Stone's Fall by Iain Pears Page A

I need to know is whether you are being honest with me. All the evidence suggests you are not.”
    “And what,” she said, definitely cooler now, “have I said or done to make you think such a thing?”
    “Were I a reporter once more, I would leap to one obvious conclusion,” I said, feeling better now that I had got under way. “Your husband dies and you instantly go to his desk, remove whatever evidence there is about the identity of this child, and hide or destroy it. Then you call me in to look for something you know cannot be found, so that you can appear to be a dutiful and obedient widow, carrying out her husband’s wishes. In due course, all the money which should have gone to this child comes to you.”
    She looked evenly at me. “In that case you are a very bad reporter. Someone with a flair for a story would also have considered the possibility that I discovered, one way or another, something about the provision in his will. That I was so overcome with jealousy that I not only did as you say, I also pushed my husband out of the window.”
    Was she angry, or distressed? She held her jaw so tightly that I knew it was one or the other, but her self-control was so great it defeated any attempt to penetrate further.
    “I have considered that possibility,” I replied.
    “I see. So are you here to tell me you do not wish to continue in my employ? Or are you trying to discover a way of keeping the money, even though it comes from a murderess?”
    She was quite calm as she spoke, which convinced me that she was furious with me; so furious that I doubted whether it was going to be my choice.
    “I am trying to discover what happened. Which is the job you gave me. Part of it, anyway. I must say that I do not really think you are a murderess. But I need to get circumstances clear in my mind. You ask me to find this child, and the task would be easily accomplished if the evidence was where your husband said it was. Someone moved it. It might help considerably if I knew who.”
    “So? Ask.” She had not forgiven me, nor entirely resumed her pose of calm, but I could see my remarks had mollified her a little.
    “Did you move it?”
    “No. Do you believe me?”
    “Who did move it?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Who could have moved it?”
    “I don’t know that either. Or rather, I could give you a list of people who have been in the house long enough to occupy you for months. I imagine it would have been in the large drawer which contains a strongbox. It would have been locked. Only my husband had a key.”
    “Forgive me for asking, but could I see this desk?”
    “By all means.” She stood up and walked to the door. She was not the sort of woman whose clothes needed smoothing down, however long she had been sitting; they simply fell into place. That was expensive couture, I guessed. Or maybe she was simply one of those people who was like that. My own clothes looked rumpled even when they were fresh back from the laundry.
    “Was your husband disturbed or preoccupied at all in his last few weeks or months?” I asked as we walked up the stairs. I walked beside her out of modesty, as the sight of her from behind was too enticing to be polite.
    “Perhaps. He had been different, more distant for some time before his death. And in the last few days he was very preoccupied.”
    “In what way?”
    “I could see something in his eyes. Worry. I think it was a premonition.”
    “About his death?”
    “Yes. The human mind is a strange and complex thing, Mr. Braddock. Sometimes it can see the future without realising it.”
    “Did you ask what concerned him?” I said, steering the conversation away from this topic as fast as was seemly.
    “Of course. But he simply said there was nothing which I should worry about. That all would be well. I never doubted it until he reassured me.”
    “But you have no idea—”
    “None. I assume it was something to do with his business affairs, because I can discover no other