by Anne Perry
“Oh it did, sir, I remember it quite plainly. Are you sure you have the right day yourself, sir, if you’ll pardon me, sir? Perhaps you were here the day before, or the day after? That would account for a lot.”
“No, no, I have the day right. I recall it because of Sir Arthur’s death, just as you do,” Eustace said hastily. “What was it you said happened to Mr. Hathaway?”
“He was took a bit queer, sir, and went to the cloakroom. Then he must have decided to go home. He’d been there a while, no doubt hoping he’d get to feel better, but seems he didn’t, so he rang for assistance, poor gentleman, and one of the stewards went to him. And when he asked for a cab, the cloakroom attendant called him one, and helped him out into the hall and down the steps into it. He never came back into any of the club rooms at all, sir, that is for certain.”
“I see. Yes, I see. That wasn’t you, by any chance?”
“No sir. Tell you the truth, don’t know who it was. Saw him go, but only out of the corner of my eye, so to speak, and I didn’t recognize him. Might have been Jones; it looked a lot like him, sort of heavyset and with very little hair. Yes, I think it might have been Jones.”
“Thank you, yes I expect it was. Thank you very much.” Eustace wanted to end the pointless conversation. Charlotte would have to unravel the meaning of this, if there was any. There was no more for him to learn. He must escape. This was getting worse by the moment.
“Mr. Hathaway is here this afternoon, sir,” the steward persisted. “If you like I can take you across to him, sir.”
“No … no thank you,” Eustace said vehemently. “I … I think I shall go to the cloakroom myself, if you will excuse me. Yes, yes indeed. Thank you.”
“Not at all, sir.” Guyler shrugged and went about his errands.
Eustace made his escape and fled to the cloakroom. It was really a very agreeable place, suitably masculine, set out with all the comforts: washbasins with plenty of hot water, clean towels, mirrors, spare razors and strops, shaving soap in two or three different brands, lotions, Macassar oil for the hair, fresh cloths for buffing one’s boots, and polish, brushes for its application and removal, and overall a pleasant aroma like sandalwood.
He had no requirement for the water closet, and instead sat down on one of the wooden bench seats that were rather like well-shaped pews. He had had occasion to come here only twice before, but it still seemed pleasantly familiar. Hathaway must have sat here, feeling ill and wondering if he would be able to get home without assistance. Eustace glanced around. There was an ornate bell pull near the door. Nothing was written on it or under it, but its purpose was obvious. Without premeditation he stood up, crossed the couple of steps to it and pulled.
Almost immediately it was answered by an elderly man in a uniform which was less than livery but more than merely a steward.
“Yes sir?” he said quietly. “Is there something I can do for you?” Eustace was taken aback. There really was nothing at all. He thought of Hathaway.
“Are you a steward? You wear a different … uniform.”
“Yes sir,” the man agreed. “I’m the cloakroom attendant. If you wish for a steward I can send for one, but perhaps I can help you, sir. It would be more regular. Stewards attend to gentlemen in the drawing rooms and reading rooms, and so on.”
Eustace was confused.
“Doesn’t this bell ring on the steward’s board in the pantry?”
“No sir, only in my room, which is quite separate, sir. Can’t I be of assistance? Are you not feeling well, sir?”
“What? Oh, yes, yes I am perfectly well, thank you. Always well.” Eustace’s brain raced. Was it possible he was on the brink of discovery? “It is just that a friend of mine, more of an acquaintance, told me that he had been taken unwell here in the cloakroom and had summoned a steward from the drawing room who had called him a hansom.” He waited, almost holding his breath.
“No sir,” the attendant said patiently. “That is not possible, sir. The bell here doesn’t ring in the steward’s pantry. It only leads to my board, sir, nowhere else.”
“Then he was lying!” Eustace said in triumph.
The attendant looked at him with as much amazement as his duty and position allowed, not at the conclusion-which was unavoidable-but at Eustace’s delight in it.
“That seems a harsh judgment, sir. But he was certainly mistaken.”
“It was Hathaway,” Eustace said, plunging in where only moments before he would not have dared to be so blunt. “The day Sir Arthur Desmond died. Didn’t you call him a hansom?”
“Yes sir. One of the temporary stewards told me he was unwell, but I don’t know how he knew that.”
“You mean one of the attendants? Someone junior to yourself,” Eustace said.
“No sir, I mean a temporary steward, from one of the main rooms. Though, come to think of it, I don’t know how he knew, if Mr. Hathaway was in here!” He shook his head in denial of the impossible.
“Thank you, thank you! I am most obliged to you!” Eustace fished in his pocket and brought out a shilling. It was excessive; still, it would look so paltry to put it back and hand over a threepenny bit instead, and he was feeling in a highly generous mood. He gave it unstintingly.
“Thank you, sir.” The attendant masked his surprise and took it before Eustace could change his mind. “If I can be of any further assistance, please let me know.”
“Yes, yes of course.” Eustace only glanced at him, then strode out into the foyer and down the front steps to the street.
Charlotte was a few paces away; apparently she had been walking back and forth, maybe in her impatience, perhaps to make her waiting less obvious. She saw the expression of jubilation on his face and ran towards him.
“Yes? What have you found?” she demanded.
“Something quite extraordinary,” he said, his excitement fighting his normal manner and the condescension he considered appropriate when speaking to women. “The cloakroom bell does not connect with the steward’s pantry or any part of the rest of the club!”
She was confused. “Should it?”
“Don’t you see?” He caught her by the arm and began walking. “Hathaway said he called the steward from the cloakroom to fetch him a cab when he was taken ill. The drawing room steward told me that. He saw the steward go. But he couldn’t have, because the bell doesn’t ring there.” He was still gripping her arm firmly as he paced the pavement. “The cloakroom attendant said a steward from the drawing room told him that Hathaway was ill and wanted a cab. Hathaway lied!” Quite unconsciously he shook her gently. “Don’t you see? He said he did not come back into the main rooms. At least the steward said he didn’t … but he must have, if he called one of the ordinary stewards to get his cab!” He stopped abruptly, the satisfaction fading a little in his eyes. “Although I’m not quite sure what that proves….”
“What if …” Charlotte said, then stopped.
A lady with a parasol passed by, pretending not to look at them, a smile on her face.
“Yes?” Eustace urged.
“I don’t know … let me think. And please don’t grip me quite so hard. You’re hurting my arm.”
“Oh! Oh … I’m sorry.” He blushed and let go of her.
“An extra steward …” she began thoughtfully.
“That’s right. It seems they hire one or two now and then, I suppose if someone is ill or otherwise absent.”
“And there was one that day? Are you sure?”
“Yes. The steward I spoke to said he saw one.”
“What like?” She ignored two women carrying pretty boxes of millinery and chatting to each other.
“What like?” Eustace repeated.
“Yes! What did he look like?” Her voice was rising with urgency.
“Er … elderly, squarish, very little hair … why?”
“Hathaway!” she shouted.
“What?” He ignored the man passing by them who looked at Charlotte in alarm and disapproval, and inc
reased his pace.
“Hathaway!” she said, grasping him in turn. “What if the extra steward was Hathaway? What a perfect way to murder someone. As a steward he would be practically invisible! As himself, he goes to the cloakroom saying he is not feeling well. Once in there he changes into a steward’s jacket, then returns to the pantry, collects a tray and brandy into which he puts the laudanum, serves it to Sir Arthur, saying it is a gift from someone. Then he says that Mr. Hathaway has been taken unwell in the cloakroom and has rung for assistance, so he establishes that Hathaway was in the cloakroom all the time.” Her voice was rising with excitement. “He goes out, changes back into himself, then further to establish that, he leaves directly from the cloakroom. He calls the attendant and has him fetch a hansom and assist him out into it. He has established his own whereabouts, with witnesses, and become invisible long enough to give Sir Arthur a fatal dose of laudanum, virtually unseen. Uncle Eustace, you are brilliant! You have solved it!”
“Thank you.” Eustace blushed scarlet with pleasure and satisfaction. “Thank you, my dear.” For once he was even oblivious of the giggles and words of a group of ladies in an open landau. Then the brilliance of his smile faded a little. “But why? Why should Mr. Hathaway, an eminent official of the Colonial Office, wish to poison Sir Arthur Desmond, an erstwhile eminent official of the Foreign Office?”
“Oh-” She caught her breath. “That is regrettably easy. By a process of deduction, he must be the executioner of the Inner Circle….”
Eustace’s expression froze. “The what? What on earth are you talking about, my dear lady?”
Her face changed. The victory fled out of it, leaving only anger and a terrible sense of loss. It alarmed him to see the fierceness of the emotion in her.
“The executioner of the Inner Circle,” she repeated. “At least one of them. He was detailed to kill Sir Arthur, because-”
“What absolute nonsense!” He was appalled. “The Inner Circle, whose name you should not even know, is a group of gentlemen dedicated to the good of the community, the protection of the values of honor and wise and beneficent rule, and the well-being of everyone.”
“Balderdash!” she retorted vehemently. “The junior new recruits are told that, and no doubt sincerely believe it. You do, Micah Drummond did, until he learned otherwise. But the inner core of it is to gain power and to use it to preserve their own interests.”
“My dear Charlotte …” He attempted to interrupt, but she overrode him.
“Sir Arthur was speaking out against them before he died.”
“But what did he know?” Eustace protested. “Only what he may have imagined.”
“He was a member!”
“Was he? Er …” Eustace was confounded, a worm of doubt creeping into his mind.
“Yes. He found out about their intentions to use the Cecil Rhodes settlement of Africa to gain immense wealth for their own members, and he tried to make it public, but no one would listen to the little he could prove. And before he could say any more, they killed him. That’s what they do to members who betray their covenants. Don’t you know that?”
With a sudden sickening return of memory, Eustace thought of the covenants he had been obliged to make, the oaths of loyalty he had taken. At the time he had thought them rather fun, a great adventure, something like the vigil of Sir Galahad before receiving his spurs, the weaving of good and evil that belongs to high romance, the ordeals of those who dare the great adventures. But what if they had meant them truly? What if they really did mean that the Circle was to come before mother or father, wife or brother or child? What if he had pledged away the right to choose on pain of his life?
She must have seen the fear in his eyes. Suddenly there was gentleness, almost pity, mixed with her anger. Neither of them was even aware of the world around them, the pedestrians who passed within a yard of them on the pavement, or the carriages in the street.
“They count on your secrecy to protect them,” she said more softly. “They count on your not breaking your promises, even when you gave them without being aware what they would lead to, or that you might compromise yourself, and betray what you most believe in, your own honor, in their keeping.” Her expression hardened into contempt and the anger returned. “And of course they also count on fear….”
“Well, I’m not afraid!” he said furiously, turning back towards the steps up into the club. He was too angry to be frightened. They had taken him for a fool, and even worse than that, they had betrayed his belief in them. They had pretended to espouse all the things in which he most dearly believed, honor and openness, candor, high-minded courage, valor to defend the weak, the true spirit of leadership which was the Englishman’s heritage. They had shown him an Arthurian vision, made him believe something of himself, and then they had perverted it into a thing that was soiled, dangerous and ugly. It was an insupportable outrage, and he would not be party to it!
He strode up the steps, hardly aware of Charlotte behind him, swung the doors open and made his way across the foyer without a word to the doorman. He pushed his way through the drawing room doors and accosted the first steward he saw.
“Where is Mr. Hathaway? I know he is here today, so don’t prevaricate with me. Where is he?”
“S-sir, I–I think …”
“Don’t trifle with me, my good man,” Eustace said between his teeth. “Tell me where he is!”
The steward looked at Eustace’s gimlet eyes and rapidly purpling cheeks and decided discretion was definitely the better part of valor.
“In the blue room, sir.”
“Thank you,” Eustace acknowledged him, turning on his heel to march back into the foyer. Only then did he remember he was not sure which way the blue room was. “The blue room?” he demanded of a steward who appeared at the pantry door with a tray held up above his head in one hand.
“To your right, sir,” the steward answered with surprise.
“Good.” Eustace reached the door in half a dozen steps and threw it open. The blue room might once have lived up to its name, but now it was faded to a genteel gray, the heavy curtains blue only in the folds away from the sunlight which streamed in from four long, high windows looking onto the street. Through the decades the brilliance had bleached out of the carpet also, leaving it pink and gray and a green so soft as to be almost no color at all. Portraits of distinguished members from the past decorated the walls in discreet tones of sepia and umber, many of them from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. In some the whiteness of a powdered wig was the only distinguishable feature.
Eustace had not been in here before. It was a room reserved for senior members, one of which he only aspired to be.
Hathaway was sitting in a large leather armchair reading the Times.
Eustace was too enraged even to consider the impropriety of what he was doing. Greater decencies had been blasphemed against. No one was going to be permitted to hide behind the conventions of a gentleman’s club. He stopped in front of Hathaway’s chair, put his hands on the Times and tore it away, dropping it to one side in a heap of crackling paper.
Every head in the room looked up at the noise. A whiskered general snorted with offense. A banker cleared his throat ostentatiously. A member of the House of Lords (who actually attended now and then) put down his glass in amazement. A bishop dropped his cigar.
Hathaway looked up at Eustace with considerable surprise.
“I am making a citizen’s arrest,” Eustace announced grimly.
“I say, old chap …” the banker began.
“Somebody robbed you, old boy?” the bishop asked mildly. “Pickpocket, what? Cutpurse?”
“Bit high-handed, taking a fellow’s newspaper,” the earl said, regarding Eustace with disfavor.
Hathaway was perfectly composed. He sat quite still in the chair, ignoring the wreck of his paper.
“What is it that has disturbed you so much, my dear fellow?” he said very slowly. At another time Eustace might not have noticed
the hard, unflinching quality of his eyes, but all his senses were sharpened by his outrage. Now he felt almost as if Hathaway might offer him physical violence, and he was poised, ready to react, even to welcome it.
“Yes I have been robbed,” he said fiercely. “Of trust, of … of …” He did not know how to express the feeling he had of having been used, insulted, then suddenly it came to him in a rush of words fraught with pain. “I have been robbed of my belief in my fellows, of those I admired and honored, even aspired to be like! That’s what you’ve taken. You’ve destroyed it, betrayed it.”
“My dear fellow!” the banker protested, rising to his feet. “You are overemotional. Sit down and calm yourself. You are making a mistake….”
“You are making a damned noise!” the general said angrily, his whiskers bristling. “I know that, sir!” He shook his newspaper with a snap and buried his head in it again.
“Come on, old chap.” The banker took another step towards Eustace and put his hands forward as if to restrain him. “A good douse of cold water and you’ll feel better. I-”
“I am as sober as a judge,” Eustace said between his teeth. “And if you touch me, sir, if you put one hand on me, I swear by God I shall lay you flat. This man”-he was still looking at Hathaway-“has committed murder. I am not speaking figuratively but quite literally. He cold-bloodedly and intentionally took the life of another man by poison.”
This time no one interrupted him. Hathaway sat smiling very slightly, composed, tolerant.
“Poisoned his brandy right here in the club….”
“Really … Come now,” the bishop spluttered. “That’s …”
Eustace glared at him and he faded into silence.
“You are the executioner!” Eustace swung back to Hathaway. “And I know now how you did it! You went to the cloakroom and changed into a steward’s jacket, then came back into the main room, gave poor Sir Arthur his poisoned drink, which you had prepared, then went back to the cloakroom….” He stopped. He could see by the sudden whiteness of Hathaway’s face that he was no longer sure of himself. He was shaken; for the first time he was afraid. The secret he had trusted to protect him was not secret anymore. Eustace saw the fear in his eyes, and now he saw also the violence. The mask was gone.
