The Angel Court Affair

by Anne Perry

  “She is much needed,” Ramon agreed quietly, a flash of anger in his eyes at Smith’s betrayal of the group’s vulnerability. “I cannot believe Elfrida would go away from Angel Court willingly. Mr. Pitt, I fear very much that there is cause to be concerned…even afraid.”

  Smith moved a step closer to Ramon. “For once I agree completely. There are certain papers I would like to show you, Mr. Pitt.”

  Ramon drew in his breath sharply, then looked at Smith and seemed to change his mind about arguing.

  Smith turned back to Pitt. “If you would come with me to my office…” He began to walk away, his bearing stiff, and very upright.

  Pitt nodded to Ramon and Brundage, and then followed Smith down the hall and into a corridor. Ramon’s face clearly reflected the trouble within him. He did not seem to be aware of Henrietta Navarro marching toward him, her angular frame stooped a little forward. What she said Pitt couldn’t hear, as Smith led him into a room. The office was very pleasant, if a little dark. The mullioned windows looked out onto the courtyard. The direct sun was blocked by the height of the surrounding buildings, leaving only a gentle light. He closed the door and invited Pitt to be seated.

  Pitt waited for Smith to open a drawer for the papers he had referred to, but instead the man simply sat down on the opposite side of the desk and folded his hands.

  “I am reluctant to tell you so much,” he began, “but I fear events have made it necessary. It is after eleven o’clock, and we have had no word from Señora Delacruz, or either of the women who appear to have gone with her. This has never happened before, and is entirely out of her character. She is fully committed to the cause.”

  Pitt did not interrupt him. He looked at Smith’s high-boned, rather pale face and found himself unable to read it. The other man now appeared worried, but not deeply afraid. That could have been so for many reasons. Perhaps he knew that Sofia had disappeared intentionally, to create a stir, and thereby reach a far wider audience.

  Worse, it was possible that he welcomed her disappearance because that would leave him as leader of this fast-growing sect, and free to take it in a direction he might prefer.

  Smith drew in a deep breath. “Sofia has come to England primarily to meet the family member I mentioned, Barton Hall, who is a cousin in some degree, although he is considerably older than she. She did not hide from me that it is a matter of some urgency, although I have no idea what the matter is. Hall is apparently in good health.” He stopped, waiting for Pitt to respond.

  “But what about her ‘mission’?” Pitt asked curiously. If Smith was right and Sofia’s reasons for coming here were less about preaching and more about this meeting with Barton Hall, then it altered the way in which Special Branch would approach her disappearance.

  Smith bit his lip. “It was a chance to preach that we could not lose, and I believed it much wiser that we did not make it obvious that meeting Hall was Sofia’s real purpose in coming to England.”

  Pitt looked at Smith. He was sitting uncomfortably, his back straight, his hands clasped in front of him, knuckles white—but there was no wavering in his eyes.

  “But you don’t know anything of their business?” Pitt asked.

  “No,” Smith replied. “But I came to believe that my first supposition that it was a family matter was at least partially mistaken, perhaps entirely.”

  “What changed your mind?” Pitt said.

  Smith frowned. “It is hard to be precise, and I feel somewhat foolish about it,” he said hesitantly. “If it had been clear to me then I should have prevented this, and you will think me incompetent…”

  That word again. “Incompetent?” Pitt said ruefully. “If she has gone away in order to whip up greater public interest in her message, then she has duped me, and I assume you also. If something unpleasant has happened to her, then it is my charge to protect her, and therefore my inadequacy that she is now missing. So please tell me what you know.”

  For a moment Smith looked embarrassed, almost compassionate, then it was gone again. “I have known her for nearly six years,” he stated. “If she went willingly then I should have seen it coming. Having seen the threatening letters, I believed those who wrote them to have been no more than cranks, people whose words were violent but who had not the courage to act.” He smiled sourly. “At least not so criminally…”

  “What gave you the thought that she was not here to resolve an old family quarrel?” Pitt reverted to the earlier, still unanswered question.

  Smith leaned forward a little. “When she was in her early twenties, about ten years ago, I think, she was betrothed to be married to someone extremely suitable, in her parents’ view.”

  Pitt knew, at least generally, what was to come—Sir Walter had told him—but he did not interrupt.

  “She refused to accept the man,” Smith said with a faint shrug of his shoulders. “I have no idea why. She may have known something of him that was repellent to her. She never spoke of it to me. She simply left England and ran off to Spain. Or more accurately, first to France, then later to Spain, ending up in Toledo. There she met and married a Spanish man—Nazario Delacruz.”

  “Is that unforgivable?” Pitt tried not to sound condescending about it, but it seemed such a trivial thing over which to carry a grudge for a decade. Then he thought of Jemima, and how he would feel if she ran away to a foreign country and married someone neither he nor Charlotte had ever met. “Is she happy?” He asked the one question that would have mattered to him, had it been Jemima in that situation.

  “I believe so,” Smith replied. “But that is not the issue.” He looked away and smiled uncomfortably. “Nazario Delacruz was already married, with two young children. I know little of what actually happened, but it was both tragic and scandalous. That is what her family could not forgive.”

  Pitt was grieved and confused. Such an action seemed completely out of character for the woman he had met.

  Smith was waiting for him to say something.

  “Then what is it she feels she can accomplish in coming here now and meeting with Barton?” he asked. It did not make sense.

  Smith took a deep breath. “She is not coming with regard to the past,” he said quietly. “It is something current. She would not discuss it, even with me.” There seemed to be much more that he wished to say and could not find the words, or did not trust himself to control his emotions.

  Did he harbor feelings for Sofia that he could not acknowledge? She was beautiful, in her own way, and frightening in the depth of her conviction, her courage, whether well- or ill-judged.

  “Do you know Barton Hall?” Pitt changed the direction of the inquiries a little.

  “Only from what Sofia has said.” Smith made a small, rueful gesture. “He is a leading lay member of the Church of England. It is of great importance to him socially and, to do the man justice, perhaps spirituality as well.” A shadow passed over his face. His voice was softer when he spoke. “There is a sense of continuity to it, the safety of what has been tested and sacrificed over the centuries. Men have died for the right to have the Bible in the vernacular, freedom from the Church of Rome to preach and teach as they believed.”

  Pitt was struck by his own indifference to irreligious faith in his life so far. To him, faith was merely a comforting presence in the background. Every village had its church tower or spire. Bells rang on a Sunday morning, in city streets or village lanes; people in their best clothes walked along the paths, all in the one direction.

  “For Barton Hall, being part of the establishment is necessary to his career,” Smith said. “It takes a lot of courage to abandon the familiar and step outside the group as Sofia has. You have to be very certain that the new path is better than the one you are already on.”

  “Better and truer?” Pitt asked.

  Smith smiled slightly. “You can only know that by following it. Stronger and more beautiful, yes. Truer? I don’t think even Sofia was without her doubts, at times.”

  “You
said Barton Hall is a layperson,” Pitt circled the conversation back to the facts.

  “Oh, yes! She told me he is a banker of some considerable distinction. He is an officer of high standing in one of the investment banks. Perhaps even governor. He deals with the investments of the Church of England, which of course are enormous, and also of the Royal Family, whose fortune is not inconsiderable.”

  Pitt was impressed. It was an almost incalculable weight of responsibility. Presumably Hall shared at least some of it with others. He tried to imagine what Sofia’s refusal of marriage had meant to him. Were any of his clients or colleagues aware of her affair in Toledo with a man already married? And a Roman Catholic, at that?

  Why had she wished to see him now, so many years after the scandal?

  “But you don’t know anything about this current matter that brought Señora Delacruz here now so urgently?” he pressed again.

  “No,” Smith repeated without hesitation. “I have wondered that since she first told me that she must come, and I broached the subject with her. But she refused to discuss it. I knew only that it was of the greatest importance to her. I had the impression that it was something she believed she owed Mr. Hall and it could not wait. She has people in Spain who are desperately troubled and relying on her spiritual guidance. I have racked my mind as to what it could be, and I know no more now than I did the day she first mentioned it in Toledo. I’m sorry.”

  “Did you know that she was in communication with Mr. Hall?”

  “Not before this trip. She never previously mentioned it.”

  Pitt knew from Smith’s face that he had nothing more to say on the subject. “Do you know if the matter might be related to any of the threats she has received?” he said instead.

  Smith looked startled. “I had not thought to connect the two. Certainly not any she told me about. But if it was something she kept to herself, then of course it is possible.” There was doubt in his voice. “But she was not running away from anyone. If she were it would not be to Barton Hall, or to somewhere as vulnerable as Angel Court. There are places in Spain where she would be far safer, and which would not require such travel.”

  “So even before she proposed coming here she received threats to her life?”

  “Yes,” Smith agreed unhappily. “But it was almost always that God would destroy her for blasphemy, rather than an intent that the writer would.”

  “You don’t think the writers see themselves as instruments of God?”

  Smith’s lips tightened. “Sometimes. I don’t know whether to take such people seriously. Perhaps it is because my conviction is anyone may believe whatever they wish. Intolerance is a greater offense against God than holding a strange or even inconsistent belief. You have the right to worship what you wish—a pile of stones in your garden—as long as you do not injure others. God gave you that, and I have no right whatsoever to mock you, or prevent you doing so. And I know that—” He stopped abruptly, and then looked at Pitt. “I can hear Sofia’s voice in my words. But that is the truth, whatever anyone else may believe. Please find her, Mr. Pitt. This whole…whole journey has become a fiasco. I must keep up everyone’s spirits.” He rose to his feet. “There is nothing more I can tell you. I doubt there is anything further Ramon could either, and certainly not Henrietta. Please don’t distress them unnecessarily.”

  “I will do all I can to keep from upsetting them,” Pitt promised. “Now may I see these threatening letters, Mr. Smith?”

  “Of course.” Smith pulled open a drawer in the beautiful old oak desk and removed a pile of letters, still in their envelopes. He passed them over to Pitt, and then rose stiffly to his feet. “I shall leave you to read them.”

  Pitt opened the first letter and read it. It was written in pen, in a scrawled handwriting that tilted slightly downward at the end of each line.

  Sofia Delacruz,

  You are a blasphemer against the God who created you.

  You are feeding poison to the people who believe in truth and you should be stoned to death, as all liars deserve. You are a servant of the devil and will surely die in hell.

  It was signed with a squiggle of lines that was indecipherable. Pitt put it aside as of little meaning.

  The second was darker in tone, and written with a strong, firm hand.

  Señora Delacruz,

  Charity requires that I try to think of you as an ignorant and ambitious woman who has little idea of the damage you do with your seeds of discontent. Is there not enough violence in the world, enough rising up of the discontented masses, without you giving them the insane idea, the dreams of madmen, that they are destined to become gods one day?

  Your ideas go beyond madness into the realms of evil.

  You stray over the verge into the realms of sedition, as if your will is to have anarchy. You do not openly advocate bombings, murders and outrages, but they will be the inevitable outcome of your teachings, which give men already primed to murder and destruction the belief that order is unnecessary and should be hurled down, and trodden upon. The order and civilization that has adorned society since the Dark Ages should be overturned! Virtue, modesty and obedience are worthless and courage lies in creating chaos!

  Whether you are mad or wicked no longer matters. You preach evil, and must be fought with all weapons at the disposal of decent people. Change your words, take back your teachings or prepare to become the victim of your own sins of pride.

  I speak for every man!

  Adam

  Pitt put down the paper slowly. How deep a threat was intended? The writing was steady, an easy script without flourish, the name presumably symbolic.

  The next two were more hasty, written in anger, but the theme was there again: pride, a woman who did not know her place and sowed discontent, disorder, the breakup of hearth and home, which has been the center of civilization, of comfort, art, law, the keeping of peace for countless generations.

  The further half dozen or so were less literate and less thought through.

  Did they amount to serious threat? Pitt did not know, but he could not afford to ignore the weight of feeling they expressed.

  He stuffed the letters into his jacket pockets and stood up to leave.

  As he walked across the cobbles of Angel Court, toward the figure of the angel near the entrance, he was still unsure as to whether Sofia Delacruz had left so dramatically in the night in order to whip up even more public interest in herself, and so gain a greater platform for her message. He remembered vividly the passion in her face, the timbre of her voice ringing with certainty. He had no doubt she was a woman who would do what she believed to be right, and take the consequences later. But was that holiness, was it human obsession or was she on the brink of insanity?

  The world was full of uncertainty. They were hurtling toward the end of the century. There was social and religious unrest everywhere. There were too many questions that no longer had answers. There was a seed of disorder in belief, not as to which God was true, but in any God at all. It matched the already growing social anarchy in politics throughout Europe. This year had seen an Anti-Anarchist Conference in Rome, and the founding of an international police force. It was long overdue.

  And as he turned the corner into the street and walked toward the main road, he noticed the newsboy selling papers. The headline said something about mounting tensions in South Africa.

  He shook his head. He must liaise with the Spanish Embassy to make sure his inquiries did not ruffle diplomatic feathers, and tomorrow he would go to see Barton Hall and find out what he knew of Sofia Delacruz and her real purpose in coming to England.

  CHAPTER

  3

  EARLY THE NEXT MORNING the hansom drew up to the curb in Eaton Square and Pitt stepped down onto the pavement and paid the driver. He walked past the wrought-iron railings and up the steps to the paneled oak door of Barton Hall’s home. Apart from the lion-headed door knocker, the house was as elegantly Georgian as all the others facing the square. It
was formal and perfectly proportioned. There were no flippant fancies to mar its classic exterior.

  Pitt raised the knocker and let it fall. It was only moments before the door was opened by a man of immense dignity, gray-haired before his time. His face had an expression of imperturbable calm.

  “Good morning, sir. How may I help you?” He was holding a small silver salver, the sort used to take a gentleman’s card.

  Pitt dropped his card on it, adding as he did so, “Commander Pitt of Special Branch. I would like to speak with Mr. Barton Hall. It is a matter of the greatest urgency.”

  “Yes, sir. If you would like to come in I will see if Mr. Hall is available.” The butler stepped back into the wide, marble-flagged hall.

  “Perhaps you would like to wait in the morning room, sir?” It was not an inquiry so much as a direction. He indicated the way with a very slight movement of his hand.

  Pitt was happy to accept. Morning rooms were often revealing not only of a man’s character but also of his means, his interests, and the comfort and discipline of his household.

  This one was no exception. As the butler closed the door and his footsteps retreated over the marble, Pitt stared around at the dark curtains, the polished wood floor with its very traditional red and blue Turkey carpet and the one wall entirely lined with books, comprising sets uniformly bound in leather. They were arranged according to size and color, rather than by subject matter or by author. They looked expensive, well cared for, infrequently moved from their places.

  He walked over and pulled one out. The shelf was sufficiently well dusted that there was no mark. He smiled and pushed the book back into line. It was a history of Schliemann’s excavations in the ruins now believed to be Troy.

  He turned and looked more closely at the two paintings on the farther walls. They were rather staid pastoral scenes, undisturbed by any signs of real country life. Everything was artistically proportioned, from the haywain to the slant of the thatched roof.