by Anne Perry
“What with?”
“No idea,” Margason replied. “Some kind of fever. No one was paying a great deal of attention then. We were all expecting trouble. It was shortly after the incident at the shrine. Over thirty people were killed in a fire. All Muslims, but the shrine was Christian as well, and feelings ran very high. We were afraid of religious battles breaking out. Colonel Garrick was very decisive. Stamped it out immediately. Arranged for burial, memorial, everything. Posted a guard on the place. Any man after that caught treating the Muslims with disrespect was confined to barracks.”
“And were there further incidents?” Pitt asked, remembering what Ishaq had said.
“No,” Margason replied without hesitation. “I told you, Garrick was very good. But it must have taken a great deal of skill and tight discipline. A case of fever that a man recovered from was hardly going to stay in the memory at such a time.”
“Do you usually send men home for a fever?”
“If it’s a recurrent sort, you might as well. Malaria, or something like that.” Margason shook his head. “You can find the medical officer’s report if you want to. I haven’t got time to find it for you. Far as I know, Lovat was a good officer, sent home for medical reasons. Loss to the army, but plenty for him to do in England. Talk to anyone you like, just don’t start rumors, and don’t waste our time.”
Pitt stood up. Margason would tell him nothing more, and he had no intention of wasting his own time either. He thanked him and availed himself of the permission to speak to the other men.
Pitt spent the rest of the day asking and listening, and he formed a far clearer picture of Lovat, particularly from a lean and wind-burned sergeant major who was finally persuaded to speak with some candor. It took a lot of recollections from Pitt of the London east end, where the sergeant major had grown up, descriptions, a trifle sentimental, of the dockside and the river stretch towards Greenwich, but eventually the man relaxed. They were walking slowly beside one of the many delta branches of one of the greatest rivers in Africa in the milk-soft, peach-colored glow of early sunset before he spoke of Lovat.
“I couldn’t stand ’im meself,” he said with cheerful contempt, his eye following a flight of birds, black against the luminous sky. “But ’e weren’t a bad soldier.”
“Why did you dislike him?” Pitt asked curiously.
“B’cause ’e was a self-righteous bastard,” the sergeant major said. “I judge a man by ’ow ’e be’aves hisself when the goin’s ’ard an’ that, an’ when ’e’s drunk. See a lot o’ truth about a man when ’is guard’s down.” He squinted sideways at Pitt to see if he understood. Apparently he was satisfied. “Got no time for a man wot wears ’is religion ’ard. Don’ get me wrong, I in’t no lover o’ Mohammed, or anythink ’e says. An’ the way they treat women is summink awful. But the way we does things sometimes in’t no better. Live an’ let live, I say.”
“Had Lovat no respect for the religion of Islam?” Pitt asked, not sure if it made any difference. He would hardly have been killed in London for that.
“Worse ’n that,” the sergeant major replied, his face puckering into a frown, dark as a bronze statue in the waning light. “ ’E were angry about anythink they ’ad as ’e reckoned should ’a bin Christian. Burned the ’ell out of ’im that they ever took Jerusalem. ’ ’Oly city,’ ’e said. An’ all places like that.”
“And yet he fell in love with an Egyptian woman,” Pitt pointed out.
“Oh, yeah. I know all about that. Mad about ’er, ’e were, for a time. But she were a Copt, so that made it all right.” He pulled his face into an expression of disgust. “Not that ’e were ever gonna marry ’er, like. It were just one o’ them things yer do when yer young, an’ in a foreign place. ’Is society’d ’a had pups if ’e’d come ’ome with a foreign wife!”
“Did you know her?” Pitt asked.
“Not to say know,” the sergeant major replied. “Beautiful, she were,” he said wistfully. “Moved like them birds in the air.” He gestured towards another flight of river birds gliding across the sunset.
“Did you know Lovat’s friends—Garrick and Yeats?” Pitt asked.
“ ’Course I did. An’ Sandeman. All gone ’ome now. Invalided out at the same time. Got the same fever, I s’pose.”
“Out of the army? All of them?”
The sergeant major shrugged. “Dunno. I ’eard as Yeats were dead, poor sod. Killed in some kind o’ military action, so I reckon ’e must ’a stayed in, just got posted somewhere wi’ a diff’rent climate. Yer wanna know about them too? Yer thinkin’ as they might ’a killed ’im?” He shook his head. “Dunno wot for. Still, that’s yer job, not mine, thank Gawd. I just gotta see that this lot”—he jerked his hand towards the dark silhouette of the barracks—“keeps order ’ere in Egypt.”
“Do you think that’s going to be difficult?” Pitt asked, more for something to say than because he expected the man to know, and then the moment after, he realized he cared. The timeless beauty of the land would remain with him long after he went back to the modern urgency of London. He would always wish he had had time, and money, to go up the river and see the Valley of the Kings, the great temples and ruins of a civilization which ruled the world it knew before Christ was born.
And he also realized how profoundly he wanted Ayesha to be innocent, and to be able to prove it. He now believed she had gone to England to try to accomplish something for the economic freedom of her people. She had been looking for a justice she was not sophisticated enough to know would never be granted as long as the cotton mills of Lancashire fed and clothed a million people, who also were poor, with all the misery and disease that poverty brought, but who had political power in London. And even larger than that, a few miles across the desert older than mankind, ochre and shadow under the first stars, lay the modern miracle of a canal cutting its way from the Mediterranean to the Indian Ocean, and the other half of the empire.
He stood beside the sergeant major and watched the very last of the light die before thanking him, and going to look for Avram, to tell him that tomorrow they would return to Alexandria, where he would find Avram a suitable reward for his help.
CHAPTER
NINE
GRACIE SAT in the corner of the public house staring across the table at Tellman. He was watching her intently, more than was required for what she was telling him, and with a warm ripple of both comfort and self-consciousness, she knew he would have looked at her that way even if she had been talking complete nonsense. It was a fact she was going to have to address sooner or later. He had shown all kinds of emotions towards her, from his initial lack of interest to irritation at her acceptance of being a resident servant in someone else’s house, totally dependent upon them even for the roof over her head. He had been forced into a grudging respect for her intelligence when she had assisted Pitt in certain cases, then showed more clearly than he knew, fighting for all he was worth not to admit to anyone at all, especially himself, that he was in love with her. Now he no longer pretended he was not—at least not all the time.
He had kissed her once, with a sweet, fierce honesty that she could still remember, and if she closed her eyes and blocked out the rest of the world, she could feel it again as if it were moments ago. When she had found herself doing that, standing alone in the windy street and smiling, she acknowledged it was time to admit that she loved him too.
Not that she was necessarily prepared to admit anything of the sort to him. But it was as well to know at least what she wanted, even if she did not know when.
She had been recounting to him what Lady Vespasia had learned about the Garrick household, and that Stephen Garrick was supposed to have gone to the south of France for the good of his health.
“But it’s more ’n long enough for him to have written and told Tilda, in’t it?” she finished. “In fact, ’e could ’ave sent ’er a message before ’e left. That in’t ’ard ter do, an’ surely Mr. Garrick wouldn’t ’ave minded?”
>
He frowned. His opinion of the whole business of permission from others to attend to ordinary family commitments was a sore point they had already argued over many times.
“Shouldn’t!” he said with feeling. “But you can’t tell.” He looked at her intently, as if no one else in the babble around them were real. “But if he went to the south of France, he must have taken cases with him, and either used a hansom or his own carriage, at least as far as the station. There’ll be record of a boat across the Channel. We’ll know for sure that Martin Garvie went with him. I just don’t know why there was no letter back.”
“Mebbe we could ask Mr. Garrick, ’oo’s still ’ere in London, fer an address?” Gracie suggested. “It’s fair, as ’is family should want ter know where ter write ter ’im.”
Tellman pursed his lips. “It is fair,” he agreed. “But we’ve already tried. Tilda herself tried, and then you did. I’ll see what I can find out about their leaving.”
She looked at him steadily. She knew every expression of his face; she could have pictured it exactly with her eyes closed. She was surprised and a little embarrassed to realize how often she had done so, not really telling herself the truth as to her reasons, or admitting the odd sense of comfort it gave her. She knew now that he was worried, and also that he was trying to hide it from her to protect her, and partly because he was uncertain.
“Yer think there’s summink wrong, don’t yer?” she said softly. “People don’t lie fer nothin’.”
He was cautious, gentle. “I don’t know. Can you get the evening off the day after tomorrow?”
“If I need ter. Why?”
“I’ll tell you what I’ve found. It may take me a while. I’ll need to get witnesses, see train and ferry records and the like.”
“ ’Course. Mrs. Pitt’d never stand in the way of an investigation. I’ll be ’ere. Yer jus’ tell me wot time.”
“How about early? We’ll go to the music hall, see something good?” His face was eager, but the shadow in his eyes betrayed that her acceptance mattered to him, and he by no means took it for granted. This was a social engagement, something to do together for pleasure, not just as part of a case. It was the first time he had done such a thing, and they were both suddenly acutely aware of it.
She found herself blushing; the color was hot in her cheeks. She wanted to behave with lightness, as if his offer meant nothing unusual, and she was not managing it. She was awkward again.
“Yeah …” she said, trying to be casual, and catching her breath in a hiccup. She was going to have to make a big decision soon, and she was not ready for it. She had known for ages how he felt. She should have made up her mind by now. “Yeah. I like music.” What would she wear? It must be good enough. She wanted him to think she was pretty, but she was also afraid of it. What if he got emotional, and she did not know how to handle it? Perhaps she should have said no, kept it to business.
“Good.” He gave her no time to change her mind. Had he seen the indecision in her face?
“Well …” she began.
“Seven o’clock,” he went on too quickly. “We’ll have something to eat, and I’ll tell you what I’ve found, and we can go to the music hall.” He stood up, as if he felt self-conscious and wanted to escape before he did something that made him feel even more foolish.
She stood up too, knocking against the table. Thank heaven there was nothing on it to spill; the motion just rattled the glasses a little.
He waited for her to go ahead of him, and followed her out into the street. It was harder to speak there. A dray with a load of barrels was backing awkwardly around the corner into the inn yard, the driver holding the lead horse’s bridle and calling out orders. Another man balanced half a dozen kegs on a trolley as he wheeled them across the cobbles, rattling at every step. Traffic clattered past in the roadway, hooves loud, harness jingling.
Gracie was glad of it, and looking quickly at Tellman’s face, she thought he was too. Perhaps he would get cold feet and say nothing for ages? That would give her longer to think. About what? She would say yes. It was just how she would say it that was still to be considered. Change was frightening. She had been with the Pitts since she had been thirteen. She couldn’t leave them.
Tellman was saying something, shouting above the noise.
“Yeah!” she agreed, nodding. “I’ll be ’ere at seven, day arter termorrer. You find out wot ’appened ter Martin Garvie. ’Bye.” And without waiting for him to say anything else she smiled brilliantly and turned on her heel.
TWO EVENINGS LATER they met at the same table in the corner of the public house. Tellman was dressed in a plain dark jacket and his white shirt looked even stiffer-collared than usual. Gracie had put on her best blue dress and bonnet, and allowed her hair to be less tightly scraped back than usual, but that was all the concession she would make to an extraordinary occasion. However, as soon as she saw Tellman’s face, preoccupation with herself vanished.
“Wot?” she said urgently, as soon as they were seated and their order given. “Wot is it, Samuel?” She was not even aware of using his name.
He leaned forward. “Plenty of people saw Stephen Garrick leave his house, and they described the man who went with him—fair-haired, in his twenties, pleasant face. From what they say, he was a servant, almost certainly a valet, but there were only two small cases, no trunks or boxes. Mr. Garrick was ill. He had to be half carried out from the house and it took two men to help him into the carriage, but it was his own carriage, not an ambulance, and driven by the household coachman.”
“ ’Oo said?” she asked quickly.
“Lamplighter,” he replied. “Just beginning.”
“About six in the evening?” She was surprised. “In’t that a funny time ter start on a journey ter France? Is it summink ter do wi’ tides, or the like? Where’d ’e go from? London docks?”
“Morning,” he replied. “Putting the lamps out, not lighting them. But that’s the funny thing. I checked all sailings from the London docks that day, and they weren’t on anything to France, not Mr. Garrick alone, nor with anyone else.”
Their order arrived, a very good early supper of winkles and bread and butter, and there would be apple pie afterwards. Tellman thanked the serving girl and pronounced the meal excellent. Gracie picked up the long pin for digging out the flesh and held it up in her hand. “Mebbe they went from Dover? People do, don’t they?”
“Yes. But I tried the station for the train, and the porter who’d been on the Dover platform said that, to the best of his recollection, there was no one with anything like that description all day. No invalid, no one that needed helping of any kind, except with heavy baggage.”
She was puzzled. “So they din’t go from London, an’ they din’t go from Dover. Where else is there?”
“Well, they could have gone anywhere else, like somewhere on the Continent that wasn’t France, or anywhere in England—or Scotland, for that matter,” he replied. “Except that if Stephen Garrick has poor health, and the English climate is too harsh for him, he’d hardly go to spend the winter in Scotland.” He discarded his last winkle shell and finished his bread and butter.
She was even more puzzled. “But Lady Vespasia was very plain that that was wot Mr. Garrick said,” she argued. “An’ why would ’e lie to ’er? Rich folk often go away fer their ’ealth.”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “It doesn’t make sense. But wherever they went, it wasn’t straight to a ship and across to France.” He looked intensely serious. “You were right to be worried, Gracie. When people lie and you can’t see the reason, it usually means that the reason is even worse than you thought.” He sat silent for a moment, his face puckered with concern.
“Wot?” she urged.
He looked up at her. “If they weren’t going to catch a train, or a boat, why go at that time in the morning? They must have got up at five, when it was still dark.”
A kind of heaviness settled inside her. “ ’Cos they d
idn’t wanter be seen,” she replied. Suddenly matters of who loved whom and what to say or do about it had no urgency at all. She looked at him without any pretense. “Samuel, we gotta find out, ’cos if someone like old Mr. Garrick is tellin’ lies, even ter ’is own ’ouse’old, an’ Tilda don’t know where her brother is, then the answer in’t anythin’ good.”
He did not argue. “Trouble is, we’ve got no crime that we know of,” he said grimly. “And Mr. Pitt’s in Egypt, so we can’t even ask his help.”
“Then we gotta do it ourselves,” she said very quietly. “I don’t like that, Samuel. I wish as we din’t.”
He put out his hand instinctively and let it rest very gently over hers, covering it completely. “So do I, but we’ve got no choice. We wouldn’t be happy just forgetting about it. Tomorrow we’ll speak to Tilda again and get her to tell us everything Martin ever said about the Garricks. We’ve got to know more. As it is, we’ve got nothing to follow up.”
“I’ll fetch ’er when she does ’er errands, about ’alf past nine.” She nodded. “But she never told me wot Martin said before, so mebbe ’e didn’t say nothin’ about the Garricks. Wot are we gonna do then?”
“Go back and talk to the parlor maid at the Garrick house, who knew him fairly well,” he replied. “But that would be harder. If there is anything wrong, she won’t be able to speak freely while she’s there, and she’ll be afraid for losing her position.” He tried very hard to keep his feelings about that out of his face, and failed. “Do you want some apple pie?” he asked instead.
“Yeah … please.” The winkles had been delicious, but they were not very filling, and there is nothing quite like really good short-crust pastry and firm, tart apples, with cream on thick enough to stand a spoon up in.
When they had finished, Tellman paid and they left. Out in the cool evening, they walked side by side along the crowded footpath half a mile or so to the entrance of the music hall. There were scores of people, much like themselves, some of them more showily dressed, but most arm in arm, men strutting a little, girls laughing and swishing skirts. They pressed close together, pushing each other in excitement to get inside.
