by Anne Perry
“Well …” Anstruther said guardedly. “Ah—yes.” He was obviously remembering what he had said at the inquest. “That is true—up to a point.”
“That is what I am worried about.” Pitt felt he had regained a little ground. “Just how erratic was his behavior, sir? You were naturally very discreet at the inquest, as becomes a friend speaking in a public place. But this is private, and for quite a different purpose.”
“Well … I hardly know what to say, sir.” Anstruther looked confounded.
“You said earlier that Sir Arthur was forgetful and confused,” Pitt prompted him. “Can you give me instances?”
“I … er. One doesn’t choose to remember such things, man! For heaven’s sake, one overlooks the failings of one’s friends. One does not commit them to memory!”
“You don’t remember any instance?” Pitt felt a stirring of hope, too thin to rely on, too bright to ignore.
“Well … er … it is more of an impression than a catalog of events, don’t you know, what?” Anstruther was now thoroughly unhappy.
Pitt had the sudden sharp impression that he was lying. He did not actually know anything at all. He had been repeating what he had been told by fellow members of the Inner Circle.
“When did you last see Sir Arthur?” he asked quite gently. Anstruther was embarrassed. There was no point in making an enemy of him; then he would learn nothing.
“Ah …” Anstruther was pink-faced now. “Not certain. Events put it rather out of my mind. I do recall quite plainly dining with him about three weeks before he died, poor fellow.” His voice gained in confidence. He was on firm ground now. “Seemed to me to have changed a lot. Rambling on about Africa.”
“Rambling?” Pitt interrupted. “You mean he was incoherent, disconnected in his ideas?”
“Ah—that’s a little steep, sir. Not at all. I mean simply that he kept returning to the subject, even when the rest of us had clearly passed on to something else.”
“He was a bore?”
Anstruther’s eyes widened. “If you like, sir, yes. He didn’t know when to leave the matter alone. Made a lot of accusations that were most unfortunate. Quite unfounded, of course.”
“Were they?”
“Good heavens, of course they were.” Anstruther was appalled. “Talked about secret plots to conquer Africa, and God knows what else. Quite mad—delusory.”
“You are profoundly familiar with Africa, sir?” Pitt did his best to keep every shred of sarcasm out of his voice and thought he succeeded.
“What?” Anstruther was startled. “Africa? What makes you say that, Superintendent?”
“That you know that there are no conspiracies regarding the financial backing of settlement there. There is a great deal of money involved, and presumably fortunes to be made by those who obtain mineral rights.”
“Ah … well …” Anstruther had been about to dismiss the idea in anger, then just in time realized that he had no grounds for it at all, however repugnant the idea was to him. Pitt watched the changing emotions in his face, and knew that his reactions to Sir Arthur’s charges were from the heart rather than the head, a plain man’s disbelief and horror of intrigue, complexities he did not understand and corruption he despised.
“I hope it is not true,” Pitt said gently. “But the belief in it does not seem so farfetched to me that one might consider it madness. Boundless wealth usually draws adventurers and thieves as well as honest men. And the prospect of such power has corrupted people before. Sir Arthur, as a politician, would be familiar with some of the scandals of the past, and not unnaturally fear for the future.”
Anstruther drew in his breath. His face was even pinker and he was obviously struggling between loyalties. Pitt did not know whether one of them was to the Inner Circle, but he believed it was. In all probability he saw it as Farnsworth had described it to Pitt: an organization of intelligent, enlightened men banded together to bring about the best good of the country, including the majority of blind and foolish men and women who could not decide for themselves, having neither the knowledge nor the wisdom. Honor and duty required that those who had these qualities should protect them for their own good. Anstruther would have given oaths of loyalty, and he was a man born and bred to unquestioning loyalties. A lifetime in the army had ingrained in his being obedience without question. Desertion was a capital offense, the last and most terrible sin of which a man was capable.
And yet now he was faced with truth he could not deny, and both his innate sense of honor and his general decency were at war with his sworn allegiances and his lifetime habit.
Pitt waited for him to find his resolution.
Outside in the street a hansom drew up and a short man in military uniform stepped out, paid the driver, and came up the stairs to the club. A four-in-hand drove by at a brisk trot.
“What you say, sir, is probably true,” Anstruther conceded with great difficulty, the words forced out of him. “Perhaps it was not so much that poor Desmond was convinced of conspiracy that was ridiculous, as it was the men whom he charged. That, sir, was undoubtedly beyond the bounds of reason. Decent men, fine and honorable men I have known all my life.” His face was suffused with color, and his voice rang with the absolute conviction that he was right. “Men who have served their fellows, their country, their queen, without recognition or gain, sir.”
Only secret and unquestioned power, Pitt thought to himself, perhaps the headiest reward of all. But he did not say so.
“I can imagine that that was extremely offensive to you, General,” he said instead.
“Extremely, sir,” Anstruther agreed vehemently. “Most distressing. Liked Desmond for years. Most agreeable chap. Decent, what. Tragedy he should come to such an end. Damned tragedy.” He was at last satisfied with his own resolution to the dilemma, and he faced Pitt squarely, allowing his emotion to fire his words. That at least was unquestioned and presented no problems at all. “Very sorry,” he went on. “Sorry for the family, dammit. I hope you manage to keep this thing quiet, sir. Use your discretion. Nobody needs to know. Let it be buried. Best thing. Best thing altogether, for everyone. Nobody believed the nonsense he spoke in the end. No harm done, what!”
Pitt rose. “Thank you for your time, General Anstruther. You have been most frank, and I appreciate it, sir.”
“Least I can do. Painful matter.” Anstruther rose also and accompanied Pitt to the door and into the hallway. “Best set to rest. Good day to you, Superintendent.”
“Good day, General Anstruther.”
Outside in the street in the broad May sunshine Pitt had a strange feeling of light-headedness. He barely noticed the carriages and horses passing by, or the fashionable woman who brushed his elbow as he strode along the footpath. He was just off Piccadilly, and there was a faint sound of music coming from Green Park.
He walked rapidly without realizing it, a spring in his step. Anstruther had said what he had most hoped. Sir Arthur was not irrational; simply startling, disturbing and profoundly unwelcome. Anstruther was a decent man caught in a situation he could not handle. He was not used to complex loyalties which vied with each other. He was incapable of rethinking his values, his friendships and his trust without a wrench to his mind he would do everything in his power to avoid.
There was no proof in what he had learned, except in his own mind, and perhaps his emotions would be more at rest. Sir Arthur was vindicated … at least so far.
Next he found the Honorable William Osborne. He was an entirely different manner of man. It was late afternoon before he would receive Pitt, and then it was at his own house in Chelsea. It was opulent, close to the banks of the Thames and in a lushly shaded garden along a quiet tree-lined street. He greeted Pitt with impatience. Obviously he had an engagement for the evening and resented the interruption.
“I have no idea what I can do for you, Mr. Pitt.” He was standing in his oak-paneled library, into which Pitt had been shown, and he did not sit down himself nor offer a seat
. There was no mistaking that he did not intend the interview to be long enough to require one. “I said all I know about this unfortunate affair at the inquest, which is a matter of public record. I know nothing else, nor would I be inclined to discuss it if I did.”
“You testified that Sir Arthur had recently expressed some irrational opinions,” Pitt said with an effort to keep his temper.
“As I have just said, Mr. Pitt, that is a matter of public record.” He was standing in the middle of the blue Turkish carpet, rocking very slightly on the balls of his feet. He reminded Pitt vaguely of a more ill-tempered Eustace March.
“Can you tell me what these opinions were, sir?” Pitt asked, looking directly at him but keeping his voice light and his tone courteous.
“I don’t wish to repeat them,” Osborne replied. “They were ludicrous, and to no one’s credit.”
“It is important that I know,” Pitt insisted.
“Why?” Osborne’s rather thin eyebrows rose. “The man is dead. How could it matter now what nonsense he said in his last few months?”
“Since he is dead,” Pitt said quietly and very firmly, “he cannot now withdraw them.” He made a rash decision. He smiled very slightly. “There are men of goodwill, honorable men who prefer to remain anonymous, whose names he has slandered, by implication if not directly. I know that you understand what I am saying, sir. Mr. Farnsworth …”—he pronounced the name carefully—“is concerned that no taint should linger….” He let the suggestion speak for itself.
Osborne stared at him, his dark gray eyes hard and level.
“Then why the devil didn’t you say so, sir? There’s no need to be so coy.”
Pitt felt his stomach lurch. Osborne had understood him and believed the lie. He thought he was speaking to a fellow member of the Inner Circle.
“I am used to being careful,” Pitt replied with a modicum of truth. “It is a habit hard to forget.”
“Has its uses,” Osborne conceded. “Very bad business. Of course the wretched fellow was making all sorts of rash accusations. Had hold of the wrong end of the stick altogether.” His face was tight, his lips a thin line. “No vision. No vision at all. Decent enough chap, but bourgeois at heart. Totally impractical. A well-intentioned fool can do more real harm than a wagonload of villains who know what they are about!” He looked at Pitt dourly. There was still a suspicion in him. In his judgment Pitt was not Inner Circle material. He was neither a gentleman nor a loyal servant.
On both points he had made, he was correct. Pitt had no desire to argue the first. The second was another matter.
“I agree with you, sir,” he said honestly. “A well-intentioned fool can be extremely dangerous, if given power, and frequently brings about the downfall of many others, although it may be the last of his intentions.”
Osborne looked surprised. Apparently he had not expected Pitt to agree with him. He grunted. “Then you will take my point, sir.” He stopped abruptly. “Precisely what is it you wish to know, and who is in danger of being slandered by all this wretched nonsense?”
“I should prefer not to give names,” Pitt answered. “And in truth, I do not know them all. In the interest of discretion, much of it was kept from me.”
“Rightly so.” Osborne nodded. After all, Pitt might be a member, but he was merely a person of use. “The charges Sir Arthur made were that certain gentlemen, our friends, were secretly organized together to fund a settlement expedition in Central Africa,” he explained, “which would at once exploit both the native African tribal leaders and the British government’s financial and moral backing in the venture. The suggestion was that when the settlement proved successful, and vast wealth was found, both real and potential, then they would profit unfairly, in terms of money and of political power in the new country to be established, nominally under British suzerainty, but in fact a law unto itself. And then they would prevent others from sharing in this fortune by excluding them, by means of these secret dealings and agreements.” Osborne’s face was bleak and angry, and he stared at Pitt, waiting for his response.
“That was a very foolish thing to have said,” Pitt replied with honesty, even though he believed it was almost certainly true. “He had undoubtedly lost a grip upon reality.”
“Absolutely,” Osborne agreed fervently. “Totally absurd! And irresponsible, dammit. He might have been believed.”
“I doubt it,” Pitt said with a sudden rush of bitterness. “It is a truly appalling thought, and very few people believe what they do not wish to, particularly if it is nothing they have feared before, even in nightmare, and there is no evidence of it to prove it true.”
Osborne looked at him narrowly, as if he suspected sarcasm, but Pitt’s eyes were guileless. He felt no compunction at all in being as devious as he could, or in quite plainly lying.
Osborne cleared his throat.
“That is all I have to tell you, Pitt. I know of nothing else. Africa is not my field of expertise.”
“That has been most helpful, thank you, sir,” Pitt conceded. “I think it possible I may be able to establish the truth with a little more assistance from others. Thank you for your time, sir. Good day.”
“Good day to you.” Osborne drew breath as if to add something further, then changed his mind.
By the time Pitt had found Calvert, the third man who had given evidence at the inquest, it was late, and in spite of being mid-May, nearly dark. He heard a similar story from him, full of hearsay, confusion, accusations repeated with outrage, ignorance of Africa except that somehow it should be British by right, moral if not political.
Pitt was so weary his feet were sore and he found he had unconsciously clenched his shoulders and his jaw till his throat ached. It was all nebulous, a matter of impressions, assumptions springing from anger, and a sense of having been betrayed by someone they should have been able to trust. For all the words of pity, the blame was there all the time. Arthur Desmond had made public suggestions, true or false, that they were corrupt. Men who should have given them respect would now not do so. People who should not even have guessed at the existence of the Inner Circle would wonder and speculate about it. That had been the greatest sin in the man’s view, the spreading before the general gaze of that which should have been private. No matter what the sin or the crime, one did not wash one’s linen in public. It was not the act of a gentleman. If you could not rely upon a gentleman to behave like one, what was there left of worth?
Pitt did not know if the man was a member of the Inner Circle or not. What he had said could simply have been a class loyalty. So could what Osborne had said, for that matter, but he was almost certain of Osborne.
Who else? Hathaway, Chancellor, Thorne, Aylmer? Of Farnsworth there was no doubt, and he loathed Farnsworth. But he had loved Arthur Desmond all his life, and he had been a member. So had Micah Drummond, whom he had grown to like immensely and to trust without question. He should talk to him. He was probably the only person who could help. Even as he lengthened his stride along the footpath, his decision was made. He would go now!
Membership had now been offered to Pitt. It was not exclusive to gentlemen. Anyone might be a member, might even be the executioner. It could have been the steward of the club, or the manager. Or the doctor who was called.
He was walking briskly and the night was balmy. He should have been warm, but he was not. He was chilled inside, and his legs were so tired every step required an effort of will, but he was determined to see Drummond, and the sense of purpose lent him strength.
A hansom came around the corner too quickly and he was obliged to move sharply out of its way, knocking into a stout man who had not been looking where he was going.
“Have a care, sir!” he said furiously, facing Pitt with bulging eyes. He held a heavy carved walking stick in one hand, and he gripped it tightly as if he would have raised it to defend himself if necessary.
“Look where you are going, and I won’t need to!” Pitt said.
“
Why you raffian!” The man lifted the end of the stick a foot off the ground in a threatening gesture. “How dare you speak to me like that. I’ll call the police, sir! And I’ll warn you, I know how to use this, if you force me.”
“I am the police! And if you touch me with that thing, I’ll arrest you and charge you with assault. As it is, keep a civil tongue in your head or I’ll charge you with being a public nuisance.”
The man was too startled to retaliate, but he kept his hand hard on his stick.
Had Pitt gone too far with Osborne? Perhaps Osborne was high enough in the Inner Circle to know perfectly well who were members and who were not. Pitt had damaged the Inner Circle before. It was naive to imagine they would not know him. They had killed Arthur Desmond—why not Pitt? An attack in the street, a quick push under the wheels of a vehicle. A most regrettable street accident. It had already happened once, with Matthew—hadn’t it?
He turned on his heel and strode away, leaving the man gibbering with outrage.
This was absurd. He must control his imagination. He was seeing enemies everywhere, and there were above three million people in London. There were probably no more than three thousand of them members of the Inner Circle. But he could never know which three thousand.
Around the corner he took a cab, giving Micah Drummond’s address, and sat back, trying to compose himself and master his flying thoughts. He would ask him if he had any idea how large the Circle was. He was frightened of the answer, yet it could be helpful to know. On thinking of it now, he was foolish not to have gone to him for help as soon as he knew of Sir Arthur’s death. Drummond had been naive to begin with, and perhaps he still only half understood the evil even now, but he had been a member for many years. He might recall incidents, rituals, and see them in a different light with the wisdom of hindsight.
Even if he had no new insights, no concrete suggestions, Pitt would feel less alone simply to talk to him.
The cab pulled up and he alighted and paid the driver with something close to a sense of elation.
