'My apologies.'

'It was a long time ago. I went back to being a journalist, then joined the BBC when it started up. When did Cort die?' Curious how, the older you get, the more important other people's deaths become.

'Nineteen forty-four.'

'When I get back, send me your package. If it's valuable, I'll be glad to get it. But I doubt it will be. As far as I remember, Cort didn't like me very much. I certainly didn't like him.'

And then we ran out of things to say to each other, as strangers of different generations do. I paid and began my old man's routine of wrapping myself up, coat, hat, scarf, gloves, pulling everything tight to keep out the bitterness of the weather. Whitely pulled on a thin, threadbare coat. Army demob, by the look of it. But he didn't seem half as cold as I was at the thought of going outside.

'Are you going to the cemetery?'

'That would be the death of me. She would not have expected it and probably would have thought me sentimental. And I have a train at four. When I get back I will dig out my old notes to see how much I actually remember, and how much I merely think I remember.'

I took my train from the Gare de Lyon that afternoon, and the cold of Paris faded, along with thoughts of Madame Robillard, formerly Elizabeth, Lady Ravenscliff, as I went south to the greater warmth of a Mediterranean spring.

She remained in the back of my mind wherever I went, whatever I saw, until I returned to my little house in Hampstead to dig out my old notes. Then I went to visit Mr Whitely.

When I became involved in the life and death of John William Stone, First (and last) Baron Ravenscliff, I was working as a journalist. You note I do not say I was a journalist. Merely working as one. It is one of the better-kept secrets of the trade that you have to be quite serious if you wish to have any success. You spend long hours hanging around in pubs, waiting for something to happen, and when it does, it is often of no great interest. I specialised in court cases, and so lived my life around the Old Bailey, eating with my fellows, dozing with them during boring testimony, drinking with them as we awaited a verdict, then running back to the office to knock out some deathless prose.

Murders were the best: 'Railway Trunk Murderer to Hang.' 'Ealing Strangler Begs for Mercy.' They all had nicknames, the good ones, anyway. I made up many of them myself; I had a sort of facility for a snappy phrase. I even did what no other reporter did, which was occasionally to investigate a case myself. I spent a portion of my paper's money on policemen, who were as susceptible then to a small inducement – a drink, a meal, a present for their children – as they are now. I became adept at understanding how the police and murderers worked. Far too good at it, in the eyes of my grander colleagues, who thought me squalid. In my defence I can say that it was an interest shared with much of the newspaper-buying public, who loved nothing more than a good garrotting to read about. The best thing was a beautiful young woman, done to death in a particularly horrible way. Always a crowd pleaser, that.

And it was because of this small expertise of mine that I came across Lord Ravenscliff. Or his widow, from whom I received a letter one fine April morning, asking me to come and see her. This was about a fortnight after he died, although that event had rather passed me by at the time.

'Anyone know anything about Lady Elizabeth Ravenscliff?' I asked in the Duck, where I was breakfasting on a pint of beer and a sausage roll. It was fairly empty that morning; there had not been a decent trial for weeks and none in the offing either. Even the judges were complaining that the criminal classes seemed to have lost their appetite for work.

My enquiry was met with a communal grunt that signified a total lack of interest.

'Elizabeth, Lady Ravenscliff. Do get it right.' It was George Short who replied, an old man who was the very definition of a hack. He could turn his hand to anything, and was a better reporter blind drunk than any of his fellows – including me – sober. Give him some information and he would write it up. And if you didn't give him some information, he would make it up so perfectly the result was better than the truth. Which is, in fact, another rule of journalism. Fiction is generally better than reality, is usually more trustworthy, and always more believable.

George, who dressed so appallingly that he was once arrested for vagrancy, put down his pint – his fourth that morning, and it was only ten o'clock – and wiped his stubbly chin. Like the aristocracy, you can tell a reporter's status by his clothes and manners. The worse they are, the higher up they are, as only the lowly have to make a good impression. George had to impress no one. Everyone knew him, from judges down to the criminals themselves, and all called him George, and most would stand him a drink. At that stage I was more than a beginner, but less than an old hand – I had abandoned my dark suit and was now affecting tweeds and a pipe, aiming at the literary, raffish look which, I thought, quite suited me. Few agreed with my opinion, but I felt rather splendid when I looked at myself in the mirror of a morning.

'Very well. Elizabeth, Lady Ravenscliff, then. Who is she?' I replied.

'The wife of Lord Ravenscliff. Widow, rather.'

'And he was?'

'A baron,' said George, who sometimes took the rule about giving all relevant information a little too far. 'Given a peerage in 1902, as I recall. I don't know why, he probably bought it like they all do. John Stone was his name. Money man of some sort. Fell out of a window a couple of weeks back. Only an accident, unfortunately.'

'What sort of money man?'

'How should I know? He had money. What's it to you, anyway?'

I handed him the letter.

George tapped his pipe on the heel of his shoe and sniffed loudly. 'Not very informative,' he replied, handing it back. 'Can't be for your looks, or your talent, or your dress sense. Or your wit and charm. Maybe she needs a gardener?'

I made a face at him.

'Are you going to go?'

'Of course.'

'Don't expect much. And be on your guard. These people take a lot, and give nothing back.' It was the nearest I ever heard him come to a political opinion.

I presented myself the next day at the address in St James's Square – an impressive town house of the sort occupied by the wealthy merchant and financial classes, although these were gradually moving out to leafier parts of town. I had found out all but nothing about Lady Ravenscliff herself, so filled the gap with imaginings. A dowager in her late sixties, dressed in the high fashion of thirty years ago when she was young and (I was prepared to bet) tolerably pretty. An air of geraniums about her – my grandmother used to grow them, and the particular heavy smell of the plant has always been associated in my mind with respectable old age. Or perhaps not; perhaps a little blowsy and crude, North Country made good, still socially insecure, a chip on her shoulder from having wealth but little position to go with it.

My thoughts were interrupted when I was ushered in to meet a woman I took to be a daughter or a companion. I guessed her age to be about forty or so, while Ravenscliff had been nearly seventy when he died.

'Good afternoon,' I said. 'My name is Matthew Braddock. I have an appointment with your – mother? Perhaps . . . ?'

She smiled in a vaguely perplexed way. 'I very much hope not, Mr Braddock,' she replied. 'Unless you are in contact with the spirit world, you can have no rendezvous with her.'

'I received a letter from Lady Ravenscliff . . .' I began.