exceeds even my own. He is the first to understand the complexity of capital and its subtlety. His account is that of a lover describing his beloved, but after describing her beauty and the sensuality of her power, he turns away from her embrace and insists that his love should be destroyed. He could gaze clearly into the nature of capital, but not into his own character. Desire is written in every line and paragraph of his book, but he does not see it.

In my case, I surrendered to the excitement that came over me when I glimpsed the extraordinary process by which food turned into labour into goods into capital. It was akin to a vision, a moment of epiphany, all the more surprising because it was so unexpected. It was a strange process, this metamorphosis of a curate's son into a businessman, and deserves some description, not least because it involved events now completely unknown.

I am considered a secretive man, although I do not see myself in this fashion. I do not guard my privacy with any unusual jealousy, but feel no need for all the world to know my affairs. Only one thing have I hidden which is of any importance. This account will, I hope, explain some elements of my life and may give the information needed for fulfilling the requirements of my will. It is an aide-memoire, and I put down here all the details I can remember while I conduct my search for a definitive answer.

I write sitting in my office in St James's Square, and all is quiet. Downstairs, my Elizabeth is curled up in front of the fire, reading a book, as she usually does in the evening before going to bed. I can imagine her yawning, her face illuminated by the firelight, entirely beautiful and calm. As there is no one there, she will be wearing her reading glasses. When she hears me coming down the stairs, she will whip them off and hide them; it is her vanity. I would tell her it means nothing to me, but having to use them so annoys her that I do not wish to trespass on her little secret. For the rest, she is at peace; I have given her that, and it is the best and most worthwhile thing I have ever done, worth more to me than all the factories and money I have accumulated over the years. I will not have it disturbed. But I must settle this other business once and for all; it has been gnawing at me for some time, and I am no longer young enough to afford any delay. I will find the truth, and will settle my mind. I do not fear that it will disturb Elizabeth greatly, as likely as not, the story ended long ago. I wish to know; that is all.

I will write as my researches progress; I have begun my enquiries, they will bear fruit sooner or later. I am, I am sorry to say, unused to not getting what I want. In that lies my reputation for arrogance and I suppose it is probably deserved. It is necessary; a humble businessman is about as much use as an arrogant priest and if you are not by nature self-confident, then you must appear so, or you will fail. It is not a quality that will ever be sung about by poets, but like all the darkness within us, such characteristics – shame, guilt, despair, hypocrisy – have their uses.

This pensiveness is foolish, I know. It began simply because of the death of William Cort; he asked me to come and see him in his wasting state and I went, travelling down to Dorset, where he had lived for the past forty years. A mournful meeting, but he was resigned to his end and not unhappy. Life had been a burden to him and he was looking forward to being rid of it. He gave me his message; it weighed on him. I made some remark, changed the subject as quickly as possible. Then I dismissed it from my mind. But it would not go. The thought came back to me, nestling in the back of my mind, ambushing me at the strangest of moments.