Iain Pears - Stone's Fall

He turned, and lay down on the bed with a heavy sigh. The interview was at an end.

I glared at him with all the hauteur I could muster, turned and left.

My dignity was as offended by the encounter as was my sense of smell. I marched down the stairs, thankful only to be heading for the open air once more, my mind full of all the cutting remarks I might have made to put the appalling man in his place, and remind him that he was dealing with a gentleman. Not some servant, which I tried, unsuccessfully, to persuade myself was his own station in life.

I walked towards the river and safety, going more swiftly than usual because the sooner I was off that stinking island the happier I would be. My annoyance pushed all thought of danger out of my head as I walked, and my mood lightened with every step I took.

Apart from a heavy blow on the head and the sensation of falling forward onto the pavement – stone of some sort, I noted, with weeds growing up between the cracks, one with a bedraggled purple flower on it – that was the last thing I recalled for some time. It didn't even hurt, to begin with.

When I woke up again I felt as though my head was splitting; stars danced in my eyes, and I could feel the blood pounding through my temples. I looked around as much as I dared, considering there seemed to be a real possibility that my head might come off entirely. Mainly I saw the ceiling – from which I deduced that I was no longer in the street, but had been picked up by someone and brought into a house. What was I doing there? What had I been doing? I groaned, tried to sit up, then collapsed back again. It was the smell that made me realise where I must be.

Then I remembered. The letter. My hand rushed to my pocket and felt for the reassuring crinkle of paper. Nothing. I tried another pocket, then another, then, just to make sure, went back and tried the first once more. Nothing. It had gone.

'Oh, my God,' I said as the realisation hit me. 'Oh, no.'

'Looking for this?'

I was lying on his bed, which smelled of dog and unwashed man. I turned my head, and saw the man I had met earlier, sitting calmly in a chair with the letter he had given me on his lap. The relief I felt was indescribable.

'Thank you, sir,' I said with genuine emotion. 'You rescued me from those scoundrels. Who attacked me? Did you see them? Who hit me?'

'I did,' he said, still calm as ever.

'What?'

He made no effort to help me out.

'Why did you hit me?'

'To steal this letter.'

'But you'd only just given it to me.'

'Well noted,' he said.

To be attacked in such a manner was bad enough; to be made fun of as well was well-nigh intolerable, and I decided that it was time to give this man a lesson he would not readily forget. I had spent much time at school in boxing, and felt that I could readily overcome the resistance of a man well past his prime. So I began to rise, but found that my legs were unwilling to support me; I waved my fists in his direction and even as he pushed me lazily back on to the bed with a contemptuous look on his face, I realised how utterly ridiculous I must appear.

I slumped back down, my head spinning, and groaned loudly.

'Head between your knees, until you stop feeling sick. I didn't break the skin, you're not bleeding.'

Then he waited patiently until I was once more able to lift my head up and look at him.

'Right,' he said. 'I hit you on the head because I do not wish to die through association with an idiot. Your behaviour was not only juvenile, but also dangerous. Do you have no sense at all? You were utterly unaware I was behind you, even though I went out of my way to give you as much warning as possible. Have you learned nothing? Remembered nothing? Did you ever, even once, look round to check who was behind you? No. You strolled down a dark alley, hands in your pockets like some idiot tourist. I did hit you harder than was necessary, I am sure. I apologise for that. But I was so outraged I felt like hitting you even harder, and you should thank me for my restraint.'

If my head was spinning from the blow he had inflicted on me, it was spinning even faster now as I tried to understand what on earth he was talking about.

'I was asked to come to your lodging, sir,' I said stiffly, 'and collect a letter. That was all. Nobody mentioned anything about playing hide and seek through the streets with a murderous lunatic.'

He paused, then looked at me more soberly. 'You aren't . . . Oh, my God! Who are you? What are you?'

I told him that I was a banker working for Barings. He snorted, then laughed out loud.

'In that case I owe you an apology,' he said, with the air of a man who didn't really think that he owed me anything of the sort. 'You must think me a very strange fellow.'

'I think I could manage a better description of you than that,' I said.

'Come with me.'

He helped me off the bed, steadied me as I almost fell over again, then guided me to the door and down the stairs.

He took me to some sort of bar. It was nearly ten o'clock. He led me over to a table in a dark corner, got me to sit, then called for brandy. I was not used, at that stage, to drinking brandy but he insisted, and after a very short while I found that my head stopped hurting, and my speech became voluble.

'So,' he began once more, 'I apologise. And owe you an explanation. I was under the impression that you knew what you were about. What Mr Wilkinson is thinking of, sending me someone so unprepared is quite beyond me. He knows how I . . .'

His trail of thought came to an end as he drank his brandy down in one go, and called for another. The place we were in was the sort of establishment I would never dream of entering, or would not have done then. I imagined that every single person in it – all were men – was some sort of cut-throat, pimp or robber. I later learned that this assessment was entirely correct.

He grunted. 'My name is Jules Lefevre . . . in fact, that is not my name, but no matter. It will do. I provide certain information to His Majesty's Government which it otherwise might find difficult to obtain.'

'You are French?' I asked.

'Perhaps. Now, it is important that the information I provide reaches its destination. It is also important that it does not fall into the wrong hands, it being of a confidential nature. Do you understand?'

'I believe so,' I said.

'In which case, it is important that those people carrying these letters know how to keep them. You agree that this is important.'

'Absolutely,' I said.

'Good. So that is what Wilkinson has asked me to do with you. Teach you to look after yourself.'

'Are you sure?'

'He said he was sending someone to me to finish his training, and he would identify himself by coming to ask for a package. That seems like you.'

'I know, but no one has ever mentioned anything of this to me. I feel I should have been consulted . . .' I could tell I was sounding more petulant with every word I uttered, and decided to keep quiet. You could say that my future was decided solely by a desire not to appear silly to a man I scarcely knew.

'Well, you weren't. I suppose there was a good reason. Now, what I did to you just now could have been done by anyone. And your lack of attention could have had severe consequences. The only good thing to come out of it would be that you would be dead and unable to mess anything else up.'

My head was still spinning, and still hurt foully, even though the brandy had steadied it a little. In compensation, my empty stomach was also beginning to add its protest at being subjected to the brandy. Lefevre was eyeing me curiously.

'You don't know what this is all about?'

'No.'

His eyes narrowed, as he considered the meaning of it. Then he shook his head. 'No point trying to fathom the ways of the great and the good. That's his decision and I suppose I must live with it. It seems you are to be my apprentice, so we might as well get started. Be at the Gare de l'Est tomorrow morning at eight. I will meet you in the buffet. You will not recognise me or greet me in any way. But when I move, you follow me. Do you understand?