Pitt waited.
“It’s going to be difficult,” Farnsworth said again.
The remark was so obvious Pitt did not reply.
Farnsworth looked Pitt up and down closely, still cogitating. “You’ll need connections yourself,” he said slowly. “Not impossible. Self-made man, but that doesn’t rule out influence, you know.”
Pitt felt a sudden stab of fear, but still he said nothing.
“Just a few friends can make the world of difference,” Farnsworth went on. “If they are the right ones.”
The fear subsided. It was not what Pitt had dreaded. He found himself smiling.
Farnsworth smiled as well.
“Good man,” he said with a nod. “Opens a lot of doors for you, furthers your career. Drummond was, you know?”
Pitt went cold. It was the Inner Circle he was referring to after all, that secret society, outwardly benevolent, inwardly malign, which Drummond had joined in his innocence and regretted so bitterly afterwards. The price of brotherhood was the surrender of loyalties, the forfeit of conscience so that an unknown army helped you, and could call on your help, at whatever cost, whenever it chose. The price of betrayal was ruin, sometimes even death. One knew only a half dozen or so other members, as the need arose. There was no way to tell to whom your loyalty might be pledged, or in what cause.
“No.” Pitt blurted out the word before realizing how foolish it would be, but he felt cornered, as if a darkness were trapping him and closing tight around him. “I …” He drew in his breath and let it out slowly.
Farnsworth’s face was flushed with annoyance and there was a bright glitter in his eyes.
“You are making a mistake, Pitt,” he said between his teeth.
“I don’t belong.” Pitt kept his voice as calm as he could.
“If you want to succeed, you had better make yourself belong.” Farnsworth looked at him unsmilingly. “Otherwise the doors will be closed. And I know what I am talking about. You need to clear up this case quickly.” He gestured towards the window and the street below. “Have you seen the newspapers? The public are beginning to panic already. You have no time to dither.” He walked to the door. “I’ll give you three days, Pitt, then you had better have something very decisive. And I expect you to reconsider that other matter. You need friends, believe me. You need them very much.” And with that he went out, leaving the door open behind him, and Pitt heard his footsteps down the stairs.
3
CHARLOTTE HAD HEARD the newsboys crying out the latest speculation on the Hyde Park murder, but she had given it less of her attention than she usually gave to Pitt’s more sensational cases because her mind was very fully occupied with the matter of plasterwork on the ceiling of the new house. At present she was in the middle of what was to be the withdrawing room, and staring upwards. The builder, a thin, lugubrious man in his thirties with sad eyes and a long nose, was standing in front of her shaking his head.
“Can’t do it, ma’am. Wouldn’t expect you to understand why, but it just in’t possible. Too far gorn, it is. Much too far.”
Charlotte looked up at the broken plaster on the cornice.
“But it’s only about two feet altogether. Why can’t you just replace that bit?” she asked, as she thought, very reasonably.
“Oh no.” Again he shook his head. “It’ll look like a patch, ma’am. Wouldn’t be right Can’t turn out work like that I’ve got my reputation to consider.” He met her eyes with a clear, indignant gaze.
“No it wouldn’t,” she argued. “Not if you put in the same pattern.”
“Can’t patch old wine bottles with new skins, ma’am. Don’t you read your Bible?” he said accusingly.
“Not when I’m looking for instruction on repairing the ceiling, I don’t,” she replied briskly. “Well, if you can’t do that piece, what about the whole of that side?”
“Ah—well.” He squinted up at it, head on one side. “I’m not sure about that Might be a different pattern, mightn’t it?”
“Can’t you find the same one? It doesn’t look very complicated to me.”
“That’s ’cause you in’t a plasterer, ma’am. Why don’t you ask your husband to explain it to you?”
“My husband is not a plasterer either,” she said with rising irritation.
“No ma’am, I daresay not,” he agreed. “But ’cos ’e’s a man, yer see, and men understand these things better than ladies, if you don’t mind my saying so?” He regarded her with a sententious smile. “Now I wouldn’t understand how to stitch a seam, or bake a cake, but I do know about cornices and the like. And you’ll be wanting a new rose too, to ’ang them good chandeliers from. Gotta watch that, or it’ll spoil the ’ole thing.”
“And how much will a new one be?”
“Well now, that’ll depend on whether you want paper stucco, which is very light, like, and very cheap, and comes at anything from three shillings for one what’s nineteen inches across, to one what’s forty-nine inches across, and it’d be too big for this room, at thirty-two and seven pence ha’penny.” He sucked in his breath noisily and continued. “Or you could have plaster, plain or perforated, which comes at one and sixpence or thereabouts for twelve inches across, right up to four and sixpence for thirty inches across. It all depends upon what you want.”
“I see. Well, I’ll think about it. Now what about the lamp in the hall?”
“Ah well now, that’s different. You could have a real plain twisted-’eart pendant which comes at about four and sixpence each, or the bigger ones at seven and sixpence each.” He shook his head. “That don’t include the globe, o’ course.”
“But that won’t be the one I wanted. I like the one with the engraved glass.”
“Ah—well that’d be a great deal more, ma’am; that’d be fifty-one shillings each, bronzed or lacquered. And now if you want it polished, it’d be fifty-seven shillings.” He sucked at what was apparently a hollow tooth and stared at her.
“I don’t like the other one,” she said adamantly. “It’s vulgar.”
“I just fitted one like that for the lady what lives opposite,” he said with satisfaction. “Very nice it is too. Very nice lady. Her cousin is married to Lady Winslow’s brother-in-law.” He imparted this last piece of information as if it clinched the argument.
“Then she won’t thank me for doing the same,” Charlotte retorted. “What about the finial for the west gable? Can you match the others?”
“I don’t know about that.” He shook his head doubtfully. “You’d be better to replace them all—”
“Balderdash!” said a brisk voice from the doorway. “You find a finial that matches, young man, or my niece will employ somebody who will.”
Charlotte spun around with surprise and delight to see Great-Aunt Vespasia advancing across the room. More strictly speaking, she was Emily’s Great-Aunt-in-law from her first marriage. However, George’s death had made no difference to the closeness of their affection, indeed they grew in each other’s regard with each new turn in their relationship. Now she felt a sharp sense of pleasure that Vespasia had spoken of her as a niece, even though she had no claim to that title.
“Aunt Vespasia,” she said immediately. “How very nice to see you! You have come at the very best moment to give me your advice. I cannot offer you any refreshment. I am so sorry. I can barely offer you a seat.” She felt acutely apologetic, even though she had not invited Vespasia and therefore was not responsible for the situation.
Vespasia ignored her and looked at the builder, who had little idea who she was but had worked on enough houses of the quality to know that in this instance he was now totally out of his depth. This was a lady of a quite different order. She was tall, slender verging on gaunt, but with a face of exquisite bones which still retained much of the marvelous beauty which had made her famous throughout England in her youth. She looked at him as if he himself had been the offending piece of plaster.
“What are you doing about that?” s
he asked, staring up at the broken cornice.
“Repairing that side,” Charlotte said quickly. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Robinson?”
“If you say so, ma’am,” he replied sullenly.
“Quite right,” Vespasia approved. “And I’m sure if you look hard enough, you will discover a rose that will fit with it quite satisfactorily. What about the dado rail? That is in an awful state. You will need to replace all of it.” She looked at Robinson. “You had better set about finding something suitable. Now be off with you and begin.” She dismissed him without further thought and turned to Charlotte. “Now, my dear, where may we go to leave this man to his business? What about the garden? It looks charming.”
“By all means,” Charlotte agreed hastily, leading the way, opening the French door for Vespasia and then closing it behind her. Outside on the paved terrace the air was soft and there was a scent of bruised grass on the breeze and the smell of hyacinths somewhere just beyond sight.
Vespasia stood very straight, her hair brilliant in the light, her black silver-topped cane in her right hand, not leaning on it so much as resting her hand over it.
“You will need a gardener,” she observed. “At least twice a week. Thomas will never have time to attend to it. How is he taking to his new position? It was past time he was promoted.”
It would not have occurred to Charlotte to tell her anything but the truth.
“Very well, for the most part,” she replied. “But some of his men can be trying. They resent the fact that he was preferred over others who consider themselves just as good. Micah Drummond they could understand. He was a gentleman and it was to be expected, but they find it hard to take orders from Thomas.” She smiled briefly. “Not that he says a great deal to me, I just know it from the odd remark here and there, and sometimes from what he doesn’t say. But no doubt it will mend … in time.”
“Indeed.” Vespasia took a few steps forward over the grass. “What of this latest matter—the wretched man who was beheaded in the park? The newspapers did not say so, but I assume Thomas is in charge of it?”
“Yes, yes he is.” Charlotte looked at her questioningly, waiting for the explanation of her interest.
Vespasia continued to stare at the trees at the far end of the lawn.
“I daresay you remember Judge Quade?” She began quite casually, as if the matter were of no consequence.
“Yes,” Charlotte replied equally nonchalantly. The judge’s sensitive, ascetic face leapt to her mind, and all her emotions crowding in on her, the fierceness of his integrity in the Farriers’ Lane case, the memories he brought with him of a past Charlotte had not even guessed at, and above all the change in Vespasia, her sudden vulnerability, the way she blushed (a thing Charlotte had never seen before), and the laughter and shadows in her eyes.
“Yes, of course I remember him,” she said again. She was about to ask how he was, then stopped just before the words were out. Vespasia was not one with whom she could play such trivial games. It was better to wait in silence for her to say what it was she wished.
“He is very well acquainted with Lord and Lady Winthrop,” Vespasia explained, walking a little farther onto the grass, her skirts catching on the longer, uncut stems.
Charlotte was obliged to follow in order to continue the conversation.
“Is he?” She was surprised. Thelonius Quade was a man of high intelligence and quiet wit. From what Emily had said, Lord Winthrop was quite the opposite. “Socially?” she asked.
Vespasia smiled, her silver eyes light with amusement.
“Hardly professionally, my dear. Marlborough Winthrop does nothing useful whatsoever; but that is not a crime, or half the aristocracy would be up before the bench. Of course, socially, which I imagine was not of Thelonius’s choosing. The man is a monumental bore, and his wife is worse. She has violent opinions, all of which she has borrowed from someone else. She contracts them as some people contract diseases.”
“Did he know Captain Winthrop?” Charlotte asked with mounting interest.
“Only slightly.” Vespasia was standing in the middle of the lawn now, the breeze ruffling the pale green silk of her skirt. Her blouse was of a delicate ivory in the light, and the heavy pearls around her neck hung low across the bosom. Charlotte wondered if she would ever look quite so effortlessly elegant herself.
“I’m sorry,” Charlotte said quietly. “He must be distressed for them.”
“Of course.” Vespasia accepted and dismissed the subject with a small gesture of her head. She moved a few steps farther across the lawn. “The funeral was a family affair, but they will be holding a memorial service for him tomorrow. Thelonius will attend. I thought I would go with him.” She turned and looked at Charlotte with the first gleam of a smile in her eyes. “I wondered if you would care to accompany us?”
It would be indelicate, and quite unnecessary, to ask Vespasia’s purpose in such an invitation. It was not the Winthrops she was thinking of, nor Thelonius Quade, and certainly not herself. In the past she had been involved in many social crusades, and worked with tireless passion. She had several times exhibited the same energy and devotion to meddling in Pitt’s cases, assisting Charlotte and Emily in places and with people they could not reach alone. It would be clumsy to say she enjoyed it; it was both different and more than that. But there was no mistaking the light in her eyes now.
“It is very ugly,” Charlotte said tentatively, catching up with her and looking at the slender daffodil spears under the trees.
“There is a note of stridency in the newspapers,” Vespasia added. “It is imperative that Thomas establish himself in his new position as early as possible. This is an extraordinary case, or at least it has all the appearance of being so. We must do what we can.”
“The newspapers are speaking of a madman loose,” Charlotte agreed unhappily.
“Balderdash!” Vespasia dismissed the idea. “If there was a lunatic capering around Hyde Park cutting people’s heads off we should have heard more of him by now.”
“Someone he knew?” Charlotte asked, her attention sharpening. She forgot the daffodils, and was only dimly aware of the wind in the branches and the brilliant sprays of forsythia in bloom.
“That seems an inevitable conclusion,” Vespasia agreed. “Thelonius informs me he was not robbed. Or so Lord Winthrop says.”
Charlotte’s imagination began to race. She started with what seemed to be to her the obvious.
“His wife has a lover? Or he has a mistress, and her husband …”
“Oh really!” Vespasia said impatiently. “Oakley Winthrop might not have been an imaginative man, but neither was he a cretin. If you have the misfortune to be taking a midnight stroll in the park and to meet your wife’s lover carrying a cutlass, you do not go and climb into a pleasure boat with him. To discuss what? The equitable division of her favors?”
Charlotte smothered a giggle but held her ground. “Perhaps he was an acquaintance anyway, and Winthrop did not know of the arrangement,” she suggested. “If it was his wife’s lover, she may have been discreet. After all, Captain Winthrop will have been away a good deal of the time. It may never have occurred to him that she could have considered any other man.”
“Then if he was unaware of the situation, why on earth would the wretched man murder him?” Vespasia asked, her eyebrows arching even higher. “That seems absurd, and quite unnecessary.”
“Then perhaps it was his mistress’s husband?” Charlotte thought aloud. “He may have been a very jealous man.”
“Then why should Winthrop sit down in a boat with him in the middle of the night?” Vespasia whisked a long stem of grass with her stick.
“Perhaps he didn’t …” Charlotte started, then realized it was foolish before she finished.
“His mistress was an innocent?” Vespasia said with a smile both tolerant and amused. “I doubt it. Not so innocent as to be unaware of her husband’s nature.” She turned and began to walk back up the long lawn toward
s the house. “No, the more one looks at this, the more bizarre it appears. I think Thomas may need such assistance as we can give him.” She kept her expression almost without enthusiasm, but not even her strength of will could entirely disguise the inner energy that burned at the thought.
“Then I shall most certainly come with you to the memorial service,” Charlotte accepted without further hesitation. “At what time shall I be ready?”
“I shall send a carriage for you at a quarter past ten,” Vespasia said immediately. “And my dear, the next time you buy a new outfit, I should make it black if I were you.” Her eyes gleamed. “It seems to be de rigueur for your husband’s occupation.”
Actually Charlotte sent an urgent message to Emily to request that she might borrow something suitable. She really had no extra money above that which was needed for the house. With new plasterwork, new finials, and several new fire tiles to be purchased, among a number of other things, every halfpenny must be put to the best use.
Emily was very happy to oblige, on condition, not open to negotiation, that Charlotte tell her every single detail of the case and include her in all future efforts. For this she would be willing to lend her any garment she liked throughout the duration of the endeavor.
Therefore at ten o’clock the next morning Charlotte was looking radiant, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright, when Caroline Ellison arrived in a whirl of chocolate-and-gold-colored silks and a hat reminiscent of a turban.
“Good morning, Mama!” Charlotte said in surprise, both at the hat and at Caroline’s unheralded arrival. It would be quite needless to ask if there were anything wrong; Caroline’s face was shining with well-being.
“Good morning, my dear,” Caroline responded, looking around Charlotte’s bedroom, where they were as Charlotte put the finishing touches to her hair. “You look very well, but I am afraid a little funereal. Could you not put a touch of something brighter, at least around your neck? All this somberness may be fashionable, but it is a little extreme, don’t you think?”
Anne Perry - [Thomas Pitt 14] Page 8
