Death On Blackheath tp-29

by Anne Perry

She seemed to wait for ages. The ticking of the long-case clock was counting into eternity.

  ‘There’s less likely to be anything damning in the house,’ Narraway said at last. ‘Far more likely to be in his bank. I wonder if Carlisle will have thought of that.’

  ‘But we can’t gain access to anything in his bank,’ she said reluctantly. ‘I don’t even know if Thomas could …?’

  ‘Not easily,’ he replied. ‘Probably not at all, unless he thought of a really imaginative lie … but then that seems to be what Carlisle is rather gifted at.’ There was a slight trace of amusement in his voice, not just anger. ‘We must find out where Talbot banks. That may take a little while, but it will have for Carlisle as well. Please stay-’

  She cut across him, something she would never ordinarily do. ‘Victor, he is a social climber. It is intensely important to him to belong. He will be at the most exclusive bank there is.’ She named her own bank.

  She heard his sigh of relief. ‘Yes, of course he will. Thank you. Do you think Carlisle will have thought of that?’

  ‘Yes.’ She had no doubt at all. It was a deep instinctive knowledge Carlisle would share. ‘I’ll meet you there,’ she added.

  ‘No! Vespasia!’ His voice was sharp. ‘It could be unpleasant …’

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ she agreed. ‘But Carlisle will listen to me more than to you.’ And, before he could argue any further, she replaced the earpiece on its hook, cutting the connection.

  Nearly an hour later she and Narraway stood in the manager’s office of the most prestigious bank in London — and, of course where she was known and respected. Narraway was not, but because of his previous position as head of Special Branch, and now a member of the House of Lords, he was known by repute.

  The manager was an exquisitely dressed, aquiline-faced man in his early sixties. He concealed his nervousness behind a mask of propriety, but Vespasia could see that he was trying desperately to salvage the bank’s reputation out of a disaster he could barely comprehend.

  ‘But he was a Member of Parliament!’ he said yet again. ‘He said it was state business of the utmost importance. A constituent of his was involved in a financial transaction that could start a war, if it were not dealt with immediately. He proved his identity to me, beyond any doubt. And, apart from that, I know him by sight anyway. He banks with us! Has done for years. You must be … mistaken, my lady.’

  Narraway glanced at the manager, then at Vespasia, but did not interrupt.

  ‘Permit me to guess, Sir William,’ she said with a very faint smile. ‘Mr Carlisle wished to know if Mr Edom Talbot had received regular and very substantial payments from Sweden over the last year or so.’

  His eyebrows shot up.

  ‘Yes! Yes, indeed. He said they were fraudulent and could involve Mr Talbot, and even the Prime Minister himself, in an appalling scandal, if his fears were well-founded. I assured him they were perfectly legitimate, and the funds were all accounted for.’

  ‘But spent,’ she said drily.

  ‘Of course.’ His face was bleak. ‘It was his money, quite legally obtained. All the paperwork was in order, I assure you. The money was transferred in the usual way …’

  ‘From a Mr Harold Sundstrom?’ she asked.

  Sir William paled. ‘Yes, although perhaps I should not disclose that, except that Mr Sundstrom is a reputable gentleman in the Swedish naval establishment. We checked. There was nothing questionable about any part of the transactions. Were it anyone other than a man of Mr Carlisle’s position I should have discounted his fear entirely.’

  ‘But you didn’t,’ Narraway spoke at last. ‘Did you show him the proof he asked for?’

  ‘I did not. I merely gave him my word that all the papers were in order, and that the amounts were roughly what he estimated,’ Sir William said stiffly. ‘He wished to see them, but he accepted my assurance.’

  Narraway’s face was grim, his jaw tight. ‘And you informed Mr Talbot that the enquiry had been made?’

  ‘Of course. I telephoned him at Downing Street. He was extremely distressed. Which made me conclude that he was afraid Mr Carlisle’s fears were well-grounded. Mr Talbot has somehow been the victim of an international fraud. I have no idea what it is, but-’

  ‘I have,’ Narraway said instantly. ‘If you do not wish to have the bank complicit in treason, Sir William, you will keep all these papers in your safe and allow no one else whatever to see or touch them. And I mean anyone! Including Mr Talbot. Special Branch will come for them as soon as they can obtain the appropriate warrants. Do you understand me?’

  ‘Yes, sir, of course I do!’ Sir William said stiffly.

  Narraway smiled. ‘Thank you. The Nation will be obliged to you, although very possibly they will never know it. But I will make it my business to see that the Prime Minister does.’ He took Vespasia by the arm. ‘Good day, sir.’

  Outside on the pavement in the wind and the sun, Vespasia let out a sigh of relief, and turned to Narraway.

  He was smiling. ‘Thank you,’ he said quietly. ‘Thank God for Talbot’s social aspirations, poor devil.’ Then his face shadowed again. ‘But I wish Sir William had not told him. I suppose it was inevitable. We had better try Pitt again. Talbot may well run, and I have no means to stop him.’ He took her by the arm and began to walk quickly. ‘We had better find a telephone.’

  She hated to say it, but honesty prevailed. ‘You will move faster without me, Victor. Please go … Talbot will not only escape, he may take Ailsa with him, and leave Kynaston to take all the blame.’

  ‘Which would be a hell of a mess,’ he agreed without slackening his pace at all. ‘Or worse than that, he could stop them himself, even kill them if necessary, and emerge as the hero.’

  ‘How on earth could he do that, with the money in his name?’ she asked. She had to run a step or two to keep up, although he still had her by the arm and it was more than a trifle undignified.

  ‘Say that it was part of a plan to stop Kynaston,’ he answered.

  ‘What about Ailsa? She doesn’t love him!’ she protested.

  ‘Then he might very well have to get rid of her too,’ he agreed. ‘Perhaps that is what he has gone to do, rather than to the bank, whether he now knows we are on to Ailsa. It is only his word against Kynaston’s, and it is Kynaston who stole the secrets.’

  She was too out of breath to argue, even if she had had something useful to say.

  They swung round a corner and, after glancing in both directions, he started across the street, still holding her arm. They had reached the discreet entrance to a gentleman’s club, and he stopped abruptly, forcing her to halt.

  ‘They won’t let me in,’ she told him. ‘Don’t waste time arguing with them, use the telephone and call Thomas. If you can’t get him then try Stoker.’

  He hesitated.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Victor, get on with it!’ she ordered him.

  Without any warning at all he put both arms around her and kissed her firmly on the lips, with intense gentleness, as if he would have made it longer and deeper had time allowed. Then he turned and strode up the steps and in through the door, allowing it to slam after him.

  Vespasia stood on the steps, stunned and burning with a sudden and completely overwhelming warmth, her imagination soaring.

  He returned ten minutes later, his step light, his face shining with relief.

  ‘You spoke to Thomas?’ she said, moving towards him. ‘He will go after Talbot?’

  ‘Yes, with Stoker.’ He put his hands on her arms, holding her so that she faced him. ‘It was very good advice — “get on with it!”’ He repeated his words in exactly the tone that she had used earlier. ‘One should have the courage of one’s convictions, win or lose. Vespasia, will you marry me?’

  She was speechless. They were standing in the middle of the street. It was as unromantic as it was possible to be. And yet she had no doubts at all. They should be thinking of Talbot, and whether he would kill Ailsa or not,
of Kynaston’s treason and the appalling damage a trial would do. Yet she knew without hesitation that the most important thing in her life was that Narraway loved her, not only as a friend, but in the same intense and passionate way that she loved him.

  ‘Yes, I will,’ she replied. ‘But quietly, if you please. Not in the middle of the street.’

  Such an intense happiness filled his face that two men passing by hesitated and looked at him, then at each other, but Narraway was completely unaware of it.

  ‘I shall live the rest of my life so that you never regret it,’ he said earnestly.

  ‘I had not considered the possibility,’ she replied with a smile. ‘Time is sweet enough not to waste any of it in less than the very best way.’ She touched the side of his cheek with her fingers, a tender and intimate gesture. ‘Now may we please get out of the public thoroughfare, where we are causing something of a spectacle?’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Pitt hung up the telephone and turned to Stoker. He had requested the police to go to both Talbot’s house and his office at Downing Street, but it was merely a precaution. He did not think for a moment that he would return to either place. He agreed with Narraway that Talbot would make an attempt to silence Ailsa, the only witness who knew exactly what he had done. Without her he could still twist the truth until he emerged the hero who had discovered Kynaston’s treason and deliberately trapped him. Since he had worked so close with the Government, the Prime Minister in particular, there would be many happy to accept that answer. It would be the perfect way to avoid a scandal, which Talbot would know.

  Pitt had now just telephoned the Kynastons’ home. The butler had told him that Mrs Ailsa Kynaston was on her way to luncheon. He could not say with whom, but it was in a restaurant just across Tower Bridge. Apparently the walkway across the great span from the height of one tower to that of the other was a marvellous experience. Pitt had thanked him.

  ‘Tower Bridge,’ he told Stoker. ‘Restaurant’s just below. We’ll get a hansom. Come on!’

  ‘How long ago did she leave?’ Stoker asked, following Pitt out on to the street and striding along towards the nearest corner to find a cab.

  ‘Half an hour,’ Pitt replied, charging out into the roadway and waving his arms as a hansom approached.

  The horse drew to a startled halt, steering the cab sideways.

  ‘Tower Bridge!’ Pitt called out as he swung up into the cab. Stoker charged round the other side to climb in beside him. ‘Fast as you can!’ Pitt shouted. ‘Double the fare if you make it in time!’

  ‘Time for what?’ the cabby demanded. ‘Damn lunatic.’

  ‘To save a woman’s life,’ Pitt replied. ‘Get on with it!’

  The cab lurched forward and rapidly picked up speed until they were driving as if their own lives depended on it. They swerved round corners on two wheels and thundered along straight roads, the driver cracking his whip in the air and other traffic scattering before them.

  Pitt and Stoker clung on to their seat and by now Stoker had his eyes shut. Pitt lost track of where they were. They avoided the main thoroughfare, very wisely.

  Pitt had two main anxieties ahead of all the others, ahead even of being too late to stop Talbot from possibly killing Ailsa. The lesser thing he feared was that they would succeed in getting there on time, and he would owe the driver far more than he could afford to pay. The greater was that he had misjudged the whole affair, and they would arrive to find neither Talbot nor Ailsa anywhere near Tower Bridge.

  He sat with hands clenched, not only to keep himself from being hurled from side to side and cracking his head against the interior walls of the cab, but to try to stop his imagination from building in his mind a sense of total humiliation. He had abandoned the rules he had lived by all his life, taken decisions he had no right to. His initial instinct had been right — he was not fit for this job. He had not the wisdom nor the steel in his soul. He was guessing frantically and he was going to let everyone down.

  They were now careering along the Embankment. If it were possible to look outside without risking breaking his neck, he might see the magnificent outline of Tower Bridge like twin battlements black against the sky.

  Stoker was sitting rigid in his seat, eyes still closed. He would have nightmares about this. It was a pity; he was a good man and deserved better! Pitt wondered idly if Kitty Ryder had lived up to Stoker’s vision of her. Everything in Stoker’s smile, and his silence on the subject, made him think that perhaps she had. He was pleased. If this turned out to be a complete fiasco, it would not be Stoker’s fault. He should escape the blame.

  They came to a shuddering halt. Stoker all but fell out on to the pavement. Pitt climbed out more stiffly, straightening up as if he had been cramped for hours instead of less than one.

  ‘There y’are, sir,’ the driver said in triumph. He strained his neck up at the towers soaring into the air. ‘She’s a fine-looking bridge, in’t she? Won’t see the like o’ that nowhere else. That’s London, that is.’ He gave Pitt a gap-toothed smile of pride. ‘That’ll be nine shillings and sixpence, sir.’

  Expensive. Practically half a constable’s weekly pay, and — since he had promised to double it — it was pretty well the whole of it. He fished in his pocket: thirty shillings altogether. He offered the man twenty. ‘Thank you,’ he said sincerely.

  The man looked at the twenty shillings, then heaved a deep sigh. ‘Ten’ll do it, sir. Enjoyed myself. Old Bessie ’ere in’t had a gallop like that in years. Put the fear o’ God into some o’ them along the way, didn’t we, eh?’ He grinned.

  ‘Take the twenty,’ Pitt said graciously. ‘Give Bessie a treat. She’s more than earned it!’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I’ll do that.’ He picked all the shillings out of Pitt’s hand and put it into his pocket. ‘Good day, sir.’ And he urged the horse on in a slow, steady walk.

  It took them ten minutes to find the restaurant. It was now very late for luncheon and there were few diners left.

  Suddenly Stoker gripped Pitt’s arm so hard his fingers bit into the flesh.

  Pitt froze, then turned slowly to follow the line of Stoker’s gaze. Ailsa Kynaston and Edom Talbot were walking, arm in arm, towards the way out that led towards the steps up to the north tower of the bridge. They were close to each other, as if lovers. She walked with her head up, gracefully, proud of her height. He seemed protective, as though he would guard her, even though he was actually taking her out into the first heavy spots of rain.

  Stoker shot a questioning glance at Pitt.

  It was too late to back out now. He had made this decision. He must live with it.

  Together they followed, at a distance just great enough to make it look like chance, but careful not to lose sight of them.

  They were going to walk across the top, the already famous path between the two towers that spanned the entire river, so that they would have one of the most spectacular views in London. Perhaps getting wet was a very small price to pay. Considering the now torrential rain, they might even have the place to themselves.

  To themselves! Suddenly the significance of that shot through Pitt as if he had been physically struck. He started to race up the steps two at a time, Stoker behind him. They burst through the doors on to the walkway high above the river. The first drops had now turned into a blinding deluge and they could hardly see it. They could just make out two figures standing near the rail looking over.

  They started to run towards them, but slipping in the streaming rain, half blinded by it, hearing nothing but the beat of water and the splashing of their feet.

  Talbot was extraordinarily strong. He caught her from behind and threw his weight into lifting her. She went over the edge, hesitated for a moment, struggling, then plunged into the void. In the thunder of the rain they did not even hear her strike the river below, but he knew that within moments the swift and icy current would drown her.

  Talbot stared for a moment, then turned to see Pitt only feet away fro
m him, Stoker almost level with him.

  Pitt smiled, or perhaps it was more a baring of the teeth.

  Talbot smiled back. ‘Terrible accident,’ he said a little hoarsely. ‘Or perhaps it was suicide. I was pursuing her. Not really my job, more yours, but you seem a little slow.’ His voice was raised above the noise, but perfectly steady. ‘She was passing secret information on to a foreign power, or maybe you hadn’t worked that out yet. Better this way, perhaps? We can’t afford a public trial. Make us look like fools. Make our enemies rejoice and our allies despair of us. Do more harm than the information itself.’

  ‘Quite,’ Pitt agreed, taking a deep breath to try to stop himself from shaking. ‘Treason trials are extremely embarrassing. I always do what I can to avoid them. Trials for murder, on the other hand, are a completely different thing.’

  Talbot froze as a terrible realisation struck him.

  Pitt smiled again. ‘Edom Talbot, I am arresting you on a charge of murdering Ailsa Kynaston. Lover’s quarrel, I imagine. That’s what it looked like, don’t you think, Stoker? Citizen’s arrest, of course, but it’ll stand. As you say, nobody wants trials for treason. Makes us look incompetent.’

  ‘Definitely, sir,’ Stoker agreed. ‘Seems the lady rebuffed him. Very hard thing to take, sir, women laughing at you, scorning you like that. Saw it myself. Damn silly place to tell a short-tempered man that you’re finished with him.’

  Talbot gave him a shrivelling look. Stoker smiled back at him, as calm as the sun, which was reappearing through the wind-torn clouds.

  Pitt went back up the river straight to the House of Commons and sent a message inside that he required to speak with Jack Radley immediately, on a matter of state.

  He waited twenty minutes before Jack came out of the Chamber into the hall, treading softly in the echoing vault of it. He looked very pale.

  ‘What is it?’ he said in hushed silence of murmur and the soft shuffling of feet as others met and parted, or entered the Chamber he had just left. ‘What’s happened?’