Iain Pears: Stone's Fall

To my mother

The Church of St-Germain des Prés, at the start of what was supposed to be spring, was a miserable place, made worse by the drabness of a city still in a state of shock, worse still by the little coffin in front of the altar which was my reason for being there, worse again by the aches and pains of my body as I kneeled.

She'd died a week before I arrived. I hadn't even realised she was still alive; she must have been well into her eighties, and the hardships of the past few years had weakened many a younger person. She would not have been impressed, but something approaching a real prayer for her did come into my mind just before I struggled back onto the pew. Age has few compensations; the indignity of discomfort, the effort to conceal constant nagging pain, is most certainly not one of them.

Until I read the Figaro that morning and saw the announcement, I had been enjoying myself. I was on a farewell tour; the powers that be had scraped together enough foreign currency to allow me to travel. My last visit to the foreign bureaux before I retired. Not many people could do that sort of thing these days – and would not until foreign exchange restrictions were lifted. It was a little mark of respect, and one that I appreciated.

It was a fine enough service, I thought, although I was not an expert. The priests took their time, the choir sang prettily, the prayers were said, and it was all over. A short eulogy paid tribute to her tireless, selfless work for the unfortunate but said nothing of her character. The congregation was mainly freshly scrubbed and intense-looking children, who were clipped around the ear by teachers if they made any untoward noise. I looked around, to see who would take charge of the next round, but no one seemed to know what to do. Eventually the undertaker took over. The body, he said, would be interred in Père Lachaise that afternoon, at two o'clock, at 15 Chemin du Dragon. All who wished to attend were welcome. Then the pallbearers picked up the coffin and marched out, leaving the mourners feeling lost and cold.

'Excuse me, but is your name Braddock? Matthew Braddock?'

A quiet voice of a young man, neatly dressed, with a black band around his arm. I nodded, and he held out his hand. 'My name is Whitely,' he said. 'Harold Whitely, of Henderson, Lansbury, Fenton. I recognised you from newsreels.'

'Oh?'

'Solicitors, you know. We dealt with Madame Robillard's residual legal business in England. Not that there was much of it. I am so glad to meet you; I was planning to write in any case, once I got back.'

'Really? She didn't leave me any money, did she?'

He smiled. 'I'm afraid not. By the time she died she was really quite poor.'

'Goodness gracious me,' I said, with a smile.

'Why the surprise?'

'She was very wealthy when I knew her.'

'I'd heard that. I knew her only as a sweet old lady with a weakness for worthy causes. But I found her charming on the few occasions we met. Quite captivating, in fact.'

'Yes, that's her,' I replied. 'Why did you come to the funeral?'

'A tradition of the firm,' he said with a grimace. 'We bury all our clients. A last service. But, you know – it's a trip to Paris, and there's not much opportunity for that these days. Unfortunately, I could get hold of so little currency I have to go straight back this evening.'

'I have a little more than that, so would you care for a drink?'

He nodded, and we walked down the Boulevard St-Germain to a café, past grim buildings blackened with the filth of a century or more of smoke and fumes. Whitely – formerly Captain Whitely, so he told me – had an annoying tendency to grip my elbow at the difficult bits to make sure I did not trip and fall. It was thoughtful, although the assumption of decrepitude was irritating.

A good brandy: she deserved no less, and we drank her health by the plate-glass window as we sat on our rickety wooden chairs. 'Madame Robillard,' we intoned several times over, becoming more garrulous as we drank. He told me of life in Intelligence during the war – the time of his life, he said wistfully, now gone for good and replaced with daily toil as a London solicitor. I told him stories of reporting for the BBC; of D-Day, of telling the world about the Blitz. All yesterday, and another age.

'Who was her husband?' I asked. 'I assume he is long dead.'

'Robillard died about a decade ago. He ran the orphanages and schools with her.'

'Is that why all those children were in the church?'

'I imagine so. She started her first home after the war – the first war. There were so many orphans and abandoned children, and she somehow got involved with them. By the end there were about ten or twelve schools and orphanages, I gather, all run on the very latest humanitarian principles. They consumed her entire fortune, in fact, so much so that I imagine they will all be taken over by the State now.'

'A good enough use for it. When I knew her she was married to Lord Ravenscliff. That was more than forty years ago, though.'

I paused. Whitely looked blank. 'Have you heard of Ravenscliff?' I enquired.

'No,' he said. 'Should I have?'

I thought, then shook my head. 'Maybe not. He was an industrialist, but most of his companies disappeared in the Depression. Some closed, others were bought up. Vickers took over a few, I remember. The lone and level sands stretch far away, you know.'

'Pardon?'

'Nothing.' I breathed in the thick air of cigarette smoke and damp, then attracted the waiter's eye and called for more drinks. It seemed a good idea. Whitely was not cheering me up at all. It was quiet; not many people around, and the waiters were prepared to work hard for the few customers they had. One of them almost smiled, but managed to restrain himself.

'Tell me about her,' I said when our glasses were refilled once more. 'I hadn't seen her for many years. I only discovered she was dead by chance.'

'Not much to say. She lived in an apartment just up the road here, went to church, did good works, and outlived her friends. She read a great deal, and loved going to the cinema. I understand she had a weakness for Humphrey Bogart films. Her English was excellent, for a Frenchwoman.'

'She lived in England when I knew her. Hungarian by birth, though.'

'Apart from that there's nothing to say is there?'

'I suppose not. A quiet and blameless life. What were you going to write to me about?'

'Hmm? Oh, that. Well, Mr Henderson, you know, our senior partner. He died a year ago and we've been clearing out his papers. There was a package for you.'

'For me? What is it? Gold? Jewels? Dollar bills? Swiss watches? I could use some of those. We prospective old-age pensioners . . .'

'I couldn't say what's in it. It's sealed. It was part of the estate of Mr Henry Cort . . .'

'Good heavens.'

'You knew him, I assume?'

'We met many years ago.'

'As I say, part of the Cort estate. Curious thing is that it carried instructions that you were to be given it only on Madame Robillard's death. Which was very exciting for us. There isn't much excitement in a solicitor's office, let me tell you. Hence my intention to write to you. Do you know what is in it?'

'I have absolutely no idea. I scarcely knew Cort at all, and certainly haven't even cast eyes on him for more than thirty years. I came across him when I was writing a biography of Madame Robillard's first husband. That's how I knew her as well.'

'I hope it was a great success.'

'Unfortunately not. I never even finished it. The reaction of most publishers was about as enthusiastic as your own was when I mentioned his name.'