Traitors Gate

by Anne Perry

  “At Lady Rattray’s house in Eaton Square. She was holding a musical evening. There were fifty or sixty people there, no more.”

  “And you saw Kreisler and Mrs. Chancellor?” he prompted, a sinking feeling of disappointment inside him. “Can you describe the encounter for me, as precisely as possible?”

  A flicker of disapproval crossed her face and disappeared. “I do understand the importance of the issue, Thomas. I am not inclined to embroider it. I was some ten or twelve feet away, half listening to an extremely tedious acquaintance talking about her health. Such a tasteless thing to do. No one wishes to know the details of somebody else’s ailments. I observed Mrs. Chancellor first. She was talking very earnestly to someone whose face was mostly hidden behind a very luxuriant potted palm. The wretched place was like a jungle. I was forever expecting insects to drop out of the trees down my neck. I did not envy the young women with deep décolletages!” She shrugged very slightly.

  Pitt could picture it, but it was not the time to comment.

  “Her face wore an expression of deep concern, almost anguish,” Vespasia continued. “I could see that she was on the verge of a quarrel. I moved so as to learn who her companion was. He seemed to be pleading with her, but at the same time adamant that he would not change his own mind. The course of the argument altered, and it seemed she was the one entreating. There was an appearance of something close to desperation in her. But judging from her face, he could not be moved. After the course of some fifteen minutes or so, they parted. He looked well pleased with himself, as if he found the outcome quite acceptable. She was distraught.”

  “But you have no idea of the subject of this conversation?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

  “None at all, and I refuse to speculate.”

  “Was that the last time you saw Mrs. Chancellor?”

  “Yes. And also the last time I saw Mr. Kreisler.” She looked profoundly unhappy, and the depth of her sadness troubled him.

  “What is it you fear?” he asked frankly. She was not someone with whom subtlety or evasion would be successful. She could read him far too well.

  “I am afraid Mr. Kreisler’s love for Africa, and what he sees as its good, far outweigh any other consideration with him, or any other loyalty,” she replied. “It is not a quality which will leave Nobby Gunne unhurt. I have known several men during my life whose devotion to a cause would excuse in their minds any behavior towards a mere individual, in the firm belief that it is a nobler and greater ideal.” She sighed and allowed her parasol to fall sideways against her skirt.

  “They all had an intense vitality about them, a charm based upon the fire and bravado of their nature, and an ability to treat one, for a short time, as if all the ardor of their spirit were somehow reachable to others, to love, if you like. Invariably I found there was a coldness at the core of them, an obsession which fed upon itself and which consumed sacrifices without return. That is what I am afraid of, Thomas—not for myself, but for Nobby. She is a fine person, and I am extremely fond of her.”

  There was nothing to say, no argument to make that was honest.

  “I hope you are mistaken.” He smiled at her gently. “But thank you very much for coming to tell me.” He offered his hand, but she rose, disregarding it. She walked, stiff backed, head erect, to the door, which he opened for her, and then he conducted her downstairs and out into the street, where he handed her up into her waiting carriage.

  “Before she went into the water, without doubt,” the medical examiner said, pushing his lower lip out and taking a deep breath. He looked up at Pitt, waiting for criticism. He was a long-faced, dour man who took the tragedies of his calling seriously. “One thing to be said for the swine that did this, though, he was quick. Hit her a couple of times, very hard.”

  “I don’t see it!” Pitt interrupted.

  “You wouldn’t. Side of the head, mostly hidden by her hair. Then he throttled her so violently he broke the bone”—he touched his own neck—“and killed her almost immediately. Doubt she felt more than the first blow, and then a moment’s choking before it was all over. Wasn’t strangled to death.”

  Pitt looked at him with a sense of chill. “Very violently?”

  “Very. Either he meant to kill her, or he was in such a monumental fury he didn’t realize his own strength. You’re looking for a very dangerous man, Pitt. Either he’s completely merciless and he kills to rob, even when there’s no need—he could have silenced her perfectly well without doing this to her—or else he’s someone with such a hatred in him it erupts in something close to madness, if not actually into it.”

  “Was she … molested?”

  “Good God, of course she was molested! What do you call that?” He jerked his head towards the body on the table, now covered with a sheet. “If you mean was she raped, don’t be so damned lily-livered about it. God, I hate euphemisms! Call a crime by its ugly name, and be honest with the victim. No she wasn’t.”

  Pitt let out a sigh of relief. He had cared about that more than he realized. He felt the knots in his shoulders easing a little and something of the pain inside him dulled.

  “When did she die? Can you judge a time?” he asked.

  “Not close enough to be of much use to you,” the medical examiner replied with a snort. “Anything between eight and midnight, I should think. Being put into the river doesn’t help. Cold, even at this time of the year. Makes a mess of rigor mortis. Makes a damned mess of everything! Actually, talking about a mess …” He frowned, looking across at Pitt with a puzzled expression. “Found some odd marks on her body, very slight, ’round her shoulders. Or to be more accurate, under her arms and across the back of her neck. She’d been dragged around in the water a lot. Could have been her clothes got caught up in something, pulled tight and caused it. When was she found?”

  “About half past three.”

  “And when was the last time she was seen alive?”

  “Half past nine.”

  “There you are then. You can work out for yourself almost as much as I can tell you. You’ve got a very dangerous man to look for, and good luck to you. You’ll need it. Lovely woman. It’s too bad.” And without waiting for anything further he turned back to the body he was presently examining.

  “Can you tell how long she was in the water?” Pitt asked.

  “Not any closer than you can work out for yourself. I should say more than thirty minutes, less than three hours. Sorry.”

  “Was she killed manually?”

  “What? Oh yes. He killed her with his bare hands, no ligature, just fingers around the throat. As I already said, a very powerful man, or one driven by a passion the like of which I hope never to see. I don’t envy you your job, Pitt.”

  “Nor I yours,” Pitt said sincerely.

  The medical examiner laughed with a short barklike sound. “It’s all over when I get them, no more pain, no more violence or hatred left, just peace and a long silence. The rest is up to God … if He cares.”

  “I care,” Pitt said between his teeth. “And God has got to be better than I am.”

  The medical examiner laughed again, and this time there was a softer tone to it. But he said nothing.

  It was a surprisingly long time from half past nine in the evening until about midnight. Not many people could account for their whereabouts for those two and a half hours, beyond possible dispute. Pitt took two men from other cases, leaving Tellman on the matter of the Colonial Office, and also diverted his own time to questioning and checking, but he found no evidence that was conclusive of anything.

  Linus Chancellor said that he had gone out, driving his own carriage owing to the accident to his coachman. He had gone to deliver a package of crucial importance to Garston Aylmer, who had apparently been out when he got there. He was most annoyed about it, but had left it with Aylmer’s footman, who upon being asked, confirmed that Chancellor had indeed called at a little before eleven o’clock.

  Chancellor’s own
servants had not heard him come in, but they had been instructed not to wait up for him.

  Susannah’s maid had sat up for her mistress, naturally, as was her duty, so that she might assist her to undress when she returned, and hang up her clothes. She had fallen asleep in her chair about half past three, and only realized Susannah’s failure to return in the morning. She refused to say anything about it, or to explain why she had not raised any alarm earlier.

  It was apparent to Pitt that she had assumed her mistress had kept an assignation, and while she desperately disapproved of it, she was too loyal to betray it either. No pressure from Pitt, or the butler, would make her alter her account.

  Pitt went to find Peter Kreisler and require him to account for his movements, but when he presented himself at Kreisler’s rooms he was informed that Kreisler was out, and not expected home for several hours. He was obliged to wait for that answer.

  Aylmer said he had been out looking at the stars. He was an enthusiastic astronomer. No one could confirm it. It was not an avocation shared by many, and could be conducted excellently alone. He had taken a small telescope on a tripod to Herne Hill, away from the city lights. He had driven himself in a gig which he kept for such purposes, and saw no one he knew. If his story were true, one would not have expected him to. There would not be many gentlemen from the Colonial or Foreign Offices wandering around Heme Hill in the small hours of the morning.

  Jeremiah and Christabel Thorne had spent the evening at home. She had retired early. He had stayed up till past midnight reading official papers. The servants agreed that this was true. They also agreed that had either Mr. or Mrs. Thorne left the house by the garden door to the dining room, none of them would have been aware of it, having all retired beyond the baize door to their own quarters after dinner was cleared away. There were no fires to stoke, no visitors to show in or out, and Mr. Thorne had said he would draw the curtains himself and make sure the doors were fast.

  Ian Hathaway had dined at his club and left at half past eleven. He said he had gone straight home, but since he lived alone, and he had not required his servants to wait up for him, there was no one to corroborate his word. He might as easily have left again, had he chosen to.

  As a matter of course Francis Standish, Susannah’s brother-in-law, was also informed of her death, and probably asked if he would tell them where he had spent the evening. He replied that he had come home early, changed his clothes, and gone out to the theater alone. No, there was no one who could corroborate that.

  What had he seen?

  Esther Sandraz. He could describe the play in very general terms, but that meant nothing. A newspaper review would give him that.

  Naturally every effort was made to find the driver of the hansom who had picked up Susannah Chancellor in Berkeley Square. He was the only one who knew what had happened to her after that, until she had met her murderer.

  The constable deputed by Pitt spent all afternoon and all evening searching for him, and failed completely. The following day Pitt withdrew Tellman from the Colonial Office matter and put him to the task. He was equally unsuccessful.

  “Perhaps it wasn’t a real hansom?” Tellman said sourly. “Perhaps it was our murderer, dressed up to look like a cabby?”

  It was a thought which had already occurred to Pitt. “Then find out where he got the hansom from,” he instructed. “If that is the case, then it cuts down the possibilities for time. We know that most of the people we have suspected so far in the Colonial Office matter can account for themselves at half past nine.”

  Tellman snorted. “Did you really think it was one of them?” he said with contempt. “Why? Why would any of them kill Mrs. Chancellor?”

  “Why would anybody at all kill her?” Pitt countered.

  “Robbery. There are two rings missing, Bailey said. He checked with her maid.”

  “What about the locket? Why didn’t they take that?” Pitt pursued it. “And did the maid say she was wearing her rings that night?”

  “What?”

  “Did the maid say she was wearing her rings that evening?” Pitt repeated patiently. “Ladies have been known to lose jewelry, even valuable pieces, or to pawn them, or sell them, or give them away.”

  “I don’t think he asked.” Tellman was annoyed because he had not thought of that. “I’ll send him back.”

  “You’d better. But keep looking for that cabdriver all the same.”

  The last person Pitt found was Peter Kreisler. Three times the previous day Pitt had called upon him, and on each occasion he had still been absent, and his manservant had had no idea if he would be back at all that day. On the second occasion of Pitt’s calling the footman informed him that Mr. Kreisler had been deeply upset by the news of Mrs. Chancellor’s death, and had left the building almost immediately, without giving any indication as to where he was bound and when he intended to return.

  When Pitt went again on the afternoon after Tellman’s unsuccessful search for the cabdriver, Kreisler was at home, and received Pitt immediately and with some eagerness. His face was tired, as if he had slept little, and there was an intense nervous energy about him, but his grief, whatever its depth or extent, was well in control. But then Pitt imagined Kreisler was a man who masked his emotions at any time, and was used to both triumph and tragedy.

  “Come in, Superintendent,” he said quickly, showing him into a surprisingly charming room with a polished wooden floor and delicate African carvings on the mantel. There were no animal skins or horns, but one very fine painting of a cheetah. He waved to one of the chairs. “Dobson, bring the Superintendent a drink. What would you like, ale, tea, something stronger?”

  “Have you cider?”

  “Certainly. Dobson, cider for Superintendent Pitt. I’ll have some too.” He waved at the chair again, and himself sat opposite, leaning forward towards Pitt, his face earnest. “Have you found anything of importance yet? I have been studying the tides of the river to see where she could have been put in. That may help to discover where she was killed, and thus of course where she went from Berkeley Square, which I believe she left in the mid-evening, alone.” His hands were clenched in front of him. “At least, alone as soon as Chancellor had called a cab for her and seen her into it. If she was bound for Upper Brook Street, she must have been waylaid almost immediately. Do you think it was meant to be an abduction, and somehow it went wrong?”

  It was actually a thought which had not occurred to Pitt, and there was a glimmer of sense in it.

  “For ransom?” he asked, aware that the surprise was in his voice.

  “Why not?” Kreisler pointed out. “It seems to me to make more sense than to murder her, poor woman. Chancellor has both wealth and a great deal of power. So has her brother-in-law, Standish. Possibly it was intended to try to coerce him in some way. Which is an extremely ugly thought, but not an impossible one.”

  “No … indeed,” Pitt agreed reluctantly. “Although it must have gone very badly wrong to end like this. She was certainly not killed by accident.”

  “Why?” Kreisler looked at him intently, his face tight with emotion. “Why do you say that, Superintendent?”

  “The manner of her death made that apparent,” Pitt replied. He did not intend to discuss it further with Kreisler, who was in many ways a principal suspect.

  “Are you sure?” Kreisler pressed. “Whose good could her death serve? Surely it would …” His voice trailed off.

  “If I knew whose good it served, Mr. Kreisler, I should be a great deal further towards finding her murderer,” Pitt answered. “You seem very profoundly concerned in the matter. Did you know her better than I had supposed?” He watched Kreisler closely, the pallor of his skin, the brilliance of his eyes, the tiny muscles flickering in his jaw.

  “I have met her several times, and found her charming and intelligent, and a woman of great sensitivity and honor,” he replied with a tensely loud voice. “Is that not more than enough reason to be horrified at her death and to wis
h passionately that her murderer should be found?”

  “Of course it is,” Pitt said very quietly. “But most people, however profound their feelings, are content to leave it to the police to bring that about.”

  “Well I am not,” Kreisler stated fiercely. “I will do everything in my power to learn who it is, and make damned sure the world knows it too. And frankly, Superintendent, I don’t care whether that pleases you or not.”

  9

  PITT ARRIVED HOME late after a day which was exhausting both physically and emotionally. He was looking forward to putting the whole matter out of his mind for a space, and sitting in the parlor with his feet up and the doors to the garden open to let in the late spring evening air. It was fine and balmy, the sort of day when the smells of the earth linger heavily and overtake the awareness of a mighty city beyond the garden walls. One could think only of flowers, cut lawns, shady trees and moths drifting lazily in the stillness.

  However as soon as he entered the hallway he knew that was not to be. Charlotte came out of the parlor, her face grave, a warning in her eyes.

  “What is it?” he said with apprehension.

  “Matthew is here to see you,” she replied softly, aware of the open door behind her. “He looks very worried, but he wouldn’t tell me anything about it.”

  “You asked him?”

  “No, of course I didn’t. But I made … listening noises.”

  He smiled in spite of himself, touched her gently as he passed and went into the parlor.

  Matthew was sitting in Pitt’s favorite chair, staring out of the open French windows across the lawn towards the apple tree. As soon as he felt Pitt’s presence in the room, even though there had been no sound, he turned around and stood up. His face was pale and there were still shadows around his eyes. He looked as if he had suffered a long illness and was only barely well enough to be out of his bed.

  “What’s happened?” Pitt demanded, closing the door behind him.

  Matthew seemed startled, as though the directness of the question had been unexpected.