Stone's Fall

I told them what I wanted; told them the girl's name, told them she came from Shoreditch, told them about her occupation – these were not i

'Now, pay attention,' I said. 'This is important. If you come across this woman, don't frighten her. Let her know that no one means her any harm. There is no question of the police being involved in this. I might even be able to help her, if she needs it. But I want to talk to her, and will pay her a guinea as well. Got that?'

The urchins nodded. I told them to find me either at home or in the pub or at the Ravenscliff house if they came up with anything. That done, I went back to the King & Keys to find Hozwicki once more. This was a long shot – not finding Hozwicki, as I knew he'd be there, but the possibility of his knowing or telling me anything.

'What do you want? You haven't paid for the last bit of information I gave you.'

'True enough, but I would have thought an old comrade in arms . . .' I gave up. Normally in such circumstances all you have to do is stand a round or two of drinks and all is well, but this tactic I knew wouldn't work either.

'Believe me,' I said with as much sincerity as I could muster, 'if I could tell you something, I would. But I don't want to put you in danger.'

Hozwicki looked sceptical, but at least started paying attention. 'It is all far more complicated than you can imagine. I thought I was writing a biography for a grieving widow. Now, it seems, I am being pursued by a bunch of anarchist murderers. I don't want you to get into the same position.'

He looked at me. 'What are you talking about?'

'The Brotherhood of Socialists. Ever heard of them?'

Hozwicki glared at me. 'You think that just because I am Polish I know every revolutionary in the East End?'

'Hardly. I mean, there are so many of them, you can't know them all, can you? I just thought you might have come across the name.'

'So why are they after you?'

'I don't know.'

'But this has something to do with Ravenscliff?'

'I don't know.'

Hozwicki rubbed the end of his nose, and thought. 'Never heard of them,' he said finally.

'Yes, you have.'

'Yes, I have. But I'm not going to tell you anything.'

'Look, Stefan—'

'If they've got a grudge against you, then steer clear of them. Or get a gun. Do you have a gun?'

'Of course I haven't.'

'I'll give you the name of a man who can get one for you.'

'I don't want a gun.'

'Perhaps. But you may need one.'

'Who are these people?'

Hozwicki's good and bad sides were wrestling for control of his conscience, which put quite a strain on him. He did not answer for some time. In fact, he didn't really answer at all. Instead, he pulled out his notebook, tore off a sheet and scribbled on it. 'Here,' he said. 'I'm not going to help you. But go there and ask questions. That's all I'll do for you.'

Written on the sheet was an address. The Anarchist Club; 165 Jubilee Street.

For those who have forgotten what London was like before the war, or who never knew, the very idea of an Anarchist Club sounds absurd. Most people are more familiar with the Reform, or the Athenaeum, and when they think of clubs, they think of leather armchairs, port and cigars, with quiet waiters padding about bearing silver platters. The idea of anarchists enjoying such surroundings ca

And yet there was such a club, although it was closed down when the war began and never reopened. More than that, it was a popular place. The East End was a seething mass of revolution in those days; wave after wave of immigrants had swept in, bringing Jews, nationalists and revolutionaries fleeing the authorities in Russia and elsewhere. It was a cause of great tension. On the one hand, it made Britain most unpopular in those countries which preferred to have their revolutionaries either dead or in gaol, rather than freely plotting evil. On the other, the mass of men seeking work a

Now, the trouble with revolutionaries is, having got into the habit of opposing their own authorities, they end up opposing everything else as well. That is to say, no sooner had a party formed – to install, say, the principles of Marxist socialism, or anarchist freedom in liberated Lithuania – than it tended to split into two on the question of what, exactly, socialism or anarchism was. Or even what Lithuania was. So the Anarchist Club was formed; fraternal loathing was suspended while members were within its portals. There you could find speeches on all ma

The club smelled, but was no worse than most pubs; it was also a good deal quieter. Chilly though, and not very clean. Anarchists did not approve of housework; that was for their women and, on the whole, there were few women dedicated enough to cook, clean, listen to the rhetoric and foment revolution all at the same time. I guessed there were about thirty men in the large room and only four women. Everybody was dowdy and poor looking and, although some were dapper enough with waxed moustaches and strutting walks, most were subdued and moved with an air of caution. They did not give a very convincing imitation of murderous lunatics. All were foreign, I guessed many were Jews, and they seemed different from the unionists and syndicalists I had written about in my days of toil. Few had the true air of working men; they did not stand or move like men used to working with hand and body. They also looked very much worse fed, greyer of face.

'Can I help you?' A cautious voice, heavily accented; a small man, jacketless and collarless, stood beside me, looking at me cautiously. Not surprisingly. I was hardly dressed fashionably, but it was obvious from my healthy complexion and unpatched clothes that I was both English and not a natural member of this place.

'I was hoping to meet a friend,' I said. 'Stefan Hozwicki. Do you know him?'

'I do, but he isn't here,' the man replied, relaxing a little. It seemed Stefan's name was a sort of passport, a guarantee of my good intentions. Which was kind of him, although mysterious. If I did not exactly slip into the background here, I couldn't imagine Hozwicki doing so either.

'You've not been here before,' the man said. 'My name is Josef, by the way. Welcome.'