Anne Perry - [Thomas Pitt 24]

by Long Spoon Lane

  “Enid?” she whispered.

  “I don’t think so. But she could have had that footman do it for her. Enid has far more…passion than Denoon knows…or Cordelia. I pray not. It would be so terribly wrong of her to have dragged that young man into such a thing, whatever for.”

  “If she fears you did it, then she cannot know he did,” she pointed out.

  “I know that,” he said with a bleak, agonized smile. “Perhaps I am just afraid of shadows. You were never afraid, were you.” It was not a question.

  “Oh, yes, I was!” she said with sudden honesty. “I still am. I just refuse to look at how much, or I might not have the nerve to stand.”

  He bent suddenly and kissed her, gently, on the mouth. Then he pushed open the door and she walked out to her waiting carriage.

  Charlotte was at home in the late afternoon when the doorbell rang. Gracie answered it, and a moment later came to the kitchen, her eyes wide, to say that Mr. Victor Narraway wished to speak with her.

  Charlotte was startled. “Here?”

  “I put ’im in the parlor,” Gracie said apologetically, her eyes wide. “ ’E looks awful angry!”

  Charlotte put down the iron, straightened her skirt, reached up automatically to make sure her hair was more or less tidy, and went to the parlor.

  Narraway was standing in the middle of the floor, his back to the fireplace. He was dressed immaculately, his hair smooth and thick, his body rigid. His face was so tense; his voice, when he spoke, precise, sharp-edged.

  “Mrs. Pitt, this morning you went to see Sir Charles Voisey at his home. Please don’t embarrass us both by denying it.”

  His arrogance lit a sudden rage in her. “Why on earth should I deny it, Mr. Narraway?” she said hotly. Only the fact that he was Pitt’s superior officer kept her from adding that it was none of his concern, and she considered him to be ill-mannered. “I do not know of any reason why I should account for myself to you, truthfully or otherwise.”

  “Have you forgotten who Voisey is?” he said almost between his teeth. “Have you put it out of your mind that he was responsible for the death of Mario Corena and Reverend Rae, and very possibly attempted to kill you, your children, and your maid?”

  “Of course I haven’t,” she said tartly. “Even if I forget my own fear, I could not forget Mario Corena, for Lady Vespasia’s sake.” She did not mention Reverend Rae. In this instance, only Corena mattered.

  “Why did you go to see him, Mrs. Pitt?” he demanded.

  For a moment she considered telling him. Then her temper took control. “I thought you were against the bill to increase police powers to question people without reason, or to interrogate servants without their master or mistress’s knowledge, Mr. Narraway?”

  He looked surprised, temporarily caught on the wrong foot. “I am.”

  “Good.” She stared at him. “So is Sir Charles.”

  “That is not a reason for you to see him, Mrs. Pitt! He is an extremely dangerous man…” His voice rose, getting sharper, angrier. “Do not go anywhere near him again. Do you understand?”

  “I know that, Mr. Narraway,” she replied icily, ignoring the fact that he was correct, Voisey’s opposition to the bill was no reason for her going to see him. “But you appear to have forgotten that my husband works for you. I do not,” she continued. “Or are you threatening me that if I do not do as you wish, you will somehow punish him for it?”

  He looked startled. “Of course not!” His face was tight, his eyes burning. “But I will not allow him to be distracted from his work because he is worried that his irresponsible wife is endangering herself by meddling where she has no concern. I assume you care for his safety, and have learned, if not obedience, then at least loyalty?”

  She was so furious she ached to be able to lash out at him, even physically, but she dared not, for Pitt’s sake. “Mr. Narraway,” she said, almost choking on the words. “I would like to tell you to mind your own business, and to ask how you dare to come here and ask me impertinent questions. But as you have pointed out, you are my husband’s superior, and if I do such a thing I may be jeopardizing his position, so I cannot.”

  His face went white, stiff, his eyes very bright. “I am concerned for your safety, you stupid woman! If your husband cannot keep you in control, then someone else needs to.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him the real reason she had gone to see Voisey, but if she did then perhaps he would also see that no matter what happened to Pitt, she could not use her evidence against Mrs. Cavendish. She must keep it to protect herself and her children. She had more hostages to fortune than Voisey had. She should have known that. The threat would work for Pitt, if Voisey hurt the rest of his family, but not for her. She did not want Narraway to know that and see her defeat. She glared at him in intense, bottled-up rage.

  “Your choice of language is becoming offensive, Mr. Narraway. I think you had better leave.” She tried to say it with immense dignity, and was halfway through when it suddenly struck her that he had meant exactly what he said. He was frightened for her. There was emotion in his face, which was oddly vulnerable. He was so rigid because her safety mattered to him, and he was not used to caring. He felt naked.

  Now she was aware of heat in her own face and she looked away.

  “I assure you, I have no intention of seeing Sir Charles again,” she said quietly. “I have no desire to impede your inquiries, or cause Thomas any anxiety for my safety. But I do believe the bill before Parliament is dangerous, and I intend to continue doing what I can to assist those who are fighting against it. Good day, Mr. Narraway.”

  “Good day, Mrs. Pitt,” he said quietly. He allowed her to conduct him to the front door. She did not meet his eyes this time, because she was afraid of what she might see there, and be obliged to acknowledge. Then he would know that she understood, and it was better that that never happen.

  She closed the door behind him, and stood still for a moment, breathing hard.

  10

  “I SUPPOSE I should consider myself fortunate you escaped with your life,” Narraway said tartly when Pitt reported the Josephine incident to him late that afternoon. He had spent the intervening time tracing as much as he could of the connection between Simbister and the Josephine. He had found definite proof on paper and he was pleased with himself.

  “Yes,” Pitt agreed, remembering far too vividly the ice-cold darkness and the sound of water closing around him, shifting, gurgling, sucking the hull of the boat down, the only light that of the matches Voisey was striking one after another. It flickered through his mind to wonder what physical fear Narraway had known. He had never spoken of it. Was it because there had been none, or simply that it was a part of his life too woven into the core to attempt to describe it. And who would one share it with anyway? Those who had experienced it already knew. Those who had not yet tasted it, or never would, could catch nothing of the real terror merely in words. Pitt did not even try to explain it to Charlotte. What she knew, she guessed from his shivering body, the look in his eyes, and the fact that he did not try to tell her.

  “Then I had better get someone to raise the Josephine,” Narraway observed. He looked tense, pale-faced, as if containing his emotions with difficulty. Had he really been so concerned for Pitt’s safety? “We would look foolish if we needed to find it and it had been discreetly removed,” he added.

  “Yes, sir.” Pitt put the papers on the desk. “That ties it to Simbister, and to Grover.”

  “Who tried to drown you?” Narraway asked.

  “Grover, I think. He was certainly there shortly before we were. I have witnesses to that. Three students are included.” He tapped the papers with his finger.

  “You seem to have been competent.” Narraway stared at him, his eyes dark and hot. “You must have looked half dead when you arrived home last night.”

  Pitt was startled. “A bit wet,” he agreed.

  “A bit wet,” Narraway echoed his words. “And what di
d you tell your wife? That you fell into the river?”

  “That I was in a boat that sank, and I only just got out in time,” Pitt replied, evading the truth.

  Narraway’s voice was colder than the Thames water had been. “Do you suppose that that was what sent her to see Charles Voisey this morning? Concern that he had caught a chill, perhaps?”

  “She…she went to see Voisey this morning? Where?” Pitt was alarmed, caught off-balance. “At the House of Commons? He wouldn’t be there so early…”

  “Precisely,” Narraway agreed scathingly. “At his home in Curzon Street. It seems I know rather more about your wife’s comings and goings than you do, Pitt! From now on I suggest you keep better control of your domestic affairs. She is a willful woman greatly in need of a stronger hand than you have exercised so far. You obviously tell her too much, and her imagination does the rest.” He looked truly and profoundly angry. His body was rigid, his shoulders high as if all his muscles were clenched. “She is going to get herself seriously hurt if you allow her to keep on interfering in things she has no grasp of, and no idea of her own danger. For God’s sake, man, what’s the matter with you? Can’t you run your own household?”

  Pitt stared at him, dumbfounded. He had no idea Charlotte had gone to see Voisey, and could not think why she should want to. But one thing he was absolutely sure of was that she had not forgotten that he had killed Mario Corena, and the Reverend Rae, and that she would never trust him, no matter what he said or did. She had gone for a reason. There was nothing she could learn from him that Pitt had not already learned. She must have gone to tell him something. Then he remembered she had asked about the proof against Mrs. Cavendish, and he was certain he knew what she had said to Voisey, and why she had gone. He found himself smiling, even though it was shakily, with a mixture of fear and pride, and a strange oblique amusement.

  “If you see something humorous in this, Pitt, I’d be delighted to know what it is!” Narraway said tartly.

  Pitt straightened his face. He understood Charlotte, and with amazement and a flood of strange, fierce pity, he knew why Narraway was so angry. It was not Pitt or the success of Special Branch he was afraid for, it was Charlotte herself. He was moved to such irrationality because he cared for her. The emotion in him was personal. Pitt knew exactly what it felt like, the mixture of happiness and terror, the knowledge that you were not in control, like losing your balance, the feeling of helplessness and the waiting for a verdict that could hurt more than you would be able to bear.

  He avoided Narraway’s eyes, so that he would not know that Pitt had seen it. He knew about vulnerability; it was the price of investing part of yourself in anything. The only price greater was in not doing so. The cowardice of not caring was the ultimate defeat. It was a sharp reminder of his own vulnerability.

  He changed the subject. “We have to connect the bombing to Wetron,” he said aloud. “There’s no good getting Simbister alone. Wetron will proclaim his horror, take credit for getting rid of corruption, and find someone else to put in Simbister’s place, with a strict warning to be more careful about getting caught.”

  “I know that!” Narraway said abruptly. He was staring towards the window, his face turned in profile. “We need to use everything we have. We can’t afford to protect those we like, or be squeamish about using those we don’t.”

  “I know,” Pitt acknowledged. “If I could think of an effective way to do it, I would.”

  “Who killed Magnus Landsborough, and why?” Narraway asked. “Was it in order to put one of their own in charge? The bombing in Scarborough Street was completely different from Myrdle Street. It wasn’t amateur exhibitionism to make a point; it was a very professional, indiscriminate murder.”

  “It’s possible,” Pitt admitted. “From what I’ve learned of Magnus, he was an idealist, but neither vicious nor a complete fool. Whoever shot him was someone who knew their plans and expected them at Long Spoon Lane.”

  “Obviously,” Narraway said bitterly. “Good name for it. Seems they have been dealing with the devil. Nobody’s spoon is long enough for that. Be careful, Pitt. Use Voisey, don’t trust him—not in anything!”

  Pitt thought of the evidence against Voisey’s sister. Would it be enough? Was Voisey’s love for her greater than his hunger to have power again, and revenge on those who had robbed him of it once?

  Pitt had made the mistake before of assuming that people always act in their own interest. It was not so. Passion, fear, rage prompted all kinds of acts that were stupid and self-destructive, and the perpetrators saw that only when it was too late.

  “Pitt,” Narraway interrupted his thoughts.

  “Yes, sir. I’ll be as careful of Voisey as I can.”

  “Good. Get on with it. And no more dips in the river. I can’t afford to have you with pneumonia.”

  “Thank you for your solicitude,” Pitt said sarcastically and went out before Narraway replied.

  Pitt arrived home early that evening, and although he had considered for over an hour how he would confront the subject of Voisey with Charlotte, and how much to say about the talk he had with Narraway, he had still reached no satisfactory decision when he walked into the kitchen.

  Charlotte met him with a bright, innocent smile that proclaimed to him her total guilt. She knew precisely what she had done, and had no intention of telling him. That settled it. At least for the time being he would say nothing, because it required new thought before he could decide anything in the changed circumstances.

  Charlotte held out a letter to him. “This was delivered by hand about an hour ago. It’s from Charles Voisey.”

  “How do you know?” he demanded, taking it from her.

  She opened her eyes very wide. “Because the messenger said so! For heaven’s sake, you don’t think I opened it, do you?”

  “I’m sorry,” he apologized, tearing the flap. Narraway’s face with its raw emotion was sharp in his mind. “Of course you didn’t.” He knew she was watching him as he read it.

  Pitt,

  Hope you are no worse for the ducking. I now know where there is the proof that we need. It is in the possession of the man it implicates, but there is no point whatever in getting the dog and leaving the master free. He will easily acquire another dog, so to speak.

  Of course there is a risk involved, especially to the only man in a situation where he can search his master’s house! But I do not see any choice.

  Advise me.

  Voisey

  Charlotte might have meant to control herself, but it was more than she could manage. “What is it?” she said, her voice sharp.

  “I have to go and find Tellman,” he replied, going to the stove, opening the top with the bar, and dropping the letter onto the hot coals. “Voisey says there is proof that Wetron is connected directly to Simbister in the bombing. We have to have it.”

  “It’ll be very dangerous,” she said a little huskily, but she too spoke half under her breath, afraid that Gracie might hear. There was nothing to be served by her knowing, and worrying. She knew too well what that fear was like to wish it upon anyone else, least of all someone she cared for. “What sort of proof is it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe he’s lying?” she said. “Maybe there’s nothing at all, and what he wants is for Tellman to get caught. That would be a perfect revenge, and you couldn’t even really blame him. There’s…” She caught his sleeve as he stood in the doorway, already half-leaving.

  He put his hand over hers. “I’m going to ask Voisey what it is before I speak to Tellman,” he answered.

  “And if he doesn’t tell you?” She would not let go.

  “Then I can’t ask Tellman to look for it.”

  “You won’t ask him just even…”

  “No.” He smiled. “No, I won’t.”

  As it turned out, Voisey was quite specific. He simply was unwilling to commit it to paper, even sealed and in the hands of a messenger.

  “I sho
uld have seen it before,” Voisey said angrily. He and Pitt were in the small sitting room in his house in Curzon Street. It was a room of extremely pleasing proportions, painted in dark reds with white sills and deep windows that looked out onto a terrace. Climbing vines half obscured the tops of two of them, softening light and adding a touch of cool green to the warmth of the walls. The furniture was simple, the wood so well polished it reflected the grain as if it had been made of silk. He was surprised to note quickly that the pictures were pen-and-wash sketches of trees, exquisite in winter starkness.

  “Seen what?” he asked, accepting a seat on a deep-red-and-gold-velvet armchair.

  Voisey remained standing. “Police deal in crime. It’s the obvious answer.”

  “To what?” Pitt asked, masking his irritation with difficulty.

  Voisey smiled, savoring the irony. “The police detect crime, of all sorts, low and high. Then we assume they prosecute it in the courts, and the accused, if found guilty, are sentenced.”

  Pitt waited.

  Voisey leaned forward a little. “What if they found a crime of which there is no proof, except to them? Or a crime where the victim is unlikely to speak? Then, instead of prosecuting, they quietly store this proof and blackmail the offender? I am surprised I have to explain this to you, Pitt.”

  Pitt felt a sharp stab of realization, like a knife in the mind.

  “You have very carefully saved the evidence against my sister, in order to make me do as you wish,” Voisey went on. “Why has it not occurred to you that Wetron may have done exactly the same thing? I would have, in his position. What’s more useful than a cat’s paw to do your bidding: buy dynamite, place it judiciously, ignite it at the right time, even murder Magnus Landsborough, if that’s what you need?”