Southampton Row

by Anne Perry

  She smiled, sharing it with him, picturing it in his imagination. She liked to think of him on the deck of a ship. It seemed the right place for him, his element far more than a police desk. And yet she would never have met him were he still there. And if he returned to the sea she would be forever watching the weather, every time the wind blew, fearing for him; every time she heard of a ship in trouble, wondering if it were his.

  He looked at her, catching her gaze and the warmth in it. “Sorry,” he apologized quickly, blushing and turning away, his neck stiff. “Daydreaming.”

  “I do a lot of it,” she said quickly.

  “Do you?” He swiveled back to her, looking surprised. “Where do you go . . . I mean . . . I mean, where would you like to go?”

  “Anywhere with you” would have been the truth. “Somewhere I haven’t been before,” she answered. “Perhaps the Mediterranean. What about Alexandria? Or Greece, somewhere?”

  “I think you’d like it,” he said softly. “The light is like nothing anywhere else, so brilliant, the sea so blue. And of course there are the Indies . . . West, I mean. As long as you don’t go too far south, the danger of fevers is not high. Jamaica, or the Bahamas.”

  “Do you wish you were still at sea?” She was afraid of the answer. Perhaps that was where his heart really lay.

  He looked at her, for a moment without discretion or guard in his face. “No.” It was only one word, but the passion in his voice filled it with all she was waiting to hear.

  She felt the color burn up inside her, the relief dizzying. He had not changed. He had said nothing, just answered a simple question about travel, one word, but the meaning was like a huge wave buoying her up, lifting her as if into the air. She smiled back, allowing her other feelings to be unconcealed for an instant, then she turned back to the portrait. She said something meaningless, a remark about color or texture of paint. She was not listening to herself, and she knew he was not, either.

  She put off going home for as long as possible. It would be the end of a dream, the return to the daily reality from which she had escaped, and the inevitable guilt because her heart was not where it ought to be, even if her body was.

  Eventually, at nearly seven o’clock, she went in through the front door and as soon as she was inside, felt imprisoned in the grayness of it. That was ridiculous. It was really a very pleasant house, full of soft color and most agreeably furnished. The lack of light was inside her. She walked across the floor to the foot of the stairs and reached the bottom just as the Bishop’s study door opened and he came out, his hair a little tousled as if he had run his hand through it. His face was pale, his eyes dark-ringed.

  “Where have you been?” he demanded querulously. “Do you know what time it is?”

  “Five minutes before seven,” she replied, glancing at the long case clock against the farther wall.

  “The question was rhetorical, Isadora!” he snapped. “I can read a dial as well as you can. And that does not answer where you have been.”

  “To see the exhibition of Hogarth’s paintings at the National Gallery,” she replied blandly.

  He raised his eyebrows. “Until this hour?”

  “I met some acquaintances and fell into conversation,” she explained. That was true literally, if not in implication. She resented the fact that she had justified herself to him. She turned away to go up the stairs and remove her hat and change into an appropriate gown for supper.

  “That is most unsuitable!” he said sharply. “He painted the sort of person you should have no interest in. Rake’s Progress, indeed! Sometimes I think you have lost all sense of responsibility, Isadora. It is time you took your position a great deal more seriously.”

  “It was an exhibition of his portraits!” she said tartly, turning back to look at him. “There was nothing unsuitable about them at all. There were several of domestic servants with very agreeable faces and dressed right up to the ears. They even had hats on!”

  “There is no need to be flippant,” he criticized. “And wearing a hat does not make one virtuous! As you should know!”

  She was stunned. “Why on earth should I know that?”

  “Because you are as aware as I am of the laxity and spiteful tongues of many of the women who attend church every Sunday,” he replied. “With hats on!”

  “This conversation is absurd,” she said, exasperated. “What is the matter with you? Are you unwell?” She did not mean it in any literal way. He bordered on hypochondria and she no longer had patience with it. Then she realized the remarkable change in him. The little color he had bleached out of his skin.

  “Do I look ill?” he demanded.

  “Yes, certainly you do,” she answered honestly. “What did you have for luncheon?”

  His eyes widened as if a sudden thought had come to him, a bright and uplifting one. Then anger swept over him, color making his cheeks pink. “Grilled sole!” he snapped. “I prefer to dine alone this evening. I have a sermon to prepare.” And without saying anything further, or even glancing up at her, he turned on his heel and went back to his study, closing the door with a sharp snap.

  However, at dinnertime he changed his mind. Isadora did not particularly wish to eat, but the cook had prepared a meal and she felt it ungracious not to partake, so she was seated alone at the table when the Bishop appeared. She wondered whether to make any remark on his feeling better, and decided not to. He might construe it as sarcasm, or criticism—or worse, he might tell her, in far more detail than she wished to know, exactly how he was.

  For the entire soup course they ate in silence. When the parlormaid brought in the salmon and vegetables the Bishop at last spoke.

  “Things are looking dark. I don’t expect you to understand politics, but new forces are gaining power and influence over certain parts of society, those easily enamored of new ideas, simply because they are new—“ He stopped, apparently having forgotten his train of thought.

  She waited, more out of courtesy than interest.

  “I am afraid for the future,” he said quietly, looking down at his plate.

  She was used to pompous statements, so it startled her that she really believed him. She heard fear in his voice, not pious concern for mankind, but real sharp anxiety, the sort that wakens you in the night with sweat on your body and your heart knocking in your chest. What could he possibly know that would shock him out of his habitual complacency? Certitude that he was right was a way of life with him, a shield against all the arrows of doubt that afflict most people.

  Could it be anything that mattered? She really did not want to know. It was probably some miserable issue of insult or quarrel within the church hierarchy, or more tragic, someone he cared for fallen from grace. She should have asked him, but tonight she had no patience to listen to some variation on old themes she had heard over and over, in one form or another, all her married life.

  “You can only do your best,” she said calmly. “I daresay when you tackle it a day at a time, it will not be so bad.” She picked up her fork and began to eat again.

  They both continued in silence for a while, then she looked up at him and saw panic in his eyes. He was staring at her as if he peered far beyond to something unendurable. His hand holding the fish fork was trembling and there were beads of sweat on his lip.

  “Reginald, what has happened?” she said with alarm. In spite of herself she was concerned for him. It angered her. She did not want to have any involvement with his feelings at all, but she could not escape the fact that he was profoundly and mortally afraid of something. “Reginald?”

  He gulped. “You are quite right,” he said, licking his dry lips. “A day at a time.” He looked down at his plate. “It’s nothing. I should not have disturbed your dinner. Of course it’s nothing. I am seeing”—he took a deep, shuddering breath—“much too far ahead. Trust the divine . . . divine . . .” He pushed himself back from the table and stood up. “I have had sufficient. Please excuse me.”

  She hal
f rose herself. “Reginald . . .”

  “Don’t disturb yourself!” he snapped, walking away.

  “But . . .”

  He glared at her. “Don’t make an issue of it! I am going to do some work, reading. I need to study. I need to know . . . more.” And he closed the door with a bang, leaving her alone in the dining room confused and just as angry as he was, but with a growing feeling of unease.

  The cottage on the edge of Dartmoor was beautiful, exactly what Charlotte had hoped for, but without Pitt it lacked its heart, and for her its purpose. She had found the Whitechapel affair very hard to bear. More than Pitt himself, she had burned at the injustice of it. She accepted that it was pointless to fight, but it did not ease the anger inside her. It had seemed in Buckingham Palace as if, at a terrible price for Great-aunt Vespasia, it was all going to be all right for Pitt. Voisey was robbed of his chance ever to be president of a Republic of Britain, and Pitt was back in charge at Bow Street.

  Now, inexplicably, it was all gone again. The Inner Circle had not collapsed, as they had hoped. In spite of the Queen, it had had the power to remove Pitt again and send him back to Special Branch, where he was junior, unskilled in whatever arts they required, and responsible to Victor Narraway, who had no loyalty to him and, it seemed, no sense of honor to keep his promises regarding a holiday which had been more than earned.

  But again, they were not in a position to fight, or even to complain. Pitt needed the job in Special Branch. It was almost as well paid as Bow Street had been, and they had no resources other than his salary. For the first time in her life, she was aware not just of having to be very careful with money, but of the real danger that they might cease to have any to be careful with.

  So she held her peace, and pretended to the children and to Gracie that being here in this wild, sun- and wind-drenched countryside was what she wanted, and the fact that they were alone was only temporary. It was for the excitement and the adventure of it, not because Pitt felt they were safer out of London where Voisey did not know how to find them.

  “I never seen so much air in all me life!” Gracie said in amazement as they walked up a long, steep incline to the top of the track and stared out across the vast panorama of the moors, stretching into the distance in hazy greens and sorrels, splashed with gold here and there, cloud-shadowed to people in the distance. “Are we the only ones wot’s ’ere?” she said in awe. “Just now nobody else lives ’ere?”

  “There are farmers,” Charlotte answered, gazing around to the dark rise of the moor itself to the north, and the softer, more vivid slopes of the hills and valleys to the south. “And the villages are mostly on the lee sides of the slopes. Look . . . you can see smoke over there!” She pointed to a slim column of gray smoke so faint one had to peer to make it out.

  “’Ere!” Gracie shouted suddenly. “You look out, Your Lordship!”

  Edward grinned at her, then hared over the grass with Daniel after him. They tumbled together in the green bracken and went rolling over and over in a tangle of arms and legs, the sound of laughter quick and happy.

  “Boys!” Jemima said in disgust. Then suddenly she changed her mind and went running and jumping easily after them.

  In spite of herself, Charlotte smiled. Even without Pitt it could be good here. The cottage was only half a mile from the center of the village, a pleasant walk. People seemed friendly and willing to be helpful. Away from the city the roads were narrow and winding; the views from the upstairs windows seemed to stretch forever. The silence at night was unfamiliar, and once they had blown the candles out, the darkness was total.

  But they were safe, and even if that was not what seemed most important to her, it was to Pitt. He had felt the possibility of danger, and to bring the children here was the only way now in which she could help.

  She heard a noise behind her and turned to see a pony and trap coming up the winding track just below them. There was a man driving it, face wind-burned, eyes narrowed against the brilliance of the light, as if searching for something. He saw them, and as he drew level he looked at her more closely.

  “Arternoon,” he said pleasantly enough. “You’ll be the lady as ’as come to rent the Garths’ cottage over yon.” He nodded, but it was a statement that seemed to require an answer.

  “Yes,” Charlotte agreed.

  “That’s wot I told ’em,” he said with satisfaction, picking up the reins again and urging the pony forward.

  Charlotte looked at Gracie. Gracie took a step after the man, then stopped. “Mebbe it’s just interest, like?” she said quietly. “There can’t be much ’appens ’round ’ere.”

  “Yes, of course,” Charlotte agreed. “All the same, don’t let the children go out of sight. And we’ll lock the doors at night. Safer, even out here.”

  “Yeah . . . o’ course,” Gracie said firmly. “Don’t want no wild animals wanderin’ in . . . foxes and the like, or wotever. I dunno wot they ’ave ’ere.” She stared into the distance. “I’nt it . . . beautiful! D’yer think mebbe I should keep a diary, or summink? I might never see anyfink like this again.”

  “That’s a very good idea,” Charlotte said instantly. “We all will. Children! Where are you?” She was absurdly relieved when she heard their answer and all three of them came chasing back over the tussocky grass. She must not allow herself to spoil their happiness with fears for which there was no reason.

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  The day after the murder of Maude Lamont the newspapers gave it sufficient importance to place it on the front page, along with election news and foreign events. There was no question that it had been a crime rather than an accident or natural causes. The police presence confirmed as much, but there had been no statement issued beyond the fact that the housekeeper, Miss Lena Forrest, had summoned them. She had refused to speak, and Inspector Tellman had said only that the matter was being investigated.

  Standing by the kitchen table, Pitt poured himself a second cup of tea and offered to do the same for Tellman, who was moving impatiently from one foot to the other. He declined.

  “We’ve seen half a dozen of the other clients,” he said, frowning. “They all swear by her. Say she was the most gifted medium they’d ever known. Whatever that means.” He threw it out almost as a challenge, as if he wanted Pitt to explain it. He was deeply unhappy with the whole subject, and yet obviously whatever he had been told since Pitt had last seen him had disturbed the simple contempt he had had before.

  “What did she tell them, and how?” Pitt asked.

  Tellman glared at him. “Spirits coming out of her mouth,” he said, waiting for the derision he was certain would follow. “Wavering and sort of . . . fuzzy, but they were quite sure it was the head and face of someone they knew.”

  “And where was Maude Lamont while this was going on?” Pitt asked.

  “Sitting in her chair at the head of the table, or in a special sort of cabinet they had built, so her hands couldn’t escape. She suggested that herself, for their belief.”

  “What did she charge for this?” He sipped his tea.

  “One said two guineas, another said five,” Tellman answered, biting his lip. “Thing is, if she’s just saying it’s entertainment, and they won’t bring a charge against her, there wouldn’t have been anything we could do anyway. Can’t arrest a conjurer, and they paid willingly. I suppose it’s a bit of comfort . . . isn’t it?”

  “It probably comes in the same category as patent medicines,” Pitt thought aloud. “If you believe it will cure a nervous headache, or make you sleep better, maybe it will? And who’s to say you have no right to try it?”

  “Because it’s nonsense!” Tellman responded with vehemence. “She’s making a living out of people who don’t know any better. She tells them what they want to hear. Anybody could do that!”

  “Could they?” Pitt said quickly. “Send your men back to ask more carefully. We need to know if she was getting real information that wasn’t public knowledge,
and we can’t account for how she heard it.”

  Tellman’s eyes opened wide in disbelief and then a shadow of real alarm.

  “If she’s got an informant, I want to know about it!” Pitt snapped. “And I mean a flesh-and-blood one.”

  Tellman’s face was comical with relief, then he blushed hot, dull red.

  Pitt grinned. It was the first time he had found anything to laugh at since Cornwallis had told him he was back in Special Branch. “I assume you have already made enquiries about anyone seen in the street near Cosmo Place,” he went on, “that evening, or any other, who might be our anonymous client?”

  “Of course I have! That’s what I have sergeants and constables for,” Tellman said tartly. “You can’t have forgotten that so soon! I’m coming with you to see this Major General Kingsley. I’m sure your judgment of him will be very perceptive, but I want to make my own as well.” His jaw tightened. “And he’s one of the only two witnesses we have who were there at the . . . séance.” He invested the word with all the anger and frustration he felt in dealing with people who exercised their rights to make fools of themselves and involve him in the results. He did not want to be sorry for them, still less to understand, and the struggle to maintain his dispassion was clear in his face, and that he had already lost.

  Pitt searched for fear or superstition, and saw not even a shadow. He put down his empty cup.

  “What is it?” Tellman said sharply.

  Pitt smiled at him, not in humor but in an affection which surprised him. “Nothing,” he replied. “Let’s go and speak to Kingsley, and ask him why he went to Miss Lamont, and what she was able to do for him, most especially on the night she died.” He turned and walked along the passage to the front door, and allowing Tellman to pass him, closed it and locked it behind him.

  “Morning, sir,” the postman said cheerfully. “Lovely day again.”

  “Yes,” Pitt agreed, not recognizing the man. “Good morning. Are you new on this street?”