'You did this behind my back?'

'My dear Macintyre,' I cried in surprise and with some annoyance, 'I would have told you, truly I would. But I was meeting Signor Ambrosian over quite a separate issue and the topic of your machine came up. I mentioned that I would greatly like to invest in it, and he turned me down point-blank. Out of the question, he told me. I did not mention it, because there was nothing to mention.

'And then, only this afternoon, I received a letter saying that he'd changed his mind. But that I had to make up my mind as swiftly as possible. I had to take a decision then and there, otherwise all would have been lost.'

'You've stolen my invention from me.'

'I've not stolen it from you. Because of your foolishness it wasn't yours anyway.'

'Let me buy it back, then. If you're a man of honour. It's mine, you know it is. As long as I'm alive it will be mine.'

'You don't have any money.'

'I'll get some.'

I shook my head. 'No, you won't.' I did not, fortunately, have to deal with what I would have done if he had been able to find some.

'And whose business will it be?' he asked sullenly. 'What if I want to enter into partnership with someone else? What if I do not wish to have anything to do with you?'

'Then you will be free to do so,' I said evenly, 'if you can raise the money to buy back your patent. Then find a partner willing to work with you. And raise the money to finance production. But could you really think of someone better to work with? You are hopeless with money and you know it. Leave that to me.'

'But you never told me.' He had fixed on this; it was the one point which had penetrated the alcoholic haze and lodged in his mind.

'Well, I apologise for that, if it offends you. But do see reason. I am not forcing you to do anything. You can stay here in debt if you really want to. Except that the debt will be to me, not to Ambrosian. Do you have any objections to entering into a partnership with me?'

'Yes.'

'What are they?'

'I don't want to.'

'Why not?'

'Because you've cheated me.'

It was hard to keep patience with him. Why he wasn't dancing up and down for joy was quite beyond me. Why could he not see how much this was to his advantage?

'Listen, Macintyre,' I said, firmly and calmly, trying to impose myself on him. 'You are drunk. In a moment I will leave you alone. When you are sober we can talk again. But bear this in mind before you drink yourself into an even greater stupor. I am in a position to put thousands of pounds behind this machine of yours. You will have the finest workshop in the world at your disposal. Your machine will be perfected and manufactured, without you having to bother with anything at all. All that I am offering you. If you think not consulting you is such a betrayal that you wish to turn my offer down, then you may do so. I do not need you. I can manufacture the torpedo without your help, and will do so, if necessary.'

He let out a bellow of rage and charged at me, but was too drunk to cause me any harm. I stepped aside, and he fell heavily to the floor. His daughter ran into the room, shooting me a look of such concern and worry as I had never before seen on such a young face. I hesitated, feeling that at the very least I should assist her, even if I was not so very well disposed to the father at that moment, but she made it clear I was not wanted. She took her father's head in her arms, and began stroking it gently, reassuring him like a mother does an infant. Macintyre caught my eye. Go away, was what he meant. Leave me in peace. I did.

Not entirely though; I sent a message round to Longman, asking if his wife could do me the great favour of calling on the engineer to check all was well. I was not wanted, but that did not mean the child could cope on her own, and Mrs Longman was a competent woman, the sort who could reassure a frightened child and coax a drunken, bitter man into resting. So, I thought, at any rate.

And then I went back to my apartment, and slept. I was in a thoroughly bad mood; what should have been a day of triumph had turned out to be anything but, and I was furious that it had been ruined. I know: Macintyre was proud, he was disappointed, he was humiliated. He was an independent man, and I had taken that away from him, was presenting him with a fait accompli. Of course he was angry. I understood all that. But what did he want? Ruin? He would come round and accept that he was lucky to have me look after his interests, or he could drink himself to death. Those were the only real alternatives open to him. As I lay in bed, I couldn't really care which one he might choose.

I suppose I had wanted gratitude, thanks, a look of relief. That was naïve of me. You rarely get thanks in business for saving people from themselves.

CHAPTER 17

There was much to do the next day, and it started badly. Awaiting me, along with my morning coffee, were two letters. One was a long, tearstained and emotional letter from Louise which gave me pause. She apologised wholeheartedly, blamed herself, begged for a second chance to explain everything. She was ashamed of what she had said. It was only her love for me, her fear of losing me, which had made her act the way she had. She had been happy for the first time in her life. She implored me to meet her and talk to her, if only so we could say farewell as friends. Could I bring myself? If so, she would be waiting at Cort's palazzo at eleven. She didn't want to go to our apartment any more; she couldn't face it. But the palazzo would be empty. We could talk there.

I almost crumpled the letter up and threw it into the fireplace, dismissing it and the writer from my mind. But my better side won out. I did owe her that, at least, otherwise everything would be tarnished by a few last, bitter words. I had no intention of revising my decision, but it would be mean and cruel not to give in to her request. She deserved that. I would go. And that would be the end of it.

Thus my decision, until I picked up the second letter. It was from Cardano.

'My dear Stone,' the letter began,

After my letter about Macintyre, I write again with some more information, trivial no doubt, but as I have managed to find out no more for you, this is the only additional news I can provide.

A day or so after the Laird's meeting, I dined with John Delane, the editor of The Times, and was sitting next to Mrs Jane Nevison, a charming lady and the wife of one of his correspondents. A very pleasant woman who, as is usual, valiantly tried to pretend some interest in matters financial to keep the conversation going. I, in turn, cast around for something to say which might engage her interest.

So I began to tell her about your sojourn in Venice – she had mentioned wishing to visit the city – and your impressions of the place. I mentioned that some people were actually buying property there, and referred to the Albemarles and your friend whom they had employed to restore it. I had hardly got started, however, when her face darkened, and her voice became quite icy.

Did she know this Mr Cort? I asked when I saw her reaction. I added that you had a positive impression of the man. She said she did not, but had once employed the woman whom he married. It was quite a story and I pass it on to you unadorned. When she was engaged as a governess, Miss Louise Charlton, she said, had seemed meek and obedient, kindly and thoughtful to their two children. They admired her for her fortitude, as her previous employer had abused her terribly; she even showed them red weals on her forearm made with a rope, which he had inflicted when she said she was leaving the post.

What happened, however, is that very slowly a contented household descended into malevolent backbiting. Wife and husband fought because this woman dropped remarks about what one had said about the other. The children, previously devoted to each other, began to be jealous. They could not understand this, until it became clear that their devoted governess had been telling one child that her parents did not love her, and preferred the other. She was also terribly cruel to them, but in a way which for a long time passed unnoticed. The boy was frightened of the dark and enclosed places, so he would be punished by being locked in a cupboard for hours if he displeased her; the girl was mocked, told she was ugly, that no one would ever love her. The children were terrified, and did not dare say anything to their parents. The parents, meanwhile, were worried that the children would be upset if they lost the governess they loved so much.