Stone's Fall Read Online Free PDF

There is good money to be had in the City of London for those who really want it.
    Wilf Cornford was too lazy ever to become rich. Had he possessed easy wealth by inheritance he would have been a scientist working out the various species and subspecies of the insect world. Instead, he catalogued the character and follies of homo economicus; it was his duty and his pleasure, and he was one of the few men I have ever met who could be considered truly happy. He could have been a power in the land, for all would have been afraid of him had they truly appreciated how much he knew. But he could not be bothered and, so he told me once, it would spoil his observations. All those people who gave him such an interesting time with their activities would begin to behave differently if they knew they were being watched.
    It was he who first had the idea of hiring me for the occasional bit of investigation down in the police courts, and payment was occasionally some money, and more often a useful tip about a forthcoming arrest or scandal which his network of blabbermouths had passed on to him. On several occasions he had suggested I come to work for Seyd’s properly, but I had never taken him up. I liked a more varied diet.
    “Matthew,” he said in his even fashion when I knocked on his door and was admitted. “Nice to see you again. We haven’t seen you here for a long time.”
    Wilf’s way of speaking was as anonymous as his appearance. He was a portly fellow in his fifties, but not excessively so. He spoke with a measured neutrality, neither sounding like a toff nor yet betraying any trace of his West Country origins, for his father had been a labourer in Dorset, and he had been sent as a child to serve in the house of the local gentry. There he had somehow learned to read and write, and when the family had brought him to London for the season some thirty-five years ago he had walked out one morning and never gone back. He found a job at a tallow chandler’s writing up the books, for he had a fine script. Then he moved on to a corn broker, then a discount house, and finally to Seyd’s.
    “I was busy with the Mornington Crescent trial.”
    He wrinkled his nose in disapproval. As well he might. This had not been a classic in the annals of British crime, and the only interesting aspect of the case had been the sheer stupidity of William Goulding, the murderer, who had kept the head of his unfortunate victim in a box under his bed, so when the police came calling—as they were bound to do, for the woman had lived in his house—even they could not have failed to notice the smell and the pool of dried blood which had dripped through the floorboards from the bedroom above and stained the parlour carpet. Goulding had not read the penny press, and so was possibly the only person left in England who did not know about the wonders of fingerprints for identifying even headless corpses. It was an open-and-shut case, but the trial took place in an otherwise quiet period, and the public does love its gore.
    “I really don’t know how you do your job,” he said. “I would find it very dull.”
    “In comparison to the account books you like to read?”
    “Oh, yes. They are fascinating. If you know how to read them.”
    “Which I don’t. And that is one of the reasons I am here.”
    “I was rather hoping you had come to give me information, not ask for it.”
    “Do you know of a man called Ravenscliff?”
    He stared at me for a minute, then very uncharacteristically leaned back and laughed out loud. “Well,” he said indulgently, “yes. Yes, I think I can say I have heard of him.”
    “I need to find out about him.”
    “How many years do you have at your disposal?” He paused, and looked rather patronisingly at me. “You could spend the rest of your life learning about him, and still never find out everything. Where are you starting from? How much do you know already?”
    “Very little. I know he was rich, was some sort of