Anne Perry - [Thomas Pitt 23]

by Seven Dials

“Yes, sir. Do you know where I will find Mr. Ryerson at this time of day? Or should I simply make enquiries?”

  “No, you will not make enquiries!” Narraway snapped, a flush in his cheeks. “You will tell no one but Ryerson himself who you are or what you want. Begin at his home in Paulton Square. I believe it is number seven.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.” Pitt kept his own emotions out of his voice. He turned on his heel and went out of the room, disliking his errand but not surprised by it. The thing that confused him was that concerning a matter so important, with Gladstone involved, why Narraway did not go to see Ryerson himself. The question of being recognized by anyone did not arise. No newspaper reporters would be in Paulton Square at this hour, but even if they were, Narraway was not a public figure to be known on sight.

  There must be a factor, perhaps a major one, which Narraway was not telling him, and the knowledge made him uncomfortable.

  He hailed a hansom and directed it to Danvers Street, just beyond Paulton Square. He would walk the rest of the way. Since being with Special Branch he had learned a kind of carefulness in being observed. It was a precaution, no more. He disliked the secrecy of it, but he understood its worth.

  By the time he had reached the first steps of number seven he had decided how to approach whoever answered Ryerson’s door.

  “Good morning, sir,” a fair-haired footman in full livery said without interest. “How may I help you?”

  “Good morning,” Pitt replied, standing upright and meeting the man’s eyes. “Would you be good enough to tell Mr. Ryerson that Mr. Victor Narraway sends his regards, and regrets that he is unable to call himself, but has sent me in his place? My name is Thomas Pitt.” He produced his card, the plain one that stated his name only, and dropped it on the silver tray in the footman’s hand.

  “Certainly, sir,” the footman replied, without looking at the card. “Would you care to wait in the morning room while I enquire if Mr. Ryerson is able to see you?”

  Pitt smiled and accepted. That was very direct, not the usual euphemism of pretending that he did not know whether his master was at home.

  The footman led the way through a magnificent hall of an opulent Italianate design, terra-cotta-colored walls and handsome marble and bronze busts displayed on plinths, paintings of canal scenes on the walls, one of which looked like a genuine Canaletto.

  The morning room was also in warm colors, with an exquisite tapestry on one wall that depicted a hunting scene in the minutest detail, the grass in the foreground starred with tiny flowers. This home belonged to a man of wealth and individual taste.

  Pitt had ten minutes to wait in nervous tension, trying to rehearse the scene in his mind. He was about to question a cabinet minister regarding a possibly criminal, certainly embarrassing, part of his personal life. He had come to learn the truth and he could not afford to fail.

  But he had questioned important people about their lives before, probing for the wounds that had led to murder. It was his skill. He was good at it, even brilliant. He had had far more successes than failures. He should not doubt himself now.

  He glanced at the books in one of the cases. He saw Shakespeare, Browning, Marlowe, and a little farther along, Henry Rider Haggard and Charles Kingsley and two volumes of Thackeray.

  Then he heard the door open and he swung around.

  As Narraway had said, Ryerson was a large man, probably in his late fifties, but he moved with the grace of someone trained to physical activity and who took joy in it. There was no extra flesh on him, no signs of indulgence or ease. He had the innate confidence of one whose body does as he wishes it to. Now he looked anxious, a little tired, but still very much in command of his outward emotions.

  “My footman tells me you have come on behalf of Victor Narraway.” He pronounced the name with a lack of emotion so complete Pitt instantly wondered if it was the result of deliberate effort. “May I ask why?”

  “Yes, sir,” Pitt said gravely. He had already decided that candor was the only way to achieve his goal, if it was possible at all. One trick or attempt at deviousness which failed would destroy all trust. “The Egyptian embassy is aware that you were present at Eden Lodge when Mr. Edwin Lovat was shot, and they are demanding that you also are called to be accountable for your part in those events.”

  Pitt expected smooth denial at first, and then perhaps bluster, anger as fear took hold. The ugliest possibility would be self-pity, and the plea to some kind of loyalty to extricate him from the embarrassment of a love affair which had turned sour. He dreaded the shame and the revulsion of it. His skin felt cold even at the thought of it. Was that why Narraway had refused to come himself? In case an old friend should become contemptible in front of him, and he would find it better for both of them if that did not happen? Then he would still be able to feign ignorance of that much at least.

  But Ryerson’s reaction was none of these things. There was confusion in his face—fear, but not anger, and no bluster at all.

  “I was there just after,” he corrected Pitt. “Although I have no idea how the Egyptian embassy would know that, unless Miss Zakhari told them.”

  Pitt stared at him. There was no sense of injustice in his voice or his face. He did not seem to think of it as any kind of betrayal if she had done so. And yet, according to Narraway, she had not mentioned his name at all. In fact, she had had no opportunity of speaking to anyone except the police officers who had questioned her.

  “No, sir, it was not Miss Zakhari,” Pitt replied. “She has spoken to no one since her arrest.”

  “She should have someone to represent her,” Ryerson said immediately. “The embassy should do that—it would be more discreet than my doing so—but I will if necessary.”

  “I think it would be much better if you did not,” Pitt responded, caught off balance that Ryerson should even make such a suggestion. “It might do more harm than good,” he added. “Would you please tell me what happened that night, sir, as far as you know?”

  Ryerson invited Pitt to sit down in one of the large, smooth, leather-covered chairs, then sat in one opposite, but not at ease, instead leaning a little forward, his face a mask of concentration. He offered no hospitality, not out of discourtesy, but it obviously had not occurred to him. His mind was consumed in the present problem. He made no attempt at dissimulation.

  “I was at very late meetings that night. I had intended to be at Miss Zakhari’s house by two in the morning, but I was late. It was closer to three.”

  “How did you come, sir?” Pitt interrupted.

  “By hansom. I stopped on the Edgware Road and walked a couple of streets.”

  “Did you see anyone leaving Connaught Square, either on foot or in a coach or carriage?” Pitt asked.

  “I don’t recall seeing anyone. But I wasn’t thinking of it. They could have gone in any direction.”

  “You arrived at Eden Lodge,” Pitt prompted. “At which entrance?”

  Ryerson flushed very faintly. “The mews. I have a key to the scullery door.”

  Pitt tried to keep his expression from reflecting any of his thoughts. Moral judgments would be unhelpful, and perhaps he had little right to make them. Curiously enough, he did not wish to. Ryerson did not fit any of the assumptions Pitt had made before meeting him, and he was obliged to start again, feeling his way through his own conflicting emotions.

  “Did you go in through the scullery?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Ryerson’s eyes were troubled by the memory. “But I was standing in the kitchen, just up the step, when I heard a noise in the garden, and I went out again. Almost immediately I ran into Miss Zakhari, who was in a state of extreme distress.” He breathed in and out slowly. “She told me a man had been shot and was lying dead in the garden. I asked her who he was and if she knew what had happened. She told me he was a Lieutenant Lovat whom she had known briefly in Alexandria several years ago. He had admired her then . . .” He hesitated briefly over the choice of words, then went on, trusting Pitt t
o put his own interpretation on it. “And now wished to rekindle the friendship. She had refused, but he was reluctant to accept that answer.”

  “I see. What did you do?” Pitt kept his voice neutral.

  “I asked her to show me, and followed her to where he was lying on the ground, half under the laurel bushes. I had thought perhaps he was not actually dead. I hoped she had found him knocked senseless, and perhaps leaped to a hasty conclusion. However, when I knelt down to look at him, it was quite apparent that she was correct. He had been shot at fairly close range, through the chest, and was unquestionably dead.”

  “Did you see the gun?”

  Ryerson’s eyes did not waver, but it obviously cost him an effort.

  “Yes. It was lying on the ground beside him. It was Ayesha’s gun. I knew it immediately, because I had seen it before. I knew she owned it, for protection.”

  “Against whom?”

  “I don’t know. I had asked her, but she would not tell me.”

  “Could it have been this Lieutenant Lovat?” Pitt suggested. “Had he threatened her?”

  Ryerson’s face was tight, his eyes miserable. He hesitated before answering. “I believe not,” he said at last.

  “Did you ask her what had happened?”

  “Of course! She said she did not know. She had heard the shot, and realized it was very close by. She had been in her upstairs sitting room, waiting for me, awake and fully dressed. She went downstairs to see what had happened, if anyone were hurt, and found Lovat lying on the ground and the gun beside him.”

  It was a strange story, and one Pitt found almost impossible to believe, and yet as he looked at Ryerson, he was sure that either he himself believed it or he was the most superb actor Pitt had ever seen. He was clear, calm and without any histrionics. There was a candor to him that, if it was art, then it was also genius. It confused Pitt, and he felt wrong-footed, off balance because of it.

  “So you saw the dead man,” he said. “And you knew from Miss Zakhari who he was. Did she have any idea what he was doing there or who had shot him?”

  “No,” Ryerson answered immediately. “She assumed he had come to see her, but that much was obvious. There could be no other reason for his being there at that hour. I asked her if she knew what had happened, and she said she did not.” There was finality in his voice, and belief that defied sense.

  “She had not invited him there, or given him reason to believe he would be welcome?” Pitt pressed, uncertain what tone to adopt. It annoyed him to be deferential, the situation was absurd, and yet his instinct was to believe him, even to feel some sympathy.

  Ryerson’s lips tightened. “She would hardly invite him at the same time she was expecting me, Mr. Pitt. She is a woman of high intelligence.”

  There was no time to afford niceties. “Women have been known to contrive that lovers should be made jealous, Mr. Ryerson,” Pitt responded, and saw Ryerson wince. “It is a very old strategy, and can work well,” he continued. “She would naturally deny it to you.”

  “Possibly,” Ryerson said dryly, but there was no anger in his voice, rather a kind of patience. “But if you knew her you would not bother with such a suggestion. It is absurd, not only because of her character, but were she to have done such a thing, why in heaven’s name would she then shoot him?”

  Pitt had to agree that there was no sense in it, even allowing for temper, passion, or accident. If Ayesha Zakhari was convincing enough to have planned such a thing in advance, then she was far too clever to have behaved so idiotically afterwards.

  “Could Lovat in some way have threatened her?” he asked aloud.

  “She did not let him in, Mr. Pitt,” Ryerson answered. “I don’t know if there is any way of proving it, but he was never in the house.”

  “But she was outside,” Pitt remarked. “In the garden she would have had little defense.”

  “You are suggesting she took her gun with her.” Ryerson’s lips were touched briefly with the tiniest smile. “That would seem to be excellent defense. And if she shot him because he threatened her, or even attacked her, then that is self-defense and not murder.” Then the light vanished from his eyes. “But that is not what happened. She went outside only after she heard the shot, and she found him already dead.”

  “How do you know that?” Pitt said simply.

  Ryerson sighed and his face pinched so minutely not a single feature altered, simply the vitality died inside him. “I don’t know it,” he said quietly. “That is what she told me, and I know her infinitely better than you do, Mr. Pitt.” The words were invested with sadness and an intensity of emotion so raw Pitt was embarrassed by it. He felt intrusive, and yet he had no choice but to be there. “There is an inner kind of honesty in her like a clear light,” Ryerson went on. “She would not stoop to deceive, for her own sake, for the violence it would do to her nature, not for the sake of anyone else.”

  Pitt stared at him. Ryerson was worried; there was even a flicker of real fear, tightly controlled, at the back of his eyes, but it was not for himself. Pitt had never seen the Egyptian woman. He had imagined someone beautiful, lush, a woman to satisfy a jaded appetite, to flatter and yield, to tease but only for her own ends. She would be the ultimate mistress for a man with both money and power, but who would marry only to suit his political or dynastic ambitions, and seek the answer to his physical needs elsewhere. Such a man would not look for love or honor; he would not even think of it. And he would expect to pay for his pleasures.

  Now it occurred to Pitt with startling force that perhaps he was wrong. Was it conceivable that Ryerson loved his mistress, not merely desired her? It was a new thought, and it altered his entire perception. It made Ryerson a better man, but also perhaps a more dangerous one. Pitt’s charge from Narraway, and therefore from the prime minister, was to protect Ryerson from involvement in the case. If Ryerson was behaving from love, and not self-interest, then he would be far more difficult to predict, and impossible to control. A whole ocean of danger opened up in front of Pitt’s imagination.

  “Yes . . .” he said quietly. It was not an agreement, he was merely acknowledging that he understood. “Miss Zakhari told you that she had heard the shots . . . Did she say how many?”

  “A single shot,” Ryerson corrected him.

  Pitt nodded. “You went to see, and found Lovat dead on the ground near the laurel bushes. What then?”

  “I asked her if she had any idea what had happened,” Ryerson replied. “She told me she had no idea at all, but that Lovat had sent her letters, pressing her to rekindle an old love affair, and she had refused, fairly bluntly. He was not willing to accept that, which was presumably why he had come.”

  “At three in the morning?” Pitt said with disbelief. He did not add reasons for the absurdity of that.

  For the first time Ryerson showed some trace of anger. “I have no idea, Mr. Pitt! I agree it is ludicrous—but he was unarguably there! And since he is dead, and no one we know spoke to him, I cannot think of any way to learn what he hoped to achieve.”

  Pitt had a sudden awareness of the power of the man, the inner intellectual strength and the will which had taken him to the peak of his profession and kept him there for nearly two decades. His vulnerability with regard to Ayesha Zakhari, and the fact that he was involved, in whatever way, with a murder and therefore in personal danger, had made him temporarily forget it. When Pitt spoke again it was with a new respect, even though it was unintentional. “What did you do then, sir?”

  Ryerson colored. “I said that we must move the body. That was when I knew that it was her gun.”

  “It was your idea to move Mr. Lovat’s body?”

  Ryerson’s face set a fraction harder, altering the planes of his cheek and jaw. “Yes, it was.”

  Pitt wondered if he was trying to protect the woman, but he had no doubt whatever that if it was a lie, it was one Ryerson was not going to retract. He had committed himself, and it was not in his nature to go back, whether it w
as pride or honor that held him, or simply the truth.

  “I see. Did you fetch the wheelbarrow or did she?”

  Ryerson hesitated. “She did. She knew where it was.”

  “And she brought it back to where the body was?”

  “Yes, and the gun. I helped her lift him in. He was heavy, and extremely awkward. His body was limp. He kept sliding out of our grasp.”

  “Did you take the head or the feet?” Pitt already knew the answer, but he was interested to see if Ryerson would tell the exact truth.

  “The head, of course,” Ryerson said a trifle tartly. “It was heavier, and the wounds were in his chest, so that was where he bled. Surely you know that?”

  Pitt was annoyed to find himself embarrassed, and wished he had not asked the question. “You put him in the barrow, then what did you intend to do with him?” he continued.

  “Take him to Hyde Park,” Ryerson answered. “It’s less than a hundred yards away.”

  “In the barrow?” Pitt said in surprise.

  Temper flashed across Ryerson’s face. “No, of course not! We could hardly wheel a corpse around the streets in a garden barrow, even at three in the morning! I had gone to harness up the gig and Ayesha was going to bring him to the mews. That was when the police arrived. As soon as I heard the voices I came back. Lovat’s blood didn’t show on my dark suit; the constable assumed I had only just come. Ayesha immediately confirmed him in that assumption, to protect me. I was about to argue, then I saw the sense in remaining free to do whatever I could to help her.”

  Again, Pitt was surprised. From any other man he would have doubted that, but from Ryerson he accepted it. He had not once attempted to cover over either his presence or his involvement, and he had to know that attempting to move a body from the scene of a crime was itself an offense.

  “And what are you doing to help her?” Pitt asked unblinkingly.

  Suddenly desperation filled Ryerson’s eyes and terror flooded up inside him for a moment beyond control. “Trying to think what the devil really happened!” he said hoarsely. “Who did kill him, and why? Why at Eden Lodge, and why in the middle of the night?” He spread his hands slightly, strong but finely sculpted for so large a man. “What was he doing there at all? Did someone follow him? Did someone meet him there? For what? That makes no sense either. You don’t arrange a quarrel in someone else’s back garden in the middle of the night!” He was staring at Pitt, willing him to believe. “Ayesha wouldn’t have opened the door to him. Was he planning to break in? Or create a scene and waken the neighbors?” His face was now ashen pale. “I know she would not have killed him, but for the life of me I can’t imagine any credible answer as to what did happen.” He did not even pretend to mask his feelings.