by Anne Perry
“Perhaps he made an intimate suggestion to the Queen?” Emily went on, beginning to giggle as well. “Maybe that is why she didn’t care for him?”
“You are talking the most arrant rubbish,” Charlotte said at last. “And it has nothing at all to do with what we were discussing.”
“No, I suppose it doesn’t.” Emily was suddenly solemn again. “What can we do about it? I refuse simply to stand by and watch Mama walk straight into a disaster.”
“I don’t see that you have a choice,” Charlotte said grimly. “The only thing we can hope for is that it should come to a natural end before irreparable harm has been done.”
“That’s hopeless. We can’t be so—so ineffectual,” Emily protested, turning away from the window again.
“It’s not ineffectual; it’s a matter of not interfering, and robbing Mama of the right to choose for herself.” Charlotte turned away as well.
“But—” Emily began.
“How is the election progressing?” Charlotte cut across her deliberately, a smile on her face.
Emily shrugged. “All right, for the moment I give up. Actually, it’s going surprisingly well.” Her delicate eyebrows rose, her eyes wide. “There have been a few extremely good articles in the newspapers in the last two days. I don’t understand it, but someone has obviously changed their views and is now entirely for Jack; or to be more exact, against Mr. Uttley.”
“How odd,” Charlotte said thoughtfully. “There must be some reason for it.”
“Well Jack has not joined the Inner Circle, if that’s what you are thinking,” Emily said fiercely. “I will swear to that.”
“Of course not, I had not doubted it,” Charlotte said soothingly. “But it does not mean that this change has nothing to do with the Inner Circle. They may have their own reasons.”
“Why? Jack won’t give them anything.”
“That is not what I meant.” Charlotte drew a deep breath. “Uttley has been attacking the police. Do you not think it is possible that there are those in the police who are high in the Inner Circle too, and Uttley was foolish enough not to realize it?”
“Oh! Like the assistant commissioner, perhaps?” Emily looked startled and, just for a moment, disbelieving.
“Micah Drummond was,” Charlotte reminded her.
“Yes, but that was different. He didn’t use it.” Emily stopped suddenly. “Yes I see. That was silly. It doesn’t mean Giles Farnsworth wouldn’t. He will call on the right people in order to defend himself. Of course he would.”
“Quite apart from that,” Charlotte went on, “we don’t know who else is.”
“What do you mean?” Emily demanded. “Who are you thinking of?”
“Anyone,” Charlotte replied. “The Home Secretary, for all we know. That’s the whole thing about the Inner Circle, we don’t know. We don’t know whose loyalties are where. There can be alliances you never even imagined.”
Emily looked at her, now very grave. “So Uttley may have defeated himself by attacking the police? Wouldn’t he have known the dangers of that?”
“Not if he didn’t know Farnsworth was a member, assuming it is Farnsworth. And if they were in different rings. But it was stupid of him not to have considered the possibility.”
Emily frowned. “He must have thought he was safe. Charlotte—could there be a—rivalry within the Circle? Do such things happen?”
“I suppose so. Or perhaps it is so secret Uttley really did not know,” Charlotte said thoughtfully. “According to Micah Drummond, he knew only a few other members, those of his own ring. It’s a sort of protection. Only the senior members know all the other names. Then no one who becomes disaffected can betray the others.”
“Then how do they know who is and who isn’t?” Emily asked reasonably.
“I think they have signs,” Charlotte replied. “Secret ways to recognize each other if they have to.”
“How incredibly silly,” Emily said with a smile. Then suddenly she shivered. “I hate things like that. Imagine the power those at the heart must have. They have all that blind loyalty—hundreds, maybe thousands, of men in positions of authority all over the country, all promised to give their allegiance without question, often without knowing to whom or even in what cause.”
“They can go for years without being asked to do anything,” Charlotte pointed out. “I expect most of them never are. When Micah Drummond joined he thought it was only a nice, anonymous, benevolent society, giving time and money in charitable causes. It wasn’t until the murder in Clerkenwell, when he was asked to help Lord Byam, that he began to understand just what the price was, or to wonder how much of his own preferment had come because of his membership. Maybe Uttley was the same.”
“Innocent?” Emily said doubtfully. “I can believe it of Micah Drummond. He really is rather … naive. Men trust people no woman in her right mind would dream of trusting with a thing. But Uttley is devious himself, and brilliantly ambitious. People who use others expect them to try the same.” Then as she considered the idea it became more and more likely in her mind. “Not a very pleasant man, ready enough to grasp at any advantage, but without understanding what a vast and dangerous thing he was playing with?” She shivered again, in spite of the sun that danced on the sill. “I could almost feel sorry for him—but not quite.”
“I would save your pity until the end,” Charlotte warned.
Emily looked at her. “Are you afraid?”
“Only a little. I wish I thought they were protecting the police for some honorable reason, but I think it is because someone higher in the Circle than Uttley is on the force—maybe the assistant commissioner, but it could be anyone.”
Emily sighed. “And I suppose Thomas is no nearer to finding the Hyde Park Headsman?”
“Not so far as I know.”
“And we are not doing very much, are we?” Emily said critically. “I wish I could think of something!”
“I don’t even know where to begin.” Charlotte was growing more despondent. “It isn’t as if we had the faintest idea who it could be. It isn’t really—” She stopped.
“Very interesting,” Emily finished for her. “Because we don’t know the people. Madness is frightening, and sad, but really not …”
“Interesting.” Charlotte smiled bleakly.
Pitt redoubled his efforts to find some link, however tenuous, between Winthrop and Aidan Arledge. In this endeavor he went again to see Arledge’s widow. She received him with the same charming courtesy as previously, but he was saddened to find her looking weary and anxious. In spite of the shock she must have been suffering when they first met, there had been a bloom in her face. It was gone now, as if the long days and nights had drained her. She was still dressed carefully, her sweeping, feminine black relieved by delicate touches of lace and the same beautiful mourning brooch and ring.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Pitt,” she said with a wan smile. “Have you come to report some further discovery?” She said it without hope in her voice, but her eyes, hollowed with shock, searched his face.
“Nothing that we yet know the meaning of,” he answered. Her distress hurt him far more than Farnsworth’s abuse or the criticism written with such a free hand in the newspapers.
“Nothing at all?” she pressed. “You have no idea who is doing these terrible things?” They were in the withdrawing room, which was still warm and restful, a large bowl of flowers on the table by the far wall.
“We have still found no link to connect your husband with Captain Winthrop,” he replied. “And even less with the bus conductor.”
“Please sit down, Superintendent.” She indicated the chair nearest to him, and sat in another opposite, folding her hands in her lap. It was a graceful pose and she looked almost at ease, but her back was perfectly straight, as she had probably been taught to sit since nursery days. Charlotte had told him how good governesses would pass by and poke a ruler, or some other such sharp, hard instrument, at the bent backs of their less dil
igent girls.
Pitt accepted and crossed his legs comfortably. In spite of the circumstances, and the errand on which he had come, there was something about her presence which was extraordinarily agreeable, at once sharpening perception and yet leaving him with a sense of well-being. The thoughts and confidences shared last time were like a warm memory between them.
“Is there something else I can tell you?” she inquired, watching his face. “I have been searching my mind for anything at all. You see, the trouble is there is so much of Aidan’s life in which I had no part.” She smiled, and then bit her lip suddenly. “Oh dear. Far more than I meant, even when I said that. What I was thinking of was his music. I am very fond of music, but I could not possibly go every evening there was a concert, and it would have been out of the question to attend all the meetings and rehearsals.” She searched his eyes to see if he understood, and did not find her culpable for such an admission.
“No woman goes to his art or profession with her husband, Mrs. Arledge,” Pitt assured her. “Many women are not even fully aware what business their husbands have, let alone where it is or who else is concerned.”
She relaxed a little. “No, of course you are right,” she said with a smile of gratitude. “Perhaps it was a foolish thing to say. I am sorry. I just find—oh dear—please excuse me, Mr. Pitt, I fear my mind is all at sixes and sevens. The Requiem is weighing very heavily with me. It is in two days’ time, and I still hardly know what to do.”
Pitt wished he could help, but the police would be inappropriate even as a presence, let alone assisting.
“Surely he had many friends who would be privileged to help in any way at all?” he asked earnestly.
“Oh yes, yes naturally,” she agreed. “Lady Lismore is being marvelous. She is a pillar of strength. Sir James knows all the people who should be invited. And Mr. Alberd, too. He will deliver an address. He is very well respected, you know?”
“I imagine it will still be a harrowing time for you, though,” he said gently, imagining the grief she would feel, the overwhelming emotion as she heard his beloved music and his friends paying tribute, still blindly ignorant of the terrible secret which might all too soon be in every newspaper and billboard.
She swallowed with difficulty, as if there were an obstruction in her throat. “Yes, I am afraid so. So many thoughts keep whirling through my mind.” She looked at him with sudden candor. “I am ashamed of many of them, Superintendent, and yet no matter how hard I try, I don’t seem to be able to control them.” She rose to her feet and walked over towards the window. She spoke with her back to him. “I am ashamed of myself for my weakness, but I am dreading it. I do not know who the man is whom Aidan—I cannot bring myself to use the word loved—and I shall end in looking at everyone and wondering.” She turned back to face him. “That is very wrong, isn’t it?” She said nothing of the storm of ridicule and contempt which would break when someone was arrested and it became public, but the knowledge was silent between them.
“But very understandable, Mrs. Arledge,” he said softly. “I think we might all of us feel the same.”
“Do you think so?” she asked. The slightest of smiles touched her mouth. Bailey had been right, she had the sort of face that became more pleasing the longer one knew her. “You are most comforting. Will you be present, Mr. Pitt? I should like it very much if you were, as a friend—as my friend, if you feel you are able?”
“Most certainly I shall attend, Mrs. Arledge.” He felt guilty as he said it, and yet deeply complimented. He was obliged by the case to be there. Perhaps she understood that. He thought she was quite capable of asking him simply to make him feel less intrusive, and yet the warmth inside him was not lessened by the knowledge.
“There is to be a small reception afterwards,” she continued. “I shall not hold it here, I really don’t feel able.” She was staring at the flowers on the table. “Sir James suggested we should have it at the home of one of Aidan’s friends who both admired his work and was fond of him. That would be convenient for everyone, and much less distressing for me. I shall not be responsible in the same way, and if I wish to leave earlier, I may do so, and return home to be alone with my thoughts and memories.” A small, rueful smile crossed her face and vanished. “Although I am not sure that is entirely what I wish.”
There was nothing for him to say that was not trite.
“It is to be at the home of Mr. Jerome Carvell, in Green Street,” she continued. “Do you know that?”
For a moment he was robbed of words.
“I am familiar with Green Street,” he replied at last, his breath catching in his throat so that he spoke with difficulty. He hoped profoundly that she saw nothing in his face. “I expect that will be very suitable,” he went on. “And as you say, relieve you of the main responsibility.” Did his answer sound as meaningless as he felt it?
She forced a smile. “They will take care of refreshments, and of course we shall have music at the Requiem itself. They have attended to all of that also.” Absently she rearranged one or two of the flowers, putting one a trifle farther out, handling a leaf here or there, nipping off a stem that was out of place. “Aidan knew so many excellent musicians. There will be many to choose from. He particularly loved the cello. Such a sad instrument. The tones are darker than those of the violin. Appropriate for such an occasion, don’t you agree?”
“Yes.” His mind immediately conjured a picture of Victor Garrick playing after Oakley Winthrop’s funeral. “Who will play? Do you know yet?”
She turned away from the flowers.
“Some young man Aidan was fond of, someone I believe he helped and encouraged,” she replied, looking at him with quickened interest. “Do you care for the cello, Mr. Pitt?”
“Yes.” It was more or less true. He enjoyed it profoundly on the rare occasions when he had the opportunity to listen.
“I believe the young man is most gifted. He is an amateur, but has both technique and extraordinary emotion, so Sir James tells me. And he had a regard for Aidan, because of the time Aidan devoted to helping him.”
“Indeed? What is his name?”
“Vincent Garrick. Yes, I think that is right. No—no it was not Vincent—Victor. Yes, I am sure that is right.”
“Did Mr. Arledge know him well?” Pitt kept the sudden sharpness out of his voice as well as he could, but she stiffened. He could see the line of her shoulder taut against the thick silk of her gown.
“Do you know him, Mr. Pitt? Does it mean something?” she demanded. “Why do you ask me?”
“It may mean very little, ma’am. Victor Garrick was Captain Winthrop’s godson.”
“Captain Winthrop’s godson?” She looked confused, and then disappointed. “Perhaps it was absurd, but I was hoping, from your sudden attention, that there was some—some clue?”
“Did Mr. Arledge know Victor Garrick well?” he asked again.
Her eyes did not leave his face.
“I am afraid I have no idea. You could ask Sir James. He would know. He actually encouraged the young musicians rather more than Aidan did. In fact, to be honest, Superintendent, I fear it may have been Sir James’s suggestion because Mr. Garrick is something of a protégé of his.”
“I see.” Pitt was stupidly disappointed. Still he would go again to Sir James Lismore and pursue the connection, no matter how remote. And most certainly he would attend the Requiem. “Thank you, Mrs. Arledge. You have been most patient with me, and most gracious.” It was an understatement. No bereaved person had earned his admiration more.
“You will tell me, Superintendent, when you find something, won’t you?” she said with eagerness lighting her face.
“Of course,” he said quickly. “As soon as there is anything that is more than speculation and idea.” He rose to his feet.
She rose also and walked with him to the hallway and the front entrance, thanking him again. He took his leave and set out to find a hansom immediately and go to the home of Sir James Lismo
re. But her face was still in his mind’s eye and a confusion of emotions was raised by Aidan Arledge. He pitied him because he had met a violent and untimely death, and because he had loved where he could not fulfill himself, and yet also felt an anger he could not quell for his having betrayed such a remarkable woman and left her with nothing but dignity and grief.
“Victor Garrick?” Sir James said with surprise. He was a very ordinary-looking man of medium height, and his hair receded so far it was barely visible as one faced him. But there was a quality of concentration in his eyes that held the attention, and all the lines in his face spoke of intelligence and good nature.
“A young amateur cellist,” Pitt added.
“Oh yes, I know who you mean,” Lismore said quickly. “Most gifted, extraordinary intensity. But why does he concern you, Superintendent?”
“Was he acquainted with the late Aidan Arledge?”
“Certainly. Poor Aidan knew a great number of musicians, both amateur and professional.” He frowned, looking at Pitt more closely. “Surely you cannot suspect one of them of being involved in his death? That is absurd.”
“Not necessarily culpable, Sir James,” Pitt explained. “There are many possibilities of involvement I am trying to find any link whatever between Captain Winthrop and Mr. Arledge.”
Lismore looked surprised. “I perceive the difference, Superintendent I apologize for leaping to an unjustified conclusion.” He put his hands in his pockets and regarded Pitt with interest “But are you sure that Captain Winthrop was acquainted with Victor Garrick? I believe Captain Winthrop had no fondness whatever for music, and Victor certainly had no desire to have anything to do with the navy. He is a very peaceable, artistic sort of young man, a dreamer, not a man of action. He hates all manner of violence or cruelty, let alone the life of physical discipline and ordered belligerences necessary for life on board a naval vessel”
“It was not a friendship of choice,” Pitt explained, smiling to himself at Lismore’s description of naval life … one with which Victor would have agreed. “A family relationship,” he added.
