'It seems not. I hope you will excuse our curiosity, but we are naturally interested in the reason for it. Lord Ravenscliff was an immensely wealthy man, but even by his standards this is a large sum.'

I was aware I was talking like a member of the Ravenscliff entourage, like some retainer. It made me uncomfortable in some ways, but I also noted a certain smugness in my mind as I spoke.

'I cannot help you at all, I really cannot,' she said, looking as though she might burst into tears at any moment.

'Was your father a rich man? Might they have been in business together?'

'I doubt it. I was always told he was very poor; quite unworldly. But not so unworldly that he did not provide for me.'

'And this inheritance. It was an annuity? It comes from an insurance company? A Venetian one? Italian?'

'No, no. An English bank.'

'Please do not take offence, but could you tell me how much this is for? It would help to gauge what sort of relationship your father might have had with Lord Ravenscliff.'

You see – I was also beginning to think like a man of money. Never before in my life would I have considered that income flow might help determine a man's relationships, but it was now beginning to come naturally, now I realised that, for some, it was the only thing which mattered.

'I receive a cheque four times a year from Barings Bank in London for £62.'

I calculated quickly, using my new-found financial sophistication. £62 a quarter was about £250 a year, which meant a capital sum of something around £6000. Hardly in Ravenscliff's league. His bequest meant that her income had just multiplied by eight. A fortune by English standards, and I guessed a vast fortune by Venetian.

'Signora Vincotti,' said Lady Ravenscliff. 'I would like to ask you an even more direct question. Please do not take offence, but it is essential that I know the answer.' She said it in a way which suggested she did not care one way or the other if the other woman did take offence. What was wrong with her? She really didn't have to try quite so hard to be rude.

Vincotti looked at her enquiringly.

'My husband travelled frequently to Venice. Sometimes I accompanied him, most times not. I have never really cared for Venice.' She paused for a moment. 'Let me put it bluntly. Was my husband the father of any of your children?'

Signora Vincotti stared in shock at the question, and I felt sure she was going to become angry, as she had every right to be. For a moment this was very nearly the case, but she was very much more intelligent than her thick-set, homely features suggested. She reached out and took Lady Ravenscliff's hand.

'Oh, I see,' she said gently. 'I see.'

Lady Ravenscliff snatched her hand away.

'Don't be annoyed with me, I mean no insult,' the Italian woman said softly. 'No. There is no possibility, no possibility at all, that your husband was the father of any of my children. None. If you saw them, and saw pictures of my husband as well, you would not have to take my word for it.'

'In that case, we need trespass on your time no longer,' Lady Ravenscliff said, standing up immediately. 'I am sure my lawyers will be in contact with you in due course. My thanks for your assistance.'

And with that she walked swiftly across the hotel lobby, leaving me – feeling thoroughly embarrassed by her appalling behaviour – to make amends as best as I could by saying goodbye in a more friendly fashion, and mutter about shock and grief. None of which was true.

Then I too hurried into the noise of Russell Square and found Lady Ravenscliff waiting for me, her face dark with anger.

'Appalling woman,' she said. 'How dare she patronise me? If her father was as vulgar as she . . . certainly there must be a physical resemblance. She looks like a bulldog in frills.'

'She conducted herself with a good deal more dignity than you did, even though she must have found the encounter very trying . . .'

'And it wasn't for me?' She turned around and confronted me for my mollifying remarks. 'You think everything was calm and easy for me? That discovering your dead husband has a child, having to deal with people like that—'

'I didn't mean—'

'You are not in my employ to see both sides of the argument, Braddock.'

'Mr Braddock. And in fact I am in your employ to do precisely that. You want me to discover the truth. Not to be partisan.'

'It's my money, and you are being paid. You will do as you are told.'

'I will do a good and proper job, or I will not do it at all. Please decide what you want of me.'

Dangerous, that. The desire, which comes upon me on occasion, to strike an attitude, put me in a risky position. Of course I wanted to do a decent job; but I also wanted the money although, after my editor's sombre remarks, I would have been quite happy to have the project brought to an end. The perfect reply (in my opinion) would have been had she told me that she wanted to pay me a huge amount of money to go away. Unfortunately, my upright, manly remarks had the opposite effect. She crumpled in front of me and began sobbing quietly, so through pure instinct I responded in a supportive and consolatory fashion, which of course made things even worse. I handed her a handkerchief, which, fortunately, was clean. Then I completely wrecked things by taking her hand and holding it firmly. She did not snatch it away.

'Let us go into the square and find a seat,' I suggested. 'It is a little public here on the pavement.'

I led her into the middle of Russell Square and the little stall near the centre that served office workers. There I bought two cups of tea and presented her with one. I thought it was probably one of the most exotic things she had done for years, she who never did anything in public, nor anything without servants. She looked a little doubtfully at the old cracked cup.

'Don't worry,' I assured her. 'It's quite safe.'

She sipped in silence, initially more to please me, but then with greater enthusiasm.

'I apologise for my rudeness,' she said after a while. 'And of course I behaved horribly to that poor woman. I will write and apologise. Please do not think badly of me. I am finding all of this so hard.'

I nodded in acknowledgement. 'I understand. I really do. But while we are both amiably disposed to one another, might I renew my request that you begin to tell me the truth?'

The flash in her eyes clearly demonstrated that, however much she might have been chastened, the situation was very far from permanent. I pressed on while there was still time.

'Mr Cort,' I said.

'What about him?'

'Henry Cort is in charge of government espionage. He has been described to me as the most powerful and dangerous man in the country.'

'Henry?' she said. 'Oh, I don't think . . .'

'You have known him for years, so you told me. I do not believe you could be unaware that there is more to him than meets the eye.'

She considered for a moment. 'I think you also have been less than open with me,' she replied. 'If I remember, I asked what your interest in Henry was, and you replied merely that someone had mentioned his name. I do not see why I should be open with you, if you dissimulate with me.'

A fair point. 'Very well. Let me summarise. Henry Cort visited the police within hours of your husband's death, and was quite possibly the man responsible for suppressing news of it for nearly three days. In the meantime, Barings Bank was brought in to support the price of the Rialto Investment Trust, which was your husband's financial instrument for controlling a large part of British industry.'

'I know what Rialto is.'

'Cort also used to work for Barings,' I continued. 'Barings, we now know, pays Signora Vincotti's annuity. I refuse to believe that an old friend, whom you have known for twenty years or more, would conceal all of this from you.'