by Anne Perry
There was one photograph that caught his eye. It was in a frame on one of the smaller tables. It showed the head and shoulders of a middle-aged woman whose dark hair was pulled back in a fashion of at least ten years ago. At first glance she was ordinary, her features strong but a little heavy for handsomeness. But the longer Pitt looked at her, the more he saw in her not only a frankness, but a humor. She seemed the sort of woman that, when you knew her well, you would miss very much when she was absent. Was she Barton Hall’s wife?
His thoughts were broken by the opening of the door as Barton himself came in and closed it silently behind him. He was a tall man with slightly receding hair, which was graying at the sides. He was very formally dressed, bony wrists showing beneath his white shirt cuffs.
“Good morning, Commander Pitt,” he said quietly. “How may I be of assistance to you?” Hall’s voice was more than pleasing—there was a depth to it, almost a music.
“Good morning, Mr. Hall,” Pitt replied, inclining his head. “I believe you are related to Sofia Delacruz?”
Hall winced very slightly. “I am,” he admitted. “She is a cousin on my late mother’s side of the family.” He remained standing. “But please do not hold me accountable for her eccentric views. Believe me, sir, were I able to dissuade her from speaking of them publicly, I would already have done so.” He cleared his throat. “I apologize for any embarrassment she may cause. I am acutely aware of it, but helpless to prevent her. All the family’s pleading has changed nothing.”
Pitt felt a degree of sympathy with him. There were few people who were not embarrassed by their families at some time in their lives, but usually not to this extent. Hall was also clearly touched by anxiety.
“I am not looking for your help in moderating her speaking,” Pitt replied.
Hall frowned. He was still standing in the middle of the Turkey rug looking vaguely at a loss. “Then what is it you wish of me?”
“Sofia Delacruz was staying at a residence in Angel Court…” he answered. He saw Hall’s bleak smile of humor at the name of the place. “She disappeared from there sometime during the night before last,” he continued. “Her people are anxious because she left no word, and it has meant they have had to cancel a meeting this evening.”
Hall’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “And you thought she might have come here? I’m sorry, I have no idea why she should do something so…irresponsible.” He sighed. “Although I should not be surprised. Her whole life has been a journey of one irresponsibility after another. This is merely the latest.”
“Irresponsibilities that were against her own interests?” Pitt asked quickly.
Hall stared at him, a confusion of thoughts racing across his face.
Pitt waited.
Hall swallowed hard. “Perhaps I spoke in haste. I have known very little of her for the last ten years or so.” He cleared his throat again. “One always hopes that people may change.”
Pitt realized with surprise how angry he was. He had believed that Sofia was sincere, even that she had a vision of a glory in the world that made sense of some of the pain, the waste, and the seeming chaos.
And it seemed now as if she was very probably a charlatan. The taste it left in his mouth was bitter. If Barton Hall had endured a lifetime of this deceit, then Pitt had every sympathy with him now.
Hall was waiting for Pitt to continue. His face was creased with concern and he stood unnaturally still.
“Has she contacted you since she arrived in England?” Pitt asked.
“Oh, yes.” Barton Hall spoke wearily. “She sent a perfectly civil letter from Southampton, and then a note when she reached London. She had asked to meet with me the day after they arrived in the city, but I had other arrangements. She agreed that it should be tomorrow.”
Pitt wondered at Sofia’s keenness to meet with her cousin. Was it simply that she knew it would be unpleasant and thus wished to get it over with as soon as possible, whereas Hall had preferred to delay it, maybe even avoid it altogether?
“She may return before then,” he said.
“And if she doesn’t?” Hall asked. “I presume you are looking for her? Questioning these…people that she has now made her life with?” His shoulders were tight, pulling the fabric of his coat, and there was a thin thread of fear in his voice. “Do you know anything about them?”
“We are making inquiries,” Pitt replied. “But all of the group who traveled with her are Spanish, apart from Melville Smith, and we are having to work with the Spanish Embassy—”
“Sofia is English,” Hall interrupted. “She was born and bred here, from generations of English! Marrying some damn Spaniard doesn’t rob her of that!”
Pitt was surprised by the heat of the anger in Hall’s words. His fists were by his sides, but Pitt could see they were clenched so tight his large knuckles shone white.
Hall stared at Pitt for a moment, then apparently realized he had betrayed too much emotion and visibly composed his face into total gravity.
“I apologize, Mr. Pitt. Sofia has always been a deep concern to her family, but that does not mean we are indifferent to what happens to her.” He cleared his throat again. “Or that the thought of her coming to some harm is not extremely distressing, especially to me, since I am the last one who was close to her parents. I regret to say both my aunt and uncle are deceased.”
“No brothers or sisters?” Pitt allowed himself to be led, at least temporarily.
“She had one brother, who died as a child,” Hall said simply. “You understand why I am concerned.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Of course,” Pitt agreed. “It is perfectly natural. I shall see that you are informed of any progress we make.” They were still standing on the middle of the carpet. Pitt did not feel as if he could sit in any of the comfortable armchairs until Hall should invite him to. There was a charge of emotion in the air like the tension before a storm. Any ease would be pretended.
“Thank you,” Hall acknowledged.
“Were you in regular correspondence with Señora Delacruz?” Pitt continued.
“Señora Delacruz? For God’s sake.” Hall’s voice was tight, the music that had been in it so agreeably, now completely gone. “No, I wasn’t. If our family had not lived in this house for generations I doubt she would have even known where to find me.”
“She lives in Toledo?” Pitt asked, trying to judge how much Hall had kept up his information about her.
“So I am told. Is that relevant?” Hall appeared surprised.
“I don’t know,” Pitt answered. “She seems to have gained enemies long before she came to England, at least according to the threats she has received.”
“Hardly surprising,” Hall snapped. “She has a gift for it. Her ideas are absurd, which is irrelevant, but they are also deeply offensive to many who revere the teachings of their own Church, whose faith is nearly two thousand years old, and has stood the test of time and hardship!” He started to clear his throat and turned it into a cough. “How can they not be?”
“Christianity has certainly withstood terrible persecution,” Pitt agreed, watching Hall’s face.
“And from a woman in my own family! Thank God her parents are not alive.”
Pitt was taken aback. There was almost a hunted look about Hall that he did not understand.
Hall straightened himself up. “I’m sorry. This must seem absurd to you.” His voice was stronger, his composure regained. “Her return to England has come at an unfortunate period for me. I have responsibilities: serious matters to which I cannot afford to give less than my full attention. I’m sorry if I seem heartless, but there are only so many times we can drop all our own affairs to rescue someone who is bent on her own destruction and is willing to take you with her.” His voice wavered, strained almost to the point where it could barely escape the tightness of his throat.
“I’m sorry to have disturbed you, Mr. Hall,” Pitt apologized, watching him with a degree of pity. “I was hop
ing she might be here. And since you are her only relative in England, we had to inform you of her disappearance.”
Hall sighed. “I understand. I dare say by tomorrow she will have appeared again with some absurd story of hardship, and be too busy talking to the newspapers about it to be aware that she has distressed her poor followers, and wasted your time.”
“I hope so.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Pitt knew that he did not entirely mean them. He hated the thought that the woman he had seen only three days ago, so passionate in her belief, was actually self-serving and manipulative.
Hall pursed his lips. “Do you hope so? I think you speak without realizing the damage she can do, and undoubtedly will, if she returns and continues in her insane crusade.” Yet again he coughed and cleared his throat. “Her religious views are socially dangerous, Mr. Pitt. That is what you should be turning your attention toward.”
Pitt regarded him steadily, trying to judge whether he was acting or not. Certainly he was laboring under the stress of some extreme emotion. Pitt could see its depth, but there was no way to tell its nature.
“She sees what she wants to, and ignores the rest,” Hall went on, the bitterness still in his voice. “There is much in her past she prefers not to recall, as if it never happened. But believe me, Mr. Pitt, she did not leave England with honor, nor did she originally act with any decency in Spain. I don’t know how the people of Toledo could forget, but perhaps their values are different from ours.” He stopped just short of implying that Spaniards were morally weak.
Pitt hesitated. He did not wish to look too interested, and make Hall realize how far he had trespassed on the privacy he had originally claimed.
“You doubt me!” Hall said with a flare of anger. “And it would be a betrayal for me to tell you more. Sofia may do as she wishes, but I shall not allow her to claim moral superiority by sinking to the level of speaking ill of her—and those dark griefs that are part of our family’s history. Sufficient for me to say that she may have many enemies among those she has…harmed on her way to her present absurd position.”
The thought flashed in Pitt’s mind that Hall was deliberately taunting him, but he had no doubt at all that the anger and the pain in Hall’s face were perfectly real, whatever their cause. He chose his words very carefully, watching Hall’s eyes for his reaction to them.
“Are you saying, as discreetly as you can, that she has injured people in Spain who may have felt sufficiently aggrieved to follow her here to England in order to take revenge?”
Hall swallowed, his throat jerking as if the movement was painful.
“I am,” he replied. “And there is always the possibility that at least one of her followers has turbulent and mixed emotions about her. Disillusion is a kind of betrayal, Mr. Pitt.” Hall smiled sadly. “You have many places to look for whoever might have wished Sofia harm. Begin with those closest to her, and work from there. You may even need to look at her husband.”
“Oh?” Pitt said with interest. “Do you think there is ill feeling between them sufficient to cause some sort of abduction or attack?”
“I don’t know, Commander. But to the best of my knowledge she has not been in England for many years. This is very soon after her arrival to have created such enmity.”
“Have you been to Spain, Mr. Hall?”
“To Madrid once, a long time ago, never to Toledo. I think I have already told you, sir, I have had no contact with Sofia since she went to Spain a decade or so ago. I wish her well, of course, but I have no real interest in her affairs. I imagine her enemies are in Spain, or at least from Spain, as a matter of common sense, not any specific knowledge.”
“And she gave you no idea as to why she wished so urgently to see you?”
“None whatsoever,” Hall agreed, holding out his hand toward Pitt. “I am sorry my assistance is so meager and in essence harsh as well.” There was a flash of intense bitterness on his face, then the moment after it had vanished. “I regret I cannot spare more time to be hospitable, but I have business that cannot wait longer. Good day to you, sir, I wish you success.”
—
PITT TOOK A HANSOM cab to Angel Court, hoping that Sofia might have returned, or at least sent some message with an explanation for her absence. But when he walked in through the gateway of Angel Court, he knew. Henrietta Navarro stood on the cobbles with a bunch of herbs in her hand. She stared at Pitt with a momentary flash of hope, then her eyes filled with tears and she turned away and hurried inside.
Pitt went across the yard and in through the door without looking back.
—
WHEN PITT GOT HOME, later than he had expected, he was happy not to think of Sofia Delacruz. He was tired of wondering where she was, and if she was there of her own will. However, he had barely finished his dinner in the pleasant warmth around the kitchen table when he realized that Jemima was watching him, waiting. He had been hoping to talk of something comfortable, but he saw the possibility disappearing.
“What do you think has happened to her, Papa?” Jemima asked the moment he caught her eye.
He knew that Charlotte would have told her not to ask him until after dinner. He knew she had been watching every mouthful, barely tasting her own food.
“I don’t know,” he said honestly. He was careful how he answered his children, trying to protect them from the harsher side of his job, but he never lied. Sometimes that was difficult, but if he did lie, he knew that their trust in him would be broken and someday it would come back to haunt them all.
“People are saying that she went on purpose,” Jemima continued. “That she wasn’t kidnapped at all, she’s just pretending so she can make people scared, and think she’s in danger when she’s perfectly all right. They’re saying it’s a trick to make her look more important. That’s not true, is it?”
He looked at her. She was so like Charlotte that he could imagine Charlotte as a girl, as if the years had blurred and carried him back to a time before he had known her. Jemima had the same soft curve to her cheeks and mouth, the same steady eyes, yet there was something of himself in her too, the way her hair grew from her brow, like his, and like his mother’s. He had only this moment realized it.
“I don’t know,” he said carefully. “When I met her I thought she believed what she was saying and that it mattered enough never to soil it by trickery. But I’ve been mistaken in people. We all have.”
“Then you’re saying she could have been lying all the time!” Jemima challenged, her voice thick with emotion.
Daniel winced. He was three years younger, and very tired of girls altogether, and emotional storms especially. His were yet to come. He was brave, intelligent, very practical. He was interested in the rising possibility of more widespread war in Africa than the present fighting in the Sudan, especially against the Boers in South Africa. The military tactics, the heroism and the sacrifice involved intrigued him. He did not care in the slightest about the philosophy of saints, or their behavior.
Charlotte looked from one to the other of them, anxiety in her eyes, but she did not intervene.
“I don’t think she is,” Pitt replied. “But Barton Hall, who is her only relative in England, said that she has misled people in the past and that there is a great deal that we don’t know about her. He won’t tell me exactly what it is, because he feels it would be dishonorable, a betrayal of family secrets.”
“That’s despicable!” Jemima said hotly. “He will tell you there’s something awful, but he won’t say what it is, so you can’t judge it for yourself. He could be lying. If he won’t tell you then he shouldn’t mention it at all! That’s like being a sneak!”
Daniel looked up, his expression reflecting his agreement. To a boy his age, sneaking was the worst sin imaginable, after cowardice. He stared at Pitt, then at his sister. “You shouldn’t listen to him,” he said without hesitation. “It all sounds very childish.”
A look of both surprise and amusement lit Charlotte’s fa
ce. She quashed it immediately. She drew in her breath to speak, then changed her mind.
Charlotte had warned Pitt that Jemima was both excited and afraid of the great changes in her life that were coming in the next couple of years. She had thought of adulthood as freedom, and was just realizing that it had its own kind of restrictions. Marriage meant a gain, but also its own sort of loss, and she was not at all sure she was ready for that yet. Romance could be wonderful or heartbreaking, and sometimes both.
The idea of promising to love and obey anyone else, for the rest of her life, terrified her. Perhaps that was why the courage and the independence of Sofia Delacruz appealed to her so much.
“He was warning me that she might have more enemies than merely those who disagreed with her religious views,” Pitt told them. “He was answering my questions.”
Jemima blinked rapidly. “Do you believe him?”
“I believe he feels very strongly about it.” Pitt wanted to reach out and comfort her, but he wasn’t entirely sure how.
“Why?” Jemima asked. “Does he hate her?”
“I think he’s afraid of her,” he replied.
“That doesn’t make sense.” Contempt rang in her voice. “She isn’t hurting anyone, especially him.”
Should he be honest, or was it burdening her with thoughts she would not understand? He desperately wanted to forget Sofia Delacruz and enjoy the evening.
He looked across at Charlotte, and knew that she was not going to say anything. She wanted answers as well, although she would not have asked him, especially not this late when she understood his need to give his mind a rest.
“Papa?” Jemima persisted. “Why would he be afraid of her? Do you think she’s dangerous?”
He knew he could hurt her so easily. He must choose exactly the right words.
“He’s afraid that people will believe her ideas, and then be horribly disappointed when she doesn’t live up to what she has said,” he answered.
“She didn’t say she was perfect!” Jemima argued. “She just said it wasn’t all a big mistake because God didn’t know we’d disobey and get cast out of Eden. Which would make Him pretty stupid. She said it was meant to be, and that we can learn from it and get better…forever.”
