The Angel Court Affair

by Anne Perry

  “Thank you.” Teague sat down in the large, leather-seated captain’s chair, leaving Pitt to sit in the other, opposite him. He crossed his long legs and leaned back. “I’ve tried to quell it, but the newspapers are getting a little hysterical about this entire matter, which doesn’t help. Not that helping is what they have in mind, of course.” He had a bitter little smile on his face. “ ‘Give aid and comfort to the enemy’ at times.”

  “Very ugly,” Pitt agreed. He wondered what Teague had come for.

  “I suppose you’ve read some of the articles Frank Laurence has written? He seems to be taking this whole business very seriously as a political threat, although he doesn’t make it very clear of what kind. War with Spain, I suppose? But then, he is better at suggestions than facts. Always was.”

  “You’ve known him a long time?” Pitt kept his tone casual, but he was suddenly interested in what Teague had to say. Laurence had made it clear that he disliked Teague, but he had also said it was by repute. That they had been at the same school and university, but not in the same years, and so hadn’t known each other well.

  Teague gave a slight shrug. “Since school days, Commander. He hasn’t changed so much. He was an eager little bastard then. Always inquisitive, looking, listening, adding up. Memory like an elephant.”

  “You know him well?”

  Teague’s eyes widened.

  “Good God, no! He was very junior. But he ran errands for older boys, you know? Traditional. We all do it. Fetching and carrying, that sort of thing. He did it for me for a while.”

  Pitt could imagine it easily. He had never been to such a school, but he knew some who had. The hierarchy was rigid, with traditions going back not decades but centuries.

  Pitt was aware of Teague watching him. He kept his face expressionless, although Teague would notice that too. It was unnatural. He must find some response to make.

  “Do you think he has any concern in this, other than to make a good story?” he asked. “And of course get credit for it.”

  Teague smiled. “Commander, I don’t think Frank Laurence has any object in life other than to get a good story, and credit for it, let the chips fall where they may.”

  “Have you something to report, Mr. Teague?” Pitt asked quietly.

  “Ah,” Teague leaned back in his chair. “Time to report to the team captain?” He was smiling, but his eyes were expressionless, guarded. Pitt had no idea whether the remark was a joke, or a jibe.

  “You are not a man who wastes his time,” Pitt pointed out.

  Teague’s body relaxed a little.

  “The house on Inkerman Road where the murders took place belongs to the Hall family. You must already be aware of that? Yes, of course you are. Which is not so surprising. It has come to my notice, through certain connections I have, that Sofia Delacruz has been known to extend both sympathy and a degree of assistance to fugitives from the law in Spain.”

  “And how does this pertain to the murders?” Pitt said softly.

  “Sofia’s sympathies are with the persecuted, for whatever cause, justified or not,” Teague replied, watching Pitt’s face closely. “Some who fought for the rights of the poor in Spain are admirable. Others are not. Some anarchists simply want to destroy. They might welcome any violence, even that of this new, miserable war. They worship chaos and hate anyone who possesses what they do not. The authorities make little distinction.”

  It was what Pitt himself had been thinking, but he was still acutely interested in what Teague had to say, and why. Another thought came to him that was increasingly disturbing as he listened to Teague’s reasoning: How much of what he was saying had he learned from listening to and watching Pitt’s own men in Special Branch? Was he now leading or learning? Why? How much else was there he had observed, and was not speaking about?

  As Pitt listened to Teague he tried to work out whether this entire business could be a form of revenge against Sofia by the Spanish government. The question also remained as to whether Teague was here to give him information, or to gain it: even whether he had some personal interest that he was using Pitt, and Special Branch, to pursue.

  Teague was related to half the aristocracy of England, even indirectly to the prime minister himself. That might mean everything or nothing. Traitors could come in the highest places. He must direct Stoker to speak discreetly to the men about exactly what they said in front of Teague, or any of his employees.

  Or was it already too late?

  Was it even possible Teague’s purpose was to test the discretion of Special Branch? The organization had enemies in government as well as friends. Pitt’s dismissal would please the Prince of Wales greatly. There were many other men he would consider far more suited for the position, not only more skilled, but who would understand the unspoken rules of how gentlemen treated one another, what secrets were kept, who owed what and to whom. Narraway had known. Pitt was learning, but slowly. And he had made mistakes.

  “I have some contacts in Spain,” Teague was saying. “But there’s no point in calling in favors to learn something you already know.” His eyes searched Pitt’s face. “For example, you must be aware of the political climate in Spain at the moment…”

  “Of course,” Pitt agreed blandly.

  “Is it possible Señora Delacruz might she be protecting one of the fugitives after the murders in Barcelona? Or some other episode like it?”

  Pitt was aware of the tension in Teague. He was awkwardly still, as if his muscles were locked tight to stop some involuntary movement that might betray him. But why? Surely it was impossible for a man like Dalton Teague to have sympathy with the Spanish authorities?

  Pitt’s thoughts raced before he answered.

  “It is possible,” he said slowly.

  “But you don’t know?” Teague urged. “Smith has said nothing to you about her protecting anyone?” Again his eyes searched Pitt’s face. Then he suddenly became aware of his posture and broke the tension with a small laugh. “If she had some mistaken pity for the wrong man it would become embarrassing for us…even more embarrassing than it already is.”

  Pitt was acutely aware of how embarrassing it was now. He knew Teague had mentioned it for that reason, but he kept his expression carefully neutral.

  “Or perhaps she betrayed them,” Teague went on. “Or they thought she did. Is that possible, from what you know?”

  “I don’t have enough information to answer that,” Pitt replied evenly.

  “Perhaps when you do, you will tell me?” Teague smiled.

  “You’ve given me a lot to think about.” Pitt replied, not answering Teague’s question.

  As Teague rose to his feet, Pitt did also. This time he was the first to offer his hand.

  —

  IT WAS NOW TOO late to see Barton Hall, so Pitt went home. He was still deep in thought, and unprepared to face Jemima’s questions, though he knew he could not avoid them.

  They were sitting in the parlor after dinner. Unusually, all four of them were present. Homework had been completed and no one had any other commitments.

  “Do you know anything more about Señora Delacruz, Papa?” Jemima asked anxiously.

  “Not yet, but we are looking for her and following every clue we can find,” he answered, aware that it sounded empty.

  “She could be dead,” Daniel pointed out.

  Pitt was about to tell him to be quiet; the words were on his tongue, when he realized there was no point in denying that possibility. “Of course she could,” he agreed. “But the most likely thing is that she is being held prisoner somewhere, and when everyone is really upset and desperate, whoever is holding her will ask for a ransom.”

  “Who’d pay?” Daniel asked.

  “The people at Angel Court, of course,” Jemima said sharply.

  “Have they got any money?” Daniel asked with surprise. “And do they want her back anyway? The newspapers say that they might not.”

  “Not wanting someone is not the same as l
etting them be killed if you don’t pay,” Charlotte said quickly. “You’d do that even for someone you really disliked. And they didn’t dislike her.”

  Jemima looked at Pitt. “Is she right in what she is preaching, Papa? Is it possible for anyone to become like God?”

  “Oh, really!” Daniel said with exasperation. “Nobody’s perfect! She’s just letting people hear what they want to hear! That it doesn’t matter how bad you are, there’s always a way back? Try hard enough and you can become like God? There isn’t any inequality in ‘forever,’ we’re all exactly the same?”

  “She didn’t say that!” Jemima said angrily, her voice raised. “And anyway, it isn’t what people want to hear! They like to think that they’re special. If anyone can get to heaven, what’s the point? They only want it if they can shut someone out. Don’t you listen at all?”

  “She’s just a woman, Jemima,” Daniel said patiently. “She’s not a saint. She doesn’t know any more than the rest of us.”

  “Yes she does,” Jemima retorted. She swung around to Pitt. “Doesn’t she, Papa? She is different. She has courage, and passion. She’s seen something that other people haven’t…hasn’t she?”

  Pitt was at a loss as to how to answer his daughter. She was so trusting, and eager to believe in Sofia. What if he told Jemima that Sofia was honest, and then it turned out she was helping political terrorists?

  “I am truly not sure what she’s seen.” He picked his words slowly. “But you should judge what she says for its own intrinsic value. Flawed and imperfect people can still speak the truth.”

  Daniel frowned. “Are you saying it’s the truth, Papa? Or that you know she’s imperfect?”

  “We’re all imperfect.” This time Charlotte stepped in. “Even you, my darling. We love you anyway.”

  Daniel ignored his mother and kept on staring at Pitt, waiting for him to answer.

  “Your mother might have said it with a smile,” Pitt told his son, “but I think she meant it very seriously. Everyone has imperfections. It’s part of being human. I don’t know what has happened to Sofia Delacruz, but I am doing everything I can to find out and if possible to rescue her and punish whoever is responsible for killing the two women on Inkerman Road. All of this may have to do with religion, or politics, or money, or some private hatred. I don’t know, and I’m not going to judge until I do. That is the end of the subject for tonight.”

  Jemima drew in her breath and started to say something else, then evidently changed her mind and gave Pitt a quick hug before saying good night and leaving the room.

  “She’s going to be sick as anything if that Sofia turns out to be a fake,” Daniel said unhappily. “She shouldn’t build people up like that. It’s really bad.”

  “She might be upset depending on what we discover about Sofia,” Pitt agreed. “But it is also important to have faith in people.”

  Daniel stood up slowly. “I’m not sure I like religion much. It’s either boring or it’s dangerous.” He walked slowly toward the door, touching his mother lightly on the arm as he passed her.

  “Life is a bit like that,” she said quietly.

  “Boring or dangerous?” Pitt asked with surprise.

  “Safe or risky,” she replied. “Risks can hurt, but at least when you take them, you know you tried. And that can be wonderful.” She smiled at him, and he felt the warmth flood into the room. He smiled back without arguing.

  —

  A LITTLE WHILE LATER, CHARLOTTE stood up and quietly left the room. Jemima’s distress troubled her. There was something deeper in it than concern for the safety of a woman she had seen once, on a stage.

  She went up the stairs and knocked on Jemima’s bedroom door. Hearing a muffled answer, she took it for permission to go in.

  Jemima was sitting on the bed, had clearly been lost in thought until Charlotte’s interruption. She looked up questioningly.

  Charlotte closed the door behind her and sat at the foot of the bed.

  “What is this really about?” she said directly. “Why do you care so much about Sofia Delacruz?”

  “Is she trying to create a stir, or does she really believe what she says?” Jemima asked.

  “I think she means it. Why?”

  Jemima did not answer for a moment. “Nobody knows whether it’s true,” she finally said, looking up and meeting Charlotte’s eyes. “Nobody can know. If you know, for sure, then it wouldn’t be faith at all.”

  “That’s right,” Charlotte agreed. She told herself to be patient, to let Jemima tell her what was worrying her when she was ready. “And why does that matter?”

  “They hate her because she’s clever, and she speaks out. Some of what she says makes more sense than what they’re saying.” Jemima’s face was pinched with anxiety.

  Charlotte wanted to comfort her, but no platitudes were going to do that. “Yes,” she agreed again.

  Jemima took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh.

  “Do you remember the party at Lady Cromby’s?”

  “I remember you going to it, yes.”

  “Her son was there. He was really very nice. No, that’s a stupid word!” There were tears in Jemima’s eyes now and she blinked them away angrily. “He was funny and clever, and…very handsome. He liked me. I could see it in his face. Everyone could. We started to talk really sensibly. He asked me what I thought about certain matters, and I told him. I shouldn’t have. Because it wasn’t what he thought, even though what I said was right. Some of the others could see it. Earlier he had asked me if I would go to the theater with him…properly chaperoned, of course. At the end of the evening he said, ‘I’d better not go to the theater after all, because I wouldn’t like the play.’ ” She stopped, her throat too tight to speak.

  “I’m sorry, darling,” Charlotte said gently.

  Jemima fished for a handkerchief and found one.

  “I’ve had that happen before, and it didn’t hurt as much. But I really like him. Annabelle told me afterward that if I had any sense I would agree with boys, because that’s what they like, no matter how wrong they are. It isn’t right and wrong! It’s just being able to think what you want to, and talk about it. But what if I do that and nobody ever loves me? Am I going to have to pretend all the time, or be alone for always?”

  She fished again for her handkerchief. “To care about what happened at this one party is just stupid, I know that. But do I always have to tiptoe around things and say I don’t know, even if I do?”

  Suddenly Charlotte saw it all very clearly. What could she possibly say that would help Jemima? She saw herself in her daughter so vivdly. She remembered being Jemima’s age. Her friends had got married one by one, and she had not. She had been handsome enough, just as Jemima was, but also like Jemima, she had been far too opinionated.

  Was there another Thomas Pitt around to love and marry Jemima? And how much hurt lay between now and finding him?

  She chose her words with care. “You don’t have to say you agree. Sometimes silence is wiser.”

  “I asked him to explain why he felt that way,” Jemima said reasonably.

  “Oh, darling!” Charlotte sighed. “He can’t possibly explain if he doesn’t understand himself. And if you think about it, you’ll realize that.”

  “Is that why someone killed Señora Delacruz? Because she asked too many questions, instead of being silent?”

  “We don’t know that she’s dead, and if she is we don’t know who killed her, or why.”

  “But will anyone love me if I say what I believe, and it’s not what they believe?” Jemima persisted.

  “You may not find love easily, but if you do, it will be real, and it will last. Even so, it’s a very good idea to keep your own counsel at times. Believe me, I have learned that the hard way myself, at times. Not just with men, with anybody. Being right is not the same thing as wise.”

  Charlotte leaned forward and hugged her, relaxing at last as Jemima hugged her back.

  —

/>   THERE WAS ANOTHER LARGE article by Frank Laurence in The Times the next morning. He did not belabor the fact that neither the police nor, as far as anyone knew, Special Branch had made any progress in discovering who had murdered the unfortunate women on Inkerman Road, or what had happened to Sofia Delacruz. He did not even speculate as to whether she was alive or dead.

  Pitt read on, and was startled to see what it was that Laurence was really addressing. It was written with such searing honesty that he could hear Laurence’s voice as if he were beside him at the table. He could even see in his mind’s eye Laurence’s face with its high intelligence and quick, bright humor.

  “If she is dead it is a tragedy, and unquestionably one of the ugliest crimes in this city,” Laurence wrote.

  But if she is alive and well, able to contact us if she chose, then it is a sin of a deeper nature. There are many ways of cheating people, of robbing them of money, land, opportunity, of office or even glory they have earned. Often it is by deluding us so that our own greed is our undoing. The prospect of getting something more than we have deserved is a lure for many of us. I’ve tasted it! I’ve been tempted. In small ways I’ve taken the bait. Who hasn’t? It can be as small a thing as making a wager when you have the odds far better than the other person.

  But if Sofia Delacruz has deceived us then she has taken our dreams, our trust in prayer, and the most sacred words on the lips of a believer. A man in terror for his life cries out to God for help. How many soldiers’ last words on earth are a prayer? How many of us weighed down by guilt plead in prayer for forgiveness? A woman nursing a sick baby begs God to help her, save her child’s life, ease her pain at any cost. How many of us are children, overwhelmed by life, confused and stumbling, turning to God for a light anywhere along the path?

  And we look to heroes. We search for those who have found a faith in the God we only seek somewhere in the darkness around us. We see honor in them, and courage to do what we long to. We see mercy and wisdom, and above all faith. If they can find a way, then so can we. Is there anything more blessed, more healing than hope?