by Anne Perry
What a full-blown manhunt might result in, were she found, was another question. She might be perceived as a dangerous woman, in league with anarchists and involved in acts of criminal violence. She might well be running because she was very understandably terrified for her life. On their record so far she had every justification for believing that Special Branch either could not, or would not, protect her.
Dalton Teague was waiting, a slight shadow of impatience on his face, his arms tense on the sides of the chair. He was not a man Pitt could afford to insult; Pitt had already earned himself more than sufficient enemies. In the past he had saved the Queen’s life, but before that, he unfortunately made a mortal enemy of the Prince of Wales, who in the near future must succeed his old and increasingly frail mother.
“Thank you, Mr. Teague,” Pitt said. “That is remarkably generous of you. Any information you are able to collect will be of use, and of course your influence will be enormous.”
Teague relaxed a little, his arms again lying loosely on the chair.
“Good. I thought you would welcome help. Before I can deploy all my people, naturally I would need to know which of the facts I have read are actually true, which are false and which are as yet unknown.”
Pitt tried to choose his words with great care. A mistake now could be irredeemable. “It is too early to say on most issues, Mr. Teague, but as soon as there is something you can act on, I will be happy to tell you. So far the evidence is minimal. I can say that both women were killed at least twenty-four hours before their bodies were found. And, incidentally, the worst wounds were inflicted after death.”
Teague leaned forward. “Really?” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “A small mercy.” His voice was quiet and curiously unemotional. Was that lack of feeling, or so much feeling that he dared not allow it out of control? “Is that information confidential, Mr. Pitt?”
“I would prefer you not to reveal it for the time being,” Pitt replied. He met Teague’s eyes, and knew that the man understood it was a test. Pitt wished profoundly that he could afford to refuse Teague’s help, but he needed all the influence and the additional manpower he could obtain. There were no secrets of state involved in this case. But it was a cold, bitter thought, which he could not dismiss, that maybe the disappearance of Sofia Delacruz was the first step toward being dragged into war with Spain. Teague was right. The consequences could be far reaching. He knew more than Teague did, knew that America needed a canal linking the Atlantic and the Pacific, and naturally the land around it to protect such a monumental investment: land that was currently Spanish in culture, language and spirit.
Britain could not afford to be part of that dispute.
He felt his mind racing and the sweat breaking hot and then cold on his skin. He must force himself to keep control. He smiled back at Teague, feeling as if it must look ghastly on his lips.
“I appreciate your assistance, sir. I’m sure your influence will be greatly helpful in keeping the press from causing panic with thoughtless speculation.”
“I will do all I can,” Teague agreed. “The best remedy would be to put a fast end to the whole story. Find Sofia Delacruz, alive or dead, and arrest whoever was responsible for her abduction. Unless, of course, it is possible she has gone voluntarily. But I suppose you have already thought of that.”
“Yes,” Pitt agreed. “It might be useful for you to know that we rely a great deal on the public’s observation in cases of missing people. No one literally disappears if they are alive. Cabdrivers, sailing parties, people behind counters in shops, waiters, chambermaids, folks out walking their dogs. Someone must’ve seen her.”
“Yes, I understand.” Teague rose to his feet. “Just as I thought, it is a job for an army of people. My employees and my colleagues are at your disposal, Commander. I shall keep you apprised of anything I hear, sir. Good day.” This time he glanced at both Brundage and Stoker as he walked elegantly out the door, leaving Brundage to close it behind him.
It was Stoker who spoke first.
“Can we afford to do that, sir?”
Brundage was still standing, his eyes wide. “He’s even…bigger in person, isn’t he!”
“We can’t afford not to,” Pitt replied to Stoker. “He’s right. We don’t know enough about this situation. There’s still a possibility she escaped, and is off on her own. We haven’t enough men to track her down if she’s alive and free to move as she wishes.”
Brundage looked at him coldly. “Do you believe that, sir?”
“No, I don’t,” Pitt answered sharply. “But I have to acknowledge that it’s a possibility.”
Stoker’s eyebrows rose. “We also can’t rule out the possibility that she murdered the other two women, can we? In which case she’s a criminal lunatic, and we should find her and hang her for it.”
Pitt controlled his emotions with effort. “I don’t believe that to be true, Stoker. But you are right. If she committed such a terrible crime we’ll find a way to have her face the consequences. We are Special Branch. We do all we can to defend our country from any attack that could threaten the safety of the government, wherever it comes from. We do not choose the result we want, we pursue the truth, and when we find it, we deal with it the best way we can. We cooperate with the police, and hope to hell that they will cooperate with us.”
“Dalton Teague isn’t the police,” Stoker pointed out.
“Right at the moment, he is help we could probably use, and an enemy we can’t afford.”
—
THAT EVENING, PITT DECIDED to see Vespasia and ask for her advice regarding Teague, though he felt very much less confident than he had when talking to Stoker and Brundage. And now that Vespasia was married to Pitt’s previous commander in Special Branch, Victor Narraway, he would almost inevitably see Narraway also.
Narraway had previously lived in apartments in the center of London, but had been more than happy to move all his belongings into one of the wings of Vespasia’s large and very gracious house, which was in a more residential area. Pitt had already noticed a few differences here and there. Narraway had set up his own study, but the beautiful drawings of trees from his—now Pitt’s—office at Lisson Grove, were in Vespasia’s sitting room, which faced the garden. They fitted in remarkably well, as did the other chair beside the fire, opposite hers. Its darker-toned seat was less feminine, but it sat comfortably with the shades of the room, giving the entire space a new kind of weight.
Pitt was welcomed in not by Vespasia’s maid, but by Narraway’s manservant, now elevated to butler. Pitt imagined, with a smile, the rearrangements that must have gone on belowstairs among two households of servants required to blend with each other and keep their ambitions and disappointments from showing. The coming to terms in the kitchen, the new order of precedence, he did not even wish to think about.
It was Vespasia who met him as he was shown into the sitting room.
“Good evening, Thomas,” she said with evident pleasure. “You must be tired and harassed. Would you like tea, or whisky? I have a whisky that Victor assures me is excellent.” She smiled gently, a very faint color in her cheeks as she said Narraway’s name. In her prime she had been considered the loveliest woman in Europe. Now time had left its marks on her face, but they were of laughter and experience, knowledge of pain and how to endure it with grace, never bitterness. Pitt found the beauty in her deepened with each passing year.
“Tea would be excellent, thank you,” he accepted. “Also it would give me time to collect my thoughts and ask you the questions I need to.” He sat down near her, but not in the chair opposite her. He hoped Narraway was in, or would arrive shortly and join them.
Vespasia reached for the bell beside her and rang it. When the maid answered she asked for tea.
When the maid had gone again, closing the door silently behind her, Vespasia looked at Pitt expectantly.
Though she undoubtedly knew of the situation from the papers, he briefly gave her the detai
ls about Sofia Delacruz’s disappearance, and the discovery of the mutilated bodies of the two women who had been her followers, and apparently gone with her, whether willingly or not.
She listened without interrupting him, her face grave until at last he fell silent, waiting for her to reply.
“So you are inclined to believe that she was taken against her will, but you do not know the reasons for it,” she concluded.
He shook his head.
“I am uncertain about so many things. I don’t know whether she’s a woman of deep and original convictions, or a charlatan. I don’t know whether she was kidnapped, or went willingly with intent to exploit the notoriety that must follow, or even without giving it any thought. I don’t know if she is laughing at us, or terrified, hunted, possibly caught and tortured. For that matter I don’t know if she is alive at all.” He looked at her steadily. “What made you think that I was inclined to believe she was taken against her will?”
“Your choice of words, my dear,” she said gently. “To me it is clear that you believe that she is honest, if deluded, and you are afraid that she is either in very serious danger, or already dead.”
He had never prevaricated with Vespasia. Certainly he was not going to begin now. She had read him far too well, as she often did.
“I’m afraid the implications are much deeper than the individual tragedy of these murders,” he continued. “This is a very public failure of Special Branch to protect people. Many of the press believe we should not exist at all, and they will excuse us nothing.”
She had more respect for him than to argue. She smiled at him now, but her silver-gray eyes were candid.
“I have read Mr. Laurence’s articles,” she told him. “I don’t know whether I like the man or not. I have never met him, and I might find it interesting to do so. On the other hand, so often one is disillusioned. I would be very disappointed to find his wit existed only on paper, and that he was actually the most fearful bore in person.”
“He isn’t,” Pitt admitted. “But he has no mercy.”
“Of course not,” she agreed. “He is a journalist. However entertaining he is, you surely have more sense than to trust him?” A shadow of anxiety crossed her eyes. “Use him if you have to, my dear, but never allow him the upper hand, or you may lose it.”
He was saved from having to respond by Victor Narraway’s entrance into the room. One of the servants must have told him of Pitt’s arrival. There were three cups on the tea tray the maid brought in almost on his heels.
Narraway was of average height, lean rather than slender. Pitt had had occasion several times to learn that he was actually far stronger than he looked. Long ago, at the time of the Indian Mutiny forty years before, Narraway had been in the army and served with some distinction. Since then he had advanced through various parts of the secret services, ending in the position Pitt had now occupied for such a short time.
“Wondered if we’d see you over this affair,” Narraway said, coming into the room with a glance at Vespasia, then taking his place in his chair, on the other side of the fireplace.
Pitt watched their interaction with interest. He had known Vespasia far longer than Narraway had, and had watched their friendship, at first so guarded, grow into something immeasurably deep. Pitt had a loyalty to Narraway and a growing regard for him, respect mixed with understanding. But his love for Vespasia—and “love” was not too strong a word—was a stronger and more emotional thing. If Narraway hurt her, even unintentionally, Pitt would not be able to forgive him for it. She was older than Narraway by some few years. She was proud, wise, brave and so very vulnerable. No one who fractured her present happiness would escape Pitt’s fury.
“Thank you,” Pitt accepted his tea, and one of the tiny chocolate sponge cakes. He must remember not to eat it in one mouthful.
“Do you think Barton Hall had anything to do with this mess?” Narraway asked, sitting back comfortably and crossing his legs. He was naturally elegant in a way Pitt never would be. Birth and education gave him a confidence no later learned skills could ape.
“It is possible,” Pitt replied.
Narraway looked pensive. “Do you know the man’s importance, Pitt? I don’t mean socially, I mean in banking circles?”
“He’s head of one of the smaller banks that cater to major figures,” Pitt replied, wondering what Narraway was thinking. “Including the Church of England, and some members of the Royal Family. Sofia is an embarrassment to him, that much I gathered when I met with him. But I really can’t see him kidnapping her, or her followers, whatever he thinks of her theology. I did wonder if he would try to have her arrested, or even deported. Not that that matters now. This is far beyond embarrassment. The murders on Inkerman Road were two of the most awful I’ve seen.”
Narraway glanced at Vespasia, then back at Pitt.
“You’re thinking emotionally. Consider the financial implications.”
“Of what?” Pitt tried to keep his voice calm, but he wasn’t sure what Narraway was saying. Was there some piece he had missed? “If Barton was involved in these murders, I have no doubt the bank would disown him, publicly and vehemently, within hours.”
“I don’t doubt it either,” Narraway agreed. “But scandal of any sort is bad for banking, almost all of which is built upon confidence. Money is largely a fiction, a piece of paper that represents real assets, or the trust that assets exist. Take away this trust and it is worth nothing. A run on one bank is like a contagious disease. People panic and follow with runs on other banks. No doubt you played dominoes as a child?”
“One or two fall and they all go,” Pitt answered. “But if personal scandal about a banker could do that then there wouldn’t be a bank in Europe still standing.”
Narraway smiled bleakly. “Not personal scandal, for heaven’s sake! Or there wouldn’t be a throne standing either,” he said drily. “Power would be changing hands every season. Every form of stability would go, and investment would go with it. I’m talking about loss of confidence as a motive for actions that otherwise seem out of proportion. Don’t lose sight of Barton Hall as a man with extraordinary interests to guard.”
Pitt looked at Narraway closely, trying to read behind the cool dark eyes. “Perhaps I should investigate your new interests since you were elevated to the House of Lords.”
Narraway’s smile reflected his amusement at what seemed to him an absurdity, and the still painful memory of having been betrayed by his own men, which had resulted in his being dismissed from a job he loved, and at which he was extraordinarily gifted. Pitt was still awkwardly aware that he far from filled Narraway’s shoes. No one had been condescending enough to lie and tell him that he had. The kindest thing that had been said had come from Narraway himself. It was that Pitt had qualities to bring to Special Branch that Narraway lacked, qualities such as mercy and self-doubt, which meant he would not allow the power of it to go to his head. He might have attained power, but he would never exercise it too much. Doubt would always creep in and question.
“By all means do,” Narraway said mildly. “I am not on the board of his bank, but I have acquaintances who are.”
“Do you know Barton Hall personally?” Pitt pursued it. “Can you tell me anything about him that might be useful?”
“I know his background,” Narraway said, pursing his lips. “He comes from a wealthy county family. Studied at Cambridge and did very well. Economics, of course, and the humanities. I don’t know what specifically, but he graduated with a good first. Mixed with all the right people and was surprisingly popular for a man who played few sports and has very little social charm.”
Vespasia was watching Narraway. It flickered through Pitt’s mind to wonder how well they were coming to know each other in the radically new situation of sharing not only a home but a bed. He recalled vividly with both affection and amusement his early days with Charlotte. But they had been so much younger, and therefore perhaps less vulnerable. Vespasia had been long widowed fr
om a moderately comfortable marriage. The greatest love of her life had been an Italian revolutionary named Mario Corena. He had been killed several years ago, here in London.
That she loved Narraway, Pitt did not doubt. They had both helped Pitt in some of his past cases, struggling against crime and confusion. Some cases had been small: an individual injustice, a single death or an innocence shattered. Others had been large; the cost of failure would have been terrible.
They had worked side by side, sitting around the kitchen table planning, questioning, counting the risks and the price of failure, and always finding a way to push ahead. Trust, and the shared passion in victory and defeat, had become love. Pitt hoped, perhaps with a degree of naïvety, that these would turn out to be the happiest years of Vespasia’s life.
Narraway, on the other hand, had never been married. Without question he had had affairs, some more honorable than others, but he had allowed Pitt to form the opinion that none of them had tested the depth of his ability to love wholly and passionately. If he had married Vespasia without loving her more than he could control, more than he could ever walk away from, then Pitt would not forgive him. And he would pity him. The inability to love was an affliction, not a sin. He realized that as he watched Narraway looking at Vespasia now, and thought of his own feelings for Charlotte.
“What about Dalton Teague?” he said at last.
Narraway turned his attention back to the moment. “Interesting. Why do you ask?”
“He offered his help today,” Pitt replied, waiting for the response.
“I assume you accepted it?” Narraway asked curiously.
“You didn’t accept it!” Vespasia said at the same moment.
