by Anne Perry
“And how long will they have to wait for anyone to hand it over voluntarily?” Gower said with an edge of sarcasm. “Who ever gave up power if they weren’t forced to?”
Pitt scanned his memory for the history he could recall. “None that I can think of,” he admitted. “That’s why it usually takes awhile. But the abolition of slavery was passed through Parliament without overt violence. Certainly without revolution.”
“I’m not sure the slaves would agree with that assessment,” Gower said with a twist of bitterness.
“It’s time we found out what we are looking at,” Pitt conceded.
Gower straightened up. “If we ask open questions it’s bound to get back to him, and he may take a great deal more care. The one advantage we have, sir, is that he doesn’t know we’re watching him. Can we afford to lose that?” He looked anxious, his fair brows drawn together, the sunburn flushing his cheeks.
“I’ve been making a few inquiries,” Pitt said.
“Already?” Suddenly there was an edge of anger in Gower’s voice.
Pitt was surprised. It seemed Gower’s easy manner hid an emotional commitment he had not seen. He should have. They had worked together for more than two months, even before the hectic chase that had brought them here.
“As to who I can ask for information without it being obvious,” he replied levelly.
“Who?” Gower said quickly.
“A man named John McIver. He’s another expatriate Englishman who’s lived here for twenty years. Married to a Frenchwoman.”
“Are you positive he’s trustworthy, sir?” Gower was still skeptical. “It’ll only take one careless word, one remark made idly, and Frobisher will know he’s being watched. We could lose the big ones, the people like Linsky and Meister.”
“I didn’t choose him blindly,” Pitt replied. He did not intend to tell Gower that he had encountered McIver before, on a quite different case.
Gower drew in his breath, and then let it out again. “Yes, sir. I’ll stay here and watch Wrexham, and whoever he meets with.” Then he flashed a quick, bright smile. “I might even go down into the square and see the pretty girl with the pink dress again, and drink a glass of wine.”
Pitt shook his head, feeling the tension ease away. “I think you’ll do better than I will,” he said ruefully.
MCIVER LIVED SOME FIVE miles outside St. Malo in the deep countryside. He was clearly longing to speak to someone in his native tongue and hear firsthand the latest news from London. Pitt’s visit delighted him.
“Of course I miss London, but don’t misunderstand me, sir,” he said, leaning back in the garden chair in the sun. He had offered Pitt wine and little sweet biscuits, and—when he declined those—fresh crusty bread and a soft country cream cheese, which he accepted with alacrity.
Pitt waited for him to continue.
“I love it here,” McIver went on. “The French are possibly the most civilized nation on earth—apart from the Italians, of course. Really know how to live, and do it with a certain flair that gives even mundane things a degree of elegance. But there are parts of English life that I miss. Haven’t had a decent marmalade in years. Sharp, aromatic, almost bitter.” He sighed. “The morning’s Times, a good cup of tea, and a manservant who is completely unflappable. I used to have a fellow who could have announced the Angel of Doom with the same calm, rather mournful air that he announced the duchess of Malmsbury.”
Pitt smiled. He ate a whole slice of bread and sipped his wine before he pursued the reason he had come.
“I need to make some very discreet inquiries: government, you understand?”
“Of course. What can I tell you?” McIver nodded.
“Frobisher,” Pitt replied. “Expatriate Englishman living here in St. Malo. Would he be the right man to approach to ask a small service to his country? Please be candid. It is of … importance, you understand?”
“Oh quite—quite.” McIver leaned forward a little. “I beg you, sir, consider very carefully. I don’t know your business, of course, but Frobisher is not a serious man.” He made a slight gesture of distaste. “He likes to cultivate some very odd friends. He pretends to be a socialist, you know, a man of the people. But between you and me, it is entirely a pose. He mistakes untidiness and a certain levity of manner for being an ordinary man of limited means.” He shook his head. “He potters around and considers it to be working with his hands, as if he had the discipline of an artisan who must work to live, but he has very substantial means, which he has no intention of sharing with others, believe me.”
“Are you sure?” Pitt said as politely as he could. However he said it, he was still questioning McIver’s judgment.
“As sure as anyone can be,” McIver replied. “Made a lot of noise about getting things done, but never done a thing in his life.”
“He had some very violent and well-known people visiting him.” Pitt clung to the argument, unwilling to concede that they had spent so many days here for nothing.
“See ’em yourself?” McIver asked.
“Yes. One of them in particular is very distinctive,” Pitt told him. Then even as he said it, he realized how easy it would be to pretend to be Linsky. After all, he had never seen Linsky except in photographs, taken at a distance. The hatchet features, the greasy hair would not be so hard to copy. And Jacob Meister was also ordinary enough.
But why? What was the purpose of it all?
That too was now hideously clear—to distract Pitt and Gower from something else entirely.
“I’m sorry,” McIver said sadly. “But the man’s an ass. I can’t say differently. You’d be a fool to trust him in anything that matters. And I hardly imagine you’d have come this far for something trivial. I’m not as young as I used to be, and I don’t get into St. Malo very often, but if there’s anything I can do, you have only to name it, you know.”
Pitt forced himself to smile. “Thank you, but it would really need to be a resident of St. Malo. But I’m grateful to you for saving me from making a bad mistake.”
“Think nothing of it.” McIver brushed it away with a gesture. “I say, do have some more cheese. Nobody makes a cheese like the French—except perhaps the Wensleydale, or a good Caerphilly.”
Pitt smiled. “I like a double Gloucester, myself.”
“Yes, yes,” McIver agreed. “I forgot that. Well, we’ll grant the cheese equal status. But you can’t beat a good French wine!”
“You can’t even equal it.”
McIver poured them both some wine, then leaned back in his chair. “Do tell me, sir, what is the latest news on the cricket? Here I hardly ever get the scores, and even then they’re late. How is Somerset doing?”
PITT WALKED BACK ALONG the gently winding road as the sun dropped toward the horizon. The air glowed with that faint gold patina that lends unreality to old paintings. Farmhouses looked huge, comfortable, surrounded by barns and stables. It was too early for the trees to be in full leaf, but clouds of blossom mounded like late snow, taking the delicate colors of the coming sunset. There was no wind, and no sound across the fields but the occasional movement of the huge, patient cows.
In the east, the purple sky darkened.
He went over what they knew in his mind again, carefully, all he had seen or heard himself, and all that Gower had seen and reported.
A carter passed him on the road, the wheels sending up clouds of dust, and he smelled the pleasant odor of horses’ sweat and fresh-turned earth. The man grunted at Pitt in French, and Pitt returned it as well as he could.
The sun was sinking rapidly now, the sky filling with hot color. The soft breeze whispered in the grass and the new leaves on the willows, always the first to open. A flock of birds rose from the small copse of trees a hundred yards away, swirled up into the sky, and circled.
Between them Pitt and Gower had seen just enough to believe it was worth watching Frobisher’s house. If they arrested Wrexham now, it would unquestionably show everyone that Special Bran
ch was aware of their plans, so they would automatically change them.
They should have arrested Wrexham in London a week ago. He would have told them nothing, but they had learned nothing anyway. All they had really done was waste seven days.
How had he allowed that to happen? West had arranged the meeting, promising extraordinary information. Pitt could see the letter in his mind, the scrawled, misspelled words, the smudged ink.
No one else knew of it, except himself and Gower. So how had Wrexham learned of it? Who had betrayed West? It had to be one of the men plotting whatever it was that poor West had been going to reveal.
But this person had not followed West. Pitt and Gower were on his heels from the minute he began to run. If there had been anyone else running they would have seen him. Whoever it was must have been waiting for West. How had they known he would run that way? It was pure chance. He could as easily have gone in any other direction. Pitt and Gower had cornered him there, Pitt along the main street, Gower circling to cut him off.
Had West run into Wrexham by the most hideous mischance?
Pitt retraced in his mind the exact route they had taken. He knew the streets well enough to picture every step, and see the map of it in his mind. He knew where they had first spotted West, where he had started to run, and which way he had gone. There had been no one else in the crowd running. West had darted across the street and disappeared for an instant. Gower had gone after him, jabbing his arm to indicate which way Pitt should go, the shorter way, so they could cut him off.
Then West had seen Gower and swerved. Pitt had lost them both for a few minutes, but he knew the streets well enough to know which way West would go, and had been there within seconds … and Gower had raced up from the right to come up beside Pitt.
But the right doglegged back to the street where Pitt had run the minute before, not the way Gower had gone. Unless he had passed Wrexham? Wrexham had come from the opposite way, not following West at all. So why had West run so frantically, as if he knew death was on his heels?
Pitt stumbled and came to a stop. Because it was not Wrexham whom West was afraid of, it was either Pitt himself, or Gower. He had had no reason to fear Pitt, but Gower was a superb runner. In an un-crowded alley he could break into a full sprint in seconds. He could have been there before, ducked back into the shelter of the alley entrance, and then burst out of it again as Pitt arrived. It was he who had killed West, not Wrexham. West’s blood was already pooled on the stones. Pitt could see it in his mind’s eye. Wrexham was the harmless man he appeared to be, the decoy to lure Pitt to St. Malo, and keep him here, while whatever was really happening came to its climax somewhere else.
It had to be London, otherwise it was pointless to lure Pitt away from it.
Gower. In fifteen or twenty minutes Pitt would be inside the walls of St. Malo again, back to their lodgings. Almost certainly Gower would be there waiting for him. Suddenly he was no longer the pleasant, ambitious young man he had seemed only this morning. Now he was a clever and extremely dangerous stranger, a man Pitt knew only in the most superficial way. He knew that Gower slept well, that his skin burned in the sun, that he liked chocolate cake, that he was occasionally careless when he shaved himself. He was attracted to women with dark hair and he could sing rather well. Pitt had no idea where he came from, what he believed, or even where his loyalties lay—all the things that mattered, that would govern what he would do when the mask was off.
Now suddenly Pitt must wear a mask as well. His own life might depend on it. He remembered with a chill how efficiently Gower had killed West, cut his throat in one movement, and left him on the stones, bleeding to death. One error and Pitt could end the same way. Who in St. Malo would think it more than a horrific street crime? No doubt Gower would be first on the scene again, full of horror and dismay.
There was no one Pitt could turn to. No one in France even knew who he was, and London could be in another world for any help it could offer now. Even if he sent a telegram to Narraway it would make no difference. Gower would simply disappear, anywhere in Europe.
He started to walk again. The sun was on the horizon and within minutes it would be gone. It would be almost dark by the time he was within the vast city walls. He had perhaps fifteen minutes to make up his mind. He must be totally prepared once he reached the house. One mistake, one slip, and it would be his last.
He thought of the chase to the East End, and finally the railway station. He realized with acute self-blame how easily Gower had led him, always making sure they did not lose Wrexham completely, and yet the chase seemed natural enough to be real. They lost him momentarily, and it was always Gower who found him. It was Gower who stopped Pitt from arresting him, pointing out the use of watching him and learning more. Gower had had enough money in his pocket to buy tickets on the ferry.
Come to that, it was Gower who said he had seen Linsky and Meister, and Pitt who had believed it.
What was this plan that used Wrexham to lure Pitt away from London? Of course Pitt must go back, knowing now as he did that Wrexham was not West’s killer. The question was what to say to Gower. What reason should he give? He would know there was no message from Lisson Grove. Had there been, it would have been delivered to the house, and simple enough to check on anyway. All Gower would have to do was ask at the post office.
The sun was already half gone, a burning orange semicircle above the purple horizon. Shadows were deepening right across the road.
Should Pitt try to elude him, simply go straight to the harbor now and wait for the next boat to Southampton? But that might not be till tomorrow morning; Gower would realize what had happened, and come after him, sometime during the night. Pitt didn’t even have the rest of his clothes with him. He was wearing only a light jacket in the warm afternoon.
The idea of fighting Gower here was not to be considered. Even if he could subdue him—and that was doubtful; Gower was younger and extremely fit—what would Pitt do with him? He had no power to arrest him. Could he leave him tied up, and then escape—assuming he was successful anyway?
But Gower would not be alone here. That thought sobered him like a drench of cold water, raising goose bumps on his skin. How many of the people at Frobisher’s house were part of his plan? The only answer was for Pitt to deceive him, make him believe that he had no suspicions at all, and that would not be easy. The slightest change in manner and Gower would know. Even a self-consciousness, a hesitation, a phrase too carefully chosen, and he would be aware.
How could Pitt tell him they were returning to London? What excuse would he believe?
Or should he suggest he himself return, and Gower stay here and watch Frobisher and Wrexham, just in case there was something after all? In case Meister or Linsky came back? Or anyone else they would recognize? The thought was an immense relief. A weight lifted off him as if it were a breathtaking escape, a flight into freedom. He would be alone—safe. Gower would stay here in France.
A second later he despised himself for his cowardice. When he had first gone on the beat in London, as a young man, he had expected a certain amount of violence. Indeed, now and then he had met with it. There had been a number of wild chases, with a degree of brawling at the end. But after promotion, as a detective he had almost exclusively used his mind. There had been long days, even longer nights. The emotional horror had been intense, the pressure to solve a case before a killer struck again, before the public were outraged and the police force disgraced. And after arrest there was testimony at the trial. Worst of all was the fear, which often kept him awake at night, that he had not caught the real criminal. Perhaps he had made a mistake, drawn a wrong conclusion, and it was an innocent person who was going to face the hangman.
But it was not physical violence. The battle of wits had not threatened his own life. He was chilled in the first darkness of the early evening. The sunset breeze was cold on his skin, and yet he was sweating. He must control himself. Gower would see nervousness; he would be watching
for it. The suspicion that he had been found out would be the first thing to leap to his mind, not the last.
Before he reached the house, Pitt must have thought of what he would say, and then he must do it perfectly.
GOWER WAS ALREADY IN when Pitt arrived. He was sitting in one of the comfortable chairs reading a French newspaper, a glass of wine on the small table beside him. He seemed very English, very sunburned—or perhaps it was more windburn from the breeze off the sea. He looked up and smiled at Pitt, glanced then at Pitt’s dirty boots, and rose to his feet.
“Can I get you a glass of wine?” he offered. “I expect you’re hungry?”
For a moment Pitt was attacked by doubt. Was he being ridiculous thinking that this man had swiftly and brutally killed West, and then turned with an innocent face and helped Pitt pursue Wrexham all the way to Southampton, and across the channel to France?
He mustn’t hesitate. Gower was expecting an answer, an easy and natural response to a very simple question.
“Yes I am,” he said with slight grimace as he sank into the other chair and realized how exhausted he was. “Haven’t walked that far in a while.”
“Eight or nine miles?” Gower raised his eyebrows. He set the wine down on the table near Pitt’s hand. “Did you have any luncheon?” He resumed his own seat, looking at Pitt curiously.
“Bread and cheese, and a good wine,” Pitt answered. “I’m not sure red is the thing with cheese, but it was very agreeable. It wasn’t Stilton,” he added, in case Gower should think him ignorant of gentlemen’s habit of taking port with Stilton. They were sitting with wine, like friends, and talking about etiquette, as if no one were dead and they were on the same side. He must be careful never to allow the absurdity of it to blind him to its lethal reality.
“Worth the walk?” Gower inquired. There was no edge to his voice; his lean brown hand holding the glass was perfectly steady.
“Yes,” Pitt said. “Yes it was. He confirmed what I suspected. It seems Frobisher is a poseur. He has talked about radical social reform for years, but still lives in more or less luxury himself. He gives to the occasional charity, but then so do most people of means. Talking about action seems to be his way of shocking people, gaining a degree of attention for himself while remaining perfectly comfortable.”
