by Anne Perry
“Possibly,” Farnsworth said reluctantly. “All the same, it was damned high-handed of you, Pitt. You should have consulted me before you did this. I doubt the Prime Minister will approve of it at all.”
“If we don’t provoke something of the sort,” Pitt replied, “we are unlikely to find out who is passing information before the treaty has to be concluded.”
“Not very satisfactory.” Farnsworth bit his lip. “I had hoped you would have learned something definite by ordinary investigation.” They were in Farnsworth’s office. He had sent for Pitt to report on his progress so far. The weather had changed and sharp spring rain was beating against the windows. Pitt’s trouser bottoms were damp from the splashing of passing carriages and cabs. He sat with his legs crossed, deliberately relaxed.
Farnsworth leaned over his desk, his brows drawn down. “You know, Pitt, you’ve made one or two foolish mistakes, but it is not too late to amend them.”
“Too late?” For a moment Pitt did not understand him.
“You have had to do this alone, against a largely hostile and suspicious background,” Farnsworth went on, watching Pitt’s face earnestly. “You have gone in as an intruder, a policeman among diplomats and politicians, civil servants.”
Pitt stared at him, not sure if he were leaping to absurd conclusions, a familiar darkness now at the edge of his mind.
“There are those who would have helped you!” Farnsworth’s voice dropped, a more urgent note in it, deeper, wavering between harshness and hope. “Men who know more than you or I could expect to learn in a year of investigation with questions and deductions. I offered it to you before, Pitt. I’m offering it again.”
The Inner Circle. Farnsworth was pressing him to join the Inner Circle, as he had almost as soon as Pitt had succeeded Micah Drummond. Pitt had refused then, and hoped the offer would not be repeated or referred to. Perhaps he should have known that was a willful blindness, a foolishness in which he should not have indulged. It was always there to be faced now or later.
“No,” Pitt said quietly. “My reasons are still the same. The help would be at too high a price.”
Farnsworth’s face hardened. “You are very unwise, Pitt. Nothing would be asked of you that a decent, patriotic man would not willingly give. You are denying yourself success, and promotion when the time comes.” He leaned forward a fraction farther. “With the right help, you know, there is no limit to where you could go. All manner of doors would eventually be opened to you! You would be able to succeed on merit. And you have merit! Otherwise the rules of Society will make it impossible for you. You must be aware of that! How can you not see the good in such a thing?” It was a demand for an answer, and his blue-gray eyes met Pitt’s unflinchingly.
Pitt was aware not only of the strength of will behind the calm, almost bland countenance, but suddenly of an intelligence he had not previously suspected. He realized that until that moment he had had a certain contempt for Farnsworth, an unconscious assumption that he held office because of birth, not ability. Farnsworth’s lack of understanding of certain issues, certain characteristics or turns of phrase, he had taken for slowness of mind. It came to him with a jolt that it was far more probably a narrowness of experience. He was one of the vast numbers of people who cannot imagine themselves into the class or gender, least of all the emotions, of a different person. That is lack of vision or sensitivity, even compassion, but it is not stupidity.
“You are favoring one closed group which favors its own, over another doing just the same,” he replied with a candor he had not shown Farnsworth before, and even as he said it he was aware he was treading on the edge of danger.
Farnsworth’s impatience was weary and only peripherally annoyed. Perhaps he had expected little more. “I’m all for idealism, Pitt, but only to a point. When it becomes divorced from reality it ceases to be any use and becomes an encumbrance.” He shook his head. “This is how the world works. If you don’t know that, I confess I don’t understand how you have succeeded as far as you have. You deal with crime every day of your life. You see the worst in humanity, the weakest and the ugliest. How is it you are so blind to higher motives, men who cooperate together to bring about a greater good, from which in the end we shall all benefit?”
Pitt would like to have said that he did not believe the motives of the leaders of the Inner Circle were anything of the sort. Originally, perhaps, they had had a vision of good, but it was now so interwoven with their own power to bring it about, and their own glory in its achievement, that too much of it was lost on the way. But he knew that saying as much would not sway Farnsworth, who had too much invested in believing as he did. It would only produce denial and conflict.
And yet for an instant there was understanding on the edge of his mind, a moment when some sympathy between them was possible. He should grasp it. There was a moral and a human imperative to try.
“It is not a question of the justice or honor of those goals,” he replied slowly. “Either for themselves or for others. And I don’t doubt that many people would benefit from much of what they bring about….”
Farnsworth’s face lit with eagerness. He almost interrupted, then disciplined himself to wait for Pitt to finish.
“It is that they decide what is good, without telling the rest of us,” Pitt continued, choosing his words with great care. “And they bring it about by secret means. If it is good, we benefit, but if it is not, if it is not what we wanted, by the time we know, it is too late.” He leaned forward unconsciously. “There is no stopping it, no redress, because we don’t know who to blame or to whom we can appeal. It denies the majority of us, all of us outside the Circle, the right or the chance to choose for ourselves.”
Farnsworth looked puzzled, a crease between his brows.
“But you can be in the Circle, man. That is what I’m offering you.”
“And everyone else?” Pitt said. “What about their choices?”
Farnsworth’s eyes widened. “Are you really suggesting that everyone else, the majority”-he raised his hand to indicate the mass of population beyond the office walls-“are able to understand the issues, let alone make a decision as to what is right, wise, profitable … or even possible?” He saw Pitt’s face. “No, of course you aren’t. What you’re suggesting is anarchy. Every man for himself. And God knows, perhaps every woman and every child too?”
Until now Pitt had acted on a passionate instinct, not needing to rationalize what he thought; no one had required it of him.
“There is a difference between the open power of government and the secret power of a society whose members no one knows,” he said with commitment. He saw the derision in Farnsworth’s face. “Of course there can be oppression, corruption, incompetence, but if we know who holds the power, then they are to some degree accountable. We can at least fight against what we can see.”
“Rebellion,” Farnsworth said succinctly. “Or if we fight against it secretly, then treason! Is that really what you prefer?”
“I don’t want the overthrow of a government.” Pitt would not be goaded into taking a more extreme position than he meant. “But I have no objection to its downfall, if that is what it merits.”
Farnsworth’s eyebrows rose.
“In whose judgment? Yours?”
“The majority of the people who are governed.”
“And you think the majority is right?” Farnsworth’s eyes were wide. “That it is informed, wise, benevolent and self-disciplined or, God damn it, even literate-”
“No, I don’t,” Pitt interrupted. “But it can’t ever be if it is governed in secret by those who never ask and never explain. I think the majority have always been decent people, and have the right, as much right as you or anyone else, to know their own destiny and have as much control over it as is possible.”
“Consistent with order”-Farnsworth sat back, his smile sardonic-“and the rights and privileges of others. Quite. We have no difference in aim, Pitt, only in how to achieve it
. And you are hopelessly naive. You are an idealist, quite out of touch with the reality both of human nature and of economics and business. You would make a good politician on the hustings, telling the people all the things they want to hear, but you’d be hopeless in office.” He crossed his hands, interlacing his fingers, and gazing at Pitt with something close to resignation. “Perhaps you are right not to accept the offer of membership in the Inner Circle. You haven’t the stomach for it, or the vision. You’ll always be a gamekeeper’s son at heart.”
Pitt was not certain whether that was intended as an insult or not; the words were, judging from Farnsworth’s voice, and yet the tone was disappointed rather than deliberately offensive.
He stood up. “I expect you’re right,” he conceded, surprised that he minded so little. “But gamekeepers protect and preserve what is good.” He smiled. “Is that not what you have been talking about?”
Farnsworth looked startled. He opened his mouth to dismiss the idea, then realized its truth and changed his mind.
“Good day, sir,” Pitt said from the doorway.
There was only one thing Pitt could profitably do regarding the Colonial Office. The routine investigation of associates, personal habits, the search for weakness, could be accomplished as well by Tellman and his men as by Pitt himself. Not that he expected any of it to yield much of value. But quite apart from that, Arthur Desmond’s death still filled his thoughts in every quiet moment and the underlying sadness was with him all the time. It grew gradually more compelling that he should resolve what he could, for Matthew’s sake and for his own.
Charlotte had said little to him on the subject, but her unusual silence was more eloquent than speech. She had been gentle with him, more patient than was characteristic, as if she were sensitive not only to his loss but to his awareness of guilt. He was grateful for it. He would have found her criticism painful, because it would have been fair, and when one is most vulnerable, one is also the least able to bear the wound.
But he also longed to return to the frankness that was more natural to both of them.
He began with General Anstruther, and was obliged to pursue him from one of his clubs to a second, and ultimately find him in a quiet reading room of a third. Or it would be more accurate to say he was informed by the steward that General Anstruther was there. Pitt, not being a member, was not permitted into that very private and privileged sanctuary.
“Would you please ask General Anstruther if he can spare me a few moments of his time?” Pitt said politely, hating having to beg. He had no authority in this case, and could not use his office to insist. It galled him far more than he should have allowed it to.
“I will ask him, sir,” the steward replied expressionlessly. “Who may I say is asking?”
“Superintendent Pitt, of Bow Street.” Pitt handed him his card.
“Very well, sir. I shall enquire.” And leaving Pitt standing in the large and extremely opulent hall, he retreated upstairs, carrying the card on a silver tray.
Pitt gazed around the walls at the marble busts of long-dead soldiers and saw Marlborough, Wellington, Moore, Wolfe, Hastings, Clive, Gordon, and two he did not recognize. It crossed his mind with amusement, but no surprise, that Cromwell was not there. Above the doors were the arms of Richard Coeur de Lion, and Henry V. On the farther wall was a somber and very fine painting of the burial of Moore after Corunna, and opposite, another of the charge of the Scots Greys at Waterloo. More recent battle honors hung from the high ceiling, from Inkermann, the Alma and Balaclava.
General Anstruther came down the stairs, white whiskers bristling, his face pink, his back stiff as a ramrod.
“Good day to you, sir. What can I do for you?” He made it almost a demand. “Must be damned urgent to seek a fellow out at his club, what?”
“It is not urgent, General Anstruther, but I think it is important,” Pitt replied respectfully. “And I can get the information accurately from no one else, or I should not have troubled you.”
“Indeed! Indeed. And what is it, Mr…. Superintendent? Unless it is very brief, we can hardly stand around here like a couple of butlers, what. Come into the guests’ room.” He waved a heavy, florid hand towards one of the many oak doors off the hallway, and Pitt followed him obediently.
The room was filled with extremely comfortable armchairs, but the pictures and general decor were forbidding, perhaps to remind visitors of the military grandeur of the club’s members and the utter inferiority of civilians permitted in on sufferance.
General Anstruther indicated one of the chairs, and as Pitt sat down, took the one opposite him and leaned back, crossing his legs.
“Well then, Superintendent, what is it that troubles you?”
Pitt had thought carefully what he should say.
“The matter of the death of the late Sir Arthur Desmond,” he replied candidly. He saw Anstruther’s face tighten, but continued speaking. “There have been certain questions asked, and I wish to be in possession of all the facts so that I can refute any unpleasant or unwarranted suggestions that may be made.”
“By whom, sir? Suggestions of what?” Anstruther demanded. “Explain yourself, sir. This is most unfortunate.”
“Indeed it is,” Pitt agreed. “The suggestions are concerning his sanity, and the possibility of either suicide or-just as bad-murder.”
“Good God!” Anstruther was genuinely shocked; there was nothing assumed in the horror in his face, the slackness of initial disbelief, and then the growing darkness in his eyes as all the implications came to him. “That’s scandalous! Who has dared to say such a thing? I demand to know, sir!”
“At the moment it is no more than suggestion, General Anstruther,” Pitt replied, somewhat mendaciously. “I wish to be in a position to refute it decisively if it should ever become more.”
“That’s preposterous! Why should anyone murder Desmond? Never knew a more decent chap in my life.”
“I don’t doubt that is true, until the last few months,” Pitt said with more confidence than he felt. He had a growing fear in his mind that Anstruther’s outrage might be so deep as to prompt him to complain in a manner which would reach Farnsworth’s ears, and then Pitt would be in serious trouble. Perhaps he had overstated his case and brought about more harm than good?
It was too late to go back.
“Well …” Anstruther said guardedly. “Ah-yes.” He was obviously remembering what he had said at the inquest. “That is true-up to a point.”
“That is what I am worried about.” Pitt felt he had regained a little ground. “Just how erratic was his behavior, sir? You were naturally very discreet at the inquest, as becomes a friend speaking in a public place. But this is private, and for quite a different purpose.”
“Well … I hardly know what to say, sir.” Anstruther looked confounded.
“You said earlier that Sir Arthur was forgetful and confused,” Pitt prompted him. “Can you give me instances?”
“I … er. One doesn’t choose to remember such things, man! For heaven’s sake, one overlooks the failings of one’s friends. One does not commit them to memory!”
“You don’t remember any instance?” Pitt felt a stirring of hope, too thin to rely on, too bright to ignore.
“Well … er … it is more of an impression than a catalog of events, don’t you know, what?” Anstruther was now thoroughly unhappy.
Pitt had the sudden sharp impression that he was lying. He did not actually know anything at all. He had been repeating what he had been told by fellow members of the Inner Circle.
“When did you last see Sir Arthur?” he asked quite gently. Anstruther was embarrassed. There was no point in making an enemy of him; then he would learn nothing.
“Ah …” Anstruther was pink-faced now. “Not certain. Events put it rather out of my mind. I do recall quite plainly dining with him about three weeks before he died, poor fellow.” His voice gained in confidence. He was on firm ground now. “Seemed to me to have changed a l
ot. Rambling on about Africa.”
“Rambling?” Pitt interrupted. “You mean he was incoherent, disconnected in his ideas?”
“Ah-that’s a little steep, sir. Not at all. I mean simply that he kept returning to the subject, even when the rest of us had clearly passed on to something else.”
“He was a bore?”
Anstruther’s eyes widened. “If you like, sir, yes. He didn’t know when to leave the matter alone. Made a lot of accusations that were most unfortunate. Quite unfounded, of course.”
“Were they?”
“Good heavens, of course they were.” Anstruther was appalled. “Talked about secret plots to conquer Africa, and God knows what else. Quite mad-delusory.”
“You are profoundly familiar with Africa, sir?” Pitt did his best to keep every shred of sarcasm out of his voice and thought he succeeded.
“What?” Anstruther was startled. “Africa? What makes you say that, Superintendent?”
“That you know that there are no conspiracies regarding the financial backing of settlement there. There is a great deal of money involved, and presumably fortunes to be made by those who obtain mineral rights.”
“Ah … well …” Anstruther had been about to dismiss the idea in anger, then just in time realized that he had no grounds for it at all, however repugnant the idea was to him. Pitt watched the changing emotions in his face, and knew that his reactions to Sir Arthur’s charges were from the heart rather than the head, a plain man’s disbelief and horror of intrigue, complexities he did not understand and corruption he despised.
“I hope it is not true,” Pitt said gently. “But the belief in it does not seem so farfetched to me that one might consider it madness. Boundless wealth usually draws adventurers and thieves as well as honest men. And the prospect of such power has corrupted people before. Sir Arthur, as a politician, would be familiar with some of the scandals of the past, and not unnaturally fear for the future.”
Anstruther drew in his breath. His face was even pinker and he was obviously struggling between loyalties. Pitt did not know whether one of them was to the Inner Circle, but he believed it was. In all probability he saw it as Farnsworth had described it to Pitt: an organization of intelligent, enlightened men banded together to bring about the best good of the country, including the majority of blind and foolish men and women who could not decide for themselves, having neither the knowledge nor the wisdom. Honor and duty required that those who had these qualities should protect them for their own good. Anstruther would have given oaths of loyalty, and he was a man born and bred to unquestioning loyalties. A lifetime in the army had ingrained in his being obedience without question. Desertion was a capital offense, the last and most terrible sin of which a man was capable.
