by Anne Perry
“No, sir, I didn’t.”
“Would you have, in the half light?”
“It was a clear dawn, sir. I didn’t see any blood at all, and I reckon I would have. But I didn’t really look at the other side.”
“Did you see anybody else in the park when you first got here? Apart from the man with the retriever who went for the police?”
“No, sir. Just me and Flora. Bit early for most people. That’s why I like it. Or I did. Doesn’t seem so good now. Rather go round the other way.” He indicated where he meant with a wave of his hand. Flora took it as a signal to go on, and shot to her feet.
“Thank you, Mr. Statham. You have been very helpful. I would appreciate it if you did not discuss this with anyone else, anyone at all.”
“No, sir, I won’t. Let the poor gentleman rest in peace. And his family as well.”
—
PITT WENT BACK TO the police surgeon, whom he’d questioned after his second visit to Superintendent Gibson, but he had nothing to add, except to repeat that Halberd had died from striking his head hard against something solid.
“Tall man,” he said unhappily. “If he was standing upright in the boat and lost his balance, sending the boat rocking badly, he’d have hit his head damned hard on the side of the boat. Six-foot drop, and with his weight behind it, quite enough to crack his skull.”
“And you say there was blood in his hair?”
“Of course there was blood, you fool!” the surgeon snapped. “Tore the skin and broke the bone!”
“Yes, that’s what you said. Just wanted to be certain.” The surgeon made a sound of disgust and walked away.
Pitt went to the owner of the few boats for hire on the Serpentine, a man named Dale. He asked to see the boat in which Halberd had died.
“You won’t say nothing?” Dale said urgently. “That boat’s no use to me if people won’t ride in it. That’s my living, that is.”
“You’ll probably get twice as much for it,” Pitt said dourly. “But no, I won’t say. Still, I need to see it.”
“I dunno…”
“Yes, you do. You want the least fuss possible.” Pitt gave him a bleak smile, rather more a baring of the teeth.
“It’s been rubbed down, though, and repainted,” Dale argued, not moving from the spot.
“Really? Why did you do that? Don’t you keep them clean?”
“Course I do!” Dale said indignantly. “But people leave things…Dump things…”
“What did the man who died in your boat leave?” Pitt asked, staring hard at him.
Dale shifted his balance a bit. “A little blood. Fell and hit his head, they said. Bit the worse for wear, likely.”
“Did he seem drunk to you?”
Now Dale was unhappy. “Not when he came and asked for the boat, sir, and I lent him the spare key. It wasn’t the first time and I knew I could trust him. I keep the boats padlocked on a chain, or all sorts would be off with them and not paying. He came by to rent it an hour or two before he said he wanted it. He could have put away a few drinks in between. Or perhaps he just was clumsy? Or took a fit?” He sounded aggrieved. “How do I know?”
“Where was the blood? Exactly,” Pitt persisted.
“On the handle of the oar, and a bit on the gunwale, starboard side. He must have taken a hell of a clumsy fall, poor devil.”
“Thank you.”
Pitt looked at the boat when it came in, but there were no traces of blood at all. As Dale had said, he had thoroughly cleaned it and given it a cursory new coat of paint. At Pitt’s request, he showed him exactly where the blood had been.
“There,” he said. “That tell you anything?”
Pitt did not respond, but he walked away with the answer in his head. It would have taken a contortionist to have stood up, tripped over the seat, and fallen in such a way as to strike his head on the gunwale, then the handle of the oar, and finally to topple into the water, taking the oar with him. The most natural answer that fit all the facts was that Halberd had met someone waiting on the bank of the Serpentine, pulled over, and shipped the oars. Then the person had leaned in, taken the landward side oar, swung it as hard as possible, striking Halberd on the side of the head and sending him overboard. Perhaps a second blow had finished him off; although his fall onto the gunwale and then overboard, when he was already unconscious, would also be possible. Whoever it was attacked him had let him drown—or possibly even held him down until he did—then pulled him partially out onto the bank. It would not have taken long, and Halberd was unconscious, unable to fight back. Just a few minutes. Then the assailant had walked away, and disappeared into the night.
They would have been wet, soaked up to the knees of their trousers—or dress! But who would notice? It might be worth asking, but no doubt the person would have a story ready by now.
But who? And why?
—
THE NEXT PLACE PITT went was Halberd’s London house. By now he had no question in his mind that Halberd had been murdered. Despite owning a large estate in the country, Halberd spent most of his time in London, especially when the Queen was here rather than at her beloved Osborne House on the Isle of Wight.
This was one of the parts of his job Pitt liked the least, but it was also one of the most important. He could not afford to leave any decision to someone else’s judgment. He knocked on the door early in the afternoon, and when there was no answer knocked again. It was opened by an elderly man with a pale, scrubbed-looking face, still quite clearly suffering from the shock of bereavement.
“Yes, sir?” he said with no interest whatever in his voice.
“Good afternoon,” Pitt replied. “May I come inside, Mr….?”
“Robson, sir. Sir John Halberd has passed away, sir,” Robson replied, his voice catching with emotion. “I’m afraid I cannot help you.” He began to push the door closed again.
“Mr. Robson.” Pitt pushed back on the door, hard enough to force Robson to let go. “I am Commander Pitt, head of Special Branch. I would like to talk to you about Sir John’s death. I have reason to believe it was not as simple as it appeared.”
“I don’t wish to discuss it, sir. I cannot help you,” Robson told him, still no expression in his face.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Robson,” Pitt replied more gently. “I believe Sir John was murdered, and I have no choice but to investigate the possibility that is true.”
Robson stared at him aghast, unable to speak.
Pitt stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He took the man by the arm. Ignoring the oak-paneled hallway and the magnificent carved stair, he guided the elderly servant gently toward the back of the house. “Where is your pantry?” he asked.
Robson blinked. “Pantry?”
“Yes. Your own private room, where you can sit down and perhaps have a quick sip of brandy to steady yourself. I’m going to need your help. Sir John was an extremely important man. I want to make certain that whoever killed him is found and dealt with. And that Sir John’s reputation is not needlessly…damaged.”
At last Robson saw a purpose in answering. “Thank you, sir,” he said awkwardly. “Sir John was a good man. He doesn’t deserve to be…slandered. People envy those with power. My father used to say that if you want money, or fame, or power, there will always be the men who would hate you for it because they will think it is at their expense. But if all you want is to be good, then you will not offend anyone.”
Pitt waited. The man needed to be given a little time.
“He was wrong, sir.” Robson looked up at him, composed again. “That is the greatest challenge of all. One man’s compassion shows up other people’s weaknesses. It’s something you cannot get away from.”
Pitt recalled a few of his past cases, especially that of the woman from Spain, the turbulent saint, the most uncomfortable acquaintance he had ever had. He could agree with Robson very easily, if Halberd had been as loudly and endlessly good as she. Power was a different matter.
“You are quite right, Mr. Robson. I am not fortunate enough to have known him, so I need you to tell me all you can. Who, in particular, did Sir John’s goodness expose, whether he wished it to or not?”
Robson stared at him. “Do you think it was…personal, sir?”
“Yes, I do think so. Would you be good enough to make us a pot of tea? This may take some time.”
They were still standing in the passageway off the main hall. Pitt guessed the kitchens were ahead of them.
“Yes, sir,” Robson replied. “Would you be more comfortable in the housekeeper’s sitting room? She’s no longer here. Nor are the maids or the cook. They were all very upset by Sir John’s death, even though we thought at the time it was an accident. But better for them they start to look for new positions as soon as they can.” Remembering his duties and something he could actually do to help seemed to steady him. “I wrote them all good characters, and they had offers fairly quickly,” he went on. A look of intense sadness filled his face, and Pitt could imagine he had in a single day lost his home and those who were in a way his family. Safety was gone, routine smashed apart, everything familiar dissolved, leaving only uncertainty and personal grief.
“Will you be all right?” Pitt asked him.
Robson was taken aback. “Me, sir? Oh…Yes, thank you, sir. That’s very kind of you. I think I might retire. Sir John left me cared for. Out in the country, you know. Grow a flower garden, I think. And a few vegetables.” The generosity of his employer had given him security, but it had not come in the way he wanted, and it was here far too soon.
“Did Sir John keep a diary of his engagements?” Pitt broke the momentary silence.
“Yes, sir. I can get it for you. We haven’t disturbed his study at all.”
“Who were his closest relatives? Presumably the house will go to them? And the estate in the country?” Pitt disliked asking, but it was not a subject he could ignore.
Robson looked appalled. “Oh, no, sir! You don’t think that anyone…”
“I don’t,” Pitt agreed. “I think it was far more likely fear, personal enmity rather than greed. But I would like to know, all the same.”
Robson began to lead the way through the baize door into the servants’ quarters.
“Sir John had a cousin, sir. Not close, I believe, but a good man. Doesn’t live around here. I’ve heard he intends to sell this house, in due course,” he continued. “Being very good about letting me stay here until…Well, another month or two. He lives somewhere up north. Would you like the diaries now, sir? Perhaps while I make us a cup of tea? I have some rather good cake, if you would like a piece?”
Pitt accepted, and while Robson prepared the tea he looked through the diary, starting with the day Halberd was killed and going backward from there. It was very little help in that Halberd had made no notes at all as to the nature of his engagements, only names. Pitt recognized many of them: members of Parliament, government ministers, aristocrats, judges, and the occasional bishop. Nothing was written as to the reasons for the meetings, whether social or business. As far as Pitt knew from Cornwallis, Halberd had lived very well off inherited money, carefully invested, and the income from his extremely nice manor house and lands. If there were anything else, Special Branch had seen no trace of it. It would be the interpretation of what was perfectly open that might lead to something further, although he doubted it.
There were the names he had expected to see: Algernon Naismith-Jones, Ferdie Warburton, Walter Whyte, and several other gentlemen who had time and money and little specific to do with either.
Why had Halberd spent his time with such people? They seemed so far from his own character and interests.
When Robson came with tea and excellent cake, Pitt asked him.
Robson took extreme care pouring the tea, to give himself time to weigh his reply.
Pitt waited. A lie might reveal as much as the truth.
“I’m not entirely sure, sir,” Robson said at length. “I think he had some respect for Mr. Whyte. They knew each other in Africa, a long time ago. Gentlemen like to reminisce about adventures they had in their youth, especially with those who have seen some of those strange and foreign places. Have you been to Africa, sir?”
Pitt believed that what Robson was saying was perfectly true, but he was picking and choosing which parts to reveal.
“No, I haven’t,” he replied, pretending more interest than he felt. “Have you, Mr. Robson? Perhaps you were with Sir John, even then?”
“No, sir,” Robson said very quickly. “But I heard the gentlemen talking about it a lot. Sounded like a wonderful place, but very dangerous. The heat, the diseases, the wild animals, people who have left civilization far behind. Some people seem to think that if a thing doesn’t happen at home, where you are known, then it doesn’t count. Sir John used to say that. But then he knew…”
Pitt waited.
“More cake, sir?” Robson offered.
Pitt accepted it, and changed his tactics.
“Were Sir John and Mr. Whyte in the army together?”
“Oh, no, sir. Mr. Whyte was, for a short while. He saw very fierce action, so Sir John said. Egypt, or the Sudan, or some place like that. Lost his brother out there, apparently. Nasty boating accident. Devoted to each other, they were. His brother, James, was something of a hero. Not sure of the exact circumstances, but saved several people’s lives, they say. Mr. Whyte never really got over losing him. I think that was part of what they had in common.”
“Sir John lost a brother, too?” Pitt asked with surprise.
“No, sir. Lost the lady he was going to marry.” Robson took a deep breath. “Long time ago now, but I don’t know as he ever looked at anyone else. Before my time with him. Sort of thing you don’t talk about. Some kind of fever, I think it was. But I know he liked Mr. Whyte.”
“And the others?”
“Nice enough, he’d say. Meant no harm. I think it was mostly the love for the horses, one way or another, that they had in common.”
He was being evasive, Pitt was certain of it. Why? If Halberd gambled it was hardly remarkable. Many men did. There was no whisper that he lost more than other people, and certainly not more than he could afford. Did he profit in some way from other people’s misfortune? Was this all about something as grubby as debt?
He decided to ask a question from a completely different angle.
“Did Sir John breed horses…on his country estate?”
“Hunters, sir, not racehorses. But lately he seemed to be looking more into the really good racers, the sort Mr. Kendrick knows so much about. At least that’s what Sir John says…said. He—” Robson stopped abruptly, his face a little flushed and acutely unhappy. He seemed to have considered himself to be telling too much.
“What is it, Mr. Robson?” Pitt asked quietly. “I think Sir John was murdered, and left in a place where people would make an unfortunate interpretation of it. Why did he go to the Serpentine after dark that evening? Was he in the habit of doing that?”
Robson looked startled.
Pitt felt a twinge of pity, but he had to know. He would like to be gentler, but there was so little time.
“I…I really don’t know, sir. I…”
“Yes, you do know, Mr. Robson. You are his butler and his valet. You know what he wore each time he went out and at what hour he returned. Don’t tell me you didn’t wait up for him. I wouldn’t believe you.”
“I don’t like to repeat—”
“I know you don’t. He was murdered, Mr. Robson. Someone either made an appointment and then abused his trust in them, or caught up with him there and attacked him from behind.”
“In a boat, sir?”
“Not likely,” Pitt agreed. “It must have been someone he expected to meet but could not openly, in a more social setting. Either a man who was not of his circle, whom he did not wish to be seen with, or else a woman, perhaps a married woman…”
“Sir John wasn’t—” Robson began, and the
n stopped abruptly.
“Attracted to women?”
“That’s…” Robson let out his breath slowly. “That is not true, sir. He just never loved another woman deeply enough to marry her after Miss Rachael died. He had…” Robson was loath to say it.
This time Pitt did not force him. “But not, I presume, in a rowing boat on the Serpentine?”
A smile flickered across Robson’s face and vanished. “No, sir. He…no, not like that.”
“What was he doing on the Serpentine, Robson? Don’t make me pull teeth, man. I’m going to find out. Let me do it discreetly, from you.”
Robson stiffened, squaring his shoulders. “He knew a lot of things about a lot of people, sir. He kept an eye on the prince’s affairs, for the Queen, in a way of speaking. She always trusted him. It was the memory of Prince Albert…”
Pitt was startled. “Sir John knew Prince Albert?”
“Yes, sir. He was kind of a favorite of the prince’s, sir, since he was a very young man. That is what he’s got against the Prince of Wales, but he looks after his best interest—did so, anyway, for the Queen’s sake.” Robson shook his head. “Now I’ve said too much. I swore I’d never be indiscreet, and I’ve done exactly that.” There was guilt in his voice, but no note of blame against Pitt.
“As head of Special Branch, I understand discretion, and times when it has to be broken,” Pitt said quietly, watching Robson’s face. “I’m happy to let Sir John’s secrets die with him, except the one for which he was killed. Now tell me some of his friends and, more importantly, some of his enemies. He knew a great deal about many people. Maybe more than anyone else. Whom did he trust? Who was afraid of him?”
“He didn’t know more than anyone else, sir,” Robson said with certainty. “He always said no one knew more than Lord Narraway did—or how to use it at exactly the right time.”
Pitt felt a chill run through him, just slight, like a warning. “Victor Narraway?” he asked carefully.
“Yes, sir. Sir John said that if he wished to, Lord Narraway would be the most dangerous man in England.”
Pitt hesitated. He did not want to hear more, yet he must. What was he afraid of? That he would learn something of Narraway that would undermine the trust between them forever? Or possibly worse: what Narraway had had to do in the course of the job that was now Pitt’s, and that Pitt himself would have to do one day?
