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financier and is dead. And that his wife wants me to write a biography of him.”
    That got his attention. “Really? Why you?”
    I summarised my interview—leaving out the truly important bit—and threw in for good measure my brief interview with Bartoli.
    “What a strange choice,” he said when I’d finished, staring up at the ceiling with a dreamy look in his eye, a bit like a cat that had just finished a particularly large bowl of cream.
    “I’m glad you find it so,” I said, rather nettled. “And if you could tell me what in particular…”
    He let out a long sigh. “It’s difficult to know where to begin, really,” he said after a while. “Are you really as ignorant as you say?”
    “Pretty much.”
    “You reporters never cease to amaze me. Do you never read your own newspaper?”
    “Not if I can help it.”
    “You should. You’d find it invaluable. And fascinating. But I forgot. You are a socialist. Dedicated to eradicating the ruling class and bringing in the New Jerusalem.”
    I scowled. “Most people live in poverty while the rich—”
    “Grind the faces of the poor. Yes, indeed they do. How they grind them, though, is of great importance and interest. Know thine enemy, young man. If you insist on thinking of them as your enemy. Although as you are now a fully paid-up servant of the worst of the grinders—or at least his widow—I have no doubt your views will have to undergo a certain modification. Had you been better informed you might have refused the money, and thus kept the purity of your soul intact.”
    “What do you mean, the worst of them?”
    “John Stone, First Baron Ravenscliff. Chairman of the Rialto Investment Trust, with holdings in the Gosport Torpedo Company, Gleeson’s Steel, Beswick Shipyards, Northcote Rifle and Machine Gun. Chemical works. Explosives. Mines. Now even an aircraft company, although I doubt those will ever amount to much. You name it. Very secretive man. When he travelled on the Orient Express he had his own private coach that no one but he used. No one really knows what he owned or controlled.”
    “Not even you?”
    “Not even me. We did begin an investigation on behalf of a foreign client about a year ago, but stopped.”
    “Why?”
    “Ah, well. Why indeed? All I know is that one day I was called in by young Seyd—the son, that is, and you know how rarely he ever comes near the place—and asked if we were looking at Rialto. He took the papers and told us not to continue.”
    “Does that often happen?”
    “Never. Mr. Seyd junior is not like his father, and is not known for his backbone. He prefers life in the country, saving souls and living off his dividends. But he’s an amiable enough man, and never interferes. This was the first and last time.”
    “So what caused this?”
    Wilf shrugged. “I cannot say. I don’t know that a biography would interest many people, except me,” he went on with a slight sniff of disapproval. “Ravenscliff was money. It’s all he did. All he ever did. From the standpoint of someone like you, obsessed with the tawdry details of humanity’s failings, he was an utter bore. You couldn’t even justify a paragraph on him. Which was why his death was so little reported, I suppose. He got up in the morning. He worked. He went to bed. As far as I am aware, he was a faithful husband—”
    “Was he?” I asked quickly, hoping that my interest wouldn’t seem suspicious. Wilf, however, put it down to natural squalor.
    “Yes, I fear so. He might have owned a brothel and have patronised it on a regular basis, of course, but it never came to my attention. What I mean is that he never had any notable alliances, if you get my meaning. With People.”
    Now, by “People” Wilf meant the sort of folk he was interested in. The rich and the powerful—and, in this case, their wives and daughters. Shopgirls and women of that sort never came to his attention. “People” had money. Everyone else was merely scenery.
    “He