by Anne Perry
‘Yes, sir,’ he said again from the doorway. And then he walked out and closed the door softly behind him.
Chapter Ten
Daniel worked at his desk, mostly making notes on what he had heard and observed at Graves’ house. Kitteridge came in, looking tired and unhappy. Daniel was not surprised to learn that he had discovered no legal error of any size at all, let alone one sufficient to justify an appeal.
He sat down facing Daniel’s desk. No one else in the same room took any notice of him. They were busy studying, worrying about their own cases.
Daniel did not want to discuss what he had learned, particularly the part about Special Branch, but Kitteridge had a right to know. If it proved viable and there was a retrial, then everyone who could read a newspaper would know. He realised with a profound sharpness, as only the first impact of the wound, what it would be like to have every person in the street aware of what you were accused of, but no idea of the reality of who you were, or your side of the story.
‘Pitt!’ Kitteridge said sharply.
Daniel realised that Kitteridge had spoken to him, and he had not heard. ‘Yes? Sorry . . .’
‘Did you learn anything at Graves’ house? Do you think he did it? Have you got any other suspects at all?’ Kitteridge’s patience was short, and it was audible in his tone of voice.
‘I learned quite a lot,’ Daniel replied. ‘Did you know he was writing a biography of one of the past heads of Special Branch?’
‘No, is it relevant?’ Kitteridge looked blank. Then suddenly it came to him, and he sat forward so he could lower his voice and be heard only by Daniel. ‘That’s your father’s job, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. But this is mostly about the man before him, who’s dead now. The notes are vile.’
‘Can we still stop it?’ Kitteridge asked. ‘What a cowardly thing to do. I knew I didn’t like the bastard.’
Daniel smiled with a sudden upsurge of warmth. ‘Neither do his household staff, although they’re very discreet about it. An expression on their faces, and extra polite language. But the point is, someone from Special Branch might have done this to frame him.’
‘What? Kill his wife?’ Kitteridge looked very sceptical indeed.
‘Make it look as if he did.’
Kitteridge’s eyebrows rose. ‘Why not simply kill him? It seems a long way round about it.’ Then suddenly he shook his head, as if he understood. ‘Disgrace him, then ruin him. Probably effective. But then who did kill Mrs Graves?’
‘That’s the difficulty,’ Daniel agreed.
‘Do Special Branch go in for that sort of thing? Assassinations?’ Kitteridge asked. ‘It’s a bit steep! Killing poor Mrs Graves. It’s not her fault. It would be plain murder. I don’t like the sound of that at all.’
‘The way he paints Special Branch, or at the least the heads of it, that would be the least of their crimes,’ Daniel said bitterly.
‘What are you going to do?’ There was a surprising gentleness in Kitteridge’s voice, as if he understood the complexity and the pain of family loyalty, rivalry, complicated love, and the need for ties at the same time as freedom.
Daniel hesitated before he answered. ‘I’m going to try to find out who did kill Ebony Graves. It still could have been Graves himself. We know no one broke in, and I can’t imagine any of the staff doing it. None of them would have the strength, except the butler. If he did, he must have had a hell of a reason!’
‘It must have been someone already in the house,’ Kitteridge said. ‘We’ve been through this. If Graves had let someone in, he’d have said so by now.’
‘Or she let them in herself?’
‘A lover? They couldn’t find any trace of one.’
‘So, he was clever, and careful.’
‘Do you believe that?’
Daniel shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. But we have still got seventeen more days to find out.’
‘Less.’ Kitteridge climbed to his feet. ‘We can’t lodge an appeal on the last day. Not that we’ve got anything to appeal about. I wish I wanted to save him.’ His mouth twisted with an expression of complicated regret. ‘What you just told me makes me want to see him hang. I don’t like being made to question my government. There’s so much else in the world that’s changing, or questioning everything. I want to have somebody to believe in.’
Daniel watched him retreat, and was aware with a sudden sense of pity that Kitteridge had not said he wanted to believe in his own family. But Daniel did, profoundly.
Sometime later, Daniel looked up from his note-making to see Impney standing in front of him. ‘Yes?’
‘Miss fford Croft is here to see you, sir. I’ve asked her to wait in Mr fford Croft’s rooms, since he is not in at the moment. You will not be disturbed.’
Daniel rose to his feet, not feeling ready for this at all. ‘Thank you, Impney.’
He knocked briefly on fford Croft’s door, and as soon as he heard an answer he went in. He did not know what he expected, but it was not the woman who stood in the centre of the floor. Miriam was not tall, but she was slender, which gave the impression of more height than she had. Daniel had only ever known fford Croft with white hair, so he had no idea what colour it had been in his youth. Hers was bright auburn; one might say less politely, red. She had the fair blemishless skin that sometimes goes with that shade, and her eyes were unmistakably greenish-blue. She was not beautiful, which was a surprise, given her colouring. Her face was too strong, her nose too bold. But she was entirely unforgettable. On this occasion, she wore a business-like full-length skirt; there was no concession to fashion in it. Her jacket was tailored, and her blouse crisp white, but unadorned by lace or frills.
‘You’re Daniel Pitt?’ she asked, as if surprised by his appearance. Perhaps she had expected someone older, like Kitteridge, perhaps, who was thirty-four, nearer to her own age, which looked to be just under forty.
‘Yes. How do you do, Miss fford Croft?’ he replied a little stiffly. This woman was a doctor and a chemist. Why, for heaven’s sake?
‘Please sit down, Mr Pitt,’ she directed. ‘Tell me everything you know about the case about which you want advice. And when I say know, I mean only those facts that are beyond dispute. I will sit at my father’s desk so I may make notes.’
Daniel obeyed, slowly. In her own way, she was as intimidating as her father.
She looked at him enquiringly, pencil poised.
He tried to marshal his thoughts: definitely facts only, no conclusions. He told her what the police had reported about the finding of the body: when, where, who, how, and what they believed to be the cause of death.
She wrote many notes. She worked so rapidly that he wondered if she had her own form of shorthand.
‘And Mr Graves was tried for the crime and found guilty?’ she asked.
‘Yes . . .’ He did not know what to call her, whether she was Doctor or Miss, so he left it open.
‘What evidence is there that it was he?’ she asked.
‘There was no break-in, and he was the only one in the house unaccounted for at the time she died. The body was discovered at ten in the evening. There were no other people present except the family, and the household servants.’
‘So, could she not have let someone in, or it was someone already in the house?’ she said quietly. ‘Interesting . . . and sad. It is always sad when someone is killed by a person they know well, a family member. But I believe it happens quite often. Tell me about the burning you mentioned.’
‘All I know is that there was blood on the corner of the hearthstone, and a lot of the carpet was burned where her head and upper body must have been . . . where they said the head and body were.’ He would be as precisely accurate as she had requested, although he could not think of any way in which she could help.
She looked down at her notes, and then up at him. She met his eyes with complete candour. ‘Precisely what is it you wish me to do, Mr Pitt? Do you believe that there is any doubt about his guilt?’
‘Very little,’ he answered. ‘When you look at all those facts, I think the jury came to the only conclusion they could.’
‘But . . .?’
‘There were other facts that they did not know. Graves knew them, so I don’t know why he didn’t raise them then. He mentioned them to me privately, and I found proof when I searched the study in his house. He is writing a book that is a complete destruction of the character and reputation of two very important people, both now dead, so they cannot defend themselves, nor could he be accused of libelling them. There is another in the biography who is alive, and in an important government position. Graves accuses him of corruption and covering up serious crimes. Leaders are always subject to such charges. I suppose they have to be . . .’
‘So, he guided his way well between maligning the dead, whom he cannot libel, and accusing only of duplicity the one man he could,’ she concluded. ‘Are you suggesting that someone, on their behalf, could have killed his wife? Is that what he suggested?’
‘I don’t remember exactly what he said, but yes, he suggested it.’
‘Do you think there is any truth in it?’ She frowned slightly. Whether she doubted it, or simply found it distasteful, he could not tell.
He smiled wryly. ‘Since I knew the two people who are dead very well, from my early childhood, and the one still living is my father . . .’
He saw her startled reaction, and sudden sympathy.
‘I am not in an impartial position,’ he went on. ‘Personally, I would see Graves in hell, with pleasure. But that is neither a legal defence, nor a moral one.’ He heard the emotion thick in his voice, but he could not control it.
‘So, the only solution is to find out who did kill Ebony Graves.’ Her voice was soft with regret. ‘And hope that it is indeed Russell Graves. I doubt, Mr Pitt, if it was someone in defence of the people he maligned. It is an oblique and rather inefficient way of dealing with it. Has his publisher any notes, or a rough draft of the manuscript? It would be interesting to know if anyone else has commented on them, to keep the book from publication.’
‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘I . . . I found them only this morning. And I don’t want any more people to know about it than have to. We must find out who the publisher is.’ That was not a task he was looking forward to. It was very easy for the Duke of Wellington to say, ‘Publish and be damned’. He was a good deal safer in his position than any of the people Daniel cared for. And, if he remembered correctly, that was only about having a mistress. Not a sin, compared with those supposedly exposed in Graves’ book, such as profound corruption.
Miriam fford Croft was smiling, but it was with considerable sympathy.
‘It sounds as if Mr Graves is a man who made many enemies,’ she observed tartly. ‘He may be about to add one more to the list. You sound as if you have been to the house yourself?’
‘Yesterday and I came back this morning,’ Daniel agreed. ‘Do we have to return there? I did not tell you much about the family, or the staff. I don’t think they can help. I . . . think they would, if they were able.’
‘Then there is no evidence to look at here, Mr Pitt. We can only learn more from studying what is there. Her body has already been buried, I presume.’
‘Yes. Several weeks ago. But she died of a blow to the back of her head. I can get you the police reports, if you wish?’
‘It would be useful to read them,’ she conceded. ‘I will ask my father to obtain a copy. First, I think we will go to the house, and have another look at the scene. Are her belongings still there? Her clothes, for example?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. One may sometimes learn a great deal from clothes.’
Daniel doubted it, but he did not argue. He was beginning to think it was a complete waste of time. What did this woman think she could learn? He must not forget to see if Mercy Blackwell had discovered anything. It was a faint hope. His mind was filled with fear that the scandal Graves had invented was at the heart of the crime. It was too urgent, too big, and too ugly to be an incidental thread. It was the kind of thing that would very easily inspire murder.
But why Ebony? Then another thought occurred to him. Had she somehow been the one who had found the information and given it to Graves? Yet he could not see how her crusading for various rights and privileges had taken her into where she had learned about Special Branch.
Miriam fford Croft was waiting for him.
He followed her out into the front of the office. A few moments later they were in a taxi on their way to the station. They took the next train south and settled down for the twenty-six-minute journey.
Daniel had been afraid that she would ask him for further information about his father, and especially about Narraway, but instead she talked of the great prospects she believed science had in the solving of crime. In spite of himself, he found he was interested. He began asking her questions, especially about the problems she seemed to see already making themselves apparent.
‘The greatest difficulty?’ she said with a twisted smile. ‘Of all?’
He was surprised. ‘There are so many?’
‘Oh, yes. For example, to understand that things can be weighed and measured, and you can come up with a definite answer. But that in itself may prove a thing is possible or impossible. It seldom proves that that is the only answer. Some things are individual, for example, fingerprints. But it still is a skill to see the tiny differences. We are only just learning and categorising them. Another is bullets. Some have left-hand rifling, some have right-hand, some, like shotgun pellets, have no distinguishing marks at all. We can tell if bullets don’t match a particular gun, and that if they do it only means it could be that gun, not that it was.’
‘So, more negatives than positives. As a defence lawyer, I can’t fault that!’ he said very regretfully. His thoughts were darker than such details, and he could not hide it.
‘There are small limitations,’ she went on. ‘And in time we may be able to tell very much more. The struggle is to prove it to a jury. They are highly suspicious. They don’t like to be condescended to. They are ignorant but they do not like to be told as much.’
‘Not many of us do,’ Daniel pointed out.
She gave a half-smile. It softened her face. ‘Indeed. I’m afraid some of it depends upon who you are, not upon what you say. There are experts they will trust, and those they will not.’ She gave a somewhat wry gesture. ‘They do not think we can count, never mind understand science. Most people, women included, judge according to their own experience. We think what we need to think, in order to hold onto our own world view and validate what we must believe. It is a matter of survival, although it may seem merely to be prejudice to someone else. It takes a lot of courage to turn your world upside down and start again. Most people have enough practical worries of survival not to look for philosophical ones.’
He looked across at her face, which seemed quite calm and composed. There were only tiny lines around her mouth, and shadows in her eyes. She was old enough that experience and emotion had marked her features.
Quite suddenly, he liked her better for it.
They discussed trials, jury and evidence a little longer, then when they arrived at the station he found a cab and they set out towards Graves’ house.
She was impressed by it, as he had been. She said little, but he saw it in her expression. For the first time, he wondered where Marcus fford Croft lived. He knew the area, but not the particular house. Surely it was at least as fine as this? But of course it would be full of memories that coloured every thought of it. Just as there were for him in the house on Keppel Street, Bloomsbury, where he had grown up. It was in the heart of London, not the spacious suburbs, but even so, the squares were tree-lined, grassy, and houses had a certain elegance. But the important thing was the comfort of the mind, the knowledge of warmth not only in the literal sense, but in the heart, certain beliefs not only about the past, but about the future also.
&nbs
p; He must pay attention to his job.
The front door was opened by Falthorne.
‘Good afternoon, Falthorne,’ Daniel said immediately. ‘May I introduce Miss fford Croft? She has come to help me try to learn exactly what occurred here regarding Mrs Graves’ death. She is a scientist, and may learn things that we cannot.’
‘Good afternoon, Miss fford Croft.’ Falthorne inclined his head. ‘If you would care to come in? Would you like tea served, sir? Will you be in the morning room?’
‘Thank you, Falthorne, I think we will begin right away in the bedroom, if you don’t mind. Time . . . is short.’
‘Yes, sir, ma’am,’ Falthorne closed the door and led them upstairs to Ebony Graves’ bedroom. ‘If there is anything you wish, sir, just ring the bell. Perhaps you would care for tea and sandwiches later? I’m sure Mrs Hanslope would be happy to make something.’
‘That would be very nice,’ Daniel accepted. He was sorry to miss the familiar lunch in the servants’ hall, but there was no time for that now.
Falthorne conducted them upstairs, then excused himself, leaving them in what had been Ebony’s room.
Daniel turned to Miriam. ‘How can I help?’
She was gazing around in interest, and there was a sadness in her face that she was probably unaware of. She looked younger and more vulnerable than when she spoke of science. Was she imagining Ebony Graves here, and the last unsuspecting moments of her life, before she knew that person there with her was about to kill her? To be in the bedroom, surely it had to be someone she loved, or at the very least trusted? This was a place you imagine yourself apart from the world, when you let down your guard.
Except, of course, if the person most dangerous to you was in your own family! Then it was anything but a place of peace. It was where you were most vulnerable. There would be nowhere to run to, no one who could help.
Was that how it had been?
Miriam walked over to the hearth. One did not have to look around in order to find the place where the murder had happened, especially when no attempt had been made to clean it. Indeed, the carpet was ruined. She kneeled down and looked very carefully at the blood on the cornerstone. Daniel had no idea what she could tell from it, other than that was the place where Ebony had sustained her fatal injury.