“Yes,” he said with profound feeling. “Much more honest. The quick kill of one animal by another is the necessity of nature and an honorable thing.”
She looked at him with amazement and admiration.
“You are a remarkable man, Superintendent. I am deeply grateful that it is you who are in command of this … this terrible affair. I would not have thought anyone could make this easier, but you have.”
He did not know what to say. Any words seemed trite, so he smiled in silence and turned to the next piece of paper, an invitation to a hunt ball, and slowly, with stumbling memory, she recalled the time and the event.
He left early in the evening feeling weary and profoundly saddened. From what he had learned, there were numerous opportunities for further entanglements. Oakley Winthrop could have been one of them, or Bart Mitchell, or almost anyone else.
He arrived at Bow Street to find Tellman waiting on the landing outside his office, his long, clever face creased with anger and concern. He had obviously been waiting some time.
“What did you find?” Pitt asked, reaching the top of the stairs.
“Not a damn thing,” Tellman answered, following him across the short space of the landing to the office door, then inside without waiting to be invited. “Nothing! He and Arledge were obviously lovers, but although that’s a crime, we couldn’t prosecute without seeing them doing it, unless someone complained. And since Arledge is dead, that’s not likely.”
“Arledge wasn’t killed there?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Not unless he put his head over the bath and Carvell mopped the whole thing down afterwards,” Tellman said sarcastically. “He stayed there all right, half lived there, I shouldn’t wonder. But he wasn’t killed there.”
“I presume you looked in the garden as well?”
“Of course I did! And before you ask, it’s all covered with paving and flower beds or grass, and none of it has been dug up in years. I even looked in the coal cellar and the gardener’s shed. He wasn’t killed there.” He stared at Pitt, his brows drawn down in thought, his lips pursed. “Are you going to arrest him?”
“No.”
Tellman breathed in and out slowly. “Good,” he said at last. “Because I’m not sure as he didn’t do it. But I am damn sure we haven’t got a thing to prove that he did.” He winced as if he had been hurt. “I hate arresting someone and then not getting a conviction.”
Pitt looked at him, trying to read his face.
Tellman smiled bleakly. “Nor do I want to get the wrong man,” he added grudgingly. “Though God knows who the right one is.”
Emily’s concentration was torn in two directions. It was of primary importance that she give every possible help to Jack, even if all their efforts were almost certainly in vain. But she was also deeply concerned for Pitt. She had heard the remarks of various people with connections in government and political circles, and she knew the climate of fear and blame that prevailed. No one had any ideas to offer, and certainly no assistance, but the incessant public clamor had made them frightened for their own positions, and consequently quick to blame others.
Now that the by-election date had been announced there were speeches and articles to be delivered, and now and then a public appearance of a more social nature at a ball or a concert. Some of these were very formal, such as receptions for foreign ambassadors or visiting dignitaries, some of a more casual kind, such as the soiree this evening. Since Mina Winthrop was obviously in mourning, she could not be invited, similarly Dulcie Arledge, but Emily had done the next best thing by asking Victor Garrick to play the cello as part of the entertainment for her guests, and then naturally as he was there, Thora Garrick was invited as well. Emily was not sure what that might accomplish, but one did not require to see an end in order for it to be achieved.
The guests were almost all included for political purposes, people of influence of one sort or another, and the whole event would be hard work. There would be no time for the pleasant indulgence of gossip. Every word must be watched and weighed. Emily stood at the top of the stairs and gazed across the sea of heads, the men’s smooth, the women’s all manner of elaborate coiffeur, many of them bristling with feathers, tiaras and jeweled pins. She tried to compose her mind. There were at least as many enemies here as friends—not only Jack’s enemies, but Pitt’s as well. Many of them would be members of the Inner Circle, some peripheral, as Micah Drummond had been, hardly even knowing what it really meant. Others would be high in its rungs of power, able to call on debts and loyalties of staggering proportions, even of career or future if need be, and able to pronounce terrible punishments if disobedience or treachery were suspected. But no outsider knew which was which; it could be any innocent, smiling face, any courteous gentleman passing polite inanities, any harmless-seeming man with white hair and benign smile.
Involuntarily she shivered, not only with fear but with anger.
She saw the fair hair of Victor Garrick shining under the chandeliers and began her way down to greet him.
“Good evening, Mr. Garrick,” she said as she reached the bottom and approached him, standing with his cello held very carefully. It was a beautiful instrument, warm polished wood the color of sherry in sunlight, and richly shaped. Its curves made her want to reach out and touch it, but she knew it would be an intrusion. He held the instrument almost as if it were a woman he loved. “I am so grateful to you for consenting to come,” she went on. “After hearing you play at Captain Winthrop’s memorial service I could not think of anyone else.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Radley.” He smiled, meeting her eyes with unusual frankness. He seemed to search beneath the easy surface to know if she meant what she said, if she had any understanding of music and its meaning, its textures and values, or if she were simply being polite. He was apparently satisfied. A slow smile curved his lips. “I love to play.”
She sought for something further to say; the situation seemed to invite it.
“It is a very beautiful instrument you have. Is it very old?”
His face darkened immediately and a look of acute pain filled his eyes. “Yes. It’s not a Guanerius, of course; but it is Italian, and about the same period.”
She was confused. “Is that not good?”
“It’s exquisite,” he said in a soft, fierce whisper. “It’s priceless; money is nothing, meaningless beside this sort of beauty. Money is just so much paper—this is passion, eloquence, love, grief, everything of meaning. This is the voice of man’s soul.”
She was about to ask him if someone had insulted him by giving it a monetary value when her eye caught a blemish on the perfect smoothness of the wood, a bruise. She felt a sudden distress herself. The instrument had so many of the qualities of a living thing, and yet not the great gift of healing itself. That mark would remain forever.
She lifted her eyes and met his and saw them full of a blistering rage. There was no need to say anything. For that moment she shared with him all the helplessness and the loathing of the artist face to face with the vandal, the senseless damaging of irretrievable loveliness.
“Does it affect the sound?” she asked, almost certain in her heart that it did not.
He shook his head.
They were joined by Thora, looking extremely handsome with cascades of ivory lace from her shoulder to elbow, and swathed across a deep décolletage. The skirt was smooth and boasted only the smallest bustle. Altogether it was highly fashionable and most becoming. She looked at Victor with a slight frown.
“You are not distressing Mrs. Radley with that miserable accident, are you, dear? Really it is best forgotten. We cannot undo it, you know.”
He stared at her with an unwavering gaze.
“Of course I know, Mama. When a blow is struck, it can never be undone.” He turned to Emily. “Can it, Mrs. Radley? The flesh is bruised, and the soul.”
Thora opened her mouth to say something, and then changed her mind. She l
ooked at the cello, and then at her son.
Victor seemed to be waiting for a reply.
“No,” Emily said hastily. “Of course it can never be undone.”
“Do you think we should pretend it didn’t happen?” Victor asked, still looking at Emily. “When friends inquire, we should smile bravely and say everything is well—even tell ourselves it does not really hurt, it will all mend soon, and doubtless it was an accident and no one intended any harm.” His voice had been growing harsher and there was a note of something like an inner panic in it.
“I am not sure I agree,” Emily replied, weighing her answer for something between honesty and tact. “An inordinate fuss helps no one, but I do think that whoever damaged your cello, accident or not, owes you a considerable debt and I can see no reason at all why you should pretend otherwise.”
Victor looked startled.
Thora colored uncomfortably and frowned at her as if she had not totally understood.
“Sometimes accidents are caused by carelessness,” Emily explained. “And regardless of that, we do need to be responsible for what we do. Do you not agree? We cannot expect others to bear the brunt.”
“It is not always so easy …” Thora began, then stopped.
Victor shot Emily a charming smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Radley. I think you have said it exactly. A lack of care, that is it. One must be responsible. Honesty, that is the key to it all.”
“Do you not know who bruised your cello?” she asked.
“Oh yes, I know.”
Thora looked puzzled. “Victor …”
But before he could answer, they were interrupted by a stout woman with remarkably black hair.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Radley, I simply had to say how much I appreciated Mr. Radley’s speech yesterday. He was so very correct about the present situation in Africa. It is years since I listened to anyone with such a grasp of the essentials.” She ignored Victor as if he had been a domestic servant, and apparently did not even realize Thora was part of the group. “We need more men like that in government, as I was just saying to my husband.” She waved an arm airily towards a tall, thin man with a prominent nose. He reminded Emily of pictures she had seen of vultures. He was dressed in military uniform. “Brigadier Gibson-Jones, you know?” The woman seemed to assume that the name would be familiar.
Actually Emily had no recollection of either the brigadier or his wife, and therefore was most grateful to be reminded of their name. She was about to say something suitably agreeable, and to introduce Victor and Thora, but as if suddenly aware of a breach of good manners, Mrs. Gibson-Jones turned to Victor.
“Are you going to play for us? How jolly. I think music always lifts an occasion, don’t you?” And without waiting for an answer, she moved away, having caught sight of someone else with whom she wished to confer.
Emily turned to Victor.
“I’m sorry,” she said in little more than a whisper.
Victor smiled; it was sweet and dazzling, like a broad beam of sunlight. “What does she think I’m going to play—a jig?”
“Can you see her dancing to a jig?” Emily asked almost under her breath.
Victor’s smile became a grin. He seemed at least temporarily to have forgotten the subject of the cello and the bruise.
Emily excused herself to both of them and set about the business of being charming. She moved from group to group, exchanging greetings, inquiries after health, small chatter of fashion, children, the weather, court and society, matters of the usual exchange in civilized conversation. She saw Jack speaking with men of wealth, good family, connections of every sort, both open and discreet. For a moment she wondered again how many of them were members of the Inner Circle, which of them knew who else was, who walked in fear or guilt, who owed dark loyalties, who was prepared to betray. Then she dismissed it from her mind. There was no purpose in it.
“We need change,” she overheard a thin man say, adjusting his spectacles on his nose. “This police force is simply not good enough. Good heavens, when a man of the distinction of Oakley Winthrop can be hacked to death in Hyde Park, we are sinking into anarchy. Complete anarchy.”
“Incompetent officer in charge,” his thickset companion agreed, looping his thumbs into the armholes of his waistcoat, leaving his jacket flapping. “I shall table a question in the House. Something must be done. It is getting so a decent man cannot take a walk after dark. Murmur and whispers everywhere, talk of anarchists, bombs, the Irish, everyone suspicious of his neighbor. Whole world in turmoil.”
“I blame the asylums,” a third man put in vehemently. “What kind of a lunatic is it who can do such things and remain at large? That is what I should like to know. Nobody’s doing a damned thing about it.”
“Have you heard Uttley on the subject?” the first man asked, looking from one to the other of his companions. “He’s right, you know. We need some changes. Although I cannot agree about the lunatic. I rather think it is a purposely sane and very evil man. Mark my words, there is some connection between the victims, whatever anyone says.”
“Really, Ponsonby?” The thickset man looked surprised. “I thought this second feller was a musician? Rather good. Did you know Winthrop? Naval feller, what?”
“Odd chap,” Ponsonby said, pulling a face. “Decent enough family, though. Father’s making a fuss, poor devil. Taken it hard. Can’t blame him.”
“Did you know him?”
“Marlborough Winthrop?”
“No, no, Oakley, man. The son!”
“Met him once or twice. Why? Didn’t care for the chap greatly. Bit overbearing, you know.”
“What, very naval, and all that? Still thinks he’s on the quarterdeck?”
Ponsonby hesitated. “Not really, just had to be the center of things, always talking, always expressing his opinions. Only met him two or three times. Met the brother-in-law, actually. Name of Mitchell, as I recall. Interesting feller. Deep. Been in Africa until very lately, so I believe.”
“Deep? What do you mean deep?”
“Thought a lot more than he said, if you know what I mean. Couldn’t abide his brother-in-law. Gave me some good financial advice, though! Put me onto an excellent man in the city, feller by the name of Carvell. Bought me some very good shares. Done well.”
“Very useful, that—what.”
“What?”
“Useful. Very useful to have a good financial adviser.”
“Oh, yes. Talking about finance, what do you think of …”
Emily moved away, her mind whirling with snatches of words, half ideas, thoughts to report to Charlotte.
7
“YES OF COURSE I’ve been reading the newspapers every day,” Micah Drummond said grimly. He was standing by the window in the library of the small house he had bought about six months ago, immediately prior to his marriage, not finding his apartment adequate for his new status. The home he had shared with his first wife, and where his daughters had grown up, he had sold on becoming a widower. His daughters were by then married, and he felt haunted by memories and uncharacteristically lonely.
Now everything was different. He had resigned his position in order to marry Eleanor Byam, a woman touched by tragedy, and unwittingly by scandal. He had loved her deeply enough to consider his resulting retirement from office a trifling price to pay for the constant pleasure of her companionship.
He looked at Pitt with a frown of concern in his long, sensitive face with its grave eyes and ascetic mouth.
“I wish I could think of something helpful to say, but with every new event I become more confused.” He pushed his hands deeper into his pockets. “Have you found any connection between Winthrop, Arledge and the poor bus conductor?”
“No. It’s possible Winthrop and Arledge knew each other, or more exactly that Winthrop’s brother-in-law, Mitchell, knew both of them,” Pitt replied, sitting comfortably in the large green chair. “But the bus conductor is a complete mystery. Men like Winthrop don’t take omnibuses. Arle
dge might have, but I think it’s unlikely.”
Drummond was standing with his back to the fireplace. He looked at Pitt anxiously. “Why? What makes you think Arledge might have used an omnibus? Why would a man of his standing do such a thing?”
“Only a remote possibility,” Pitt replied. “He had a—a lover.”
“A what?” The ghost of a smile touched Drummond’s lips. “You mean a mistress?”
“No.” Pitt sighed. “I don’t. I mean what I said. Not a liaison he could afford to have known. He might have used an omnibus …”
“But you don’t believe it,” Drummond finished for him. “A quarrel?” He searched Pitt’s face curiously, his brows puckered. “You are not satisfied with that?”
Pitt had thought about it deeply, and the easy answer troubled him.
“I might have been, if I had not met the man,” he said slowly. “But he was desolated. Oh I know that doesn’t preclude his having done it himself—people have killed those they loved before and then been destroyed by grief and remorse afterwards. I just don’t believe he is one of those.”
Drummond bit his lip. “I shall be surprised if Farnsworth sees it that way.”
“Oh, he doesn’t,” Pitt agreed with a harsh little laugh. “But so far there is no evidence whatever to connect Carvell with either Winthrop or Yeats, so I can refuse to act for the time being.”
Drummond looked at him closely and Pitt felt increasingly uncomfortable.
“So far there is no real connection between any of them,” Pitt continued. “Only a very tenuous business matter. I cannot believe all this is over money.”
“Nor I,” Drummond admitted. “There is a passion in it, an insanity that springs from something which, thank God, is far less ordinary than greed. But I cannot imagine what.” He hesitated, looking at Pitt.
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