by Anne Perry
They stood for seconds. Then he straightened. “Nevertheless, Mrs. Pitt, for your safety’s sake, please do not press any further with enquiries regarding Mr. Garrick. There can be no conceivable reason for his having harmed a servant, other than possibly in reputation, and that is something you cannot undo.”
“I would like to oblige you, Mr. Narraway,” she replied very levelly. “But if I find myself in a position to help Tilda Garvie, then I cannot hold back from doing so. I can think of no way in which it would inconvenience Mr. Garrick, unless he has done something unjust … If he has, then, like anyone else, he is answerable for it.”
Exasperation filled Narraway’s face. “But not to you, Mrs. Pitt! Haven’t you—” He stopped.
She smiled at him with great charm. “No,” she said. “I haven’t. May I offer you a cup of tea? It will be in the kitchen, but you are very welcome.”
He stood motionless, as if the decision were a major one on which something of great importance depended, as if even from the parlor he could sense the warmth and the comfortable familiarity of scrubbed wood, clean linen, gleaming china on the dresser, and the lingering, sweet odor of food.
“No, thank you,” he said at last. “I must go home.” His voice held the regret he could not put into words. “Good night.”
“Good night, Mr. Narraway.” She accompanied him to the front door, and watched his slender, straight-backed figure walk with almost military elegance along the rain-wet footpath towards the thoroughfare.
CHAPTER
TEN
PITT THANKED TRENCHARD for his help and left Alexandria with a stab of regret that surprised him. He would miss the balmy nights pale with stars, the wind blowing in off the sea, smelling clean above the spice odors and filth of the hot streets. And he would also miss the sound of music and voices he did not understand, the colors in the bazaars, the fruit. But in London there would be fewer mosquitoes, and no scorpions. Certainly in the coming winter no cloying, sticky heat to make the sweat run down his skin or light that blinded his eyes and made him permanently squint in the sun.
And there would be no more sense of being a stranger intruding in a land where his people were different and unwelcome, and the weight on the conscience of having contributed to the searing poverty. Of course there was poverty in England too. People died of hunger, cold and disease, but they were his own people; he was one of them and not to blame.
There was a sense of incompleteness in his mission as he stood on the deck of the ship, the bright water churning around him and the city already fading into the distance. What could he tell Narraway? He knew far more about Ayesha Zakhari, and she was not at all as he had assumed, which forced him to reassess the whole question of why Lovat had been killed. It seemed a pointless thing to have done, and Ayesha was not stupid.
Above all, he wanted to be home with Charlotte, his children, the comfort of his house and the familiarity of streets where he knew every corner, and understood the language.
It was another three days before he docked at Southampton, and then a train journey back to London which was in truth less than two hours but seemed to drag to the very last minute.
By seven o’clock he was on the doorstep of Narraway’s office, determined to leave a note if there was no one in, but wishing intensely to say all he had to tonight, and go home to sleep as long as he wanted, luxuriously, in all that was sweet and gentle and long-loved, without the need to trouble his mind with what he must say or do in the morning.
But Narraway was in and there was no escape from reporting in person. He leaned back in his chair when Pitt was inside and the door had closed behind him. His stare was penetrating but guarded, already prepared to defend against a returning enquiry.
Pitt was too tired, both physically and emotionally, to pretend to any form of etiquette. He sat down opposite him and stretched out his legs. His feet hurt and he was cold with exhaustion and the sudden chill of English October.
Narraway simply waited for Pitt to speak.
“She is a highly intelligent, literate, and well-educated woman of Christian descent,” Pitt said. “But an Egyptian patriot who cared very much for the poor in her country and for the injustice of foreign domination.”
Narraway pursed his lips and made his fingers into a steeple, his elbows on the arms of his chair. “So a woman coming for a political end, not merely to make her own fortune,” he said without surprise. His expression did not alter in the slightest. “Did she imagine that she could affect the cotton industry through Ryerson?”
“It seems so,” Pitt answered.
Narraway sighed, his face now filled with sadness. “Naive,” he murmured.
Pitt had a powerful feeling that Narraway was speaking of far more than simply Ayesha Zakhari’s ignorance of political inevitability. He sat back in his chair as if at ease, and yet his body was not relaxed. There was a tension within him which was palpable in the room. “You said well educated. In what?” he demanded.
“History, languages, her own culture,” Pitt replied. “Her father was a learned man, and she was his only child. Apparently he found her an excellent companion and taught her much of what he knew.”
Narraway’s face tightened. He seemed to understand far more from Pitt’s words than the simple facts they referred to. Was he thinking that she was brought up in the intellectual company of an older man, that it was comfortable to her and she was used to both the advantages, and perhaps the disadvantages as well? Pitt wondered if it had been a training for her which enabled her to charm Ryerson without ever seeming to be too young, too unsophisticated, too impatient? Or was it the forming of a woman for whom young men were unsubtle, shallow and with whom she was ill at ease? Could she actually be as much in love with Ryerson as he believed?
Then why on earth would she have shot Lovat? Had Pitt missed something critical in Alexandria after all?
Narraway was watching him. He said abruptly, “What is it, Pitt?” He was leaning forward. His hand was shaking slightly.
Pitt was intensely aware of currents of emotion far beyond the facts he could see. He hated working with a superior who obviously trusted him so little, whatever the reason. Was it for his safety? Or someone else’s? Or was Narraway protecting something in himself that Pitt could not even guess at?
“Nothing that seems to have any relevance to Lovat, or to Ryerson,” he answered the question. “She was a passionate follower of one of the Orabi revolutionists, an older man. She fell in love with him, and he betrayed both her and the cause. It was a bitter hurt to bear.”
Narraway drew in a long, deep breath and let it out silently. “Yes.” The single word was all he said.
For seconds Pitt waited, sure Narraway would say more. There seemed to be sentences, paragraphs in his mind, just beyond reach.
But when he did speak, it was a change of subject. “What about Lovat?” he asked. “Did you find anyone who knew him? There must be something more than the written records we have here. For God’s sake, what were you doing in Alexandria all that time?”
Pitt swallowed his irritation and told him briefly what he had done, his further pursuit of Edwin Lovat and his army career in Egypt, and Narraway listened, again in silence. It was unnerving. Some response would have made it easier.
“I couldn’t find anything at all to suggest a motive for murder,” Pitt finished. “He seemed a very ordinary soldier, competent, but not brilliant, a decent enough man who made no particular enemies.”
“And his invaliding out?” Narraway asked.
“Fever,” Pitt replied. “Malaria, as far as I could tell. He certainly was not the only one to get it at that time. There doesn’t seem to have been anything remarkable about it. He was sent back to England, but honorably. No question over his record or his career.”
“I know that much,” Narraway said wearily. “His trouble seems to have begun after he got back home.”
“Trouble?” Pitt prompted.
Narraway’s look was sour. �
�I thought you looked at the man yourself?”
“I did,” Pitt replied tartly. “If you remember, I told you.” He was conscious of how tired he was. His eyes stung with the effort of keeping them open, and his body ached from long sitting in one position on the train. He was cold in spite of the fire in Narraway’s office. Perhaps hunger and exhaustion added to it. He wanted to go home, to see Charlotte and hold her in his arms; he wanted these things so profoundly it required a deep effort to be civil to Narraway. “He’s given plenty of men, and women, cause to hate him,” he went on brusquely. “But we have nothing to suggest any of them were in Eden Lodge the night he was killed. Or have you discovered something?”
Narraway’s face pinched tight. Pitt was startled by the sense of power in it. Narraway was not a large man, yet his mind and his emotion dominated the room, and would have, however many people had been there. For the first time Pitt realized how little he knew about a man in whose hands he placed his own future, even at times perhaps his life. He had no idea of Narraway’s family or where he came from, and that did not matter. He had never known those things about Micah Drummond, or John Cornwallis, and he had not cared. He knew what they believed in, what mattered to them, and he understood them, at times better than they understood themselves. But then he was wiser, more experienced in human nature than they, who had seen only their own narrow portion of it.
Narraway was a far cleverer man, subtler. He never intentionally gave away anything of himself. Secrecy, misleading, taking knowledge without giving it, were his profession. But being obliged to trust where he could not see was a new experience for Pitt, and not a comfortable one.
“Have you?” he repeated. This time it was a challenge.
For a moment they faced each other in a silent, level stare. Pitt was not sure he could afford a confrontation, but he was too tired to be careful.
Narraway spoke very steadily, as if he had suddenly decided to take control of the exchange. “No, unfortunately not. But our job is to protect Ryerson, if possible.”
“At the expense of hanging an innocent woman?” Pitt said bitterly.
“Ah!” Narraway let out his breath in a sigh, his face easing, as if he had learned something of great interest. “And are you now of the opinion that Ayesha Zakhari is innocent? If so, then there is something you found in Egypt that you have not told me. I think this would be a good time to do so. The trial begins in two days.”
Pitt felt jolted as hard as if he had been slapped. Tomorrow! That was no time at all. The truth came to his tongue almost as if he had no ability to prevent it.
“I went to Egypt thinking she was a very pretty young woman of loose morals, prepared to use her charm to provide herself with the wealth and comfort she would not otherwise obtain.” He saw Narraway’s eyes intent upon him, and the faint curve of his lips into a smile. “And I came back knowing she was well-born, highly articulate, and probably far better educated than nine tenths of the men in London society, never mind the women. She is passionate in the cause of her country’s economic independence and welfare. She has been totally betrayed once, and may find it hard to believe any man again, no matter what he professes. And yet she has said nothing in prison to implicate Ryerson.”
“Which proves what?” Narraway asked.
“That there is something crucial we don’t know,” Pitt replied, pushing his chair back. “We haven’t done very well.” He stood up. “Either of us.”
Narraway looked at him, tilting his head back a little to meet his eyes. “I do know that Edwin Lovat was a man of profound and corroding misery,” he said very quietly. “And neither of us has uncovered the reason for it. It may have nothing to do with his murder—but it makes as much sense as anything else we have.”
“Well, I have no idea what it was,” Pitt replied. “According to his superiors in Alexandria, he was a man of religious conviction, well-liked, good at his job, and in love with Ayesha, but only casually. It ended before he left Egypt. He certainly wasn’t heartbroken—nor was she.”
“Nobody is suggesting that kind of passion, Pitt,” Narraway said with an edge to his voice; it could have been anything: pain, regret, memory, even dream. “She was beautiful, he was far from home. Since Egypt he has gone from woman to woman, but it was not for love of her. She was just one more.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I’ve spoken to those in their circle. He saw her several times in London before he bothered to pursue her at all. He was becoming more deeply involved than he wished with another woman. He wanted an escape from entanglement. Being seen to court Miss Zakhari provided it for him. He wanted to chase—he did not want to catch.”
Pitt hesitated at the door. He was too tired to think clearly. “Then what was the matter with him? What happened between leaving Egypt and arriving in England?”
“I don’t know yet,” Narraway answered. “But I am not certain that it has nothing to do with his death.”
“And Miss Zakhari?”
“As we have already said, there’s something we do not know, something that may bring more than a simple, rather pointless murder with it.”
Pitt opened the door and stood with his hand on it. “Good night.”
Narraway smiled very slightly. “Good night, Pitt.”
IT WAS DARK by the time Pitt reached Keppel Street. The lamps gleamed along the pavement like a string of endlessly reflected moons, dimming in the mist until the last he could see was no more than a suggestion, a luminescence without shape.
He opened the door with his own key and stood inside, tasting the moment, breathing in deeply the familiar odors of beeswax and lavender polish, clean linen, and the soft earthiness of chrysanthemums on the hall table. There was no light on in the parlor. The children would be upstairs; Charlotte and Gracie must be in the kitchen. He took his boots off, relishing the feel of his stocking feet on the cool linoleum. He padded down to the door and pushed it open.
For a moment Charlotte did not notice. She was alone in the room, her head bent over her needle, her face grave, heavy hair slipping out of its pins, bright in the gaslight. At that instant the sight of her was more beautiful than anything else he could imagine, more than sunset over the Nile or the desert sky white with stars.
“Hello …” he said quietly.
She jerked around, stared at him for an unbelieving heartbeat, then dropped the sewing on the floor and threw herself into his arms. It was long minutes later, when they heard Gracie’s heels along the hall, that they broke apart and Charlotte, her face flushed, went over to put the kettle on.
“Yer ’ome!” Gracie said with exuberant delight. Then, remembering her dignity a little, and lowering her voice to something closer to normal, “Well I’m that glad ter see yer safe. I s’pose yer ’ungry?” That was hopeful. Hungry was back to normal. When he did not answer immediately she regarded him with a shadow of anxiety.
“Yes, please.” He smiled at her and sat down in his usual place. “But a cold meat sandwich will be fine. Is everything well here?”
“ ’Course it is,” Gracie said firmly.
Charlotte turned from the stove, the kettle now on the hob. Her eyes were bright. “Very well,” she confirmed, not looking at Gracie.
He caught the tension, the shadow somewhere, the communication in that neither had looked at each other, almost as if the answer was agreed before he had come in.
“What have you been doing?” he asked conversationally.
Charlotte looked at him, but after a hesitation so minute that had he not been watching her closely, he would have missed it. It was as if she had been going to turn to Gracie first, and then decided not to.
“What have you been doing?” he repeated, before she had time to say something less than the truth, which she would then be unable to withdraw.
She took in a deep breath. “Gracie has a friend whose brother seems to be missing. We have been trying to find out what happened to him.”
He read her expression. “B
ut you haven’t succeeded,” he said.
“No. No, and we don’t know what to do next. I’ll tell you about it … tomorrow.”
“Why not tonight?” The question sprang from the nudge of anxiety that she was delaying because something in the story would displease or disturb him.
She smiled. “Because you are tired and hungry, and there are far better things to talk about. We have tried, and not achieved very much.”
As if released from waiting on every word, Gracie swiveled around and darted to the pantry to slice the cold meat, and Charlotte went upstairs to wake the children.
They came racing down the stairs and threw themselves at Pitt, almost overbalancing him off his chair, hugging him, asking question after question about Egypt, Alexandria, the desert, the ship, and constantly interrupting the answers. Then he opened his case and gave them all the gifts he had brought, to everyone’s intense delight.
BUT IN THE MORNING he raised the question again, when Gracie was out shopping and Daniel and Jemima were at school. He had slept late, and came down to find Charlotte making bread.
“Who is the missing brother?” he asked, accepting tea and toast and fishing in the marmalade pot to see if there was sufficient left to satisfy his hunger for it. Its tart pungency was one of his favorite flavors, and it seemed like months since he had enjoyed crisp toast. He thought there might be just enough. He looked up at her. “Well?”
Now her face was shadowed. She went on kneading automatically. “He was valet to Stephen Garrick, in Torrington Square. A very respectable family, although Aunt Vespasia doesn’t care for the father at all—General Garrick, a—” She stopped, her hands motionless. “What is it?”
“General Garrick?” he asked.
“Yes. Do you know him?” At the moment she was no more than curious.
“He was commanding officer in Alexandria when Lovat was invalided out of the army,” he replied.
