by Anne Perry
“But you have evidence?”
“I have now. Only because I looked for it. The young man who found the body told me what he saw. The boat concerned has been cleaned and painted since then. But it makes painful sense, with the police surgeon’s report.”
“Still, you must have had reason to look,” Jack pointed out.
“I did. At the request of Her Majesty.”
“Oh…Do you mean Her Majesty’s Government, the home secretary…?”
“I mean Her Majesty,” Pitt said quietly. “Sir John Halberd was a personal friend, inquiring into a certain matter on her behalf. Before he could report his findings to her, he died. I believe he was murdered. It is possible it had something to do with her request.”
Jack nodded, his face very grave indeed, the surprise still clear in it. “I see. So now you need to know what he found that someone considered worth murdering him to keep him from telling the Queen? And preferably with proof?”
“Exactly.”
“I suppose you have thought of speaking to Carlisle? I know he’s a very odd man; I’ve heard about the Resurrection Row affair.” A bleak smile crossed Jack’s face. “From Emily. I’m aware she and Charlotte both used to get themselves involved in your cases. She misses it…”
“I know,” Pitt agreed quickly. “In several ways I miss it too. But this is more dangerous, and I can’t tell them, even if it weren’t. I would lose my job.” That had happened once, and the recollection was sharp and painful. He had been afraid he would no longer be employed at the work he loved, the only thing for which he had any real talent. “I won’t let it happen again,” he said grimly. “I’ve exhausted the chances I’ll get.” The understanding in Jack’s face was so plain, he let the subject drop. “Yes, I saw Carlisle.”
“Was he helpful?” Jack asked.
“Quite a lot. I’ll return to him if I have no other choice. But you are more connected to foreign affairs than he is. I’ve been through all Halberd’s papers in his house. I managed to persuade his butler, who also serviced as his valet, to allow me access. He is very concerned that Halberd’s reputation is not destroyed by gossip.”
Jack shrugged and sighed.
“I know.” Pitt settled back in his chair. “There seem to be a few threads to suggest a connection with Africa.” He saw Jack’s expression darken immediately. He waited.
“The Boers?” Jack said grimly. “I fear we are heading for another war. Please God, I am wrong, but I doubt it.”
“Soon?”
“This year, unless something changes pretty radically,” Jack replied. “This man Sir Alfred Milner is the worst kind of arrogant imperialist. Won’t be told a thing. I don’t know who the hell put him in charge, but it’s heading for disaster. At worst, we would lose the southern portion of Africa, right from Johannesburg to the Cape—with all the land and resources. I don’t need to tell you about the gold and diamonds in Johannesburg.”
“That’s the worst? What’s the best?” Pitt asked. “Or more important, what is the most likely, in your view?”
“That we win, but at a terrible cost, not only in lives and reputation, but, to use an old-fashioned word, in honor. We could earn the hatred and the contempt of half the world.”
Pitt had already proved Jack’s judgment false twice, but he had a sinking feeling that this time Jack would be right. The miserable experience of the war against the Boers supported what he said.
“Do you know the name Alan Kendrick?” Pitt asked, turning back to the reason he was here.
Jack had been waiting for criticism. It was there in his bearing, subtly. Now he relaxed. “Close friend of the Prince of Wales. Opportunist, if you ask me. The Queen can’t live forever.”
“What else?”
“He has a damned good stables in Cambridgeshire, or Lincolnshire, somewhere like that. One really superb stallion. Could be a Derby winner. And of course he could make a lot more money if he put him to stud soon after. There’s a rumor that he’ll be restricting the horse’s breeding on purpose.”
“To send the price up?”
“Possibly. Or to keep him largely for the Prince of Wales. The best way to earn his favor. It’s about the only thing he cares about passionately anymore.”
“You know of an African connection?”
“Kendrick is a friend of Milner’s. Can’t see how that would get Halberd murdered on the Serpentine…but you never know. Some circles are smaller than you think. Of course, you’re right, I was meandering. Right now South Africa is very much on my mind.” He smiled, a sudden, charming gesture, full of warmth. “My trade secrets.”
Pitt acknowledged it with an answering smile. “Whose interests would be served by another African war?”
“Regardless of the outcome? Arms dealers,” Jack replied without hesitation. “Big ones, perhaps German. The top of the field now. Heavy armor, certainly, from Krupp, in Essen. And Mauser. They export rifles all over the place. And they have a certain affinity with the Boers anyway. And we, like damn fools, are playing right into their hands.”
“Thank you. Unless they start shipping them here, there’s not much I can do about it.”
“I assume you’ve looked into Halberd’s friends…and enemies?”
“Yes. Two of them have connections with Africa, but so far it’s North Africa: Egypt and the Sudan. And it’s a long time ago.”
“Is there an expiry date on blackmail?” Jack asked.
“No.” Pitt stood up and straightened his back. “No, there isn’t, especially where the Prince of Wales is concerned. A lot of old debts could come due when he is king. And that can’t be long.” He felt a sudden tightening in his throat. It was not just the end of a long reign, the turn of the century, and a fast-dying world. It was also a little old woman who was tired, lonely, and afraid for an uncertain future she would not be there to guide. And now there was the dreaded possibility that the man in whose hand she was leaving it was not wise enough or strong enough to do it well. She had no choice except to do what she could in the remaining time.
“Thank you, Jack.”
Jack rose as well and offered his hand in an instinctive gesture. Pitt clasped it hard.
—
THAT EVENING AT HOME Pitt did not mention to Charlotte that he had seen Jack, and he knew that Jack would not tell Emily either. But the omission made him uncomfortable. Suddenly he had too little to talk about because he was thinking of what he must avoid; all his thoughts returned to the subject of Halberd’s death.
Charlotte was sitting on the sofa opposite him, her sewing basket open as she chose threads to mend a dress of Jemima’s where the hem had come down. Her fingers moved with certainty, stitch after stitch, the light from the gas lamp above her fiery on the needle, and the faint click of its tip rhythmic against her thimble. It was a sound he always associated with comfort.
She had not changed much. To him it seemed barely at all. He had always thought her beautiful. Perhaps she was not traditionally so, but the strength of character in her face appealed to him. He did not like prettiness. Obedience, far from making him happy, disturbed him. Constant, predictable agreement made him feel achingly alone, as if he were speaking to a mirror reflection of himself, not a living, passionate, thinking person whose ideas and emotions complemented his own, sometimes changed or completed them, never simply echoed.
He could not remember if he had ever told her so. Surely she knew anyway?
“There was a letter today from Aunt Vespasia,” she said suddenly. “From Vienna. But it was posted over a week ago, and she said they were on their way south, not certain yet exactly where to.”
He looked up and realized she was watching him closely. Did she guess how much he was missing Narraway’s advice in this miserable case of Halberd’s death? He tried to remember if he had said anything to her that he should not have. He hated not being able to confide in her. She understood the reasons, but that did not ease the loneliness of it.
“Would you like to trav
el?” he asked abruptly.
She looked startled. “I never thought about it. One day, perhaps. Why? Would you?”
“Perhaps in the rest of England. I hadn’t thought further.”
She started to say something, then changed her mind. She began to stitch again.
He continued to watch but she did not look up. He longed to be able to tell her what he was thinking, ask her what she thought of Halberd. She knew he had died; it had been in the newspapers, after all. He wanted to be able to tell her how much he missed Narraway’s advice. And always at the back of his mind was that Halberd’s butler, Robson, had spoken of Narraway’s dangerousness, his unseen hand everywhere. A bit like Halberd himself.
Pitt had worked with Narraway on and off for several years. He even knew that Narraway had once been in love with Charlotte, but he had done nothing about it. How much did she know of that? She had never said anything to Pitt, but then, she wouldn’t. What had been given words could never be totally forgotten. It was a dream, and now Narraway had realized that Vespasia was the woman he really loved.
Marrying her had changed him, in very subtle ways. To Pitt’s mind, all were for the good. The brooding loneliness was gone, replaced by an infinite ability to doubt, to be wounded, like anyone else who cared with a whole, passionate heart. Pinpricks he would once have brushed off now drew blood—only a little, but sufficient to remind him of his own capacity for pain.
What had he been like before, when he was head of Special Branch? Harder, more willing to take risks because he could measure the cost? Or simply less aware of the chances of losing? He had been born to social position—not aristocracy, but to wealth, high intellect, and a university education in which he had excelled. Pitt had discovered only recently that Narraway’s education had included a law degree, and then the right to practice in court. He had kept it current, and only recently used it again—brilliantly. A complicated man.
And yet Pitt had also seen how deeply he loved Vespasia, and, though rarely, the moments of uncertainty, the sharp knowledge of how much he had to lose if he committed a truly ugly act. It was the first time in his life anything had mattered so much, and it had come after he had been forced to retire from Special Branch, where the stakes were so high, and the loss perhaps irredeemable.
Who had he been before?
“Narraway knew Sir John Halberd,” he said suddenly.
Charlotte looked up at him. So she had been right in her speculation. “Be careful, Thomas.” She looked down at her stitching again. “I’m sorry. I know you will do.” She felt she had trespassed where she was no longer able to tread.
At that moment he would have given anything he had to be an ordinary policeman again, except for the trust placed in him by Narraway, by the Queen and, above all, by Charlotte herself.
He could not think of anything to say that was not trite, and they had never exchanged the meaningless.
—
PITT WAS SURPRISED TO receive in the morning post a brief note from Somerset Carlisle inviting him to have lunch at a very distinguished gentlemen’s club. Carlisle would meet him at the front door at one o’clock. It was signed in the elegant, flowing hand that Pitt recognized. It was not quite a summons, but it had that ring to it.
At another time he would have resented the peremptory tone and lack of explanation. But Carlisle knew that Pitt considered Halberd’s death to be the most important matter he was dealing with, and Carlisle had never wasted Pitt’s time.
Pitt dressed carefully, so as to fit in with the type of people who would dine at such a place, rigidly restricted to members and their guests. He was a little self-conscious doing it; making an effort to be tidy did not come naturally to him, as it did to Narraway, who was always elegant.
He also took care to be at the steps leading up to the club’s front door at two minutes before one.
Carlisle, another of those men who have valets to make sure they were elegant, came out of the door, saw Pitt and smiled broadly. It was more than a welcome; it was bright with humor and anticipation.
“Glad you could come,” he said quietly. “Food is excellent. I’m partial to the duck pâté, followed by roast lamb.” Typically, he made no reference to the late invitation, which Pitt had accepted without question.
The doorman inclined his head graciously to Carlisle, looked more closely at Pitt to make sure they were together, then opened the inner door before they reached it. “Good afternoon, sir.”
“Good afternoon,” Pitt replied, following Carlisle into the large dining room with its chandeliers, Adam fireplaces, and a thick carpet that enveloped their footsteps in silence.
A steward showed them to a far table by one of the windows. Its view onto an inner courtyard was pleasing. He pulled out their chairs for them and made sure the table napkins were opened and placed on their knees. The wine menus were offered.
“Thank you, Benton,” Carlisle said. “I’ll have the duck pâté, and then the lamb. I think Commander Pitt will have the same?”
“Yes, thank you,” Pitt agreed.
The steward offered wine, and Carlisle declined it, then after a brief glance in Pitt’s direction, decided for him as well. “Better not,” he said as the steward withdrew. “This invitation was not for your enjoyment. You may find something interesting.” The gleam of amusement was still on his face.
Pitt had been placed where he had the wider view of the room, and it was a moment later that he saw the home secretary come in and join a member of the House of Lords and the German ambassador.
“Is this for my general education?” Pitt asked very quietly.
“Not at all,” Carlisle replied without glancing around. “Quite specific. You can linger over the port, but I suggest you begin with the pâté as soon as it arrives.”
Pitt raised his eyebrows. “Am I going to be put off the rest?”
“Quite possibly.”
The pâté was all that Carlisle had promised, and served with slices of brown bread lightly toasted. He was glad the rack of lamb was there before he saw Alan Kendrick come in, Ferdie Warburton close on his heels. Whether it was at Carlisle’s request or not—and Pitt could easily believe it was—they were shown to the next table, and without effort Pitt was able to observe them yet appear not to.
Kendrick settled himself as if perfectly at home. He ordered without bothering to look at the menu. The steward did not ask if he wished for wine. It was also clear from his manner that Ferdie Warburton was Kendrick’s guest. He looked at the menu briefly, squinting at it a little, then chose something without making any deliberation. He accepted the steward’s suggestion for wine. He sat very upright in his chair.
Pitt wondered if it was his gambling that made him nervous, or Kendrick himself. He thought the latter.
Kendrick, on the other hand, was almost complacent. He led the conversation. Pitt caught snatches of it while eating his lamb and spring vegetables.
“I don’t know if I can get it for you by then,” Warburton said unhappily. “I don’t know the man well enough.”
“For God’s sake, Ferdie, you can charm the birds out of the trees when you want to.” Kendrick did not bother to hide his impatience. “I need to know if he’s running the damn horse at Ascot or not! I need to know if it is in top form. If it is, it’ll win.”
“He’s not going to tell me!” Ferdie protested.
Kendrick leaned forward across the table and spoke so softly Pitt could not catch the words, but the hard, suddenly ugly lines of his face made his meaning plain. Then he straightened up and leaned back, his old smile wiping away the darkness. “You’re a good man, Ferdie. You have an obscure talent, but a very valuable one. Shall I send the steward for some more wine for you?”
Ferdie accepted.
Pitt looked across at Carlisle and met his steady gaze.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
“We’ll retire to the lounge when we’ve finished,” Carlisle said quietly. “That should be more interesting. Pr
epare yourself. The port is excellent, but pretty heavy stuff. I suggest you play with it rather than drink it. You ought to be in your best form if you cross swords with Kendrick.”
Pitt had had no intention of doing so, but he realized that to retreat now would not only signal his cowardice to Kendrick but, more important to Pitt, it would also signal it to Carlisle. The rack of lamb was tender and delicious, but it had lost its appeal. Now it was just food. He declined dessert.
“Nonsense,” Carlisle told him. “The apple pie is perfect with a little cream.” His smile widened. “Fortify yourself, Pitt.” Twenty minutes later, when Pitt was sitting in a large, leather-covered armchair and Carlisle was relaxing opposite him, a glass of brandy at his elbow, Kendrick and Warburton came into the room.
“Hello, Kendrick,” Carlisle said cheerfully. “Care for a brandy? It’s one of the best. Napoleon would have been happy to see his name on it. You know Pitt, don’t you?” He waved his hand in Pitt’s direction. “Head of Special Branch. I believe you knew Victor Narraway, his predecessor.”
Kendrick was caught off guard but he recovered immediately.
“Yes, of course. Good afternoon, Pitt.” His manner was cool, but amiable enough.
Ferdie Warburton smiled more affably and accepted the seat nearest Carlisle, leaving the one near Pitt for Kendrick, who had little choice but to sit also or deliver a noticeable rebuff. He might not have cared about Pitt, but Carlisle was a senior member of the House of Commons although he had never held political office and almost certainly never would. He was far too erratic politically, a man of too deep emotions to follow any government rules, but he was held in surprisingly high regard by people in and out of the Establishment. Only a fool would underestimate his influence. Pitt had learned that some time ago. Carlisle was a good friend to have, if he liked you, being both loyal and brave. He might be an equally bad enemy. Perhaps Kendrick could see that also.
The steward appeared at Carlisle’s elbow, and he ordered brandy for both of the men who were now his guests.
