Murder on the Serpentine

by Anne Perry

  “Enough to make you be good,” Charlotte said grimly.

  “Enough to make you and Sarah good,” Emily retorted. “It just made me determined not to get caught.”

  It was the first time either of them had mentioned Sarah casually like that. They spoke of her, of course, but with thought, and memories. She had been murdered many years ago now. And it still hurt. She had been two years older than Charlotte.

  “Why do you suppose Narraway helped get Alice married to someone in Scotland?” Emily asked. “Do you suppose she was the Prince of Wales’s child, and not Darnley’s at all? And if she’d stayed in London and been out in society, someone would have eventually realized it?”

  “It is the obvious answer, isn’t it?” Charlotte agreed. “The search for Alice’s future husband was about three years ago, Elsie told us, and Narraway would have been head of Special Branch then. Who knows what the pressures were? I don’t think Thomas knew about it.”

  “Are you going to tell him? Don’t you have to?”

  “Yes…I suppose so. He isn’t going to be pleased.”

  “Why not? It’s a lot better than some other things it could have been.”

  “That rather depends on what happened to Alice,” Charlotte said quietly. “Poor Delia!”

  Emily said nothing.

  “And then, of course, there’s the other thing,” Charlotte went on. “How did Darnley die?”

  PITT LISTENED WITH DEEP anxiety to Charlotte’s account of her visit to Elsie Dimmock. Every new piece of information brought the prince further into the issue. For years it had been public knowledge that he had had mistresses. As long as he was reasonably discreet, and chose married women whose husbands were more or less compliant, it was accepted as a custom practiced as far back as records existed. Many had produced royal bastards, particularly in the previous centuries. The name Fitzroy, meaning “son of the king,” was given to such sons. Some of them had even attained their own titles: Duke of this or Earl of that.

  But Victoria’s reign had been the beginning of a very different attitude toward the royal family, and a different standard of behavior was adhered to, at least in public.

  Had Darnley been a compliant husband? Very possibly not.

  “Was Elsie sure that Darnley’s death was a riding accident?” Pitt asked.

  They were in the sitting room. As so often happened, it was late. Daniel and Jemima were in bed. The French doors were closed against the night air and the rain was pattering the panes.

  Charlotte stared at Pitt, eyes wide. Her face was filled with apprehension. “No. I don’t think so. What is this about, Thomas? The relationship between Delia and the prince? From what Elsie said, Delia had a difficult time carrying twins, and she retired from society and went into the country. During that time the prince found someone else—specifically, Felicia Whyte. Or she saw her chance and found him.”

  “That explains the dislike between them, but it is twenty years ago now,” Pitt pointed out. “They must both have known their affairs with the prince would be brief. They could never have been anything more than that.”

  “Then what made you wonder if Darnley’s death was really an accident?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure what kind of a man he was. Did he use his wife in order to gain access to the prince?” As he said it, he thought what a wretched situation it must be for the prince to live in, forever wondering if anyone—man or woman—liked you for yourself. Were they always weighing in their minds what advantage you could be for them? What a terrible loneliness. Pitt was overwhelmingly grateful for his own ordinariness. Charlotte had married him in spite of his position, not because of it.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “It could be just Elsie’s imagination. She seemed to care about Delia. She never had family of her own.”

  He saw a clear sadness in her face, weighing the loneliness of always being on the edge, needed, relied on, trusted but outside the glass wall, when the love was on the inside. All that was the way those excluded imagined it. Too often it was nothing like that at all. Sometimes it was colder on the inside; often there was no air, no room to stretch, to grow in.

  “But Delia saw to it that Elsie had a home, and enough to live on, quite nicely, from your description,” Pitt said.

  Charlotte smiled. “Yes. A side of Delia Kendrick I hadn’t expected. And even if she had a blazing affair with the prince, it doesn’t explain what Halberd was doing, or why anyone killed him…does it?”

  “No…” Pitt said, his mind trying to disentangle the emotion and the jealousies, the pride, and pull out of it all anything that still mattered over twenty years later.

  “Do you think Delia’s daughter could be the prince’s as well?” Charlotte came straight to the point, as usual.

  “Possibly,” he conceded. “And maybe that’s why Narraway helped her get married to a Scot and safely out of the way.” He hoped that was true. But the question stayed in his mind, insistent and painful: Why had he bothered to? He had been head of Special Branch then. For whom was the favor really? For Delia? And if so, why? Or for the prince? If the latter was true, then there must have been a reason, perhaps much stronger than old affection, which might be long since faded and replaced by many new ones.

  Had Darnley been murdered? Was that what Halberd knew? And why now, twenty years later? There did not seem to be any reason. Who might know—apart from the guilty person?

  It was hard to believe, and yet the facts were there. He loathed the idea of opening up past pain that should have remained private, but he could not afford to ignore it. He was not sure if he personally wanted to know what Narraway’s part in the matter had been, but professionally he could not afford to look the other way. The thought of it tightened in his chest until he found it difficult to breathe.

  “Thomas?” Charlotte’s voice interrupted his thought.

  He dragged his attention back. “Yes?”

  “Do you think that’s all Victor did?”

  “Get Alice married to a Scot? It’s a satisfactory solution, even elegant, in a way.”

  She was frowning. “That’s all? Why couldn’t Delia have done it herself? She’d be in a far better position, and certainly skilled enough. She didn’t need Narraway. I don’t see marriage broker as part of his skills. Do you?”

  “No…”

  “Then it was a cover for something else, which I presume he hasn’t told you, or left you a record of,” she said, not taking her eyes off his. “Was it not really about getting Alice married at all, but had to do with something much further back? Thomas…he would do all kinds of things when he was with Special Branch, in the earlier days. Maybe you don’t know it all.”

  “You do?” It was not really a question.

  “Not all,” she said quietly. “But I do know that some of it was very desperate, and he did things that saved some lives and cost others.” Now she was looking at him very directly, a shadow of fear in her eyes. Was it fear for Narraway, and what they would both find out about him? Or even worse than that, fear for Pitt and what he might become?

  This was all about responsibility again, and the need to act decisively, and alone. Make a judgment and trust it was the right one. Perhaps that was what growing up was about, accepting a certain aloneness and not drowning in it.

  “But Narraway is very clever. If he meant it to be secret, it will be well hidden.”

  He wished he was sure that it would not be ugly, but there was no certainty of that at all. He could not banish the thought that Narraway might have been the father of Delia’s child. Or uglier than that, and perhaps more likely, he may have used his knowledge of Delia’s vulnerability to make her give him private and dangerous information so he could manipulate others, possibly the prince himself. He might even see it as his duty. That Pitt could believe, even though he hated the thought.

  —

  AT LISSON GROVE THE next morning, Stoker came into Pitt’s office as soon as he arrived and closed the doo
r.

  “What have you got?” Pitt asked him.

  “Been looking at where everyone was during the time Halberd must’ve been killed, sir: Walter Whyte, Algernon Naismith-Jones, Ferdie Warburton, and Alan Kendrick. Mr. Kendrick was at home with his wife; I checked with her, discreetly, and she backs that up. Mr. Naismith-Jones was with a woman, and gave me her name—very reluctantly—but I managed to confirm it. Mr. Warburton has no memory at all. Says he’s subject to getting very drunk and blacking out now and then. Tight as an owl, sir. Passed out in one of the gentlemen’s clubs. Steward put him in one of the rooms and let him sleep it off, well into the next day.”

  “You checked?”

  “Yes, sir. Mr. Whyte is the problem. He won’t say, and I haven’t yet found out. I hope it’s not him. He’s a decent man…at least he seems to be.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m still looking for any witnesses in the park. Trouble is that being in the water as he was, it’s hard to say exactly when Halberd died. For all that it’s summer, it was pretty cold then. He could have been there only a short time. I’m trying to narrow it down based on what people didn’t see.”

  “Good, it might still matter,” Pitt agreed. “You could find someone who saw Halberd alive after he left his house, which would tighten it a little more.” He did not feel a lot of hope; Halberd could have been anywhere in that space of time between leaving his home and his death.

  Pitt turned to Stoker, who was lingering.

  “Yes? Is there something more?”

  “I wondered if horses had anything to do with it,” Stoker said a little awkwardly. “It’s about the one passion the prince has never let go of, even though he’s…slowing up a bit.”

  Pitt brought his attention back to the moment. “Go on.”

  “Well, sir, it seems he’s doing very well at the moment. Had a few really good wins, and the best of his horses…one way or another, come directly from Mr. Kendrick’s stables. Got a very good stallion there, doesn’t use him all that much. Seems he keeps him for special friends, mostly the prince himself. Or else the prince made his purchases on Mr. Kendrick’s advice. That’s how Mr. Kendrick is in so well with him. He’s either very lucky or very clever.”

  “Or both,” Pitt added. “Thank you, Stoker. That’s useful. At least we know what it’s about. Anything else on Kendrick? I’d like all the details you have—dates and places.”

  “Yes, sir.” Stoker pulled a pad out of his coat pocket and passed over several sheets to Pitt. It was all written down neatly, certain dates included, others merely guessed at, given approximations.

  “Thank you,” Pitt accepted. “I’m going to learn all I can about Kendrick’s relationship with the prince. I want you to find out all you can, as discreetly as possible, about Halberd’s last couple of months. Where did he go, who did he often see, and who didn’t he see? Any change in previous patterns? I have some of his papers on file, but they haven’t yielded anything useful yet.”

  “Yes, sir, I understand. If Halberd was looking into Kendrick, we need to know why.”

  “And what he found out specifically that got him killed.”

  “Be nice to know who actually did it,” Stoker added. “Possibly not Kendrick himself, as his wife says he was at home all that evening. Presumably she would know if he got up in the night and went out.”

  “Not necessarily. People with that kind of money can have separate bedrooms, meet each other when they wish to. Although from observation, I think that may be fairly rare.”

  Stoker started to say something, but evidently changed his mind, having closed his mouth.

  “Let me know what you find,” Pitt finished. “I’m going to see if I can uncover some history.”

  In his job at Special Branch, and to a degree simply as a British citizen, Pitt already knew most of the public facts about the Prince of Wales. As the eldest son of the reigning monarch, he was automatically heir to the throne. At the age of seven he had begun rigorous training for this role. Pitt had heard rumors that the prince was a far less natural student than his elder sister, Princess Victoria, but he had been subjected to every possible effort in trying to meet the high expectations of his parents, most particularly his father. It was an effort doomed to failure: he was simply not of that inclination, although the pressure upon him was immense.

  Pitt thought, with sudden sympathy, how he must have dreaded every day, every lesson never quite good enough. It was a miracle that he had passed his exams at all, especially in modern history, but apparently he had, at Trinity College, Cambridge.

  Pitt sat back in his chair and turned it over in his mind. He himself had actually enjoyed lessons with the tutor Sir Arthur Desmond appointed to teach his own son along with Pitt, the son of a disgraced gamekeeper then laboring in the penal colony in Australia. It had not been goodwill alone; Pitt’s abilities were a spur to Sir Arthur’s own son not to be outdone by the son of their laundress! And as they grew older, Pitt had learned the wisdom of staying where he appeared to be equal.

  He recalled one summer day in the manor’s classroom when he had forged ahead in a mathematical problem, and then suddenly realized the fact and deliberately behaved as if he had found an obstacle he could not surmount. Only when they were finished did he realize Sir Arthur had been watching all the time. He said nothing, but Pitt remembered the gentleness in his eyes. To have withheld his answer to allow someone else the victory was a greater achievement than coming up with the right answer himself.

  Had the princess Victoria ever done that for her younger brother? Or was she stung that she was the elder but could never inherit the throne as long as one of her brothers—or their sons, should they have them—was alive? Her mother had been queen only because there were no male heirs. Did that matter to her? Or had it been in truth a relief?

  In 1860, at age nineteen, Edward had made a tour of North America, the first by an heir to the British throne. Here he had been a great success, possibly for the first time in his life. He had met all kinds of eminent people, in literature and art as well as law and politics. He was cheered by huge crowds and achieved many diplomatic benefits for Britain.

  Apparently he had hoped to pursue a career in the army, but his mother had forbidden him to do anything more dangerous than the ceremonial duties, nothing of a genuinely military nature.

  Edward had hoped to get some military experience and had been on many maneuvers in Ireland, where he had apparently spent some three nights with an actress called Nellie Clifden.

  Prince Albert was ill, but he was so appalled by his son’s behavior that when Edward returned to Cambridge, Albert rose from his sickbed and went to visit him, to issue what he felt was the appropriate reprimand.

  Two weeks later, in December of 1861, Albert died. Victoria was inconsolable. She wore mourning clothes from that day on, and she refused to forgive Edward.

  Pitt thought of that too. His own mother had died when he was a boy, but all his memories of her were gentle. Many of them were touched with grief, the knowledge of how hard she worked and, in afterthought, the loneliness she must have felt at times. She had never told him how ill she was, never even let him see it. But it had not crossed his mind to doubt that she loved him, that she believed in his abilities to succeed and that he would become a good man.

  He wished she could see what his life had become. Not his rank, but his family with Charlotte, how happy he was. She had never known that she would have grandchildren. The only good thing about it was that all his memories were sweet, there was no ugliness in them at all. If in reality there had been, he had been quite able to forget it.

  The Prince of Wales had taken public life very seriously, presiding at the opening of great works such as the railway tunnel under the river Mersey in 1886 and the opening of Tower Bridge across the Thames in 1894. But Pitt knew from Narraway that only in the last year or so was the Queen allowing her son access to government papers, now that her health was failing and he must soon be king
. There was an inevitability about it that was very recent.

  That must be something else that hurt. Clearly she would let nothing go until age and infirmity forced her hand. Those around her must see her lack of trust. How could they then trust him, before circumstances gave them no alternative?

  Pitt wondered how he would handle such a cutting away at his pride, his belief in himself, if even his own mother not only felt so little trust in him, but did it so all his friends knew, and his enemies—even his servants.

  Was that what Kendrick offered? A wise man seeking the prince’s favor would offer small comments of praise and trust, slowly, discreetly, not for the prince but for the man.

  How many women had done so instinctively? Pitt had certainly seen women submit to a man, defer to him when in fact they were both cleverer and quicker-witted, and certainly as brave. He had caught Charlotte doing it only once or twice, and she had blushed, apologized, and they had defused it with laughter. But one did not laugh with a prince until he had agreed that it was acceptable.

  The prince had sought the intimate company of women a great deal less of late. Pitt guessed that the overeating and the decline of vigor that went with it had damaged his health, and very possibly his virility. Now his love was horse-racing. He kept a stable in Newmarket, not so very far from his residence at Sandringham. Just three years ago, in 1896, his horse Persimmon had won the Derby, the ultimate prize. Had Kendrick helped with that too? Certainly he had helped celebrate the victory.

  Was that all it was? A man diplomatic enough to say and do all the right things? If that was what Halberd had found, there was nothing to worry about; rather, something to rejoice in.

  But there must be more, something stronger, and far darker, if Halberd had been killed to keep it quiet.

  This was where researching public knowledge, even if applied with all the wisdom and understanding in the world, was not enough. Pitt sat still longer, unwilling to face what he knew was inevitable. It was time.

  He could have found Walter Whyte more easily a couple of hours earlier, but he needed to speak with him privately, probably at length and definitely uninterrupted. To catch him as he walked from luncheon at his club in Piccadilly, across Green Park toward the Mall, was too good a chance to miss.