by Anne Perry
Jack gave an abrupt, angry little gesture. “And try campaigning by telling people, ‘Vote for me and I’ll free you of the Empire you are so against. Of course, unfortunately it will cost you your jobs, your homes, even your town. The factories will go out of business because there’ll be too few customers being courted to buy too many goods. The shops will close, and the factories and the mills. But it’s a high-minded thing to do, and must surely be morally right!’ “
“Are our manufactured goods not competitive against the rest of the world?” Pitt asked.
“The world doesn’t need them.” Jack picked up the second half of his beer. “They’re making their own. Can you see anybody voting you in on that?” He raised his eyebrows, his eyes wide. “Or do you think we should tell them we won’t, and then do it anyway? Lie to them all in the name of moral righteousness! Isn’t it up to them whether they want to save their souls at that price?”
Pitt said nothing.
Jack did not expect an answer. “It’s all in the uses and balances of power, isn’t it?” he went on softly, staring into the distance of the crowded tavern. “Can you pick up the sword without cutting yourself? Someone must. But do you know how to use it any better than the next man? Don’t you believe anything enough to fight for it? And what are you worth if you don’t?” He looked at Pitt again. “Imagine not caring for anything sufficiently to take a risk for it! You’d lose even what you had. I can imagine what Emily thinks of that.” He stared down at the mug in his hand, smiling a trifle twistedly. Then suddenly he looked up at Pitt. “Mind, I’d sooner face Emily than Charlotte.”
Pitt winced, a new set of images in his mind, racing away, one melting into another. For an instant he missed Charlotte so much it was a physical ache. He had sent her away to be safe, but he was not stepping forward to fight some noble battle by choice. Looking at it now with hindsight, if he could have evaded Voisey, perhaps he would have. “Are you thinking of what will happen if you are given office?” he said suddenly.
A swift color stained Jack’s cheeks, making a lie impossible. “Not exactly. They asked me to join the Inner Circle. Of course I won’t!” He spoke a little too quickly, his eyes fixed on Pitt’s. “But it was very clearly pointed out to me, if I were not with them, then my opponents would be. You can’t step outside it all . . .”
Pitt felt as if someone had opened the doors onto a winter night. “Who was it that asked you?” he said softly.
Jack shook his head, only a tiny movement. “I can’t tell you.”
It was on the edge of Pitt’s tongue to demand if it had been Charles Voisey, but he remembered at the last moment that Jack did not know what had happened in Whitechapel, and for his own safety it was better it should remain so. Or was it? He looked at Jack now, sitting at the other side of the table with the beer tankard between his hands, his expression still carrying some of the charm and a kind of innocence he had had when they had first met. He had been so worldly wise in the manners and rules of society, but naive of the truly darker alleys of life, the violence of the mind. The facile betrayals of country house parties, the selfishness of the idle, was an uncomplicated thing compared with the evil Pitt had seen. Would knowledge be a greater protection? Or a greater danger? If Voisey guessed Jack was aware of his position as leader of the Inner Circle, it might mark Jack as another he had to destroy!
And yet if Jack did not know, was Pitt leaving him without shield against the seduction of twisted reason? Was Jack more than just another Liberal candidate? Disarmed, was he also another way to wound Pitt? Corruption would be infinitely more satisfying than mere defeat.
Or perhaps it was coincidental, and Pitt was creating his own demons?
He pushed his chair back and stood up, drinking the last of his cider and setting the glass down. “Come on. We’ve both got a long way to go home, and there’ll be all sorts of traffic on the bridges at this time of night. Don’t forget Rose Serracold.”
“Do you think she killed that woman, Thomas?” Jack climbed to his feet also, ignoring the dregs of his ale.
Pitt did not answer until they had pushed their way through the crowd and were outside in the street, which was almost completely dark.
“It was she, General Kingsley, or the third person, who kept his identity secret,” Pitt replied.
“Then it was the third person!” Jack said instantly. “Why would any honest man hide his identity over what is an eccentric pursuit, perhaps a trifle absurd, even pathetic, but quite respectable and far from any kind of crime?” His voice picked up enthusiasm. “There was obviously more to it! He was probably slipping back after the others left and having an affair with her. Perhaps she blackmailed him, and he killed her to keep her quiet. What better way to conceal his visits than in the open, going to a séance with other people. He’s looking for his great-grandfather, or whoever. Foolish, but innocent.”
“Apparently he wasn’t looking for anyone in particular. He appeared to be a skeptic.”
“Better still! He’s trying to discredit her, prove her a fraud. That shouldn’t be difficult. The very fact that he didn’t expose her suggests another motive.”
“Perhaps,” Pitt agreed as they passed under the street lamp again. The wind was rising a little, blowing up from the river, carrying loose sheets of old newspapers, drifting over the cobbles and settling again. There were beggars in the doorways; it was too early to huddle down for the night. A street woman already kept an eye hopeful for custom. The air was sour in the throat as they walked abreast towards the bridge.
Pitt slept badly. The silence in the house was oppressive, an emptiness, not a peace. He woke late with a headache and was sitting at the kitchen table when the doorbell rang. He stood up and went in his stocking feet to answer it.
Tellman stood on the step looking cold although the morning was mild and the high clouds were already thinning. By midday it would be bright and hot.
“What is it?” Pitt asked, stepping back in tacit invitation. “Judging by your face, nothing good.”
Tellman stepped in, frowning, his lantern jaw set tight and hard. He glanced around as if for a moment he had forgotten that Gracie would not be there. He looked forlorn, as if he too had been abandoned.
Pitt followed him back to the kitchen. “What is it?” he repeated as Tellman went to the far side of the table and sat down, ignoring the kettle and not even looking for cake or biscuits.
“We might have found the man written in the diary as a pic-ture . . . what did you say . . . a cartouche?” he replied, his voice flat, struggling to keep all expression out of it, leaving Pitt to make all his own judgments.
“Oh?”
The silence in the room was heavy. A dog was barking somewhere in the distance, and Pitt could hear the slithering sound of a bag of coal being emptied into a cellar chute next door. He felt a curious, sinking sensation. There was a premonition of tragedy in Tellman’s face, as if already a weight of darkness had settled inside him.
Tellman looked up. “He fits the description,” he said quietly. “Height, age, build, hair, even voice, so the informant says. I suppose he would, or Superintendent Wetron wouldn’t have passed it on to us.”
“What makes him think it’s this man rather than any of a thousand others who also fit the description?” Pitt asked. “All we have is middle height, probably in his sixties, neither thin nor fat, gray hair. There must be thousands of men like that, tens of thousands within train distance of Southampton Row.” He leaned forward across the table. “What is the rest, Tellman? Why this man?”
Tellman did not blink. “Because he’s a retired professor, apparently, who just lost his wife after a long illness. All their children died young. He has nobody else, and he’s taken it very hard. Sort of . . . started behaving oddly, wandering around talking to young women, trying to recapture the past. His dead children, I suppose.” He looked wretched, as if he had been caught intruding on someone’s acute private embarrassment, like a voyeur. “He’s got himself tal
ked about . . . a bit.”
“Where does he live?” Pitt asked unhappily. Why on earth did Wetron think this unfortunate man had anything to do with Maude Lamont’s death? “Is it near Southampton Row?”
“No,” Tellman said quickly. “Teddington.”
Pitt thought he had misheard. Teddington was a village miles up the Thames, beyond Kew, beyond even Richmond. “Where did you say?”
“Teddington,” Tellman repeated. “He could come in on the train quite easily.”
“Why on earth should he?” Pitt asked incredulously. “Aren’t spirit mediums common enough? Why Maude Lamont? She’s rather expensive for a retired teacher, isn’t she?”
“That’s it.” Tellman was totally miserable. “He’s still noted as a deep thinker and very highly respected. Writes the definitive textbooks on some things. Obscure, but then it would be, to most of us. But his own people think the world of him.”
“Having the means doesn’t explain coming all the way into the city to consult a spirit medium whose sessions go on till nearly midnight,” Pitt argued.
Tellman took in a deep breath. “It might if you were a senior sort of clergyman whose reputation rested on your insight into the Christian faith.” Again the pity and contempt struggled in his face. “If you took to looking for answers from women who spit up eggs and cheesecloth and tell you it’s ghosts, I should think you’d be looking to go as far away from home as possible. Personally, I’d want it to be another country! I’m not surprised he came and went by the garden door, and wouldn’t even tell Miss Lamont his name.”
Suddenly it was tragically clear to Pitt. It answered all the anomalies of secrecy, evasion, and why he was so frightened of anyone guessing his identity that he would not even name those spirits he wanted to find. It was tragic, yet so fallible and, with a little imagination, easily understood. He was an old man left bereaved of all things he had loved. The final blow of his wife’s death had been too much for his balance. Even the strongest have a dark night of the soul somewhere in the long journey of life.
Tellman was watching him, waiting for his response.
“I’ll go to see him,” Pitt said unhappily. “What’s his name, and where in Teddington does he live?”
“Udney Road, just a few hundred yards from the railway station. London and South West Line, that is.”
“And his name?”
“Francis Wray,” Tellman replied, watching Pitt’s eyes.
Pitt thought of the cartouche with its bent letter inside the circle, like a reversed f. Now he understood more of Tellman’s unhappiness and why he could not cast it aside, much as he would prefer to. “I see,” he acknowledged.
Tellman opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. There really was nothing to say that they did not both know already.
“What have your men found on the other clients?” Pitt asked after a moment or two.
“Nothing very much,” Tellman replied dourly. “All kinds of people; about the only thing they have in common is enough money and time to spend chasing after signs of those already dead. Some of them are lonely, some confused and needing to feel their husband or father still knows what’s going on and loves them.” His voice was getting lower and lower. “A lot of them are just interested, looking for a bit of excitement, want to be entertained. Nobody has a grudge worth doing something about.”
“Did you learn anything about the other ones who came through the garden door from Cosmo Place?”
“No.” There was a flicker of resentment in his eyes. “Don’t know any way of finding them. Where would we begin?”
“About how much did Maude Lamont earn for this?”
Tellman’s eyes were wide. “About four times as much as I do, even with promotion!”
Pitt knew exactly what Tellman would earn. He could imagine the volume of business Maude Lamont could take if she worked four or five days a week. “That is still rather less than running that house must have cost her, and maintaining a wardrobe like hers.”
“Blackmail?” Tellman said without hesitation. His face tightened to a mask of disgust. “It isn’t enough she dupes them, she has to make them pay for silence over their secrets?” He was not looking for any answer, he simply needed to find words for his bitterness. “There are some people who look to be murdered so hard it makes you wonder how they escaped it before!”
“It doesn’t make any difference to the fact that we must find out who killed her,” Pitt said quietly. “The fact of murder cannot go unanswered. I wish I could say that justice would always visit every act fairly and apportion punishment or mercy as it was deserved. I know it won’t. It will be mistaken in both directions. But allowing private vengeance, or escape from anything except threat to life, would be the gateway to anarchy.”
“I know!” Tellman said curtly, angry with Pitt for pointing out to him the helplessness he already understood quite clearly, as if he could not have found the words so easily to express it.
“Anything more from the maid?” Pitt ignored his tone.
“Nothing helpful. Seems a sensible sort of woman on the whole, but I think she may know more about those séances and how they were rigged than she’s telling us. Had to. She was the only one close. All the other staff, cook and laundress and gardener, all came in by the day and were gone before the private sessions ever began.”
“Unless she was equally deceived?” Pitt suggested.
“She’s a sensible woman,” Tellman argued, his voice sharper as he repeated himself. “She wouldn’t be taken in by tricks like pedals and mirrors and oil of phosphorous, all that kind of thing.”
“Most of us have a tendency to believe what we want to,” Pitt replied. “Especially if it matters very much. Sometimes the need is so great we don’t dare disbelieve, or it would break our dreams, and without them we die. Sense has little to do with it. It is survival.”
Tellman stared at him. He seemed on the point of arguing again, then he changed his mind and remained silent. It obviously had not occurred to him that Lena Forrest might also have doubts and loves, people now dead who were woven into the meaning of her life. He flushed very faintly at his omission, and Pitt liked him the better for it.
Pitt stood up slowly. “I’ll go and see this Mr. Wray,” he said. “Teddington! I suppose Maude Lamont was good enough to bring someone all the way from Teddington to Southampton Row?”
Tellman did not answer.
Pitt wasted no time thinking about how to approach the Reverend Francis Wray when he should find him. It was going to be wretched no matter what he said. It was best to do it before apprehension made him clumsier and even more artificial.
He made his way to the railway station and enquired about the best route to Teddington, and was told that he would have to change trains, but that the next train to begin his journey was due to leave in eleven minutes. He purchased a through ticket, thanked the man, and went to get a newspaper from the vendor at the entrance. Most of the space was taken up with election issues and the usual virulent cartoons. He did notice an advertisement for the upcoming exhibition of costermongers’ ponies and donkeys to be held at the People’s Palace in Mile-End Road in a couple of weeks’ time.
On the platform with him were two elderly women and a family obviously on a day out. The children were excited, hopping up and down and unable to stop chattering. He wondered how Daniel, Jemima and Edward were enjoying Devon, if they liked the country, or if they found it strange, if they missed their usual friends. Did they miss him? Or was it all too full of adventure? And of course Charlotte was with them.
He had been away from them too often lately, first in Whitechapel, and now this! He had hardly spoken to either Daniel or Jemima in a couple of months, not with time to reach towards the more difficult subjects, to listen to what was unsaid as well as the surface words. When this matter of Voisey was over, whether they knew who had killed Maude Lamont or not, he must make sure he took a day or two every so often just to spend with them. Narraway owed
him at least that much, and he could not live the rest of his life running away from Voisey. That would be giving him victory without even the effort of a fight.
He dared not even think too closely of Charlotte; missing her left an ache in him too big to fill with thought or action. Even dreams left an ache that hurt too much.
The train came in in a roar of steam and the clatter of iron wheels on iron rails, with flying smuts, the smell and heat of power, and the moment of parting with her was as sharp as if she had left barely a moment ago. He had to force himself into the present, to open the carriage door and hold it for two elderly women, then follow them up the step and inside and find a seat.
It was not a long journey. Forty minutes and he was in Teddington. As Tellman had told him, Udney Road was only a block away from the station, and a few minutes’ walk took him to the neat gate of number four. He stared at it in the sun for several moments, breathing in the scents of a dozen flowers and the sweet, clean odor of hot earth newly watered. It was so full of memory, so domestic, that for an instant it overwhelmed him.
At a glance the garden looked random, almost overgrown, but he knew the years of care that had gone into its nurture and upkeep. There were no dead heads, nothing out of place, no weeds. It was a blaze of color, new with long familiar, exotic and indigenous side by side. Simply staring at it told him much of the man who had planted it. Was it Francis Wray himself, or an outdoor servant paid for the task? If it were the latter, whatever he earned, his real reward was in his art.
Pitt unfastened the gate and went in, closing it behind him, and walked up the path. A black cat lay stretched on the windowsill in the sun, a tortoiseshell strolled through the dappled shade of late crimson snapdragons. Pitt prayed he was here on a fool’s errand.
He knocked on the front door, and was admitted by a girl in a maid’s uniform, but who could not have been more than fifteen years old.
