Anne Perry - [Thomas Pitt 23]

by Seven Dials

  “And you don’t ask him because you don’t want to know,” Pitt finished for him.

  “Something like that,” Talbot admitted, his eyes hot and wretched. “But if you want to, then Special Branch is very welcome. Have it! Have it all! Go and ask him. He lives in Paulton Square, Chelsea. I don’t know the number, but you can ask. There can’t be many cabinet ministers there.”

  “I’ll see the Egyptian woman first. What is her name?”

  “Ayesha Zakhari,” Talbot replied. “But you can’t see her. That’s my orders from the top, and Special Branch or not, I’m not letting you in. She hasn’t implicated Mr. Ryerson, so you’ve no brief here. If her embassy says anything it’ll be a matter for the Foreign Office, or the Lord Chancellor, or whoever. But so far they haven’t. She’s just an ordinary woman arrested for the murder of an old lover, and there’s no reasonable doubt that she did it. That’s how it is, sir—and that’s how it’s staying, as far as I’m concerned. If you want to make it different, you’ll have to do it somewhere else, ’cos you’re not doing it here.”

  Pitt pushed his hands into his trouser pockets, finding a small piece of string, half a dozen coins, a bull’s-eye sweet wrapped in paper, two odd lumps of sealing wax, a penknife, and three safety pins. In the other were a notebook, a stub end of pencil, and two handkerchiefs. It flicked through his mind that that was too much.

  Talbot stared at him. For the first time Pitt saw in his face that he was frightened. He had cause to be. If he were wrong, either for Ryerson or against him, not a matter of fact but of judgment, he would be ruined. He would take the blame, possibly for others’ mistakes, men of greater power and with more to lose.

  “So Mr. Ryerson is at home?” Pitt asked.

  “As far as I know,” Talbot said. “He certainly isn’t here. We asked him if he could help us, and he said he couldn’t. He said he thought Miss Zakhari was innocent. He didn’t believe she would have killed anyone, unless they were threatening her life, in which case it wouldn’t be a crime.” He shrugged. “I could have written it all down without bothering to ask him. He said the only thing he could—he doesn’t know anything about it, he only just arrived—to protect her honor, and all that. Decent men don’t say a woman’s a whore, even if she is and we all know it. He said she wouldn’t have killed anyone without a reason, but then he wouldn’t say she had, would he? Apart from anything else, it would make him look like he was betraying her—and that his mistress, which we all know that she is, was a likely murderess and he knew it. And as I said, she didn’t deny the gun was hers. We asked the manservant she has, and he admitted it as well. He kept it clean and oiled, and so on.”

  “Why did she have a gun?”

  Talbot spread his hands. “God knows! She did, that’s all that matters. Look, sir—Constable Black found her in the garden with the murdered body of an old lover of hers stuck in a wheelbarrow. What more do you want of us?”

  “Nothing,” Pitt conceded. “Thank you for your patience, Inspector Talbot. If there’s anything further I’ll come back.” He hesitated a moment, then smiled. “Good luck.”

  Talbot rolled his eyes, but his expression softened for a moment. “Thank you,” he said with a touch of sarcasm. “I wish I could walk away from it so easily.”

  Pitt grinned, and went to the door with a feeling of overwhelming relief. Talbot, poor man, was welcome to what was almost certainly no more than a domestic tragedy after all, cabinet minister notwithstanding.

  All the same, Pitt decided that he would walk past Eden Lodge and look at it before going back to report to Narraway. Connaught Square was less than ten minutes away and it was now a very pleasant early morning. More deliverymen were out and the clip of horses’ hooves was sharp in the air. In the areaway of one large house a between-stairs maid of about fourteen was whacking a red-and-blue rug with enthusiasm and sending a fine cloud of dust up into the sunlight. He wondered if it was just exuberance or if the rug stood in for someone she disliked.

  He crossed the road, cobbles still gleaming in the dew, and threw a penny to one of the small boys who swept away the manure when the need arose. It was too early for the boy to have much to do yet, and he leaned on his broom, his flat cap a couple of sizes too big for him, and resting on his ears.

  “Ta, mister!” he called back with a grin.

  Eden Lodge was an imposing house facing the open space of Connaught Square, and with a further wide view of St. George’s Burial Ground behind it, beyond the mews. It might be interesting to find out whether Miss Zakhari owned it or rented it, and if the latter, from whom? Or possibly they had not bothered to be so discreet, and it was simply owned by Ryerson in the first place.

  But of more importance now was to see the garden where Miss Zakhari had been found with the corpse. For that it would be necessary to walk the short distance to the end of the block and around to the back.

  There was a constable on duty in the mews, and Pitt identified himself before being permitted to go through the gate beside the stables and into the leafy, damp garden. He kept to the path, although there was little to mask or spoil in the way of evidence. The wooden wheelbarrow was still there, smears of blood down the right side, from where the person pushing it would have stood, and a dark pool, almost congealed, in the bottom. The dead man must have been laid across it with his head on that side and his legs over the other.

  Pitt bent and looked more closely at the ground. The wheel was sunk almost an inch deep in the loam, witnessing the weight of the load. The rut it had caused was deep for about three yards, and from that point there were tracks from where it had come, empty, been turned around and loaded. He straightened up and walked the few yards. Faint scuff marks, indistinct, showed where feet had stood and swiveled, but it was impossible even to tell how many, let alone whether they were a man’s or woman’s, or both. The earth was scattered with fallen leaves and twigs and occasional small pebbles, leaving only rough traces of passage.

  However, when Pitt looked more closely the rusty mark of blood was clear enough. This was where Lovat had been when he fell.

  He stared around him. He was about five yards into the garden, between laurel and rhododendron bushes, and in the dappled shade of birches towering a great deal higher. He was completely concealed from the mews, and obviously from the street, by the bulk of the house itself. He was a good five yards from the stone wall which concealed the back entrance to the scullery and areaway, and ahead of him across a strip of open lawn edged by flowers was a French door to the main part of the house.

  What on earth had Edwin Lovat been doing here? It seemed unlikely he had arrived through the mews and was intending to enter this way, unless by prior arrangement, and she had been waiting for him inside the French doors. If she had not wished to see him, it would have been simple enough not to have answered. Servants could have dismissed him, and thrown him out if necessary.

  If he were indeed arriving, it looked unpleasantly as if she had lured him here deliberately, with the intent of killing him, since she was in the garden with a loaded gun.

  Or else he had been leaving, they had quarreled, and she had followed him out, again with the gun.

  When had Ryerson really arrived? Before the shooting or after? Had she lifted the dead man into the wheelbarrow by herself? It would be interesting to find out his size and weight, and hers. If she had lifted him, then there would be blood, and perhaps earth, on her white dress. These were questions he needed to ask Talbot, or perhaps the constable who had actually been first on the scene.

  He turned and walked back through the gate to the mews and found the constable standing fidgeting from one foot to the other in boredom. He turned as he heard the gate catch.

  “Were you on duty here last night?” Pitt asked. The man looked tired enough to have been up many hours.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you see the arrest of Miss Zakhari?”

  “Yes, sir.” His voice lifted a little with the beginning of interest.
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br />   “Can you describe her for me?”

  He looked startled for a moment, then his face puckered in concentration. “She was quite tall, sir, but very slender, like. And foreign, o’ course, very foreign, like. She was . . . well, she moved very graceful, more than most ladies—not that they aren’t—”

  “It’s all right, Constable,” Pitt answered him. “I need honesty, not tact. What about the dead man? How large was he?”

  “Oh, bit bigger than most, sir, broad in the chest, like. Difficult ter say ’ow tall ’cos I never saw ’im standin’ up, but I reckon a bit taller ’n me, but not as tall as you.”

  “Did the mortuary wagon take him away?”

  “Yessir.”

  “How many men to carry him?”

  “Two, sir.” His face filled with understanding. “You thinkin’ as she couldn’t ’ave put ’im in that barrer by ’erself?”

  “Yes, I was.” Pitt tightened his lips. “But it might be wiser not to express that opinion to others, at least for the time being. She was wearing white, so I’m told. Is that correct?”

  “Yessir. Very sort o’ close-fittin’ dress it were, not exactly like most ladies wear, least wot I’ve seen. Very beautiful . . .” He colored faintly, considering the propriety of saying that a murderess was beautiful, and a foreign one at that. But he refused to be cowed. “Sort o’ more natural, like,” he went on. “No . . .” He put one hand on his other shoulder. “No puffs up ’ere. More wot a woman’s really shaped like.”

  Pitt hid a smile. “I see. And was it stained with mud, or blood, this white dress?”

  “Bit o’ mud, or more like leaf dirt,” the constable agreed.

  “Where?”

  “Around the knees, sir. Like she knelt on the ground.”

  “But no blood?”

  “No, sir. Not that I saw.” His eyes widened. “You’re sayin’ as she didn’t put ’im in that barrer ’erself!”

  “No, Constable, I think you are. But I’d be very obliged if you did not repeat that, unless you are asked to do so in a situation where not doing so would require you to lie. Don’t lie to anyone.”

  “No, sir! I’ll ’ope as I’m not asked.”

  “Yes, that would definitely be the best,” Pitt agreed fervently. “Thank you, Constable. What is your name?”

  “Cotter, sir.”

  “Is the manservant still in the house?”

  “Yessir. No one’s come out since they took ’er away.”

  “Then I shall go and speak to him. Do you know his name?”

  “No, sir. Foreign-looking person.”

  Pitt thanked him again and walked across the short distance to the back door. He knocked firmly and waited several minutes before it was opened by a dark-skinned man dressed in pale, stone-colored robes. Most of his head was covered with a turban, but his beard was turning gray. His eyes were almost black.

  “Yes, sir?” he said guardedly.

  “Good morning,” Pitt replied. “Are you Miss Zakhari’s manservant?”

  “Yes, sir. But Miss Zakhari is not at home.” It was said with finality, as if that were the end of any possible discussion. He was obviously preparing to close the door.

  “I am aware of that!” Pitt said sharply. “What is your name?”

  “Tariq el Abd, sir,” the man replied.

  Pitt produced his card again and held it out, assuming that el Abd could read English. “I am from Special Branch. I believe the police have already spoken to you, but I need to ask you a few further questions.”

  “Oh, I see.” He pulled the door wider open and reluctantly permitted Pitt to go through the scullery and up a step into a warm and exotically fragrant kitchen. There was no one else there. Presumably, el Abd did such cooking as was required, and other household staff who did the laundry and cleaning came in daily.

  “Would you like coffee, sir?” el Abd enquired graciously, as if the kitchen were his. His voice was low and he spoke almost without accent.

  “Thank you,” Pitt accepted, more out of curiosity than a desire for more coffee. There was a smell of spices in the air, and of strange-shaped loaves of bread cooling on a rack near the farther window. Unfamiliar fruit lay rich and burnished in a bowl on the table.

  El Abd took only a few moments to heat the coffee to the desired temperature again and bring a tiny cup of it over to present to Pitt, offering him a seat and enquiring after his comfort. He was a lean man who moved with a silent grace that made his age difficult to estimate, but the weathered skin of his hands made Pitt guess him to be well over forty, perhaps closer to fifty.

  Pitt thanked him for the coffee and sipped it. It was so strong as to be almost a syrup, and he did not care for it much, but he kept all expression from his face except polite enquiry.

  “What happened here last night?” he asked.

  El Abd remained standing, so Pitt was forced to look up at him.

  “I do not know, sir,” the manservant replied. “Something awakened me, and I arose to see if Miss Zakhari had called, but I could not find her anywhere in the house.” He hesitated.

  “Yes?” Pitt prompted him.

  El Abd looked down at the floor. “I went to the window and I saw nothing to the front, so I went to the back, and I saw movement through the bushes, the ones with the flat, shining leaves. I waited a few moments, but there was no more sound, and I knew of no reason to suppose there was anything wrong. I thought then that perhaps it was only the sound of the door that had wakened me.”

  “What did you do then?”

  He lifted his shoulders slightly. “I was not required, sir. I went back to my bed. I do not know how long it was until I heard the people speaking, and the police called me downstairs.”

  “Did they show you a gun?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And ask you whose it was?”

  “Yes, sir. I said it was Miss Zakhari’s.” He looked down at the floor. “I did not know then what it had been used for. But I clean it and oil it, so of course I know it well.”

  “Why does Miss Zakhari have a gun?”

  “It is not my place to ask such questions, sir.”

  “And you don’t know?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I see. But you would know if she had ever fired it before, since you clean it.”

  “No, sir, she has not.”

  “Thank you. Did you know Lovat . . . the dead man?”

  “I do not think he has been here before.”

  That was not precisely what Pitt had asked, and he was aware of the evasion. Was it deliberate, or simply a result of the fact that the man was speaking a language other than his own?

  “Have you seen him before?”

  El Abd lowered his eyes. “I have not seen him at all, sir. It is my understanding that the policeman knew who he was from his clothes and the things in his pockets.”

  So they had not asked el Abd if he had seen Lovat before. That was an omission, but perhaps not one that would make a great deal of difference. He was Miss Zakhari’s servant. Now that he knew she was accused of murdering Lovat, he would probably deny knowledge of him anyway.

  Pitt finished his coffee and rose to his feet. “Thank you,” he said, trying to swallow the last of the sweet, sticky liquid and clean his mouth of the taste.

  “Sir.” El Abd bowed very slightly, no more than a gesture.

  Pitt went out of the back door, thanking Constable Cotter as he passed him. Then he walked along the mews and around the corner into Connaught Square, where he looked for a hansom to take him back to Narraway.

  “WELL?” Narraway looked up from the papers he was reading. His face was a little pinched, his eyes anxious.

  “The police are holding the woman, Ayesha Zakhari, and completely ignoring Ryerson,” Pitt told him. “They aren’t investigating it too closely because they don’t want to know the answer.” He walked over and sat down in the chair in front of Narraway’s desk.

  Narraway breathed in deeply, and then out again.
“And what are the answers?” he asked, his voice quiet and very level. There was a stillness about him, as if his attention were so vivid he dared not distract himself by even the slightest action.

  Pitt found himself unconsciously copying, refraining from crossing one leg over the other.

  “That Ryerson helped her, at least in attempting to dispose of the body,” he replied.

  “Indeed . . .” Narraway breathed out slowly, but none of the tension disappeared from him. “And what evidence told you that?”

  “She is a slender woman, at the time wearing a white dress,” Pitt replied. “The dead man was slightly over average height and weight. It took two mortuary attendants to lift him from the barrow into the wagon, although of course they may have been more careful with him than whoever was trying to dispose of him.”

  Narraway nodded, his lips tight.

  “But her white dress was not stained with mud or blood,” Pitt went on. “Only a little leaf mold from where she had knelt on the ground, possibly beside him where he lay.”

  “I see.” Narraway’s voice was tight. “And Ryerson?”

  “I didn’t ask,” Pitt said. “The constable was quite aware of why I enquired, and of the obvious conclusions. Do you want me to go back and ask him? I can do so perfectly easily, but it will then—”

  “I can work that out for myself, Pitt!” Narraway snapped. “No. I do not want you to do that . . . at least not yet.” His eyes flickered for a moment, then he looked over at the far wall. “We’ll see what happens.”

  Pitt sat still, aware of a curious, unfinished air in the room, as if elusive but powerful things were just beyond the edge of perception. Narraway had left something unsaid. Did it matter? Or was it just an accumulation of knowledge gathered over the years, a feeling of unease rather than a thought?