The Angel Court Affair

by Anne Perry

  There was a flush on Sofia’s cheeks, but her voice remained calm, if a little shaky.

  “I did not say that man was the same as God now, sir, only that he can follow the same path toward the light, and so become the same. Did Christ not command us to become perfect, even as He was?”

  “That’s not what He meant!” the man said incredulously.

  Another barrel-chested man let out a bellow of laughter. “And how the devil would you know what He meant?” he demanded. He jerked his thumb toward Sofia. “Personally I think she’s crazy as a box of frogs, but she makes as much sense as you do, and she looks a lot better.”

  Now there was laughter all around the hall. Three middle-aged ladies stood up and went out, stiff-backed with outrage.

  Somehow Sophia managed to regain control of the discussion and picked up the thread of her narrative about man as a creature capable of becoming all that was noble. She explained the high cost in faith and work: experiences of pain and the conquering of selfishness, ignorance, the instinctive leap to judge others.

  There were other brief forays into unpleasantness among the audience, but they were controlled, dissipated with moderate good humor, and finally at a quarter to ten the meeting closed. Pitt was surprised at how tired he was. His head and his back ached, his muscles knotted from the constant expectation of violence. He watched Sofia Delacruz shake people’s hands, nod and smile as if she were utterly composed, and then, when the last person had moved toward the door, turn to Ramon and walk slowly in his direction, weariness momentarily acknowledged.

  Pitt turned away and his eye was caught by the light glinting off a mane of fair hair as a tall man moved through the crowd. Many people made way for him, smiling, clearly recognizing him. He gave several of them a nod and a smile, then continued on out through the doors, apparently too deep in thought to stop and speak.

  Pitt recognized him too. It was Dalton Teague, a gentleman about town, related to many of the great families of power, particularly that of Lord Salisbury, the prime minister. But the deference Pitt had seen here was to Teague the hero of the cricket field, who had outplayed almost every other sportsman of the age. The poise with which he moved was that of the athlete. The attention he commanded could never be bought, it could only be won.

  Pitt had no time to wonder what Teague was doing here. He had to check with all the policemen, and see that Sofia Delacruz left safely. It was another half hour before he was able to speak briefly to Brundage, thank Drury and his men, then with a sigh of relief go outside into the April night.

  The streetlamps were already lit, bright, comforting orbs like ornate jewels set in iron, stretching above the footpath. He was walking toward the main road to find a hansom to take him home when a man emerged from the shadow of the nearest building and fell into step beside him.

  “Evening, Commander,” he said pleasantly. He had a rich voice, well spoken and threaded with a warm humor. “You did well to contain that so unobtrusively.”

  “Thank you,” Pitt said drily. He did not wish to enter into conversation with a stranger, even if it was civil, but there was something in the man’s tone that told him this was the beginning of the exchange, not the end.

  “My name is Frank Laurence.” The man kept pace with Pitt, in spite of being three inches shorter.

  Pitt did not reply. Clearly Laurence knew who he was.

  “I’m a journalist with The Times,” Laurence continued. “I find it very interesting that the commander of Special Branch should be concerned with a visiting saint, as it were. Or do I overstate Sofia Delacruz’s holiness?”

  Pitt smiled in the darkness, in spite of his irritation. “I have no idea, Mr. Laurence. I don’t know how you measure holiness. If that is what your newspaper wishes of you, you will need to acquire your help elsewhere.” He increased his pace slightly.

  Laurence still kept up with him, without apparent effort.

  “I like your sense of humor, Mr. Pitt, but I am afraid my editor will want something more from me than an estimate of holiness.” He sounded as if the whole idea amused him. “Something more violent, you know? Scandal, attack, the risk of murder.”

  Pitt stopped abruptly and faced Laurence. They were close to a streetlamp and he saw the man’s face clearly: he had regular features, and his slightly rounded, brown eyes were sharp and intelligent—and at this moment bright with suppressed laughter.

  “Well, if you find any violence, Mr. Laurence, I hope you will be kind enough to let me know,” Pitt responded. “Beforehand would be good, even if it robs your story of some of its impact.”

  “Ah!” Laurence said with pleasure. “I think that working with you is going to be less tedious than I had feared. Are you telling me that in your opinion there will be violence? She is a very unusual woman, isn’t she? I have always thought that the best saints, the real ones, would be troublesome. There’s nothing very holy about telling us all what we want to hear, is there? I think I could probably do that myself.”

  “I thought that was what you do,” Pitt replied waspishly, and then as he saw the laughter in Laurence’s eyes he immediately regretted it. He had played into Laurence’s hands.

  “No, Commander, I tell people quite often what they dread to hear. It is not displeasing them that would be the kiss of death to my career, it is boring them…or, of course, being seen as a liar. So. Is she a saint?”

  “Why do you want to know?” Pitt found himself engaging with the man, in spite of his determination not to. “Are you hoping for a burning at the stake? I don’t think we break people on the wheel anymore.”

  “We have become very unimaginative,” Laurence agreed. “In your opinion, is she merely an exhibitionist, Commander?”

  Pitt responded with surprising depth of emotion to the idea that Sofia Delacruz was an exhibitionist. Even the use of the word offended him, but he knew perfectly well that Laurence was trying to maneuver him into saying so.

  “I will not write your article for you, Mr. Laurence. You must write it yourself,” he answered.

  Laurence smiled. In the lamplight his teeth were white and even.

  “Well done, Commander. You are supremely careful to say nothing. I admire that. I look forward to discussing the matter with you again. I am sure we will have many chances.” He touched his hat with an airy wave and turned away. “Good night, sir.”

  CHAPTER

  2

  CHARLOTTE KNEW THAT SHE must return home with Jemima, and not wait for Thomas after the meeting, but she was longing to ask him what he had thought of it all, especially of Sofia herself. After seventeen years of marriage she believed she knew him well, and herself even better. But most of the remarks the woman had made, and perhaps even more the burning conviction with which she had spoken, awoke in Charlotte many questions. Why had she never examined her own thoughts on such issues?

  Was it because she already had all the things that mattered to her: the husband she loved, children, friends, enough money to be comfortable? And she also had the causes she fought for. The world was changing even from month to month. Now political votes for women were far more than a dream, and she was more involved in the fight than she had told Pitt.

  She would tell him, of course, but in time. It was exciting. If women had a voice in government, even if it was only the power to withhold their support, it would be the beginning of a new age in reform of a hundred griefs and inequalities.

  There were burning reasons to be involved. One of these was an upcoming parliamentary by-election in which cricket hero Dalton Teague was the candidate almost certain to win. Charlotte understood why people admired him, but abhorred the fact that he was against the availability of information regarding birth control. It had been a difficult subject for many years and feelings about it ran very high. The knowledge of such practices was not illegal—it was simply not widespread enough to reach those who desperately needed it: poor women who had child after child until their bodies were exhausted. Ignorance, fear and social pr
essures were responsible. Religious beliefs had much influence as well.

  But it was the women who died because of it, not the men!

  It was the recent death of a friend, giving birth to her seventh child, that had brought the subject so forcefully to the front of Charlotte’s mind.

  Charlotte knew she had so much, sitting here in the warmth and the dark of the carriage, her daughter beside her. She couldn’t help but wonder: Was she too satisfied to need a belief in anything greater, a purpose beyond the immediate future?

  What if she lost it all? What strength was there inside her to go on, to stand alone, walk in the darkness? It was a terrible thought, and one that she had had to face several times over the years as Pitt’s job, first in the police force and now in Special Branch, took him into dangerous situations. She found herself tense as they drove along, so unyielding she was bumped by every unevenness in the road. Would she, in the face of hardship or loss, find nothing inside her to carry her through?

  Jemima also was quiet. She had been very eager to come, and now she offered no comment at all.

  “What did you think of her?” Charlotte asked gently, concerned how she would answer if Jemima was confused. The emptiness in her own mind gave her a feeling of guilt for never having found at least some clarity of faith to teach her daughter. Jemima would soon be seventeen, of marriageable age. She would have decisions to make that would affect the rest of her life.

  “She’s a little frightening,” Jemima said thoughtfully, as though searching her mind for the right words. “Not that she’d hurt you, at least not intentionally. I don’t mean that. But…she’s so certain of what she means that she’ll risk everything to say it.” As Jemima looked out the window of the moving carriage the streetlights flashed on her face, brilliant one moment, shadowed the next. “She’s nothing like the vicar,” she went on, frowning as she struggled to explain herself. “He always sounds as if he doesn’t mean what he says. I suppose it’s the singsong sort of voice he uses, and the fact that he seems to be reciting what he’s been told to recite.” She turned toward Charlotte. “Do you suppose he would actually love to say what he really thinks; only he doesn’t want to upset everyone—or lose his job?”

  “I should think it’s very likely,” Charlotte agreed, picturing the Reverend Mr. Jameson in her mind. He was mild-mannered, a kind man, a guardian of his flock, but not a crusader. He was exactly what they wanted: he offered gentle assurance, unfailing patience and an ability to judge the right amount of hunger within them. But was it what they needed?

  “Is Sofia Delacruz right?” Jemima asked bluntly. “Are we all ignoring who we really are, and sitting comfortably in our pews until we turn into statues?”

  “She didn’t say that!” Charlotte protested, although in truth it was precisely what she herself had been thinking.

  “Yes, she did.” Jemima was quite certain. “Not in so many words, of course, but that is what it amounted to. We aren’t really looking for anything, except to change position now and then, so we don’t get a cramp in our…” She hesitated to use an anatomical word.

  “You may say ‘posterior,’ my dear.” Charlotte was a touch sarcastic because the whole subject was disturbing. “You seem to be happy enough to call the vicar and his flock ‘statues.’ ”

  “I’m not happy about it!” Jemima protested, her voice showing the depth of emotion she felt. “But if this woman from Spain can be honest about who we are and what we should be doing, then so can I!”

  “We need to be honest,” Charlotte agreed gently. “But we also need to be right. And it would be good to be kind as well.”

  “Is it kind to tell people lies because it’s what they are comfortable hearing?” Jemima stared at Charlotte challengingly. “I’ve never heard you do that! In fact when Grandmama tells me I am too candid to people, she says I am just like you.” There was satisfaction in her voice, even a touch of pride. As they passed under another streetlamp Charlotte could see that her daughter was smiling. With the mixture of strength and softness in her features, she did look startlingly like Charlotte had at that age. Charlotte felt a sudden welling up of emotion, and blinked rapidly to hide tears.

  “I am not always right,” she said, staring straight ahead. “There are ways of letting people know what you think is the truth. Some are destructive. Some are ill-phrased, too soft or too hard. We need time if we are to change, and gentleness.”

  “I know,” Jemima replied. “You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. You are always telling me, just as Grandmama does.” She hunched her shoulders a little and her voice was quiet and very serious. “But when is it the right time to tell people something they don’t want to know? If you wait until they want to hear it, it’s probably too late. You’re always telling me what to do, and even more, what not to do.”

  “You’re my daughter!” Charlotte said quickly. “I love you! I don’t want you to be hurt, or make any mistakes that matter, or—”

  “I know,” Jemima interrupted, reaching across and touching Charlotte lightly on the arm. “It upsets me sometimes, because it sounds as if you think I’m really silly. But I know why you do it. And…and I think I might be frightened, and a bit lonely if you didn’t.” She smiled ruefully. “And if you ever remind me I said that I’ll never speak to you again!”

  Charlotte wanted to put her arms around her daughter and hold her tight, but she thought at this moment Jemima was too grown up for that, and perhaps too full of her own emotion to deal with Charlotte’s as well. Instead she gently put her other hand over Jemima’s, and they rode on in silence.

  —

  CHARLOTTE WAS SEEING JEMIMA and Daniel off to school when the maid, Minnie Maude, brought in the newspaper and handed it to Pitt. Her face was wary because she could read, and she had already seen the headline of the article. Her usually cheerful expression had darkened and she was now watching him unobtrusively, pretending to be busy putting the same things away over and over again, so she could keep him in sight. Uffie, the stray dog she had adopted, was sitting in his basket near the stove, his head swinging around each time she passed. He had begun his life secretly in the cellar, and was permitted to remain in the kitchen only if he stayed in that corner. The rule had lasted less than a month.

  Pitt opened the paper and found the piece immediately. He began to read, forgetting his tea and allowing it to go cold. It was well written, which he would have expected from his conversation with Laurence in the street the previous evening. What surprised him was the approach.

  Laurence described Sofia vividly. His words brought her presence back to Pitt as if she had only just left the room: the sweep of her hair; the challenge of her eyes, probing, almost intimate; above all, the energy in her.

  “Is this woman a saint as her admirers claim?” Laurence wrote. And then he answered his own question. “I have no idea, because I don’t know what makes a saint. Am I looking for sublime goodness? Which is what? The absence of all sin? Sin in whose judgment? Or is it mercy, gentleness, self-effacement, humility, generosity with worldly goods, and with time? Meekness?”

  Pitt could hear Laurence’s mellow voice in his ears as he looked at the printed page. He could hear the amusement in it, the echo of self-mockery. He read on.

  Or are saints people who see further than the rest of us, catch a glimpse of some brighter star? Should they make us feel at ease, comfortable with what we have? Or should they disturb us, make us question, strive for more? As Señora Delacruz demands, reach for the infinite and strive to become like God Himself?

  Are saints perfect, or do we permit them to have the same flaws as the rest of us? Why do we want them, or need them? To tell us what to think, and make our decisions for us?

  Again Pitt could hear the mockery in Laurence’s tone. And yet the questions were seriously meant. People said “saint” easily. It was a catch-all word with different meanings, or none at all.

  He turned back to the paper.

  Señora Delacruz
is going to do none of that. She demands that we “grow up,” that we begin now on the infinite journey to become like God, somewhere in the regions of eternity. She even claims that God Himself was once like us! That I find far more troubling. I do not want a God who was even as fallible as any of us. Is that blasphemy?

  And I am not at all sure that I want so much responsibility myself, even in the “forever”! The punishment for failure would be small. A little while in purgatory, and then an endless peace.

  Doing what, for heaven’s sake? I should die of boredom, if I were not, apparently, already dead!

  Am I then irreverent, a blasphemer? Should I be punished for such thoughts? Perhaps I should even be silenced? By force if necessary? I think not. I am a questioner, and I am not at all sure that Saint Sofia Delacruz has the answer. But then neither am I sure that she does not. The only thing I am certain of is that she has disturbed my peace of mind, and that of a great many others. And for that, many will wish to punish her.

  Pitt could not argue with a single thing Laurence had written, and yet he expected there would be a torrent of letters from all manner of insulted, angry, frightened and confused correspondents the next day.

  “Is it bad?” Charlotte had come into the kitchen while he was reading, and was watching him with a frown of concern.

  “As an article? No, it’s very good,” he said honestly.

  “You look worried.” The slight furrow between her brows deepened.

  “He’s reported what she said accurately, but he’s asked a lot of questions. What is a saint? Have we the right to remain ignorant, or the responsibility not to?”

  “Did she say that?” Charlotte asked doubtfully.