Twenty-One Days

by Anne Perry

  It was Maisie, the housemaid, who gave words to it. She looked at Daniel. ‘Joe says you’re here to find something as’ll save Mr Graves, and ’e’ll come ’ome. That true, mister?’

  Daniel felt all the desperation that was behind that question.

  ‘Don’t be daft!’ Bessie the kitchen maid said a little roughly. ‘’E dunnit. Nothing can save ’im. You want ’im ’ome, anyway? Remember poor Mrs Graves, yer daft little ha’porth. In’t you got no sense at all?’

  Daniel thought of Gracie, and for a few seconds he was back at the dinner table of his childhood. Gracie’s scathingly honest opinions had been so often right.

  He wanted to interrupt, comfort both of them, and protect Bessie, who looked so crushed, but he could learn so much more from letting them talk.

  Falthorne was obviously uncomfortable. ‘You are speaking out of turn, Maisie. Justice must be done. And you, too, Bessie. It is not your place to give your opinions at the table. Or at all, for that matter.’

  The housekeeper gave him a quick look, but she did not speak. Order must be preserved. It was the only kind of safety they had left. They had to cling onto it for as long as possible.

  ‘Mr Arthur and Miss Sarah will have to live somewhere,’ Mrs Warlaby said. ‘They may stay here, and if they move somewhere else, they could take us with them . . .’ Her voice trailed off. It was a brave hope, and nobody argued with her.

  Daniel wondered what would happen to the estate if Russell Graves were hanged. Did it go to his heirs? Was it another reason to hope to find some grounds for appeal?

  Falthorne took a deep breath and composed himself with an effort. ‘Best we not think about it until necessary,’ he said. ‘But if there is anyone who is offered a post, and wishes a letter of good character, I will be happy to write one. There is no one else in a position to do so.’ It was duty, the least he could do. There was no lift in his voice.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Falthorne,’ Mrs Warlaby said quietly. She turned to Daniel. ‘I hope your room is satisfactory, Mr Pitt.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Warlaby. I’m sure I shall be most comfortable,’ he replied.

  ‘Would you like coffee, and perhaps a cigar, Mr Pitt?’ Falthorne offered.

  Daniel was startled. He was being treated as if he were a true guest, not a young lawyer down here after a tragedy, and to search for information in an act that was, in itself, necessarily intrusive. Or was it largely to get him away from the table and perhaps into the study, to leave them in peace?

  In that case, he should accept.

  ‘Thank you. That is very courteous of you.’ He rose, thanked the cook again, inclined his head to the housekeeper and lady’s maid, and said good night to the younger ones, who were little more than children. He had been at school at their age. But then he had started earning his living at twenty-four, not at fourteen. ‘Good night.’

  ‘Good night, sir,’ came from all around the table.

  He went back to the study, as Falthorne had suggested, and sat in the largest armchair. Ten minutes later, Falthorne came in with a tray of coffee and set it down on the table at his side.

  ‘Would you like me to pour you a glass of brandy, sir?’

  ‘No – no, thank you. And I don’t smoke cigars, either. I thought perhaps you might prefer to be alone. You have a large task ahead of you, helping them . . . to . . .’ Suddenly, he did not know how to finish.

  ‘Yes, sir. There was something I was wondering, if I might ask your advice, sir?’

  Daniel felt a sudden chill. Had he the knowledge to give this man counsel that was accurate, helpful, worthy of his trust? ‘Of course, Mr Falthorne. Please sit down.’

  Falthorne sat very carefully, moving the tails of his coat so as not to crush them. Appearance was never to be forgotten. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Daniel sat forward a little, trying to look attentive, aware that the man was more than twice his age.

  Falthorne cleared his throat. ‘We must be practical, sir. It is not at all likely, even with your best efforts, that you will be able to find evidence that clears Mr Graves. I do not mean to . . . to doubt your skills, sir. I do not think the evidence exists. Forgive me for saying it, but I am responsible for these people . . .’

  ‘I understand.’ Daniel could see his difficulty and his embarrassment. He was a man who took orders every day, but beneath the obedient exterior he was proud, and he took his responsibilities very seriously. The rest of the household was as much his trust as if they had been literally his family. ‘You have to face the possibilities.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I am grateful that you think it not . . . disloyal of me. There is hope, and there is reality.’ He met Daniel’s eyes with momentary grief, and then he looked down.

  ‘What is it you wish to know, Mr Falthorne?’

  Falthorne cleared his throat again. ‘Before Mrs Graves’ death, sir, I came across a piece of information, quite accidentally, while fetching a book from Mr Graves’ desk. He was in the withdrawing room and required it.’

  ‘I understand. What is this information?’

  ‘There is a very handsome estate in Huntingdonshire, many miles the other side of London. Lord Epscomb, sir. A fine house, and a hundred or so acres . . .’

  ‘Very handsome,’ Daniel agreed. He could not imagine Graves had the money to purchase such a place, and anyway, it was possibly a family estate. ‘And Lord Epscomb?’

  ‘Very recently deceased, sir.’ Falthorne cleared his throat again. ‘Without issue. The estate, the title, and the money go to his nearest relative, which is actually a cousin.’

  ‘And Mr Graves’ interest in this? Lord Epscomb is not one of his biographical subjects, is he?’ The knot grew a little tighter in Daniel’s stomach. He thought of the book for which Graves had made side notes. It was surely intended to ruin someone. He had never heard of Epscomb, but the man might have been of such hidden power that his name was not generally known.

  ‘That is it, sir. The cousin is Mr Graves. He was set to inherit it all.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yes, sir. There was a lawyer’s letter accompanying the photograph of the house, and a description of the surrounding acreage. I admit, I read it. There is no doubt. The family connection was all there, through his mother. The will was in probate, but there was no doubt that he is the heir. What I want to know is, will Mr Arthur now inherit? Or does the fact that Mr Graves may be hanged in . . . I believe it is in less than three weeks . . . mean that the title goes elsewhere? And if it means a battle of some sort, will you accept the task of fighting for Mr Arthur? I do not believe he is aware of it at all. He and Miss Sarah face possibly a bleak and uncertain future, with their mother dead and their father . . . hanged. They have no one else to fight for them. I doubt Mr fford Croft is even aware of the inheritance, sir.’

  ‘Yes, of course I shall inform Mr fford Croft of the situation, if he is not aware already, and he will put whoever is the firm’s most skilled man in this field on the case. I am only a beginner, but I will do all I can.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. It is not only for Mr Arthur, and of course Miss Sarah, it is for the whole household. It will not be easy to see them all settled anew. Not everyone wishes to be connected, however loosely, with such a . . . a scandal.’

  ‘No, of course not. But if it should come to the necessity, my mother may be able to help.’

  ‘Your mother . . . sir?’ Falthorne could not conceal his doubt.

  ‘She knows very many people in society who might appreciate well-trained staff. Her sister even more so.’ Daniel preferred not to tell Falthorne his exact family position.

  Falthorne rose to his feet. ‘Thank you very much, sir. Please ring the bell if there is anything else you wish. Otherwise, good night, sir.’

  ‘Good night, Mr Falthorne.’

  Daniel had expected to sleep well, but he turned the new information over and over in his mind. Had it anything to do with Ebony’s death? Or to do with Graves’ new book? He almost got up at about two
in the morning, to search Graves’ papers for more information, but he was afraid of disturbing the whole household. Perhaps, rather more honestly, he knew he was too tired to do the job properly. He could see the facts on the page, and still miss them.

  He finally fell asleep, and it was daylight when he woke to see Falthorne standing beside the bed with a tray of hot tea in his hands.

  ‘Good morning, sir. I hope you slept well. Breakfast will be in half an hour. I will serve you in the dining room, if you wish?’

  ‘No . . . no thank you.’ Daniel rubbed his eyes and sat up slowly. ‘I will eat with the rest of you, if I may?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Will that be all, sir?’

  ‘Yes, yes, thank you. Thank you for the tea.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Falthorne excused himself, and after opening the curtains on a bright morning, went out and closed the door softly behind him.

  Daniel got up immediately. Thirty minutes later he was washed, shaved and dressed, and joined the staff in the kitchen for breakfast of bacon, eggs, sausages, and then toast and marmalade and a second cup of tea.

  By nine o’clock, he was back in Graves’ study reading his research papers. He needed to find who it was that he was writing about, and if that person had anything to do with Epscomb. Perhaps Daniel needed to know anyway. The more he read, the more it was plain that Graves considered his subject morally deplorable, a man who used his office to gain painful, intimate information about people, and then forced them to do things that were sometimes close to treasonous. He was driven from office by a scandal that he managed to conceal, but it was too close to being criminal for him to remain – someone had stood up to him! But he managed to choose his successor, a weak man promoted beyond his ability. He then married his long-time mistress and retired to the House of Lords; such was the corruption that Graves would expose.

  Daniel read his notes with a feeling of increasing distaste, as if he had covered himself with filth in being obliged to look into it. It would distress many people, both those who believed it, and those who did not. Accusations like these would not easily be forgotten, and they might well provoke the violence of which he had seen evidence in Ebony’s bedroom.

  Why kill Ebony, unless she had something to do with it? Was the murderer so sure of seeing Graves hang for it? Indirect, oblique! But it had proved effective. But was that by luck, or skill? What was Marcus fford Croft’s part in it? Did he know any of this?

  That made Daniel wonder if it was true, at least in part.

  What damage would it do if this and the reasons for it were exposed? If the man was as important as Graves implied, immense!

  Was that what fford Croft was afraid of? For that matter, was he seeking to expose it, or to make sure it was not exposed? Where did his loyalties actually lie? Or was he pressured also from some earlier act of indiscretion?

  Did fford Croft want Graves saved, or hanged?

  Daniel went back to the papers. Some of the notes were passages copied from other sources, with ideas written on them, which were often crossed out, or scribbled sideways up the margins of the pages.

  At last, after what seemed like hours, he came across a name written in very small but neat writing in the margin.

  The papers slid from Daniel’s hand onto the floor. He found he was shaking so that he could not grasp them again. They lay on the floor, but he could still see the words. He was not mistaken. Victor Narraway. Graves was writing of his father’s predecessor at Special Branch, Victor Narraway. And Narraway’s wife, Vespasia Cumming-Gould. Daniel dropped to his knees to pick up the papers one by one. One page with notes leaped out at him. As he read, his heart pounded so hard that he was shaking. The corrupt man following in Narraway’s footsteps, covering up crime, even murder, for his own benefit, was Daniel’s father, Sir Thomas Pitt himself.

  Graves must have concocted a mountain of lies! He must have. None of this could be true. Daniel knew all these people. It was Graves who was asserting Narraway was guilty of treason.

  If this book were ever published, the damage it would do would be immeasurable. Thank God Graves was going to be hanged – and all these lies would perish with him.

  No – that was not good enough. These lies must not be spread. Rumour had wings; the more scandal, the stronger those wings, the greater the damage it did to the victims. And in this case, both Narraway and Vespasia were dead, and could not defend themselves. But Thomas Pitt was very much alive! He would be ruined.

  It was so unjust that Daniel could not stop shaking. He would have put the rope around Graves’ neck himself, and pulled the lever to let him drop.

  Then another thought formed itself in his mind: had Graves told anyone else about this? If he was framed for Ebony’s murder, and was not actually guilty, who could have done it? Special Branch, of course! They would be the obvious suspects.

  Daniel knew that he must find the answer. He must do everything possible to force the truth into the open – not to save Graves, but to see who was really guilty, without question, before they hanged him.

  He stared at the papers. He even thought of burning them, destroying all mention of Narraway’s name. Then he reminded himself that Graves could recreate his work. But Daniel’s father would never have done such things; he knew that absolutely.

  But could any of this be true? Pitt was not someone who would collude in the murder of anyone, a man doing as he was bidden in order to hang onto a job too large for him, as Graves said. But Daniel knew many of his cases had been complicated, very difficult to solve, and not always a simple answer of innocent or guilty. He could remember long days and nights of his father’s anxiety. Both his parents talking earnestly, and suddenly falling silent when he or Jemima came into the room.

  Narraway had trusted Pitt. They had both trusted Vespasia. Had she been Narraway’s mistress all along? He did not believe it. No doubt, he was charming. He had been very dark, lean and elegant, and brilliant, such a biting wit. Daniel had been afraid of him when he was younger, but had grown to trust him later on.

  Vespasia he had always loved. She had been the greatest beauty of her age, when she was younger. But that did not matter to him. He had not known her then. She was always magnificent to Daniel, a magical figure to a small boy. She wore her hair like a crown, had dark silver eyes, and grace like no one else, not even the queen. Actually, the queen was quite ugly. So was everyone, compared with Vespasia. And she was funny, too, with a quicker wit than anyone else he knew, even Narraway. And she said what she believed.

  No, Graves had to be wrong.

  Daniel would prove it.

  He stood up, still shaking a little, put the papers at the bottom of the pile, and the whole manuscript in a drawer of the desk, and relocked it. He went to find Falthorne and ask him to lock the study door, then if he would be good enough, find Daniel a taxi to take him to the railway station. He must return to London immediately.

  ‘Are you all right, sir?’ Falthorne asked with concern.

  ‘Yes . . . thank you. I . . . will not forget your . . . anxiety about the staff. I’ll do what I can.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Falthorne said grimly.

  Daniel barely heard him as he went upstairs to get ready to leave. He needed to be alone to compose himself, away from observant eyes, no matter how well-meaning.

  Chapter Nine

  Daniel paced the platform at the station for ten minutes before the morning train came in with clouds of steam and a comforting roar of engine and clatter of metal on metal. No one got off, which he had expected, but half a dozen people got on. All of them he guessed to be workers in the city, such as bankers, managers of this and that, people who did not have to report for duty at an early hour.

  He climbed up the steps and found a seat immediately. He had bought a newspaper, not to read, but to hide behind, so he would not be expected to converse with anyone. He could not face polite exchanges of any sort. His mind was in a state like the proverbial Gordian knot: everything was tied to everything e
lse, and there was nowhere to begin or end.

  Did the news of Graves’ inheritance – completely unexpected – somehow trigger the death of Ebony? But how? Must he silence her to protect his new place in society?

  Or was it the biography? Who or what would it destroy? Marriages? Fortunes? Reputations? Daniel sat up, clenched his fists, and took a deep breath. The answer was obvious: Special Branch. His father.

  Was it a Special Branch agent gone rogue? But again, why?

  Why had the killer obliterated Ebony’s face? Everyone knew who she was. Was it just hatred? Would anyone linger in order to do such a hideous thing without a compelling reason?

  A sudden thought came to him. What if he let Graves hang? Then all of the papers could be destroyed, all the questions and accusations would disappear. A sudden warmth returned to his limbs, and he relaxed back into his seat. It would be the answer to everything! It would all be so easy.

  Then a wave of nausea swept through him. My God, what was he thinking? It was hideously plain: he thought his father could be guilty! How could he ever face him again? He would have betrayed everything he had been taught. How far would he go to protect those he loved? Far enough to let them hang a man who was possibly innocent?

  Pitt would never want that! Daniel must find the truth, whatever it was, and trust that he could live with it.

  Daniel wished that he had never been called onto this case. He had thought for an instant that it was an honour, a step up in the hierarchy. Then he realised that there had been no one else to take it on. He was merely the least busy, and had not even expected to do anything more than fill a position that would be noticeable if it were left empty. Kitteridge was the one to do battle, and that was deservedly so.

  Was there really any chance that there was a legal error sufficient to allow an appeal? Daniel doubted it. Kitteridge was meticulous. But that was only the first thread. There were others far more important, and dangerous. Was Graves guilty? Or, as he had said, was someone trying to blame him and discredit him so that even in death his work would not be worth publishing?