Now I was gaining entry to such places, and I watched with more interest the occasional flicker of domesticity that caught my eye. The servant sitting on a ledge, polishing the outside of a window. Another shaking a blanket to get the dust out. Some children, elaborately dressed, coming down a stairway from a great front door, accompanied by their nanny. The carts of tradesmen parked down the back alleys, so meat and fish and vegetables could be delivered through the rear entrance, unseen. I was allowed in through the front door of St James's Square, I thought. For the first time in my life, I felt superior to those people among whom I had originated. Then it occurred to me that in all probability I ranked in Lady Ravenscliff's mind equally with a governess.

The splendour of Regent's Park does not last long; it is little more than a few bricks thick, an insubstantial theatre set. Behind and beyond are the drabber dwellings of Camden. To the north, though, lies an area of comfortable detached villas built for the man of enough, but not too much, property. My former editor lived in just such a tree-lined street, the houses set back from the wide avenue, private in a way the greater mansions could never be. This was the sort of thing to which I aspired in my dreams; my imagination could take me no higher, but even on three hundred and fifty a year (for seven years) it was way beyond my means. Or was it? I had never even considered the possibility, but now it dawned on me that perhaps I could live in such a place – and the reality of my change in circumstances rushed over me in a wave of pride. I imagined myself at Heal's buying fashionable furniture with a wave of my chequebook. Engaging a servant. Marrying a desirable woman like – and here I paused, for as that piece of imagination passed through me, I saw the woman of my daydreams sitting on the sofa, looking up from her sewing and smiling as I came in, and she had the face of Lady Ravenscliff. The absurdity brought me back down to earth with a sharp and quite unpleasant crash, but I retained enough sense, at least, to smile ruefully at the tricks that the unbridled imagination can play.

The gallant cavalier who could, in his imagination, sweep the richest woman in the country off her feet, meanwhile, was hesitating outside the address of his old editor, wondering whether he dared knock on the door without arrangement. It was stupid, though, to come all that way and go away again, so after a brief hesitation I summoned enough courage to march up the little path and knock. Then announce myself to the serving girl who opened the door.

I was shown into McEwen's study and asked to wait. It was very much more my sort of place than the drab room from which Stone had controlled his empire. Big French windows opened onto the garden; fresh flowers gave a pleasant scent unspoiled by stale cigar smoke. An ancient, battered leather armchair sat on a slightly careworn carpet on which was stacked a pile of logs for the fire. It looked like a room much loved by its main occupant, and which gave back warmth and comfort in return. It was the room of a trustworthy man.

Who appeared through the door a few moments later, smiling and quite unoffended by my arrival. McEwen's familiar greeting – no longer, I thought, the greeting of editor for subordinate, of superior for employee – reassured me entirely and made me more open than I had intended to be.

'I thought you might show up at some stage,' he said cheerfully, 'but not quite so quickly. Have you made some great discovery you wish to tell me about? I hope it is something we can print, rather than being merely salacious. Have you discovered what is to become of us?'

'I'm afraid I have little but questions,' I replied, 'although I can tell you that the Chronicle will be in the hands of the executor until the will is settled, which may take some time.'

'Yes. I thought as much. Then it goes direct to Lady Ravenscliff, I imagine?'

'Maybe. It all seems quite complicated at the moment.'

McEwen was not used to employees – even former employees – being cagey with him. He frowned in displeasure, so I hurried on. 'I thought you could tell me in a few seconds things it might take me days to discover on my own. I have made little progress since I saw you. Except to become more confused.'

'In what areas?'

'Just about every single one. I have learned some things about his death, as you suggested I do. I have established that the companies were in good health. Unfortunately, I do not see how it assists me in any way.'

'I didn't think it would,' he said. 'I merely wished to satisfy my own curiosity on the matter.'

'Why?'

'Oh, call it the instincts of an old newspaper man, if you wish. What have you discovered?'

'Only that quite a lot of people became somewhat agitated the moment he dropped out of the window. There was a man called Cort, for example . . .'

McEwen's eyes narrowed, and he became more attentive.

'Cort?'

'Ah,' I said. 'You may remember him. Lady Ravenscliff said he worked as a journalist on The Times once. Did you know him?'

He stood up, and walked to the window, tapping his foot as he always did when thinking. Eventually he turned round and faced me.

'I'm very sorry, Braddock,' he said. 'I have been extremely foolish, and reckless on your behalf.'

'But why? What's the matter? Who is this man?'

'Indeed. How does he come into a routine biography commissioned by a grieving widow?'

He was looking at me shrewdly, and I could see that I would get nothing out of him without giving something in advance. He was genuinely worried and I was touched by his concern. But he was a newspaperman through and through, nonetheless. Information was food and drink to him.

'It's not a biography,' I said eventually. 'That's not what she wants me to do. She wants me to find out the identity of Ravenscliff's child.'

He raised an eyebrow. 'I see. And Cort?'

'Was one of the first at the scene of his death, and I think may have suppressed the news of it for three days.'

'Oh,' he said softly.

'Oh what?' I was fearful. It was based on nothing, just the way he had said it – apprehensive, almost alarmed; certainly surprised, even shocked. 'What's the matter? What is all this?'

'We received a request from the Government not to run the news immediately, as did every other newspaper. We agreed, as the health of Ravenscliff's businesses is a matter of national interest. Besides, we were assured it was merely to stop an unnecessary panic on the markets. I thought there might be more to it, hence my recommendation of you, so I might have a man on the inside, so to speak, but I never realised it might be that serious.' He stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked at the carpet as he did when thinking fast, then looked up at me once more. 'Write to her, and say you are sorry, but this job's not for you.'

'What? But it was your idea!'

'I know. But this is not idle journalism, hanging around the law courts and police stations. This is not the sort of thing you should get involved in.'

'You're being melodramatic. What on earth is bothering you?'

'What do you know about Henry Cort?'

'Very little,' I said firmly. 'There doesn't seem to be much to know. He was a journalist; he appears to be a gentleman of leisure of moderate means. He knew Lady Ravenscliff many years ago; and he was on the scene in some capacity shortly after Ravenscliff died. There was a reference to FO, but I don't know what it means. Certainly not the Foreign Office, as he is not listed. I looked,' I concluded lamely.

'Yes, well. As you say, you know very little.'

'So tell me more. You clearly know something.'

'Only if you promise to give due consideration to my recommendations.'

'I will,' I said stoutly. But I don't remember whether I meant it.