by Anne Perry
Tariq el Abd answered the door.
“Good morning, sir,” he said politely, his face expressionless. “How can I help you?”
“Good morning,” Pitt replied. “I need to make some further enquiries, and you can help me.”
El Abd invited him in and led the way through to the withdrawing room. He did not look entirely comfortable about having the police in this part of the house—they were hardly social acquaintances—but the kitchens and laundry rooms were his domain, and he did not wish them there either. He drew the line at offering refreshment.
“What is it you need to ask me, sir?” he said, remaining standing so Pitt should do so as well.
Pitt had little time to look around the room, but he had a sense of subtle colors and light. The lines were less cluttered than he was accustomed to; everything was simpler. There was an elaborate ornament of a dog with large ears, the whole creature perhaps a foot and a half long, crouching on one of the side tables. It was a thing of great loveliness.
El Abd must have seen his eye caught by it.
“Anubis, sir,” he said. “One of the ancient gods of our country. Of course, the people who believed in him are long dead.”
“The beauty of their workmanship remains,” Pitt answered with feeling.
“Yes, sir. What is it you wish to ask me?” His face was still almost devoid of expression.
“Were the lights on in this room when Mr. Lovat was shot?”
“I beg your pardon, sir? I do not understand. Mr. Lovat was shot in the garden … outside. He never entered the house.”
“You were awake?” Pitt asked in surprise.
El Abd’s face showed an instant’s lack of composure, then it was gone again. “No, sir, not until I heard the shot. Miss Zakhari said he did not come inside. I believe her. There had been no one in here. The lights were not on.”
“Anywhere else in the house?”
“There were no lights lit anywhere downstairs, sir, except in the hall. They are never turned completely off.”
“I see. And upstairs?”
“I do not understand what it is you seek, sir. The lights were on in Miss Zakhari’s bedroom and her sitting room upstairs, and on the landing above the stairs, as always.”
“Are there some at the front of the house, or the back?”
“The front, sir.” It was natural. Master bedrooms usually faced the front.
“So there was no light from the house on the back garden where Mr. Lovat was shot?” Pitt concluded.
El Abd hesitated, as if he perceived a trap of some sort. “No, sir …”
“Is it possible Miss Zakhari was unaware of Mr. Lovat’s identity? Might she have thought he was someone else?”
For the first time el Abd’s composure cracked. He looked not merely startled but as if he was in a moment’s actual danger. Then it passed, and he stared back at Pitt, blinking a little. “I never thought of that, sir. I can’t say. If … if she thought it were a robber, surely she could have called me? She knows I would defend her … it is my duty.”
“Of course,” Pitt agreed. “I was not thinking of a robber, but of someone else she actually knew, someone who was a threat to her in some way?”
El Abd was sounding confident now, his balance found again. “I know of no such person, sir. Surely if that were so, she would have told the police that it was an accident? A mistake … in self-defense? Are you permitted to shoot in self-defense in England?”
“If there is no other way to protect yourself, yes you are,” Pitt answered. “I was thinking of someone she knew and who was an enemy, a danger to her not physically but in another way, to her reputation, or to some interest about which she cared passionately.”
“I do not know what you mean, sir.” El Abd’s face was back to its smooth, polite servant’s mask.
“Your loyalty is commendable,” Pitt said, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “But pointless. If she is found guilty of murdering Mr. Lovat, she will be hanged for it. If she mistook him for someone else, who was perhaps a threat to her, then she might be able to plead some justification.”
It was marvelous how el Abd changed his expression hardly at all, and yet managed to alter from deference to contempt. “I think, sir, that it is Mr. Ryerson you are interested in seeing. And if he knew Miss Zakhari’s reason for killing the man, whoever she believed him to be, then he should tell you the truth, and justify himself, and her also. If he does not know, but found only Mr. Lovat, with no excuse, then he is guilty, whatever Miss Zakhari believed. Is it not so?”
“Yes,” Pitt said uneasily. “It is so. But perhaps Miss Zakhari would prefer not to accept that she shot Mr. Lovat, for no sensible reason at all, than tell us the truth of what she believed.”
El Abd inclined his head with the shadow of a smile. “Then loyalty to my mistress decrees that I should abide by her decision, sir. Will there be anything else?”
“Yes, there will! I would like you to write me a list of all the people you know who have called here since Miss Zakhari moved in.”
“We have a visitors’ book, sir. Will that be of assistance?”
“I doubt it. But it will be a start. I require the names of the others as well.”
“Very good, sir,” el Abd agreed, and withdrew, his feet making no noise at all on the carpets, or on the polished wood of the hall beyond.
He returned a quarter of an hour later with a sheet of paper and a white, leather-bound book, and offered them to Pitt.
Pitt thanked him and took his leave. The book was interesting. There were more names in it than he had expected, and it would take some time to learn who they all were. The additional sheet of paper, he suspected, would be of no use at all.
He spent the rest of the day identifying various men in the city, mostly to do with the cotton trade in one way or another, but there were also others who were artists, poets, musicians and thinkers. He would be interested to know why they had called upon Ayesha Zakhari—and what Saville Ryerson would think of it, and if he knew. No times of the day were noted, simply dates.
THE NEXT MORNING Pitt received a message while he was still at breakfast telling him to report within the hour to Narraway’s office. He put his knife and fork down. His kippers had lost their taste.
He still had several names both from the visitors’ book and from the additional sheet to identify, and he resented being called to report when there was nothing helpful to say.
Half an hour later he told Narraway of his visit to Eden Lodge and the names he had taken from the visitors’ book and from the manservant, el Abd.
Narraway sat deep in thought, his dark face pinched and smudged with weariness, but now there was something like a flicker of hope there as well, though he struggled to mask it.
“And you think she believed Lovat was one of these?” he said skeptically, leaning back in his chair and regarding Pitt through heavy, half-closed eyes, as if he had been up all night.
“It makes more sense than her knowing it was Lovat and shooting him,” Pitt replied.
“No, it doesn’t,” Narraway said bitterly. “If Lovat was blackmailing her and he called for payment, she took the chance to shoot him and put an end to it. That makes perfect sense, and will to any jury.”
“Blackmailing her over what?” Pitt asked.
“For God’s sake, Pitt! Use your imagination! She’s a young and beautiful woman of unknown origin. Ryerson is twenty years older than she is, highly respected, vulnerable …” He drew in his breath silently. “He may know perfectly well that she has had other lovers—in fact, he’d be a fool to imagine otherwise … It doesn’t mean he can bear being told about them, perhaps in detail.”
Pitt tried to put himself in Ryerson’s place. He could not. If you choose a woman for her physical beauty, her exotic culture, and her willingness to be a mistress rather than a wife, surely you also accept it as a fact that you are not the first, nor will you be the last. The arrangement will survive as long as it suits you both.
“And you think Lovat might have blackmailed her in order to keep him silent about something in Egypt?” he said aloud.
“It is what the prosecution will assume,” Narraway replied. “Wouldn’t you?”
“If nothing else is suggested,” Pitt agreed. “But they have to prove it—”
Narraway jerked forward, his shoulders tense, his body rigid. “No, they damned well don’t!” he said between his teeth. “Unless we come up with something better, it will go by default. Use your wits, Pitt! An old lover with no money or position is found dead in her garden at three in the morning. She has the corpse in a wheelbarrow and her gun beside it. What in God’s name else is anyone to think?”
Pitt felt the dark weight of the facts settle on him, almost like a physical crushing. “You mean we are merely going through the motions of looking for a defense?” he said very quietly. “Why? So Ryerson thinks he hasn’t been abandoned? Does that matter so much?”
Narraway did not meet his eyes. “We are asked by men who know a different set of realities from ours,” he answered. “They don’t care in the slightest about Ayesha Zakhari, but they need Ryerson rescued. He’s served this country long and well. A lot of the prosperity of the Manchester cotton industry, which means tens of thousands of jobs, is his doing. And if someone doesn’t find an agreement on the prices they face the strong possibility of a strike. Do you have any idea how much that will cost? It won’t only cost the cotton workers in the mills; it will affect all those whose businesses depend on them—shopkeepers, small traders, exporters—in the end, just about anyone from the men who sell houses to the crossing sweeper looking for a few halfpennies.”
“It’ll be embarrassing for the government if Ryerson is found guilty of abetting her after the fact,” he agreed. “But if he is, they’ll have to appoint someone else to handle trade with Egypt. And to judge from Ryerson’s handling of Lovat’s murder, I would rather that no national crisis were in his hands.”
Temper flared up Narraway’s sallow cheeks and his hand clenched on the desk, but he swallowed any outburst back with an effort so intense it was clearly visible. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Pitt!” he said between his teeth.
Pitt leaned forward. “Then tell me!” he demanded. “So far I see a man in love with a highly unsuitable woman and determined to stand by her, even if she proves to be guilty of murder. He can’t help her. His evidence makes it worse, not better. But either he’s not aware of that and he’s so incredibly arrogant he thinks his involvement will save her regardless, or else he simply doesn’t care.”
Narraway turned away, shifting his body around in his chair. “You’re a fool, Pitt! Of course he knows what will happen. He’ll be ruined. Unless we can prove some other possibility, he might even hang with her.” He looked back, and when he spoke his voice was shaking. “So find out who else was involved with the woman, or hated Lovat enough to have killed him. And bring me the proof, do you understand? Tell no one else anything at all. Be discreet. In fact, be more than that—be secret. Ask your questions carefully. Use that tact you are so famous for possessing … at least according to Cornwallis. Learn everything and give away nothing.” He swiveled back and stared levelly at Pitt as if he could read the thoughts in his head, willing or unwilling. “If you let this slip, Pitt, I will have no use for you. Remember that. I want the truth, and I want to be the only one who has it.”
Pitt felt cold, but he was also angry, and curious as to why it mattered to Narraway in the fashion that it seemed to. Narraway was concealing as much from him as he was telling, perhaps more, and yet he demanded absolute loyalty in return. Who was he protecting, and why? Was it himself, or even Pitt, from some danger he was too new in the job to understand? Or was it Ryerson, out of some loyalty or other motive that Pitt did not know of? He wanted to ask for trust in return, so that he would have a better chance of succeeding, and also to protect himself if he was uncovering evidence that could endanger powerful enemies. But there was no point in asking; Narraway did not trust anyone more than he had to. Perhaps it was the way he had survived in a business that was riddled with secrets and open to a hundred different kinds of betrayal.
“I can’t promise the truth,” Pitt said coolly. “And you certainly won’t be the only one who has it.” He saw Narraway stiffen and it gave him a certain satisfaction, but it was very small, almost lost in the awareness of his own ignorance. “I doubt I’ll have more than pieces of it, but whoever killed Lovat will know, and they may know that I do, depending on whether it was a clever plan or an irresponsible crime of a self-indulgent man … or woman.”
“That is why I use you, Pitt, and not one of my men who are used to chasing anarchists and saboteurs,” Narraway said dryly. “You are supposed to have a little subtlety. God knows, you can’t tell a bomb from a fruitcake, but you are supposed to be a competent detective when it comes to a murder, especially if it is a crime of passion and not of politics. Get on with it! Find the rest of the people on your list. And be quick. We haven’t much longer before the government is forced into giving up Ryerson.”
Pitt was on his feet. “Yes, sir. I suppose there is nothing else you can tell me that would be of help?” He allowed his expression to let Narraway know he was aware of his concealment, even if not what it concerned.
Narraway’s face tightened, pulling the muscles in his neck. “Cornwallis trusted you. I may come to, but I do not do so yet, and that is something for which you should be grateful. Much of what I know you are fortunate to be spared. In time you may lose that privilege, and you will wish you had it back.” He leaned a little forward over the desk between them. “But believe me, Pitt, I want Ryerson saved if it is possible, and if there were anything I could tell you that would help you in that, then I would, regardless of what it cost. But if he did conspire with that damned woman to kill Lovat, or even to hide the fact that she did, and it was a simple murder, then I’ll sacrifice him in a trice. There are bigger issues than you know, and they cannot be lost to save one man … any man.”
“A cotton strike in Manchester?” Pitt said slowly.
Narraway did not reply. “Go and do your job,” he said instead. “Don’t stand here wasting time asking me for help I can’t give you.”
Pitt went out into the street and had walked only twenty yards when he passed a newspaper seller and saw the headlines, new since he had come from the opposite direction to see Narraway.
The boy noticed his hesitation. “Paper, sir?” he offered eagerly. “They’re all sayin’ now as Mr. Ryerson oughta be arrested wi’ that foreign woman and both of ’em ’anged! Read all about it, sir?” He held out a newspaper hopefully.
Pitt forced himself to be civil. He took the paper and paid the money, walking away quickly to where he could read it without being observed. He realized with surprise at himself that he did not want his emotions seen. It might be too obvious that it mattered to him.
He took an omnibus, newspaper still folded, and got off again near one of the numerous small, leafy squares where he walked to an empty bench and sat down. He opened up the paper. It was what he would have expected. A Member of Parliament in the Opposition had demanded to know why Ayesha Zakhari was in police custody for the murder of Lovat, an honorable soldier with no stain on his character, and Ryerson, whose presence at her house at three in the morning was unexplained, and unexplainable in decent terms, had not even been questioned on the matter. He asked—in fact, he demanded in the name of justice, that the prime minister should give the House of Commons, and the British people, an answer as to why this was, and how much longer it would remain so.
BY LATE AFTERNOON, before dusk had done more than smudge the hori
zon and rob some of the color from the leaves, the government had been forced to yield. The home secretary informed the House that of course Mr. Ryerson would give full and satisfactory answers to the police.
By the time the first lamplighters were out, Ryerson was to all effect under arrest.
Pitt did not need to be sent for to return to Narraway’s office. He had no further news of any worth, and he did not even bother to reveal the little he had, merely a few more acquaintances from the Eden Lodge visitors’ book cleared of any involvement. There were only half a dozen or so still unaccounted for.
He stood in front of Narraway’s desk, waiting for him to speak.
“Yes … I know,” Narraway said, his jaw tight, his eyes focused on the polished desk in front of him, piled with papers, every one facedown. “I don’t imagine he’ll tell the police anything he hasn’t already told you.”
“He doesn’t know me,” Pitt pointed out, although he felt inexplicably as if he did know Ryerson. He could bring back to memory his face precisely, every line and shadow, the urgency and emotion in his voice, and his own sense of involvement as Ryerson had tried to explain his actions, and what he would do if Ayesha Zakhari came to trial. “He had no reason to trust me more than the circumstances forced him to,” Pitt went on. “He might say more to you.” He did not add that Ryerson and Narraway were of the same social class, the same culture and understanding, because it was implicit.
Narraway ignored it. He opened his desk drawer and took out a small metal box. It appeared to have no key and he simply opened it and withdrew a handful of Treasury notes. There must have been a hundred pounds’ worth at least. “I’ll attend to pursuing the London evidence,” he said, still not looking at Pitt. “Leave me your notes. You are going to Alexandria to find out what you can about the woman, and Lovat when he was there.”
Pitt drew in his breath in amazement. It was a moment before he could find his tongue.
Narraway had apparently already counted out the money, because he took no notice of it now but simply laid it on the desk.
