Twenty-One Days

by Anne Perry

  ‘It was my fault,’ Daniel said, taking a step forward. ‘I tried an experiment, although Mr Kitteridge told me not to. Graves seemed very cold and arrogant, sir. He showed no distress, even when the description was given of his wife’s body. I asked him how he told the news of their mother’s death to his children. He was very angry – but he did show grief at last.’

  fford Croft sat still. ‘Against your orders, Mr Kitteridge?’

  Kitteridge was caught, he hesitated.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Daniel replied.

  fford Croft blinked several times. ‘Why, Mr Pitt?’ he said at last.

  ‘I wanted to show the jury that the man was human, just under very tight control. That he was proud—not heartless.’

  ‘I see,’ Marcus replied. ‘And did you think him innocent, Mr Pitt?’

  ‘I thought it a possibility, sir. Not a likelihood.’ That was the truth.

  fford Croft turned to look at Kitteridge. ‘And do you support your junior colleague in this, Mr Kitteridge? Or is he stepping forward to take the blame for you?’

  The colour flamed up Kitteridge’s cheeks. ‘He is taking the blame for himself, sir. And for me, for allowing him to speak up.’ He cleared his throat. ‘And actually, sir, I think it may be the only thing that made the jury hesitate at all. I think without it they would have come back in less than an hour – sir.’

  fford Croft pursed his lips. ‘I didn’t think you’d work well together. Wouldn’t have put you together, if I’d had any choice. Looks as if I may have been wrong.’ He turned to Daniel. ‘I thought it was a mistake your representing Blackwell, but your father asked me to have you do it. What happened?’

  ‘Not guilty, sir,’ Daniel said as firmly as he dared. ‘Someone else’s fingerprints on the shell casing.’

  ‘Whose?’ fford Croft asked.

  ‘I don’t know, sir. I couldn’t stay, because I had to go to the Old Bailey.’

  ‘Would you like to know?’

  ‘Yes, I would!’

  ‘It was as you thought: Parks. The witness was guilty.’ fford Croft’s face was unreadable. There was a quirk at the corner of his mouth. It might have been a suppressed smile, or simply a nervous tic.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Daniel replied.

  ‘Disobedience won’t always turn out so well,’ fford Croft warned, shaking his head. ‘Well, between the two of you, you have a disaster to rescue.’

  ‘Sir?’ Daniel and Kitteridge said almost in unison.

  ‘Only an appeal can save Graves and it needs to be lodged in good time. You have twenty-one days in which to get Graves out of the noose. Twenty days, tomorrow. You, Mr Pitt, know very little of the law. Mr Kitteridge, on the other hand, is possibly the best student of the law we have in this firm. He knows the law, as other men know their own minds.’ He ignored the hot colour in Kitteridge’s face and the fact that he was acutely uncomfortable. ‘You will leave all examination of every aspect of the law to him, from every view whatever, is that clear, Mr Pitt?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Mr Kitteridge.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You will examine the records of the case. You will find if there is an error in anything whatsoever. Anything! Do you understand me?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Mr Dunham is in a plaster cast and likely incapacitated. Nevertheless, if you take him the necessary books, he can research for you. That will give him something to remove his mind from his misfortune. And possibly justify my paying him to sit in his own house! Are you clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He turned to Daniel. ‘And you, Mr Pitt, will play detective. Your father was one of the best detectives the London police ever had. Even in Special Branch he outthought many who would have brought about the destruction of this country’s peace and prosperity. You will find out, beyond reasonable doubt, precisely who killed Ebony Graves, and how. If possible, you will also find out why, although that is less important.’

  Daniel drew in his breath to say that was preposterous. Then he saw fford Croft’s unblinking blue eyes staring back at him and knew that any protest would be taken as rebellion, or simply cowardice. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said very quietly.

  ‘Well, get on with it! Time’s wasting!’ fford Croft banged his hand on the surface of his desk.

  Kitteridge and Daniel turned in one movement and went out of the door, just as Impney appeared from the pantry with a tray of tea.

  ‘We’ll take it in my office,’ Kitteridge said, after a momentary hesitation. ‘Thank you.’

  Daniel did not have an office, just a desk in the corner of the main room. He followed Kitteridge. Impney laid the tray on the desk and left.

  Kitteridge sat down behind the desk, and Daniel sat in front of it, in the client’s chair. ‘Is there any legal error that you can find? One that would make any difference?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know. None I could see at the time, or I’d have said,’ Kitteridge replied. ‘I might be able to find some precedent.’ There was no life in his voice. ‘I suppose. I know several people I can ask. One thing is clear, either there is or there isn’t. Your task is a great deal harder. Somebody killed the poor woman, and she certainly didn’t burn herself like that by accident, especially since it seemed to have happened after she was dead.’ A wry smile touched the corner of his mouth.

  Daniel shuddered in spite of himself. What kind of hatred disfigured someone till they were almost unrecognisable, as if death were not enough? ‘He hid it very well . . .’

  ‘What? How much he hated her? We’re trying to prove him innocent, you ass! The jury’s already found him guilty.’

  ‘We can’t find him innocent, if he isn’t,’ Daniel argued. ‘fford Croft can’t be asking us to do that.’

  Kitteridge’s eyebrows rose. ‘I think that is exactly what he is asking us to do.’

  ‘No . . . not exactly. He said to find someone else to suspect, although it will have to be more than that. It will have to be absolute proof, and even then their lordships won’t be keen on reversing the verdict. A legal fault would be better.’

  Kitteridge gave a sharp bark of laughter. ‘That’s because you think I’m going to do that. I don’t think there is a fault to find. And to get anywhere, we will have to have both. A legal fault might earn a retrial, but what the hell difference will that make, if he’s still guilty?’

  ‘Do you think that he is?’ Daniel asked, watching Kitteridge’s face. He saw the shadow, the sadness, and also the desperation as Kitteridge foresaw his own career jeopardised because he could not save a guilty man from the gallows. ‘You don’t need to consider that,’ Daniel said before Kitteridge could speak. ‘You think he’s guilty. So do I. But we’ve got to give this the best shot we can. Mr fford Croft must have his reasons for wanting Graves to be spared and it means he know something he can’t tell us – maybe for national security or something like that.’

  Kitteridge sat forward suddenly. ‘Do you think he does?’

  ‘Why else would he insist on us pursuing this, even though the verdict is in?’ Daniel said reasonably.

  Kitteridge thought for a moment. ‘What could it be? A debt? A secret? But whose?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ Daniel replied, ‘but he’s protecting someone.’

  ‘We’d better make plans, and keep each other up to date.’

  ‘One of us may find something that will help the other,’ Daniel suggested.

  ‘Highly unlikely, but we need to try.’ Kitteridge gave another twisted smile. ‘Where are you going to start?’

  Daniel smiled back, and then said, ‘I’ll go and see Graves again. He must know more than he’s told us.’

  ‘He won’t tell you anything,’ Kitteridge replied. ‘I’ve spent weeks trying to get him to open up.’

  ‘Well, I can’t find a hole in the law,’ Daniel responded. ‘To me, it is as full of holes as a lace collar.’

  For some reason, Kitteridge thought that was funny. Daniel could still h
ear him laughing as he went out of the front door into the street. The sound haunted him: there was so much fear in it, and anticipation of defeat.

  Daniel went back to his lodgings, although it was a little late for dinner now. He apologised to Mrs Portiscale, who forgave him, as she always did, and made him some scrambled eggs on toast, and a fresh pot of tea. He ate his meal, still contemplating the case.

  Where would his father have begun? As Marcus fford Croft had reminded him, Thomas Pitt had been an extremely good detective. Still was! That didn’t mean that Daniel had any of the same gifts; he certainly hadn’t got the same history.

  His features and his colouring were more like a masculine version of his mother, so he had been told. But his build was tall and lanky, like his father’s, and the way he walked was the same. A big difference was that he did not stuff his pockets with everything he might need one day! Perhaps he had a little more vanity.

  He took his tray to the kitchen, and thanked Mrs Portiscale again, then returned to his room and lay back in the armchair, looking at the ceiling.

  He may learn nothing if he gained permission to see Graves, but they had no new questions to ask him. Graves had already said he was innocent, and had no idea who might be guilty. Had he expected to be acquitted? Would the shadow of the noose now hanging over him sharpen his mind to the reality that no one could save him without his help?

  It was Ebony Graves who was dead. Someone had hated her – terribly. Could such a hatred remain secret? Somebody must know. Or had the police been so certain her killer was Graves that they had not looked very far into her life?

  What advice would Pitt give? Daniel tried to remember the cases he knew something about: the older ones that were domestic murders. When Pitt joined Special Branch, so much of it became political. He had talked about some of the cases to Daniel, occasionally, when he had asked. Not the details, but how the investigation was proceeding. Daniel had listened with rapt attention. What little boy doesn’t want to share his father’s adventures?

  What could he remember now?

  Observation! Listen to what people say, but also how they say it. And watch their expressions: faces give away a lot. Remember what they tell you that you didn’t ask them. And remember what they avoided telling you. It was coming back now: memories of sitting at the kitchen table with his father and mother. His mother was always part of it, and quick with helpful insights, particularly in her understanding of society’s rules and limitations. And long ago, the little maid, Gracie. She had been barely five foot tall, but with a mind as sharp as a needle.

  And later, Great-aunt Vespasia – Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould. Actually, she was Aunt Emily’s first husband’s great-aunt, but she became an indispensable part of the whole family – and vital to Thomas Pitt’s career as well – long after Emily’s husband died.

  Daniel smiled as he remembered Vespasia. She was quite old, but he did not realise it at the time. She was beautiful, highly intelligent, and very witty. His mother had said that Aunt Vespasia was who every woman wished to be, in her dreams. But what mattered was that she was brave and vulnerable, honest, frequently to a fault, and that she loved with all of her heart.

  But what about Ebony Graves? What did she believe in? And who wanted her dead?

  Graves had suggested Ebony was eccentric, that catchall word for everything that was out of the expected, good or bad. Graves’ expression when he said it had suggested the bad. The servants had said no one outside the family had entered the house the day she was killed. But would they lie to protect her reputation, even if it meant implicating Graves? Or to protect the children? Probably. Maybe Graves was not liked, and had earned less loyalty than she?

  Sarah was nineteen. In her case, at least, that was definitely adult. Or at least old enough to have a lover. If so, one she dared not tell her father about? An unsuitable lover?

  Arthur was sixteen, and probably still being educated. Did he have a tutor? How much of an invalid was he?

  The police would have looked closely at the servants, even if only to exclude them. Someone could have let a stranger in. They had said there was nothing missing. Perhaps they didn’t know at the time, being too shocked by the murder to notice. Or too ashamed at having let in a lover, a friend, a brother or father in trouble? There were possibilities that might look different now that the master was on the way to the gallows.

  Daniel would have to be gentle enough to get someone to tell him the truth when they had already lied about it to the police. But to cause a man to be hanged on false testimony was a guilt that could stain the rest of their lives indelibly.

  Daniel’s mother, Charlotte, and her sister Emily, had meddled in Pitt’s earlier cases, and been of some considerable help, because no one thought to connect them with the police. Perhaps he would go home for dinner one evening, when he had a little more information, and see if his mother could offer any light on Ebony Graves. She knew an extraordinary number and variety of people.

  He suddenly sat up straight. He could ask Mercy Blackwell! She was a woman with a lively interest in London life, and a sharp mind. It was possible that she had heard of Ebony Graves, maybe had even encountered her. Women were gathering at meetings and rallies to discuss their rights all the time these days, and Ebony, by all accounts, was not someone to keep her opinions to herself. Mercy might know of Ebony, or have heard something. She would at least have advice. What she did not know, she could enquire about. She was sufficiently grateful to Daniel for doing the seemingly impossible in saving Roman Blackwell. Somebody, somewhere, knew something. It was up to him to find them. He had twenty days – very nearly three weeks. A good night’s sleep, the first one since well before the verdict, and he would face the morning with a clear head – and a clear purpose.

  Chapter Six

  Daniel set out very early in the morning to see Graves. The day was cool and the fresh wind added to the chill. The streets were still quiet. Grimy prison walls rose above him, adding to his sense of claustrophobia once he was inside, and emphasising the futility of trying to escape.

  He was permitted in, but a dour-faced guard told him he had to wait until the prisoner had finished breakfast.

  ‘You wouldn’t want ’im to go ’ungry, would yer, Mr Pitt? Not got many breakfasts left.’

  ‘I’d rather . . .’ Daniel began, then realised the emptiness of what he had been going to say. There was little enough chance that he would succeed in finding cause for appeal. Was false hope really better than none at all?

  His stomach was churning, as he realised how ill-prepared he was to speak to a man who was facing certain death in twenty days. Daniel would walk out of this place at the end of their meeting. Graves would see these stone walls for a few days, and only leave them to face his death. Hanging was supposed to be comparatively painless: a civilised thing to do to those who had committed capital crimes, such as murder, piracy, or treason.

  But nobody ever knew the whole story. Perhaps Graves was not guilty. After all, they had nearly hanged Blackwell. Maybe someone else had killed Ebony, someone she had known, and whom Graves himself had not even suspected. How frightened and alone he must feel!

  ‘Want a cup of tea?’ the warder offered.

  Daniel thought he would choke on it. It was probably stewed. He shook his head, then changed his mind. Perhaps it would settle his churning stomach.

  The guard brought it to him wordlessly, his face slightly amused.

  ‘Thank you,’ Daniel said, taking the enamel mug. The tea was black and very hot.

  ‘Sorry,’ the warder said. ‘The milk is off, so I left it out. First time you come to see a bloke wot’s going ter be ’anged?’

  Was it that obvious? ‘Yes,’ Daniel admitted. ‘The last man I defended wasn’t guilty.’

  ‘None of them are,’ the warder said scornfully. ‘You look very young ter me. Should yer be doing this?’

  ‘I’m twenty-five,’ Daniel said, knowing that to be so defensive about his age made him so
und about eighteen. ‘I meant that the last man I defended was found not guilty. He’s probably eating eggs and bacon for breakfast in his own home. If he’s even out of bed yet!’ The image of Roman Blackwell reading his newspaper over a leisurely and elegant breakfast, being fussed over and sharing a joke and gossip with Mercy, passed briefly through his mind as he contemplated the mug of vile tea in the dreary room.

  ‘You must be sharper than yer look, ’cause yer look sick as a parrot to me. ’Ere, drink that afore they come and get you.’

  Daniel sipped it. It was stewed. It must have been sitting in the pot for hours. But drinking it was easier than talking to the guard.

  Graves was brought to a small interview room, dressed in drab prison uniform, and with manacles on his wrists. He was unshaven and his skin beneath the greying beard was sallow. He glanced at Daniel, and sat down awkwardly in the wooden chair, as if his balance were affected.

  ‘What do you want now?’ he asked.

  ‘Mr Kitteridge is looking to see if there is some legal error with which we can appeal . . .’ Daniel began.

  ‘You mean he might have made a mistake?’ Graves’ voice was thick with derision, but he could not keep the hope out of his eyes.

  ‘He’s a very good lawyer.’ Daniel instinctively defended Kitteridge. Anyway, it was the truth, whether you liked him or not. ‘Something in the proceedings, a—’

  The momentary light vanished from Graves’ face. He let out a string of blasphemies.

  ‘And I have come to see if I can find out who really killed your wife,’ Daniel went on as if he had not heard. ‘Assuming it wasn’t you.’

  ‘You stupid sod, do you suppose if I had the faintest idea I wouldn’t have told you?’ Graves said with acid disbelief.

  ‘The difference being that I am free to spend my time enquiring into it, and you are not,’ Daniel said tartly. ‘If you want to waste your time abusing me, I really don’t care. But if, on the other hand, you want a chance of getting out of here, you’ll answer all the questions I ask you and see if you can give me something to investigate. The police may have missed something, not asked the right questions, not spoken to the right people. They wanted to prove you guilty; I want to prove you innocent.’