I gaped. Money wasn't my speciality, but I knew a gigantic fortune when I lost track of the noughts dancing in my head.

'That's some failing,' I commented. She replied with a frosty look. 'Sorry.'

'I wish to honour my husband's will to the letter, if it is possible. I need to inform this person of the bequest. I cannot do that until I know who he, or she, is.'

'You really have no more information?'

She shook her head. 'The will referred to some papers in his safe. There were none there. At least, nothing of any relevance. I have looked several times.'

'But if your husband conducted an – ah –'

I really did not know at all how to manage this conversation. Even with women of my own social class it would have been impossible to ask directly – your husband had a mistress? When? Where? Who? With a lady in the first flush of mourning it was completely beyond my capabilities.

Luckily, she decided to help me out. I rather wished she hadn't, as it made me even more uncomfortable. 'I do not believe my husband was in the habit of taking lovers,' she said calmly. 'Certainly not in the last decade or so. Before then I know of no one, and there is no reason why I should not have known had any such person existed.'

'Why is that?'

She smiled at me, again with a slightly mocking twinkle in her eye. 'You are trying to contain your shock, but not doing it very well. Let me simply say that I never doubted his love for me, nor he mine, even though he made it perfectly clear to me that I was free to do as I chose. Do you understand?'

'I think so.'

'He knew perfectly well that I would accept anything he wished to tell me about and so had no reason to conceal anything from me.'

'I see.'

I didn't of course; I didn't see at all. My morals were – and still are – those of my class and background, that is to say far more strict than those of people like the Ravenscliffs. It was an early lesson: the rich are a good deal tougher than most people. I suppose it is why they are rich.

'If you will excuse me for saying so, why did he make life so complicated for people? He must have known that it was going to be difficult to find this child.'

'It may be you will find an answer to that in your enquiries.'

She would never have made much of a living as a saleswoman in a department store, so it was perhaps as well that she was wealthy. Still, it would be an intriguing problem and, best of all, I got paid whatever the result: £350 a year was a powerful incentive. I was getting increasingly ill-humoured about the succession of bachelor lodging houses I had lived in for the past few years. I wasn't entirely certain whether I wanted domesticity and stability – wife, dog, house in the country. Or whether I wanted to flee abroad, and ride Arabian stallions across the desert, and sleep by flickering campfires at night. Either would do, as long as I could get away from the smell of boiled vegetables and furniture polish that hit me full in the face every time I returned home at night.

I was bored, and the presence of this beautiful woman with her extraordinary request and air of unfathomable wealth stirred up feelings I had long ignored. I wanted to do something different from hanging around the law courts and the pubs. This task she was offering me, and the money that went with it, were the only things likely to show up that could change my circumstances.

'You have become very thoughtful, Mr Braddock.'

'I was wondering how I would go about this task, if I decide to accept your offer.'

'You have decided to accept it,' she said gravely. From many people, there would have been a tone of contempt in the statement. She, on the other hand, managed to say it in a serene, almost friendly tone that was quite disarming.

'I suppose I have. Not without misgivings, though.'

'I'm sure those will pass.'

'I need, first of all, to discover everything I can about your husband's life. I will need to talk to his lawyer about the will. I don't know. Have you looked through his correspondence?'

She shook her head, tears suddenly welling up into her eyes. 'I can't face it yet,' she said. 'I'm sorry.'

I thought she was apologising for her laziness, then realised it was for the display of weakness she was showing me. Quite right. People like her weren't supposed to get emotional about a little thing like a husband dying. Should I have taken out a handkerchief and helped to dab her eyes? I would have enjoyed it; it would have required me to go and sit by her on the sofa, bring strength to her frailty. I changed the subject instead, and pretended I hadn't noticed.

'I imagine I will have to ensure that no one knows why I am asking these questions,' I said in a louder voice than necessary. 'I do not wish to cause you embarrassment.'

'It would cause me no embarrassment,' she replied, the absurdity of the idea bringing her back to her senses. 'But I suppose a general knowledge of your task might generate false claimants. I have already told a few people – your editor included – that I am thinking of commissioning a biography. It is the sentimental thing that a woman with much grief and money might do.'

'And as I am a reporter,' I said, cheerful once more to find myself back on home territory, 'I can ask indiscreet questions and seem merely as though I am fired by a love of the squalid and vulgar.'

'Precisely. You will fit the part very well, I'm sure. Now, I have made an appointment for you with Mr Joseph Bartoli, my husband's general manager. He has drawn up a contract for you.'

'And you?'

'I think you should come and see me every week to report progress. All Lord Ravenscliff's private correspondence is here, and you will have to read it as well, I imagine. You may ask any questions you have then. Although I do intend to travel to France in the near future. Much as I loved my husband and miss him, the conventions on mourning in this country I find very oppressive. But I know I would shock and scandalise if I acted inappropriately, so I must seek a little relief elsewhere.'

'You are not English.'

Another smile. 'My goodness, if that is how quick you are, we are not going to make much progress. No, I am not English. I am Hungarian by origin, although I lived in France until I married.'

'You have not the slightest trace of any foreign accent,' I said, feeling a little ruffled.

'Thank you. I have been in England for a long time. And I have never found languages difficult. Manners are a different matter, though. Those are more difficult to learn.'

She stood and shook my hand as I prepared to leave; she wore a soft, utterly feminine perfume which complemented perfectly the black clothes she wore. Her large grey eyes held mine as she said goodbye.

A drink. Either to celebrate or to recover, I wasn't sure, but I certainly needed assistance to think about the wave of change that had just swept over my life. In about forty-five minutes I had changed from being a jobbing reporter on £125 a year to someone earning nearly three times as much and able to do pretty much as I pleased. If that did not call for a celebration, I do not know what would, and there is a decent pub in Apple Tree Yard, just round the corner from St James's Square, which caters for the servants who work in the big houses, and the suppliers who keep those inhabitants in the style they require. Two drinks later, I was beginning to feel fairly grand. I would take a house, buy some new clothes. A decent pair of shoes. A new hat. Eat in hotel restaurants. Take a cab every now and then. Life would be very fine.

And I could do my appointed task with as much diligence as I chose. Lady Ravenscliff, it appeared, was still in shock over the loss of her husband and the discovery of his secret life. She had depended on him and looked up to him. Not surprising that she was now throwing his money around.