Stone's Fall by Iain Pears

little self-conscious about how much time I spent in pubs.
    And on the far wall two paintings, the larger a portrait of Lady Ravenscliff, painted some twenty years ago, I guessed. I could see the appeal. She was one of those people painters must love; her left shoulder was facing the viewer and her head was turned so it faced out of the canvas. She wore a golden red dress, which showed off her long, elegant neck. There was no jewellery of any sort; she did not need any; her face and hair were quite enough. She had been, and still was, a lovely woman.
    “Henner,” came a soft voice behind me.
    I turned. Lady Ravenscliff was standing at the door with a faint smile on her face.
    “Pardon?”
    “Jean-Jacques Henner. He died a few years ago and I suppose his fame has faded, but he was one of the finest portraitists of his generation. That’s me in 1890 before I grew old and wrinkled.”
    “You are hardly that,” I muttered. I really didn’t feel like paying compliments. In fact I never did, and I had had little practise.
    “And this is John.” She pointed to the smaller portrait, tucked away in a corner of the room. “He hated having his portrait taken. He only consented because I demanded it as a birthday present. He grumbled incessantly, and would only have this little thing done. It’s so tiny you can barely see him.”
    I looked. So that was Lord Ravenscliff. I looked intently, but it gave me no clues. He seemed nothing remarkable; there was no look of bestriding arrogance or pride; no hint of cruelty or kindness. It was just a face, that of a perfectly prosperous gentleman, looking calmly out with only a hint of weariness about having to waste his time to placate a demanding wife. He looked almost agreeable.
    “May I say I’m surprised he found the time to read so much?” I said as I gestured at the shelves. “I thought these men of business worked all the time.”
    “He liked reading,” she said with a smile at my condescension. “But this is my room. John’s is upstairs. He preferred less well-upholstered surroundings. He did not like to get too comfortable when he was working.”
    “Ah.”
    “That’s right. I can read.”
    “I didn’t mean—”
    “Yes you did,” she said brightly.
    I blushed.
    “It doesn’t matter. In this country it is quite usual for women of my position to regard reading a book as somehow inelegant. However, you must remember that I used to live in France, where it is not considered wholly inappropriate. But I have loved reading all my life. We must talk more about this some time. I always think it important to know what a man reads. Tell me, what do you think of this?”
    She picked up the blue bowl and handed it to me casually. What was I to say? It was a blue bowl. With patterns on. Blue ones. I shrugged. She put it back.
    “Well?” I said, I hope a little coldly. “You wished to take your revenge by revealing my ignorance and you have succeeded. You might as well enlighten me.”
    “Oh, it is nothing of importance,” she replied. “And you are right. That was offensive. I apologise. Shall we begin again?”
    “Very well.”
    “So. Tell me, have you made any progress since we last met?”
    “A little. I have talked to a few people and done some background reading. But I have to say that I have questions which must be answered before I proceed any further.” I did not like this. The meeting had not got off to a good start.
    “Dear me,” she said with a smile. “That does sound serious.”
    “It is.”
    “Well? Go on,” she prompted as I lapsed into silence. I had never done anything like this before, and I wasn’t quite sure how I should phrase the questions. Thinking of what to say, and actually saying it now she was standing in front of me, were very different.
    “Mr. Braddock? Are you going to say something, or just stare at me all afternoon?”
    “It’s difficult to know where to begin…”
    “At the beginning?”
    “Don’t make fun of me. What