by Anne Perry
Whyte was in his late fifties, slender, and still vigorous. Pitt had to stretch his legs to overtake him.
“Afternoon, Major Whyte,” he said as he drew level with him.
Whyte stopped abruptly, startled by the sound of a military title he had not used in over twenty years. Some men like to remind people of their office for the rest of their lives, but Whyte was not one of them, and Pitt knew it. He was giving Whyte credit for his military service, while at the same time alerting him that Pitt knew much more about him than their casual acquaintance would justify.
“Good afternoon, Commander Pitt,” Whyte said after an instant’s hesitation. “How are you?”
It was a predictable response.
“Pleased to have run into you,” Pitt replied. “I’m about a rather miserable errand.” He was not going to pretend he enjoyed it, whatever Whyte thought of him in the end. “Your military record was brought to my notice. You showed remarkable courage, and loyalty far beyond what most men ever do. Of course, most don’t have the chance, or the necessity.”
They were standing on the path, facing each other. Pitt was not comfortable, but he managed to disguise it. Whyte did not. His body was stiff, his eyes not moving from Pitt’s face.
“I think you mistake me for my brother, Commander,” he said quietly.
In the distance a dog barked excitedly and children cried out encouragement.
“It was he who saved people’s lives in the boat accident on the Nile, if that is what you are referring to. I can’t think what else. Unfortunately, he died only a few years later, again trying to save people.” Now his voice was hoarse with emotion and the grief in his face was plain.
Pitt felt wretched. He even for a moment considered apologizing and going to seek the information he required from some other source. Except he knew of no other, and might waste time he could not afford in looking for one. Maybe he should simply have asked outright, without any attempt at pressure? Whyte might have told him. Unless he had lied to protect someone, not knowing the gravity of the matter. It must be grave, or Halberd would not be dead.
Whyte was making ready to turn away from Pitt and continue his journey across the park. “Excuse me,” he said.
“I wish I could, Major Whyte, but I’m sure you understand duty as well as I do. Sometimes it is expensive, as it was for you to have your brother take credit for your courage in saving the people in the Nile. I went to Egypt once, very briefly, over a case. A fascinating land.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Whyte demanded. He looked more narrowly at Pitt. “Are you sober, man?”
“Perfectly. And if this were not a matter of murder, and possibly treason, I would be happy to let it rest. But it is, and I cannot just walk away.”
“Who’s dead, for heaven’s sake?” Whyte demanded abruptly, but he was pale now under the tan of his skin.
“Sir John Halberd, which you must surely know,” Pitt replied.
“Is that what this…blackmail is about?”
“Blackmail? Is that what someone else called it?” Pitt spoke softly, with a lift of curiosity, wondering who else had pressured Whyte before.
Whyte did not answer.
“Halberd himself.” Pitt let the words out with a sigh. “How very sad, but also how interesting. I find it hard to believe that Halberd was blackmailing you, but if so, it raises the question, was it you who murdered him?”
Whyte froze, and there was a look of amazement on his face. Then it turned to utter loathing—the disgust of contempt, not fear.
“That is what I thought,” Pitt said with a bleak smile. “And I very much doubt Halberd was blackmailing you. More likely he was forcing you to tell him certain facts that you would rather not. I regret having to do the same, especially since someone killed him to keep him from acting upon his knowledge. Does that not bother you, Major Whyte?”
“It should bother you a damn sight more!” Whyte snapped. “He’s dead. I’m not!”
“Not yet,” Pitt agreed. “But then, neither am I. What did Halberd want to know? And please be exact. And complete.” Whyte stood in the sun for several moments, then seemed to slump a little. He turned to walk slowly in the direction of the street, but across the grass, not on the path. Pitt thought it was to reduce the chance of being overheard.
“He asked me a lot about the prince of Wales and his foreign diplomatic trips. The prince had been making those trips ever since the sixties. He’s very good at it. Has made England a lot of friends in Europe, which we hadn’t done so well with before.”
“Is that all Halberd wanted?” Pitt said skeptically.
Whyte did not look at him. “He asked how often Kendrick went with him, and specifically where to.”
“Interesting. And what was your answer? I presume he wanted an exact reply. Not a guess?”
“Yes. I looked up in my diary what I knew. Of course he had the prince’s dates; anyone can find those. What he wanted was when Kendrick went with him.”
“And you told him, I assume. Where did Kendrick go with the prince?”
“Only to France and, more often, to Germany. I think he might have family there, or something.”
“I see. And did you go, Major?”
“With the prince? Only once. And I didn’t go with him, I went a few days after,” Whyte replied.
“And Kendrick went then?”
“Yes…”
“I see. And where did they go, specifically?”
“What the devil does it matter?” Whyte demanded, but there was a grief in his eyes as if he knew the answer. “The prince is closely related to the German royal family, which I presume you know. It’s hardly a secret. Prince Albert was of the house of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha. And the prince’s sister was married to the king of Prussia.”
“I know. It is Mr. Kendrick I am interested in. Where did he go?”
Whyte stared at him, and slowly the color disappeared from his face.
Pitt waited.
“Most of the time he was with the prince, but he went to visit someone he said was an old friend…”
“The pattern, Major Whyte. What did you tell Halberd? You answered something he asked, and he realized what it meant.”
“I’m not—”
“Yes, you are,” Pitt insisted. “What did Kendrick go to Germany for? He went with the prince, I’m guessing to use his diplomatic élan, his name, his ability to create welcome anywhere. Kendrick made himself the prince’s friend, right?” He did not need Whyte’s agreement, he could see it in his eyes. “Where, Major Whyte? I need to know.” He did not want to threaten to undermine the memory of Whyte’s brother, but he had to be prepared to do it. He must make Whyte believe that he would.
They stood staring at each other.
Pitt wanted to tell Whyte how he loathed this, but he needed him to believe he would reveal the truth about the credit James Whyte had taken for someone else’s act. That he had died trying and failing to be that man in truth. He hated the look in Whyte’s eyes, the disgust.
“He went to the Mauser arms factory,” Whyte said at last. “I didn’t realize it until later. And I have no proof. If you take this any further I will deny it. Just think for a moment what it will do to the prince’s reputation! If you have any loyalty to the Queen or to your country, you’ll forget this.”
“Kendrick is dealing in arms?” Pitt said slowly. “With whom?”
“God damn it, I don’t know! The British Army, I presume. Or mercenaries somewhere.”
“Somewhere like Africa?” Pitt said softly.
Horror filled Whyte’s face. “Good God, no! You mean the Boers? He wouldn’t.”
“I think Halberd believed he would,” Pitt argued. “But I need more than this to be certain.” He thanked Whyte and left him to hurry on, with barely a glance at Buckingham Palace towering to their right, across the open space in front of it with its scarlet-coated guardsmen on duty, and then disappear down the Mall toward Whitehall. Not once did Whyte look b
ehind.
Pitt turned to go back the way he had come.
—
PITT OWED IT TO the Queen to report his findings so far, before he set in motion the next inquiries, which would have to be with the Foreign Office, regarding the likelihood of war and the part Kendrick could be playing.
He told Charlotte none of this. She had helped very much with Delia Kendrick’s background, and he had told her so, but she would find this further information a burden of fear, and she did not need to carry it. Nor did she need to know how he had forced Walter Whyte to help.
—
HE WAS ADMITTED TO the palace in the middle of the following afternoon, in exactly the same manner as before, conducted by Sir Peter Archibald, who was looking very grave.
Outside the door of the room, Sir Peter stopped.
“Her Majesty is not feeling well today, Mr. Pitt. She granted this audience against my advice. I trust you will be brief, and as tactful as possible without directly misinforming her. I suggest that if it is unfortunate news, you tell her only the barest outlines, then afterward inform me of any issues I might deal with. Do you understand me, sir?”
“I do,” Pitt answered. “But I will use my own discretion as to what I tell her. I give you my word it will be nothing I think unnecessary. That is the best I can promise.” He met Sir Peter’s eyes without blinking and saw the surprise in him, and then both anger and respect.
Sir Peter knocked and opened the door, leaving it for Pitt to walk through alone.
The Queen looked even smaller sitting in the large chair, her back as straight as she could make it, her lace-cuffed hands folded in her lap. As always, she was dressed entirely in black.
“You may approach, Mr. Pitt,” she said quietly. Then, when he was standing in front of her: “I am pleased that you have succeeded enough to report to me again.” The ghost of a smile sat on her lips, wry, full of regret for the friend she had lost. All the information he gave her would never replace Halberd, of the same generation as her sons and a deep admirer of Prince Albert. Pitt was an outsider, of a different social class entirely—indeed, lower than the servants who brought her meals or opened doors for her. And yet he had risked his life and his career to serve the same ideals she believed in.
“You may sit, Commander.” She glanced at the chair a couple of feet away from him.
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” He sat down, hoping he did not look as uncomfortable as he felt. Had anyone, except Albert, ever been totally at ease with her since she became Queen? The crown was not only physically heavy; mentally it must at times be almost unbearable. But no one had ever willingly laid it down.
“What have you to tell me?” she asked. “Do you know who killed Sir John, and why?”
He saw the grief on her face, and deeper than that, the fear. Did she really believe it possible that the Prince of Wales could, even indirectly, be involved? Maybe it wasn’t such a stretch, since she had blamed him for Albert’s death.
Pitt chose his words with painful care.
“I believe I know why, ma’am,” he began. “You were perfectly correct in your assumption that it was because he had been successful in the mission you asked of him. I don’t think it was Alan Kendrick in person who struck him. His wife says that he was at home.” He saw her expression of disbelief and impatience. “Although that may or may not be true. But he could easily have paid someone else. It would be a risk he might have thought worth taking.”
“Risk?” she said skeptically.
“That such a man might then blackmail him,” Pitt answered. “Or of course, he could have…disposed of the man afterward. And the police would not connect the death to him because no one would know of their association.”
“Continue, Mr. Pitt. You said that you believe you know why.” Her face was pale in the soft light of this room.
Would it have been kinder to tell her straightaway that the prince was not involved, or would she see that as patronizing? Perhaps she might even disbelieve him or think that he was doing exactly what Sir Peter told him to. Better to do it well than hastily. He must be believed, or his words would not comfort her but instead arouse more fears.
“The Prince of Wales is extremely well liked in both Europe and America, ma’am. He accepts their hospitality, which is the greatest and most completely honest compliment one can pay to one’s host.”
She smiled, and for a moment there was pride in her face. The years slipped away as if the darker ones had never been.
He had to break the spell. She was waiting for him to tell her the news that would hurt, the reason he had come here.
“Mr. Kendrick accompanied the prince on several visits abroad,” he said, “most especially those to Germany. Because he was a friend of the prince’s, people made him welcome and trusted him. He took advantage of this to make contact with the Mauser arms company.”
“Indeed? To what purpose?” She sat perfectly still, her hands now locked together in her lap.
“My source cannot tell me the exact agreement, ma’am, but it has to do with a very large purchase of weapons, predominantly rifles.”
“I see. And this purchase is intended to make a profit, of course. From whom?”
“I believe from the Boers in South Africa, ma’am, should there be another Boer war.”
“Thank you, Mr. Pitt. I imagine that was not easy for you to tell me. I am an old woman and well-meaning people keep from me what is distressing. I would rather know. It is my duty to know.” Again the ghost of a smile crossed her face. “Oftentimes what the imagination conjures up is worse than the reality.”
He wanted to say something that might comfort her, and yet he dared not be too familiar. They must both always pretend that he did not see her emotions.
“It is so with many of us, ma’am. And the more informed your imagination, the worse the possibilities are. The only good things in the situation are Sir John’s total loyalty both to his country and to you, and the fact that the Prince of Wales, although his generosity has been abused, is unaware of any of it.”
She nodded very slowly. “I trust, Mr. Pitt, that as your inquiry proceeds, you will do what you are able to protect him from those who appear to be his friends but are not. It will be a heavier task when I am gone, but I place it in your hands.”
There was nothing whatever he could do but accept. The weight of it was momentarily crippling.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
She nodded, but she did not say anything more, except give him permission to leave.
AFTER PITT LEFT THE Queen, he went back to Lisson Grove and unlocked the files in the safe, which Narraway had placed where no one other than Pitt could see them. He needed to study them more closely. He must have his facts precise. Even so, they were written in a type of shorthand that Narraway had developed, and the key to that also was in Pitt’s keeping. Narraway did not have Pitt’s detection skills or his knowledge of the underworld on the borders of crime, the understanding of poverty and the role of petty crime in survival.
Instead, he had a vast network of connections in higher society, and the understanding of money, privilege, government, and military services. He knew how the men in them lived their lives, what they valued, and where their weaknesses lay. Some of it was instinctive, but most of it lay in these files, now for Pitt’s use if he wished. Pitt did not want to even know the contents, let alone use them. But that kind of innocence was a luxury he could no longer afford. Other people would pay the price for his oversensitivity. His clean hands were not worth anybody else’s life. Those who stand by and watch are complicit in what they could have stopped but chose not to.
It took him three hours of miserable reading before he found what he needed for this particular issue. If he was lucky, he would just catch Stephen Dudley before he left the Foreign Office for the evening. Distasteful as this was, like stepping into ice-cold water, it was better to do it straightaway. Finding excuses to put it off would make it worse.
He took a h
ansom cab and was at the Foreign Office three-quarters of an hour later. The traffic was wretched and his impatience changed nothing. He crossed the marble hall, his footsteps echoing, and climbed the huge staircase. He knew many people here at least slightly, and he nodded to them as he passed. He arrived at Stephen Dudley’s door just as Dudley was about to leave.
“I’m sorry,” Pitt said, then introduced himself.
Dudley was a handsome man, probably a few years older than Pitt, but with an ease of manner that betrayed a long line of forebears who had held high position in the courts of royalty since the time of Queen Elizabeth.
“Pitt?” Dudley said with slight hesitation. “I’m afraid I can’t place you.” He smiled very slightly. “It’s late. Can this wait until tomorrow? I’d be delighted to see you, say…eleven-thirty?” He made as if to close the door, leaving them both in the corridor.
“We haven’t met before,” Pitt replied. “I’m head of Special Branch. Took over from Victor Narraway a couple of years ago.” He spoke Narraway’s name carefully and met Dudley’s gaze as he did so. “And I’m afraid it won’t wait until tomorrow.” Dudley was taken aback. They stood motionless, staring at each other in the wide, hushed corridor, with its formal portraits of past heroes on the walls. There was silence, except for the echo of leather-soled shoes on the marble floor, somewhere out of sight.
“Victor Narraway,” Dudley said at last, still smiling as if to deny what he already knew.
“Yes, Mr. Dudley. It has been a testing position to fill, and I now find myself facing a difficulty in which I cannot consult him, so I’m obliged to go myself to some of his sources of information.”
“He wouldn’t tell you?” Dudley was turning the idea over in his mind, looking for an escape. “That doesn’t give you pause for thought, Mr….Pitt?”
“He cannot tell me,” Pitt replied, still smiling pleasantly. “He is abroad at the moment and constantly moving, therefore impossible to contact. So I have come directly to you.”