Murder on the Serpentine

by Anne Perry

  The coachman remembered very clearly that he had been requested to take Mrs. Kendrick to a restaurant near one of the entrances to Hyde Park, but it had been canceled. It was for the day after they heard of Sir John Halberd’s death. He recalled it particularly because everyone was so upset.

  “Mrs. Kendrick was upset?” Pitt asked with sympathy.

  “Yes, sir. She had a high regard for the gentleman. She was very upset indeed.” He sounded slightly surprised that Pitt should ask.

  Pitt took the pages out of the coachman’s notebook, thanked him, and went back inside the main house.

  The policeman was still waiting in the hall. He looked at Pitt questioningly.

  “Yes, Sergeant,” Pitt said. He felt a bubble of elation inside himself. He had proof. It was subtle but quite definite. Kendrick was one of the few men he had ever had arrested for whom he had no sense of sadness. “Will you please come and place Mr. Kendrick under arrest?”

  Inside the room, Kendrick looked up from his newspaper. He glanced at the policeman, then at Pitt.

  “Really! For God’s sake, Pitt, don’t make such a damn fool of yourself!”

  Pitt’s nerve wavered. The man looked so confident, as if he were speaking to a tiresome child who had overstretched his patience once too often.

  “Send your sergeant outside,” Kendrick said curtly, “and I will explain to you why you should go away quietly and not embarrass yourself any further.”

  Pitt did not move.

  Kendrick’s face darkened. “I don’t care if you make a complete ass of yourself, but you would be wiser not to. Get rid of him!”

  “Wait for me outside, Sergeant,” Pitt directed.

  As soon as he was gone and the door closed behind him, Kendrick stood up, but he made no move toward Pitt, and still looked irritated but perfectly at ease.

  “You should have just shot me. But I know you haven’t the courage to do that. Narraway would have.” He smiled. “You are not the man he was. If you bring me to trial, what are you going to charge me with? Killing John Halberd? I shall say he ruined my wife. I can’t prove it, but you can’t prove otherwise. She finally killed herself over it. Couldn’t face living with it. Halberd was a libertine and sexual deviant. It would break the Queen’s heart. She wouldn’t thank you for that. Some loyal servant of the Crown you are.”

  Pitt felt cold inside.

  Kendrick’s smile widened. “And you dug up the whole thing about the Mauser rifles for the Boers. Are you going to accuse me of treason? You can’t prove that without bringing the Prince of Wales into it. Another well-meaning ass who can’t see beyond the end of his own nose. You would threaten the throne. And you won’t do that, because you have enough sense to know I will do as I say. If I go down, so does everyone else. I don’t believe you’re an anarchist, just cleverer than the rest of them. You are a man who has been a servant and has been promoted far beyond his ability. You are still a servant at heart, and always will be. You are outclassed and outgunned. Leave, while you can do so without the whole world knowing.”

  Pitt felt sick, as if the room had tilted and he could no longer keep his balance. He could see no escape. He had never been so utterly defeated. It could only add to Kendrick’s victory if he protested.

  He turned on his heel and walked away.

  PITT FELT TOTALLY BEATEN, and furious with himself for so profoundly underestimating Kendrick. Was Kendrick right? Would Narraway have shot him? No, that was said to make Pitt feel inadequate, and it had succeeded. But knowing why it was said did not take the poison from it.

  Narraway would not have given up, that was certainly true. And if Pitt did not solve this, then he did not deserve command of anything, let alone the service entrusted as the first line of fire against corruption, treason, and anarchy.

  Whatever he felt, however much he was embarrassed and wanted to retreat and lick his wounds, there was no time for it. A person might understand self-pity, but no one admired it. To be beaten by shame was the ultimate failure. This moment came down to professional survival or defeat, and the end of his career. The end of self-respect.

  All the people he loved, and whose opinion of him mattered most, would not be betrayed by his failure, but they would be if he gave up.

  And he had to face the fact that if he allowed Kendrick to win this time, then he would win every other time as well. He could still ruin the prince whenever he wished. And he would do so if it served his purpose.

  Perhaps even more important than that, this surrender would be another weapon in Kendrick’s hands to use against Pitt whenever he chose. A long future lay ahead in which Kendrick could ask this favor or that, commit acts against men in sensitive office, and Pitt would be too vulnerable himself to protect them. He was setting himself up to be exactly the sort of man on Narraway’s list of people to use when the need arose. Then what would the difference be between Pitt and, say, Cadogan? Both would have exercised a moment of weakness and become a prisoner to it forever.

  If Cadogan had refused, would Pitt have made his crime public? It hardly even mattered, because he had made the man act against his will under the threat. There was an irony in the fact that he couldn’t use the evidence now, not because it wasn’t legally obtained, but because a more powerful and ruthless man had prevented him with a bigger threat.

  He must find a way out, and there was no one else he could ask for advice on it. Isolation and loneliness were built into leadership.

  He longed to be able to tell Charlotte about it, but he resisted, and he knew if he made his reluctance to talk clear enough, she would not ask. He was too tired to think now, or feel. He fell asleep in his armchair, and she woke him in time to go to bed.

  The earlier sleep took the edge off his tiredness, and he lay awake long into the night. He had no idea whether Charlotte was sleeping or not. There had been times when she had been awake too, and not told him.

  He did not consider simply killing Kendrick, as Kendrick had suggested. It had been a taunt, he realized now. And yet it had crossed Pitt’s mind that the only way to stop Kendrick was to cause his death. He could not be imprisoned without trial, and any trial allowed a defense. Kendrick was guilty. He had no defense of justification. Neither Halberd nor Delia had threatened his safety, let alone his life.

  He need not offer a defense. He could simply carry out his threat to bring everyone else down with him. Pitt had no doubt he would do it. He must be silenced, but not by Pitt, not directly.

  He was tired, defeated, and—he admitted to himself while lying in the dark—afraid. Failure would cost him all his newfound respect, financial security, belief in himself and what he fought for.

  Was respect worth so much? Was it worth anything if you knew you did not deserve it?

  Delia had lost her son and then her first husband, then the man with whom she had fought against Kendrick’s plans, and eventually her own life. And now, in Pitt, the man whose job it was to stop people like Kendrick, had she effectively lost the voice that was to speak for her, too?

  He must have dozed off for a few moments because he let go of his train of thought. So many secrets. Darnley had been a double agent, in the end killed by his other masters. Kendrick had been simply a foreign agent, or a mercenary, a dealer in arms to anyone who would pay him. Where was he vulnerable? Nowhere.

  Then an idea came to Pitt, just like a pinprick. He had been wondering if he could turn any of Kendrick’s strengths against him. He was an opportunist, without loyalty. But did Kruger’s agents buying guns know that? What if they thought he was loyal to Britain, as perhaps Darnley had been in the end?

  Darnley had been killed for it! Could Pitt arrange it so that either the Germans or the Boers thought Kendrick was a brave and very clever servant of the British Crown, prepared to risk his life to betray the Boers? They would kill him—wouldn’t they? If the betrayal was bad enough? Yes, they would. Spies were shot. It was a risk they all took.

  But how could it be accomplished?

&n
bsp; Pitt lay with his eyes open, staring up at the ceiling. What facts did he have, what appearances that Kendrick could not deny? Pitt would have only one chance; Kendrick would never be caught a second time.

  Pitt slept the couple of hours between three and five, but by morning he had the basis of a plan. Of Stoker’s help he had no doubt at all. Bentley he believed would be more than willing, not only to accept something of a baptism by fire into his new job, but also to enact a kind of justice for Delia Kendrick.

  The man upon whom it might well turn he could not take for granted. Somerset Carlisle had risked his reputation, his freedom, even his life on causes of his own, but this was Pitt’s, and Carlisle could well refuse. It could be dangerous. Alan Kendrick would not be taken down easily.

  He said nothing to Charlotte, but he had no need to tell her that he had a plan. She knew, and also knew better than to ask him what it was. She just whispered to him to be careful.

  —

  HE WENT TO SEE Carlisle first, early at his home, before he was likely to have left for the House of Commons, or anywhere else.

  Carlisle was surprised to see him, and immediately interested. He was still at breakfast, but completely ignored it, forgetting even to offer Pitt anything.

  “What can I do to help?” he asked keenly. “My God, Pitt, you’d better not be caught at this. You’ll only get one chance. He’s got some very powerful friends, you know? You do know, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do,” Pitt replied. “Great power, great passion, and quick tempers…”

  Carlisle’s eyes were bright, his concentration so intense now that he did not interrupt.

  “It is precisely his friends’ passions and tempers that I intend to use against him.”

  Carlisle gave a little sigh of extreme satisfaction.

  “Do you remember Delia’s first husband, who everyone thought died in an accident, but actually was killed by his masters when they discovered he was playing double agent and had betrayed them?” Pitt asked softly.

  Carlisle smiled very slightly, but his eyes widened. “Oh dear, how very unfortunate. It could so easily happen to a man who was playing both sides of the line. Could happen to anyone, and I imagine it will, sooner or later.”

  “Sooner, I hope,” Pitt answered. “If I can manage it.”

  “Be careful,” Carlisle warned. “Do you know exactly who the other side is? I imagine you are telling me this for more than just my intense dislike of Kendrick and a desire to see him fall? What do you wish me to do?” It was more than a question, it was a distinct offer.

  Pitt had no choice but to trust him completely.

  “I must very carefully make it appear that he works for me, for Special Branch. And it must be observed by an agent of the Boers,” he explained. “I have no idea who they are, but I imagine there will be someone at the Foreign Office who does. I need to meet with them and get that information, preferably not by force or coercion. I don’t wish to make an enemy for life, but I will if I have to. If Kendrick survives, he could do more than merely sell the best guns in the world to the Boers; he could implicate the Prince of Wales in it, and if there is another war, which looks almost inevitable, the prince’s ruin could bring down the monarchy.”

  To his surprise, Carlisle did not argue. “Worst imaginable supposition, but not impossible,” he agreed. “Don’t you have friends at the Foreign Office, or people who would be…shall we say, pleased to oblige you?”

  “Yes, Morton Findlay. But does he have the information I need? And if I could manipulate him, who else might be able to?”

  Carlisle sighed. “What a sad business it is. You’ve changed, Pitt. You used to have a kind of naïveté about you, at least in your view of people. You seem to have realized that in most of us it is no more than skin deep. Yes, I think I know someone who would be able to give you the information you need. Henry Talbot. And I’m afraid he is convinced that there will be another Boer war, so he will not take much persuading to help. Many people trust that Sir Alfred Milner will prevent that. I am afraid that the contrary is true. He is more likely to make a certainty of what is only a fear at the moment.” He leaned forward a little. “Do you wish to speak to him yourself? I could do it discreetly, if you like, and bring you the information without your having to meet him. Explain to him what you need.”

  Pitt hesitated. He did not wish to compromise Carlisle any more than necessary. “It could become very unpleasant,” he warned. “There is no guarantee of success.”

  “My dear Pitt, there is no guarantee of success in anything that is worth doing! And it could hardly compromise my reputation any more than it already is.”

  Pitt smiled; for a moment it was with real amusement. “On the other hand, if I get caught, and survive it, I might need you to bail me out! I will find myself with very few friends.”

  Carlisle’s answering smile was very bleak. He took the point completely.

  “I shall arrange for you to go to Talbot’s home, and for him to give you the information you require there.” He held out his hand and took Pitt’s with a powerful, almost bruising grip. “Good luck, Pitt!”

  —

  TWO DAYS LATER PITT had most of the pieces in place. Henry Talbot had given him the information he needed. He knew exactly for whom the charade must be enacted. Stoker and Bentley were informed of the plan and all its possible variations. They knew not only their own roles, but enough of the purpose and the dangers to improvise, if necessary.

  The opening gambit was played in the street, just outside one of the better restaurants. As Kendrick was exiting, closely followed by a prominent member of the House of Lords who had large financial interests in South Africa, specifically the gold mines of Johannesburg, Stoker walked up to Kendrick and furtively slipped a note into his pocket, giving him a very slight smile, just enough for His Lordship to see. The lord gave Kendrick a curious look and asked if he had been robbed. There was still time to pursue the man.

  Kendrick looked puzzled. He kept nothing in such accessible pockets. He put his hand in. His fingers touched the note and he pulled it out, glanced at it, and immediately put it back again. He told His Lordship it was a stupid prank, and to ignore it.

  The peer pretended to be mollified.

  The following day, Stoker did something similar while Kendrick was again with His Lordship with the South African interests. This time Kendrick was visibly annoyed, but there was nothing in his pocket except a gold guinea. He drew in his breath to deny that it was his but realized how absurd that would sound.

  Shortly after, Kendrick was joined in his club by General Darlington, who to any observer might appear to be discussing something with Kendrick. He then thanked him profusely and looked far less anxious than he had for many months. Darlington might have enjoyed his part a trifle, but certainly he was happy to be doing something he thought was useful. He had told Pitt he never had a night when he did not think of some man he had lost in battle, and not a week without a nightmare of slaughter and death.

  Bentley also played his part with enthusiasm, and more skill than Pitt had expected from him. The young man was still deeply angry over the horrible death of Delia and the misrepresentation of her in the gossip that Pitt had described. Pitt had done it on purpose, to spur him to action, but he still felt guilty for it. Not that what he told Bentley was untrue, regrettably. Delia had been resented. She herself had a sharp tongue and was raw enough and hurt enough not to curb it. Still, Pitt was playing on Bentley’s emotions, and he knew it.

  Dressed in his military uniform, unmistakably a British soldier from the Boer War, limping enough to notice, he walked up to Kendrick with a respectful smile.

  “Just wanted to thank you, sir,” he said quite distinctly. Kendrick looked puzzled, but not yet alarmed. He was in the street just outside his club. There were several other gentlemen either leaving or entering at the time, and able to overhear.

  “Lost my brother in the last one, sir,” Bentley went on. “And a fair few friends.
I know a thing or two about Africa. And I’d want to thank any man who went out of his way to see we didn’t have another war like that. Those Boers are hard fighters. We can’t afford to give them any advantage. I don’t want to be presumptuous, but I’d be honored to shake your hand.” He held his hand out, respectfully, looking Kendrick straight in the face.

  There were now at least half a dozen men on the footpath watching them, and Kendrick was caught. It would be inexplicably rude to refuse to take the young soldier’s hand. He did shake it, his face frozen.

  “Thank you, sir,” Bentley said, with a huge smile as if he were thrilled. He nodded again. “Thank you, sir.” Then he turned and walked away, his limp just visible but his head high and his back straight.

  It was Pitt himself who delivered the final stroke. He had set it up with Darlington and Carlisle. It was prearranged that Kendrick had a luncheon at his club that he could not avoid, even though lately he had been frequenting clubs far less than had been his habit.

  Pitt knew from his contacts in military intelligence that at least one Boer sympathizer was in the dining room. Kendrick was there and so was Pitt, invited by Carlisle, who had then made a discreet exit.

  Kendrick afterward left for the smoking room, possibly with the intention of leaving altogether as soon as he could do so without drawing attention to himself. Pitt rose and followed him. As soon as Kendrick sat down, Pitt joined him, sitting immediately opposite.

  Kendrick looked at him warily. His face was drawn, as if he had slept little, and the fine lines were pulling downward.

  Pitt called for the steward’s attention, possibly a touch too loudly, but he wanted to make sure everyone heard him. When the steward arrived, Pitt ordered a brandy for himself and whatever Kendrick would like.

  Kendrick drew in breath to refuse, then realized that would be rude enough to draw even more attention.

  As soon as the steward was gone, Kendrick leaned forward.

  “What the devil do you want, Pitt? Haven’t you troubled me and my family enough?”