Why investigate at all? I wouldn't have done. If her husband hadn't troubled to find out who his wretched child was, why should his widow? It seemed to me like inflicting quite unnecessary self-punishment, but what did I know about the mentality of widows? Maybe it was just curiosity, being childless herself, to discover what a child of her husband would be like. Maybe she wanted to find out something about the woman who had succeeded where she had failed.

The offices of Ravenscliff's general manager were in the City, at 15 Moorgate, an anonymous street of five- and six-storey buildings, all erected for commercial use in the past half century. There was nothing remarkable about the street or the people in it; the usual bustle of traders and agents, of young men with spotty faces, top hats, ill-fitting suits and shirts with stiff collars. It was a street of insurance brokers and stockbrokers and grain traders and metal dealers, those who imported and exported, sold before they bought and contrived to keep themselves and the Empire at whose centre they were in liquid funds. I had never liked it very much, this part of town; the City absorbs bright youths and knocks the spirit out of them. It has to; it is the inevitable result of poring over figures eleven hours a day, six days a week, in chilly offices where no talking is allowed and frivolity is punishable by dismissal.

The Stock Exchange is different; I was passing through once when some jobbers decided to set fire to the coat-tails of a grandee, who was billowing plumes of smoke for several minutes before he noticed. Fights with bread rolls arcing over the trading floor are a daily event, American Funds assaulting Foreign Railways. They work hideous hours for low pay, and lose their jobs easily even though they make their masters much money. It is not surprising that they have a tendency towards the infantile, for that is how they are treated. In the pubs and taverns of the City I had made many good friends amongst the jobbers and brokers, but among the bankers few, if any. They are different; they see themselves as gentlemen – not an accusation that could ever be hurled at a stockbroker.

I did not know what to expect of Mr Joseph Bartoli. This is not surprising, as he filled an unusual position, although the evolution of capitalism will throw up more of his type as industry becomes more complex. Ravenscliff (I later learned) had so many fingers in so many pies that it was difficult for him to keep track of them; nor could he involve himself in day-to-day operations as a mine owner or steel founder might be expected to do. For this he had managers in each enterprise. Mr Bartoli oversaw the managers, and informed Ravenscliff how each business was developing.

The offices he occupied, above a ships' chandler, were modest enough – one room for himself, one for clerks, of whom there were about a dozen, and one room for ranks of files and records, but he was so large that the room he had taken as his own was nearly filled by his presence. The little space left over was inhabited by a strange pixie-like character with bright eyes and a pointed goatee beard. Somewhere in his forties, medium height, slender, wearing a brown suit and carrying a pair of bright yellow leather gloves in one hand. He said almost nothing all the time I was there, and we were not introduced; rather, he sat on a seat in a corner reading a file, only occasionally looking up and smiling sympathetically at me. I wished I had been dealing with him, rather than with Bartoli. He seemed a much more agreeable fellow.

In contrast, Bartoli wore an orthodox black suit, but kept on scratching himself and running his finger around his collar as though it irked him. His vast belly fitted behind the desk with difficulty, and his red face and whiskers reminded me greatly of many of the regulars I often saw ranged alongside the bars of nearby pubs. His voice was loud and heavily accented, although it took me some time to realise what the accent was. Manchester-Italian, I decided after a while.

'Sit down,' he said, gesturing at an uncomfortable chair on the other side of the desk. 'You'll be Burdock.'

'Braddock,' I replied. 'Mr.'

'Yes, yes. Sit down.' He had the gestures of the foreigner; extravagant, and excessive, the sort of mannerisms which an Englishman distrusts. I took against Bartoli instantly. And (I must admit) against Ravenscliff, for putting such a man in a position to give orders. I was a great patriot then. I do not know whether I say so in pride or in sorrow.

He looked at me piercingly, as though sizing me up for some appointment and finding me wanting. 'I do not approve of what Lady Ravenscliff has decided to do,' he said eventually. 'I should tell you this frankly, as you might as well know now that you will get little encouragement from me.'

'What do you think she has asked me to do?' I asked, wondering whether he knew of the will.

'The biography of Lord Ravenscliff,' he said.

'Yes. Well, as you please. But I cannot see what your objection is.'

He snorted. 'You are a journalist.'

'Yes.'

'What do you know of business?'

'All but nothing.'

'That's what I thought. Ravenscliff was a businessman. Perhaps the greatest this country has ever known. To understand him, you have to understand business, industry, finance. Do you?'

'No. And until yesterday morning I'd never even heard of him. All I can say is that Lady Ravenscliff has asked me to do this job. I did not solicit it. If you want to know why she chose me, you must ask her. Like you, I could think of many people better able to do justice to the subject. But that was her decision and she offered such terms that I would have been mad to refuse. Perhaps I will do poorly; certainly I will unless I have the co-operation of those who knew him.'

He grunted and pulled a folder from his desk. At least I had not puffed myself up and claimed an expertise I did not possess.

'The payment is absurd,' he commented.

'I quite agree. But if someone offers you a higher price than you anticipated for one of your products do you bargain them down?'

He tossed it over. 'Sign, then,' he said.

'I think I should read it first.'

'You won't find anything unexpected. You are to write a biography of Lord Ravenscliff and will submit the finished manuscript to Her Ladyship for approval. You are forbidden to discuss anything which might be relevant to any of the companies listed in the appendix. Expenses will be paid at my discretion.'

I had never come across a contract with an appendix before, nor one so big, but then I had never been paid so much either.

'How do I get paid?' I asked as I read – more for form's sake than anything else. He had summed the contents up admirably.

'I will send a cheque to your address every week.'

'I do not have a bank account.'

'Then you'd better get one.'

I felt like asking him – where do I start? But knew that his already low opinion of me would fall even further. The paper paid me weekly in a brown envelope. By the time I had paid bed and board, what was left over usually remained – although only for a short while – in my pocket until it was handed over to publicans or music hall owners.

I had thought when I arrived at the office that Bartoli would give me all the information I needed on Ravenscliff's business, but in fact he told me nothing. He would answer questions, but first of all I would have to know what to ask. I would need to make specific requests before he would let me see any papers and even then – such was the hint – he might prove unco-operative.

'In that case,' I said cheerfully, 'I would like to know – if it is possible – everywhere he went.'

'When?'

'Throughout his career.'

'Are you mad?'

'No. I also want a list of everybody he knew, or met.'