Iain Pears - Stone's Fall

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 . . .

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 off shore, 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 sea-sickness 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.