Iain Pears - Stone's Fall

The thought calmed me. My patience slowly returned, and I became thorough. When the man emerged, I followed him until he got back to what were evidently his lodgings, then took a bus back to the West End. I went into an early-morning café – it was by now four in the morning – and borrowed some paper and an envelope from the owner. I considered a long and violent denunciation, but such things are never effective; they make the writer seem hysterical. So instead I kept it short.

Dear Lady Ravenscliff,

Please accept my resignation as your agent in the matter

of your husband's will.

Yours sincerely,

Matthew Braddock.

I delivered it by hand to her house, then took the bus back to Chelsea. It was still only six when I slipped quietly into the house, and no one was yet up, not even Mrs Morrison. I tiptoed up the stairs, avoiding the squeakiest of the treads, and collapsed on my bed. It was an eternity since I had slept properly, but I was afraid sleep would elude me now as well. I shouldn't have worried. I was still thinking this when my thoughts began to disintegrate and I plunged into oblivion.

If I harboured the idea that this might be an end to it, then I could not have been more wrong. I slept until two in the afternoon, but was hardly refreshed when I finally surfaced. I did have a couple of moments' grace before the full recollection of the previous evening came back, but it was not much of a respite. I was dirty, unshaven, and my bones ached still from tiredness, so I went downstairs in search of hot water. There was no one around, which was unusual; normally at that time of day Mrs Morrison should be in the kitchen with her half-wit of a scullery maid, arguing over how to peel carrots. So I put a large pot on the hob myself, and yawned while it heated. On the kitchen table was a telegram, addressed to me. I knew the moment I saw it who it was from, and the surge of pleasure I felt should have warned me how feeble was my resolution of only a few hours previously. I considered tearing it in two and throwing it in the bin – I don't need her; that's all over – but couldn't quite manage to be so manfully confident. What if there was something in there to show I was wrong? So I dithered while the water boiled and the kitchen filled with steam, and eventually reached a compromise. I would open it, read it and then tear it up in righteous anger.

Come immediately. Elizabeth.

The first word was enough to turn all my steely resolution a little rusty. All sorts of stories flooded into my mind. A lost twin. Devoted sisters torn asunder, and now reunited. All nonsense. It could not possibly be so. Could it? The doubt was small, but enough because I wanted it to be so. I washed and shaved and dressed in clean clothes, and by the time I was ready to face the world I was decided. I would see her. Just in case. But I would make her wait, and use the time to find out some more. It was the first time she had wanted to see me more than the other way around, and I liked the feeling too much to lose it quickly.

I went back to Fleet Street. Hozwicki wasn't in the King & Keys so I went to the Telegraph , walked up the stairs to the newsroom, and found him, sitting alone in a corner with a typewriter. He was the only person in the entire place to use one; everyone else wrote their stories out by hand, and I noticed he kept on getting irritated glances from others in the room every time he pressed a key. It was a woman's machine, not for men.

'I need to talk to you.'

'I'm busy.'

'I don't care.'

I must have said it in an impressive fashion, as he stopped typing and looked up at me. 'So, talk.'

'Not here. I don't want your colleagues to learn about Comrade Stefan.'

I hadn't meant it to come out as a threat. But that was how he took it. He stared stonily at me.

'Come outside for a walk. It will only take five minutes.'

He considered for a second, then stood up and put on his coat. I could see he was angry; I imagine I would have been as well. From his point of view he had extended a hand of friendship, and I was using his gesture to blackmail him. I would have felt guilty about it, if I'd had the leisure to think straight.

'Well then? What do you want now?'

He stood on the pavement as the crowds of people parted to walk around us, and indicated he was going to go no further. We were just outside the Telegraph 's doors.

'I didn't mean to threaten,' I said. 'I had no intention of saying anything. But I have to talk, and I don't have a great deal of time.'

'What happened yesterday? I heard you came, then left. Too boring for you?'

'It probably would have been, but I didn't find out. There was a woman there. She called herself Jenny. In her forties, German accent.'

He nodded.

'Tell me about her.'

'Why?'

'It doesn't matter.'

'Not unless . . .'

'No,' I interrupted. 'No games. Not today. No bargains, no you-scratch- my-back nonsense. I need to know now. I must know. Who is she?'

He looked at me carefully, then nodded. 'And you won't say why you want to know.'

'Not a single, solitary word. But you must tell me.'

He stared at the pavement for a few seconds, then turned on his heel, and walked off, turning up Wine Office Court, past the Cheshire Cheese, where there was no one around. Eventually he stopped and turned.

'Her name is Jenny Mannheim,' he said. 'But that's not her real name. She arrived from Hamburg about six months ago. It appears she was involved in a murder there and had to flee the country. When she got here, she contacted some groups of exiles, but has steered clear of the Germans. She doesn't want anyone to know she is here. She's afraid of the police, or of being murdered herself in revenge. She's a very tough woman, ruthless in argument and quite capable of being ruthless in action, I imagine. Her life is the struggle. It is all she cares about, and all she talks about. She is entirely cold and deeply unpleasant. So I'm afraid I cannot tell you much more. Even what I know did not come from her. I avoid her as much as possible. And so should you, if you've any sense.'

'So how do you know about her?'

'She approached these groups which – well, they don't trust many people. They're used to spies and informers and police agents trying to infiltrate them. They're careful. Naturally they wanted to make sure she was who she said.'

'How did they do that?'

'Easily enough. They wrote letters to comrades in Germany. They checked she was on the boat she said she was on. They used people in the police there to see if she's done what she said. She had. She's a nasty bit of work. Even by the standards of her type.'

'Quite pretty, though.'

'It would be interesting to see the reaction if you said that to her face.'

'She left yesterday with a man.' I gave a brief description, as best as I could. It wasn't necessary.

'Jan the Builder,' Hozwicki said flatly. 'That's what he's called. He sometimes works on building sites. Josef pointed him out to me once, and told me to beware of him. Again, no one knows his real name. And, since you no doubt already know, yes, he is a member – probably the leader – of the Brotherhood of Socialists.'

'And are they . . . ?'

Hozwicki looked at me. 'Dangerous people who you do not want to know. You remember the hold-up at Marston's brewery? The armed robbery at that Cheapside jeweller's about a year ago?'

He was referring to two violent, but unsuccessful, crimes. 'They were what are called expropriations, to fund the cause. Anarchism is split into two; those who think such things justifiable and necessary, and those who believe they ruin everything we are striving to achieve.'

'We?'

He nodded.

'So tell me more about these people.'