'Including Jenny?'

'That is not any of your business,' she said quietly. 'You will have to believe whatever you think is most likely.'

I blushed to the top of my ears with embarrassment. The woman had successfully thrown me into turmoil yet again. She could do it so easily, and there was nothing I could do to defend myself. I even think I must have derived some pleasure from being so tormented; certainly I put myself into that position often enough.

'What else?' I asked.

'I discovered that the money had been coming through regularly, that it was for a reason, and as long as it kept on arriving, they were content not to launch any expropriations. That is to say, they did not bother themselves with robbing jewellers' shops, or murdering people. They do, however, have a formidable stock of weapons. I have been to target practice with them on Romney Marshes.'

'Pheasant?' I said hopefully.

'No. People. Not real ones, though.'

'Don't sound so disappointed. Is this blackmail? Payments to stop them launching some operation against one of your husband's companies?'

'I have not yet found out. Only Jan knows and he will not say. I have tried to persuade him, but I risk his suspicion if I press too hard. That is why I still go, despite John's death. I believe I am getting close to discovering what all this is about, and having come so far, I will not give up now.'

I tried, but failed, to erase from my mind all thoughts of how she might try to persuade him. And I confess here – I am deeply ashamed – that I found those thoughts irresistible, exciting, rather than disgusting as they should be. Nor did I find I could reject them as absurd as easily as I should.

'That was my contribution, and John was burrowing into the finances to figure out who was sending the money. He had not told anyone else. That was his worry.'

'What do you mean?'

'He thought he had created a monster. That his companies had come to life, and were acting on their own. That they no longer responded to his orders, but followed their own instincts. That was why he told no one. He did not know who he could tell.'

'I think he may have discovered what it was all about,' I replied. 'He was due to have a meeting with Xanthos about it. But he died instead.'

'I only saw him briefly, for a few hours when he came back, and we didn't have time to talk very much. I was away for the weekend. At the Rothschilds' at Waddesdon. Charming people. Do you know them? They were not John's bankers, but they are such congenial company. You'd like them.'

She'd done it again. As fast as I settled into talking to one person, she shifted and became someone else. From the grieving widow, bored with English mores, to the critical, snobbish woman who had been so cruel to Mrs Vincotti, to Jenny the anarchist, to the lustful woman who had driven me to a pitch of frustration, and now to the society gadabout. Do you know Natty Rothschild, darling? Such a sweet man . . . Of course I didn't know the Rothschilds, and I was sure I wouldn't find them charming at all. I felt as though I was talking to an actress, who was playing several roles at the same time, all from different plays.

I glared at her; it was the best I could manage, as an explanation for the feelings behind it would have taken too long, and said too much. Besides, I'm sure she knew exactly what I was feeling.

'I think the obvious thing to do is to go to Northumberland myself and see if I can discover what he did. I will go tomorrow. It is something I can do well, and it will be pleasant to feel competent for once.'

'Do you want me to come as well?' she asked.

Great fantasies swept through my mind at the very idea and, for the first time, I was ready for them. I shook my head. 'No. Absolutely not.'

CHAPTER 22

I went the next evening, on the night sleeper to Newcastle, leaving from King's Cross at ten fifteen. I had never been on a sleeper before, and I found myself childishly excited by the adventure. Not only that, I went first class; money was no object so I thought I would indulge myself. My expenses were being met, and I now had (so the bank had informed me in a hand-written letter) £36 14s 6d in my account. I was tired, which perversely spoiled the occasion; I would gladly have stayed up all night in the crisp linen sheets, listening to the rattle of the wheels and seeing the sparks from the chimney fly past the window in the darkness like a private firework display. It was a two-berth compartment – I was not sufficiently used to my new status to buy myself a single – and my travelling companion was a solicitor from Berwick, a middle-aged man with a wife and four children, whose father, and father's father, had been solicitors in Berwick before him. We talked over the brandy that the Great Northern provided before bedtime, served on a mahogany tray brought round by the porter, and I found his conversation soothing and congenial.

He was a happy man, was Mr Jordan, who had created an entire universe of society in his little town on the edge of the country. On other occasions I might have found him dull, I suppose; his life of bridge and supper parties would never have suited me. But I took comfort in the fact that he liked it; and found my liking was tinged with longing. I feared for Mr Jordan; I felt that the anarchists and the Ravenscliffs would succeed in sweeping all away, sooner or later, and the world would be the poorer for its loss. And then I slept, the sort of sleep which is entirely perfect. It was glorious and I remember thinking as I was in the deepest part of my unconsciousness that if death bore any resemblance to this, then there was nothing to fear at all.

When I woke up, the sun was shining weakly, and the porter of the night before – freshly shaved and tidy – was gently prodding me. 'Morning tea, sir? Toast? Your newspaper? Hot water is on the shelf waiting for you. There's no hurry at all, sir, but if you could be up and about in an hour . . .'

My travelling companion had already gone, so I had the compartment to myself, and I made best use of it. The sleeping car had been uncoupled and pushed into a siding, where it was quiet except for the twittering of the birds and the occasional noise of a steam train passing. It was a lovely day, all the better for the fact that what I was doing there stayed out of my mind completely as I drank my tea, read the newspaper, shaved and dressed in the leisurely fashion I decided that men of means must always employ.

I tipped the porter generously then walked peacefully out of the station, and into the middle of Newcastle. The air seemed heavier; the smell of coal hung in the air in a way I had not noticed in the compartment. The buildings were black with decades of soot from the air, every single one of them, and the architecture was grim and foreboding. There was none of the bright stucco of west London, grimy though that often was, few trees, and even fewer people on the streets. Only the delivery men and a few people on bicycles were to be seen. Newcastle was a working town, a working man's town, and it was currently at work. I looked at the scene for a few moments, my bag in my hand, and decided there was no great rush. I was a man of business. That was why I was dressed in my best suit, my funeral and wedding suit, which I had changed into before I left. It was damnedly uncomfortable, but that served a purpose. It reminded me of my task and my role.

I behaved as I thought I should behave, and walked into the Royal Station Hotel just over the way and took a room for the night. Then spent the next hour unpacking and lying on the bed, wallowing in the opulence and comfort. I had never stayed in a hotel before. Not a proper hotel like this one. On the rare occasions I had travelled I had stayed in boarding houses which rented rooms by the night, the sorts of place which were always cheap, sometimes clean and generally run by people like my own landlady in London. This was altogether different, and I took my time to get used to the room and to the lobby, then spied out the restaurant. It wasn't that hard, I decided. If Elizabeth could pretend to be a German anarchist, I could masquerade as a member of the professional middle classes for a few hours.