by Anne Perry
“She confided in you?” Pitt asked, implying that he knew the answer already. “Or Ramon?”
“No,” Smith answered quickly. “Ramon is…very loyal, a good man, but his admiration of her is intense, greater than his judgment. I regret saying this, but this is a time for honesty. His need to believe her doctrine, for his own intensely personal reasons, did not leave him room for doubt, or…or acknowledgment of the reality of her strengths and…weaknesses. She knew that, and she would not have burdened him either with her own fallibility, or with the very real fear that something might happen to her.”
“But you knew.” Pitt made it a statement, investing his voice with a touch of respect.
“I’m afraid so,” Smith agreed.
Pitt nodded gravely. “It must have been very distressing for you.”
“Yes…I wish…” Smith floundered for words, studying Pitt’s expression, seemingly trying to ascertain how much he knew, or guessed.
“I’m sure you did all you could,” Pitt said gently. “Even in the short time I knew her I could see that she was a difficult woman to persuade…even in her own interests.”
“Very…” Smith agreed quickly. “I…” Again he stopped.
“They were brutal killings.” Pitt kept his voice level, his eyes on Melville Smith’s face. He saw the fear, naked for an instant before the mask was replaced. It was a consuming terror, but was it imagination or knowledge? There was guilt in it. Yet anyone would feel to blame, simply because they had not prevented the whole disaster. The mutilated bodies of the two women were lying in the police morgue, and Smith was sitting here in his office, alive and well, preparing speeches so he could take over Sofia’s position as leader of a brave and passionate group of people.
He looked at Smith, now ashen pale, sweat beading on his brow.
“Sofia did not come here to preach, Mr. Smith,” Pitt elaborated. “She came to see Barton Hall about something so secret she could not tell any of the others, and so urgent that it could not wait. Henrietta says that she gave help, sanctuary perhaps, to many people in trouble. But before you all came here, was there someone in a different kind of trouble? Far bigger than some sin of faith or domestic betrayal? You may hate those whose preaching you abhor, but you do not follow them into another country and hunt them down in the quiet streets, break into their houses and tear their entrails out on to the floor! Whatever happened here is dark, and I must find out where Señora Delacruz is before it happens to her—if it hasn’t happened already.”
Smith gasped and for a moment Pitt thought the man was going to vomit.
“I have no idea who killed them!” Smith protested, his voice strangled in his throat. “I told you before, Sofia wanted to see Barton Hall, and nothing I said could dissuade her. But she would not tell me. I swear I did all I could to learn so I could help, but you cannot argue with her!”
“I believe you,” Pitt agreed. “So when she wouldn’t listen, did you consider taking matters into your own hands?” He watched Smith as the color flooded back into his face; his eyes evaded Pitt’s gaze, then came back again.
“I did,” Smith said very quietly, his face scarlet. “And perhaps what happened was my fault. I don’t know who did it, or why! Dear God, all I meant was to keep her safe!”
“It was you who sent her to the house on Inkerman Road,” Pitt concluded. “And you kept it from us all this time! Who else knew?”
“No one.” Smith said fiercely. “Unless she told them! I don’t know if she was ever afraid. She thinks she’s invincible, God help her. She’s…”
“A fanatic?” Pitt suggested.
“Yes! She…she doesn’t look at reality. It makes her a great preacher, but an impossible woman to work with. She doesn’t listen to anything she doesn’t want to hear.”
The man was obviously deeply afraid, aand Pitt needed to find out exactly what he feared, and why. “What did you tell her? Did you add your own letters to the pile you had already received?” he asked.
“Yes. But the danger to her life was undoubtedly real,” Smith answered so quickly that Pitt was certain it was in some way less than the truth. It was a prepared answer. “That is what I told her.”
“How did you know of the house in Inkerman Road?” Pitt asked innocently.
Smith flushed. “I was told of it by a…a friend.”
“For what purpose?” Pitt persisted.
“As extra accommodation, if we required it,” Smith said, looking so unwaveringly at Pitt that the commander knew it was a lie.
“So if Señora Delacruz was not here at Angel Court, then this friend might assume she would be at Inkerman Road.” It was conclusion, not a question.
Color drained from Smith’s cheeks, leaving him gray. “He is above reproach,” he said firmly. “A good and decent man. He must be as appalled as we are.” His normally beautiful voice was hoarse. “If I thought it was possible, let alone likely that he’d had any hand in this whatsoever, I would have told you immediately.”
“So it was Barton Hall.” Pitt concluded bitterly. “If Sofia didn’t know of the house herself, only Barton Hall would’ve known of it—It’s in her mother’s name. A man who profoundly disagrees with her teachings, but I imagine would find your amendments less…extreme, dismissing as they do the whole notion of anarchy against the order of God.”
Smith sat paralyzed, as if staring at a snake. He struggled for the right words of denial, indignation, anything at all, and failed.
“I don’t care about your religious ambitions, Mr. Smith,” Pitt said very quietly. “I do care very much about what you have done to realize them. Whatever you believe, if it professes to be any form of Christianity, it does not justify the terror and the pain of those women…”
“I didn’t have anything to do with their deaths!” Smith cried out desperately, lurching forward in his chair. “All I wanted was…” he stopped, sweat running down his face, “…to keep her safe and silent for a while. She has no idea what trouble she is causing, completely unnecessarily. Teach slowly! Not…everything at once. People will reject it because the change is too big! She has no patience, no…no understanding of people’s fears—”
“That doesn’t matter now.” Pitt cut across him. “If Barton Hall knew where she was, then either he is responsible, or he has told someone else who is. Do you know who?”
“No…”
Pitt stood up. “It would be very much in your interest, Mr. Smith, to be honest with me. It is more than your own credibility that is at stake. If you want to emerge from this a free man, never mind one with any honor left, then you will do everything you can to see that Sofia Delacruz returns to Angel Court alive and well. Unless, of course, if she is already dead, and you had a part in it. Then you might be better to get in my way by any means you can.”
Smith’s horror was so palpable it was unnecessary for him to make any protest at all.
Pitt walked out quietly and closed the door behind him.
—
PITT WAS SITTING IN his office with Stoker across the desk from him. It was littered with reports from the local police and from the few men Pitt could spare for the case, plus a few messages from Dalton Teague.
“You going to face him, sir?” Stoker asked when Pitt told him of his visit to Angel Court, and Smith’s admission of his arrangement with Barton Hall to use the house in Inkerman Road. “There’s got to be something pretty black that we still don’t know about. Hall’s a pompous sort of man, a bit cardboard, but he wouldn’t rip a couple of women apart simply because they disagree with him religiously. And it wasn’t even Sofia…” He bit his lip and winced. “At least we don’t know that she’s dead too. Even if murder wasn’t morally unthinkable to him, the sheer risk of it is terrifying.” He pulled his face into an expression of bleak acceptance. He had been in Special Branch far longer than Pitt, although he was several years younger.
“Then who was it? And what the devil did she want to see Hall about?” Pitt said it as much to him
self as to Stoker.
This time Stoker had no ready answer. He turned to the papers on the desk.
“The police have come up with nothing,” he said unhappily. “They spoke to all the other households in the area, cab drivers, delivery boys, tradesmen. Nobody saw anything unusual. No strangers reported. Those that even noticed the women said they were quiet and polite.” He shook his head.
Pitt did not bother to reply.
“You going to see Hall?” Stoker asked.
Pitt was not yet ready with his answer. “Has Dalton Teague come up with anything useful?” he said instead.
Stoker’s bony face was unreadable. Emotions flashed over it and were gone too rapidly to register. “No, sir,” he said, then picked up the police reports and went to the door.
“Stoker!” Pitt said abruptly.
Stoker froze, and then turned around to face the desk. “Yes, sir?”
“Have Teague’s men done anything at all?” Pitt demanded.
“Oh, yes, sir. They’re everywhere already, like fleas on a hairy dog.”
“Your choice of comparison is highly suggestive,” Pitt said drily. “They are getting in your way?”
Stoker smiled, showing his teeth. “No, sir. Wouldn’t allow that. Just ask a lot of questions about Special Branch. I respect people wanting to know who we are and what we do. Too often they don’t understand and don’t want to. They think us a nuisance, worse than the police, because we’re not investigating crimes they can see. But I haven’t got time to be answering such questions, and frankly I don’t think they should know everything about the way we work, even if they’re trying to be helpful.”
“What sort of questions are they asking?” Pitt said curiously, a small nail of anxiety digging at him.
“Detailed ones,” Stoker replied, watching Pitt’s face. “All supposed to be good manners, I suppose. Make us feel as if they care about what we do.” He hated to be patronized, and it showed in every angle of his body. He could take orders, or even criticism; he could not abide condescension.
“They are likely just awkward,” Pitt judged. “Wanting to be helpful but not knowing how.”
Stoker gave him a sour look and went out of the door.
—
PITT HAD A BRIEF, late lunch of bread, cheese and pickle away from his office, and he was walking toward the main thoroughfare to catch a hansom to speak with Barton Hall when he became aware of someone falling into step beside him. It was Frank Laurence, looking well dressed and politely interested. His shirt was immaculate, his suit remarkably well tailored. He was actually far tidier than Pitt. For a start, he had nothing in his pockets to drag them out of shape, nor was he overdue a haircut, as Pitt seemed to be most of the time.
“I have nothing additional to say,” Pitt told him without preamble.
“Of course not,” Laurence agreed. “You don’t know anything, and if you did, you would not tell me.”
Pitt was stung, as he knew Laurence meant him to be, but he would not rise to take the bait. He smiled. “You are quite right, I would not.”
“Are you finding Mr. Teague helpful?” Laurence was undaunted. “I know he has vast resources. His family owns half of Lincolnshire.”
“How is that helpful?” Pitt asked curiously.
“Oh, it isn’t,” Laurence said with a laugh. “But you have to be enormously wealthy to own half of anything. It gives one an air of assurance, as you will have noticed. He is used to people considering it a privilege to oblige him. He is definitely a good man to have on your side.”
“Is that a warning that he is a bad one to have against you?” Pitt asked, keeping his voice level and affable, as if they were discussing the weather.
Laurence laughed again. “My dear commander, if you need me to tell you that then you are not the man for the job you have.”
Pitt did not answer.
“Did Mr. Teague tell you that he has known Barton Hall most of his life?” Laurence managed to look both innocent and amused. “Or did he omit that piece of information?”
Pitt froze, and he knew instantly that Laurence was waiting for just such a reaction from him—he was angry with himself for giving it to him.
“You did not know,” Laurence observed. “Since schooldays, to be exact. Neither of them mentioned it I see. My dear fellow, it is written on your face.”
“Your investigations found this?” Pitt asked him.
“Oh, no, not at all. I happen to have been at the same school myself, a few years behind them, of course, but things don’t change a great deal. Same rules, you know? Same kind of people who break them. We all have our heroes.”
“And Teague was one of yours?” Pitt asked. For some reason, the thought seemed incongruous with what he knew of Laurence. He didn’t seem the type to put Teague on a pedestal.
For an instant there was a curious kind of anger in Laurence’s face, all the humor vanished.
“Oh, hardly,” he replied. “I was several years behind him. As I said, I didn’t know him at all. But no one ever forgot the way he played on the cricket field.” He gave a slight shrug. “I hated cricket. Not a team player!” He smiled. “Rather good at chess and fencing though.”
Pitt could imagine him at both very easily. The thrust and parry, move and countermove would appeal to him, a honing of natural skills. Were he anything other than a journalist Pitt would have liked him immensely.
“Good luck with Mr. Hall,” Laurence added. “He is also more interesting than you may yet appreciate.” He turned and walked away, leaving Pitt to ponder what he had just learned.
CHAPTER
7
BEFORE PITT WENT TO see Barton Hall at his bank, he returned to Lisson Grove to check if there was any news from Latham and the investigation at Inkerman Road, or from the men he had sent to Spain. Not that he expected them to find much. But the more he thought of it, the more concerned he was that the origin of Sofia’s troubles and disappearance lay in Spain. Perhaps it was time he sent one of his senior men to see the Spanish ambassador and ask a few pertinent questions—tactfully, of course.
Five minutes later James Urquhart stood in front of him, smiling slightly. He was a good-looking man in a gentle way, and very well spoken.
“I think it’s time we paid a friendly visit to the Spanish Embassy,” Pitt began. “Don’t make a big issue of it, just assure them as a courtesy that we are doing everything we can to find Señora Delacruz, and to bring to justice whoever killed the other two women. You could ask the ambassador if he has any advice to offer us.” He looked at Urquhart closely to see if he understood both the delicacy and the urgency of the situation. He had been a diplomat before joining Special Branch. There were times when both his knowledge and skill were remarkably useful.
“Yes, sir,” Urquhart nodded. “I doubt they will be of much help, poor devils, but you never know. What is it exactly that we need?”
Pitt had given it some consideration. “What they know of Señora Delacruz, or suspect but would not wish officially to say,” he replied. “Hints, suspicions, confidences, things they would rather not have attributed to them.”
“Right,” Urquhart agreed. “Understood, sir.” He excused himself and left.
A moment later Stoker came in looking unhappy. “Sorry, sir, there’s nothing from Latham.” He half sat on the edge of Pitt’s desk. Pitt stood by the window. “There were three strangers who were seen entering the house, but they turned out to be a plumber and two delivery men, all accounted for, all left well before the time we think the women were killed.” Stoker went on. He frowned. “Are you convinced it’s political now?”
“Yes.” Pitt was surprised how easily he answered. He had not realized he was so certain. “Not that it would be beneath a politician to use a religious maniac to carry out his aims.”
“Spanish?” Stoker asked.
“The politics, or the maniac?” Pitt inquired.
Stoker smiled for the first time. “Both.”
Pitt smi
led briefly in response. “Henrietta Navarro told me how Sofia took in all kinds of penitents and fugitives: the Church’s outcasts, or society’s. Why not political anarchists running from the law after an atrocity, whether they were guilty or not? Some of the poor devils were driven to their wits’ end, and beyond.”
“Why not?” Stoker agreed. “But what’s Hall got to do with it?”
“I don’t know,” Pitt admitted. “I am going to see him now. He has a lot of explaining to do about the house on Inkerman Road.”
“I’ll come with you,” Stoker straightened up immediately.
“No need.” Pitt shook his head.
“If it’s anarchists, sir, and they murdered these two women, and took Sofia, and Mr. Hall is on their side…”
“We have no facts to suggest any of that is true,” Pitt pointed out, stopping at the door and blocking Stoker’s path. “Hall is supremely established, right at the heart of the Church, Crown and money. How much more rooted in order can you be? If Sofia has any sympathy with rebels, anarchists or just the hungry, he wouldn’t share them. They’re natural enemies.”
“Bloody hunted and prey!” Stoker said, then blushed at his own outspokenness.
It was the first time Pitt had laughed in a while. It was not so much amusement as surprise. “Indeed,” he said with feeling. “Unfortunately we can’t do much about it.” He walked as far as the coat stand and took his jacket off the hook.
Before Pitt could put it on there was a knock on the door, and when he opened it Brundage was standing there with Dalton Teague a yard or two behind him. Brundage looked embarrassed. Before he could announce the obvious, Teague stepped forward.
“Afternoon, Commander.” He held out his hand.
Pitt had no alternative but to accept it. “Good afternoon, Mr. Teague.” It seemed almost redundant to ask if he had anything to report. The gleam of satisfaction in his eyes belied the gravity of his expression. Pitt put his coat on the hook again, stepped backward into his office and invited Teague in.
