Murder on the Serpentine

by Anne Perry

  “I thought it was supposed to be Halberd who hounded Mrs. Kendrick to her death?” Pitt said with a wide, charming smile, very far from what he felt inside. He would like to have hit the man as hard as he could, but instead he smiled even more.

  “I wanted to thank you for all you have done for your country,” he said quite distinctly. He had an excellent voice and knew it carried well, when he wished it to.

  He did not take his eyes from Kendrick or cease smiling; he was aware of a very slight movement in the room, men changing position just enough to see who had spoken, and to whom.

  “I’ve done nothing,” Kendrick said ungraciously. He was so tense his voice was pitched a little higher than usual. “You are making something out of nothing.”

  “Your courage has saved many lives,” Pitt said, lowering his own voice only slightly. In the motionless room it still carried. No one else fidgeted, nothing creaked or rustled. No one snored, even gently. No one turned the page of a newspaper or slurped a drink from their glass.

  Kendrick glared at Pitt.

  “It takes great courage to do what you have,” Pitt went on. “I hope one day you are rewarded as you deserve. I imagine His Royal Highness will have much to say to you.” Kendrick stared at him, his eyes hot and hard with rage. He was prevented from responding by the steward’s return with two glasses of brandy, and the bottle from which they had been poured. He put it down on the small table, and Pitt paid him before Kendrick could.

  Then Pitt raised his glass toward Kendrick. “We all thank you, Mr. Kendrick. You are a brave man. Most people will never know that you have risked your life for queen and country. Many will live now who might well have died in the heat and dust of a foreign land, but for you.” He sipped the brandy.

  Kendrick pretended to sip his.

  “Now, I think we should not be seen together longer than necessary,” Pitt said, possibly a fraction less loudly, but clearly enough to be heard by the steward and the three or four men closest to them. Then he stood up, set his still full brandy glass on the table, and walked away.

  —

  HE WAS AT HOME and still too restless around midnight to go to bed. He paced the sitting-room floor, aware that he must be stretching Charlotte’s patience to breaking. He had been sitting down and standing up again for the last three hours.

  Would it work? Any more suggestions and half actions would be overplaying his hand; Kendrick could still win.

  Should he have been bolder? Simply had the man assassinated? Or “murdered” would be a plainer and more honest word.

  No, it wasn’t. If the Boers believed he was a double agent, peddling lies he had deliberately played out in front of them, with the intent all along of telling their plans to Special Branch, then they would kill him as a traitor, even if he was in fact a traitor to Britain, not to them. If he had no business with them, then they would not care.

  Morally, was it murder, or war? Pitt had no love of war, but he believed that sometimes it was necessary. If someone had broken into his home and attacked Charlotte or his children, he would have killed them of necessity, with regret but without hesitation.

  He looked at Charlotte now, sitting quietly in her chair. She had abandoned her sewing. She had not asked him what he was waiting for, or what he was afraid of, but she watched him all the time, her face pale. She looked tired. Patience had never come naturally to her.

  He thought back to their first meeting. She had been willful, ignorant of so much but always keen to learn even the tragic and ugly things most people preferred to pretend were not there. Exasperated or not, he had been fascinated with her, in love far too quickly.

  And he still was.

  He was startled, almost breathless, when the doorbell rang. He swung around and in three strides was in the hallway. He flung the front door open and saw Stoker and Bentley on the step. He had no need to ask. From Stoker’s smile and the sudden ease in Bentley’s previously rigid posture, he knew it was at least not a disaster.

  He stepped back, and they followed him inside. Bentley closed the front door.

  “Is Mrs. Pitt…?” Stoker began.

  Pitt glanced at the sitting-room door, which she had not fully closed behind him.

  Stoker bit his lip. “It’s pretty…gory, sir.”

  The sitting-room door swung open and Charlotte stood in the entrance, looking at Pitt, then Stoker.

  Pitt went into the sitting room and signaled Stoker and Bentley to follow him. Again Bentley was last, and closed the door softly behind him.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” Stoker said to Charlotte.

  Pitt’s voice was rough with tension. “What happened? Where’s Kendrick?”

  “The police took him to the morgue, sir…what was left of him.”

  Pitt let out his breath very slowly. Charlotte was standing beside him, and he took her hand and held it so tightly he must have hurt her, but he realized this only afterward.

  “Thought you should know tonight, sir,” Stoker went on. “And I’d keep the newspapers where your family won’t see them, if I were you. Not that the better ones will say much. They’ll probably put it down as a robbery.”

  Bentley was shaking his head.

  “Never mind,” Pitt replied. “Thank you. You took risks.” He was too drained of emotion now that it was over to make any appropriate response. He thought of Delia Kendrick hanging by the neck from the meat hook in her own kitchen, and it still distressed him, but this news did ease the knots in his stomach.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Stoker started to say something, then apparently changed his mind.

  “Some soldiers die like that, sir,” Bentley said quietly. “At least the enemy is in front of them, not behind. You’ve got to trust your own men. They won’t always be right, and they may do some damn stupid things, but at least they’re on your side.”

  “Thank you, Bentley,” Pitt said again, with feeling. His voice sounded hoarse, even to himself. “Go home. I’ll see you in a couple of days. And for God’s sake, be careful!”

  “Yes, sir. Good night, sir. Ma’am.”

  Pitt was too tired to dream, but he was deeply aware of Charlotte beside him, the warmth of her, and that she had turned toward him, not away.

  —

  HE GOT UP THE following morning and sent a message to ask if he might speak privately to the Prince of Wales in a matter of the utmost urgency. Within the hour he was standing opposite the prince, the doors closed, and they were alone. It was obvious from the prince’s white face that he had been informed of Kendrick’s death.

  “What happened?” he demanded. There was no preamble, no courtesies.

  Pitt spoke equally frankly. “He was an agent for the Boers, Your Royal Highness. He was facilitating the purchase of the excellent Mauser rifle for their troops.”

  The prince was ashen-faced. “What? What did you say?”

  “I regret it very much, sir, but he used his friendship with you, and your extraordinary popularity in Europe, particularly Germany, to effect a relationship with the Mauser factory, and…”

  The prince was, if anything, even paler. He looked as if he felt sick.

  “It was necessary to stop him, sir,” Pitt said very quietly. He was worried in case the man should faint. “It was he who killed first Sir John Halberd and then his own wife, because both of them had learned what he was doing. They were loyal subjects of the Crown, sir, and paid for it with their lives.”

  “Do you…know that?” the prince asked. He seemed to be fumbling for words.

  “Yes, sir, and in Sir John’s case, I could have proved it.”

  “Then why didn’t you?”

  “Because Kendrick told me that if I brought him to trial he would say that Halberd was having an affair with Delia Kendrick, of the most obscene nature, and that she hanged herself rather than continue it any longer. And I could not charge him with purchasing guns for Britain’s enemies without tarnishing your good name. He promised to do that.”
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br />   “I…I see your point.” He stumbled a step or two backward and sank into one of the elegant padded chairs. There were several minutes of silence, then he looked up at Pitt.

  “And he’s dead? Who killed him?”

  “I think some Boer sympathizers, sir. They apparently had the idea that he was playing both sides, essentially betraying them to us.”

  “And was he? Don’t lie to me, Pitt.” Suddenly there was dignity in the prince again, in spite of his awkward position, half-slumped in the chair.

  “No, sir, not so far as I know. He was an unhappy man. I think he felt cheated out of the position in society he thought he deserved. He may have had some loyalty to the Boers, or he may simply have wanted the financial profit and the power over the next king of England it would have given him. Those who once mocked him would have been obliged to court his favor then.”

  “But you made it look as if…? You made the Boers think he had betrayed them, when really he had betrayed us…me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  “May I suggest, sir, that you don’t read the descriptions. It was…nasty.”

  “Thank you. I shall read what I choose. I knew the man.” He rubbed his hand across his face. He looked old, and very tired. “I apologize. I’m very obliged to you, Pitt. I never thought I would say that, but I mean it.”

  “It is my privilege to serve the Crown, sir.”

  “Get out, man! Go get a stiff brandy. I’ll have one.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  —

  PITT WENT STRAIGHT FROM the prince’s presence to Buckingham Palace and asked the guard to let him speak to Sir Peter Archibald.

  Sir Peter appeared within fifteen minutes. He started upon seeing Pitt.

  “God, you look awful, man. Sit down before you fall over.” He turned to the waiting footman and ordered a brandy and soda. The man obeyed immediately.

  “What has happened?” Sir Peter demanded. “Sit down! Tell me.”

  Pitt sat and when the brandy came, he drank it. He gave Sir Peter a brief summary of what had occurred. “I wish to report to the Queen. She asked me to find out what had happened to Sir John Halberd, and what manner of man Alan Kendrick was. I owe her the answer. She would be pleased to know that Sir John was the honorable man she believed him to be.”

  “And Kendrick the traitor,” Sir Peter added. “I admit it is distressing to think how close he came to succeeding. Her Majesty will be most grateful that such a tragedy will be avoided, and no doubt will wish to tell you so herself, when she is in rather better health.” His voice dropped a tone and his face was grave. “This has been difficult for her. I am sure you understand.”

  Pitt felt a darkness descend, as if a cold wind had blown out half the candles. Of course the room was lit by gas, and nothing had really changed. But he felt a sadness in him. He had taken it for granted that he would be able to tell the Queen himself, see her relief and her pleasure at what had been avoided, most particularly that there had been no guilt on the prince’s part.

  “Yes, of course,” he said, recognizing dismissal, polite as it was.

  He went home immensely grateful that the matter had ended as well as it had. There would be no trial, no exposure of treason. He had done his job well. It was childish to wish he could have been the one to tell the Queen. He was smiling in self-mockery by the time he entered his own front door, and everything he told Charlotte was of his relief at the conclusion.

  —

  IT WAS TWO WEEKS later that the letter came. Minnie Maude brought it in on a small tray, as if she did not dare to touch it herself. Her face was radiant.

  Charlotte was at the kitchen door. Pitt was still at the breakfast table.

  Minnie Maude stopped in the middle of the floor and stood absolutely still.

  “What is it?” Charlotte asked her, then looked at Pitt and back again.

  Minnie Maude gulped. “It’s a letter, ma’am, from Buckingham Palace, from the Queen ’erself.”

  Pitt had been waiting, hoping, yet feeling ridiculous for it, as if he had presumed above himself. Now here it was.

  “Thank you, Minnie Maude,” he managed to say almost normally. His hand was quite steady when he reached for the letter and took it.

  Charlotte stood motionless.

  Pitt opened the letter carefully, without tearing the envelope.

  It was not from Victoria. It was from Sir Peter Archibald. Pitt felt an absurd disappointment.

  Then he read it.

  It was very formal. Sir Peter advised him that as a mark of her appreciation for his services to the Crown, Her Majesty was pleased to offer him a knighthood. Should he accept, the investiture would be in just over a week’s time.

  There was a small handwritten addendum by Sir Peter, saying that it would be appropriate to bring his family, and such close friends as he might wish—for example, Lord and Lady Narraway, now that they had returned to England, if it pleased him.

  “What is it, Thomas?” Charlotte said at last, no longer able to bear the suspense. “Is she thanking you? She should.”

  “Yes,” he said, hesitating now, savoring the moment. “Yes, she is. You will need to have a new gown. And one for Jemima too.”

  She had no idea what he was talking about, but she saw the overwhelming excitement in him.

  “What is it?” she said breathlessly. “What does she say? Thomas, tell me!”

  He smiled very slowly, in amazement. “That if I should care to accept, she will be pleased to make me ‘Sir Thomas,’ ” he replied. “And she will do so next week. We may invite Narraway and Aunt Vespasia as well…”

  “We?” she asked.

  “Of course ‘we,’ ” he replied. “You have been with me all the way. Without you, I would have remained an inspector, at best. You are the one who created the dreams, encouraged me, sustained me when they seemed too big and too far.”

  “Sir Thomas and Lady Pitt,” she said very quietly. “Good heavens!” Then she dumped the fresh toast she was carrying onto the table and threw herself into his arms, hugging him so hard she upset his empty cup and knocked his knife to the floor.

  —

  THE INVESTITURE WAS A very grand affair, very splendid, as befitted such a high moment in anyone’s life. As was customary, it was held in the Throne Room, one of the most magnificent in the entire palace. In earlier years, when Prince Albert had been alive, great balls had been held here. The Queen had loved music and dancing. Now it was carpeted in red, with paler scrolls in delicate patterns echoing the rich red, almost pink of the walls, which were interspersed with ornate gold pilasters and windows almost up to the vast ceiling, with its echoed circles. The thrones themselves, side by side, were up against the farthest wall. It was overwhelming for the first moment, then the beauty of it settled into almost a kind of peace. It was the heart of the empire. It should be glorious.

  “I am very grateful to you for your discretion, Mr. Pitt,” the Queen said quietly. “Your solution to the whole miserable affair was powerful and yet had a delicacy of touch that comforts me greatly. I hope you will long serve your country in what may be dark days to come. When Edward is king, he will lean on you as I have. He has promised me this. He agrees entirely that you should be so recognized. If you would be good enough to kneel now.”

  Vespasia had taught him how to do so with grace, on one knee.

  “Arise, Sir Thomas,” Victoria said with unmistakable pleasure.

  He did so with dignity, blinking away tears of emotion and dazed with happiness. Then he walked across to where Charlotte, his children, and his friends were waiting for him.

  To Rita Keeley Brown, with thanks

  BY ANNE PERRY

  FEATURING CHARLOTTE AND THOMAS PITT

  The Cater Street Hangman

  Callander Square

  Paragon Walk

  Resurrection Row

  Bluegate Fields

  Rutland Place

  Death in the Devil’s Acr
e

  Cardington Crescent

  Silence in Hanover Close

  Bethlehem Road

  Highgate Rise

  Belgrave Square

  Farriers’ Lane

  The Hyde Park Headsman

  Traitors Gate

  Pentecost Alley

  Ashworth Hall

  Brunswick Gardens

  Bedford Square

  Half Moon Street

  The Whitechapel Conspiracy

  Southampton Row

  Seven Dials

  Long Spoon Lane

  Buckingham Palace Gardens

  Treason at Lisson Grove

  Dorchester Terrace

  Midnight at Marble Arch

  Death on Blackheath

  The Angel Court Affair

  Treachery at Lancaster Gate

  Murder on the Serpentine

  FEATURING WILLIAM MONK

  The Face of a Stranger

  A Dangerous Mourning

  Defend and Betray

  A Sudden, Fearful Death

  The Sins of the Wolf

  Cain His Brother

  Weighed in the Balance

  The Silent Cry

  A Breach of Promise

  The Twisted Root

  Slaves of Obsession

  Funeral in Blue

  Death of a Stranger

  The Shifting Tide

  Dark Assassin

  Execution Dock

  Acceptable Loss

  A Sunless Sea

  Blind Justice

  Blood on the Water

  Corridors of the Night

  Revenge in a Cold River

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ANNE PERRY is the bestselling author of two acclaimed series set in Victorian England: the Charlotte and Thomas Pitt novels, including Treachery at Lancaster Gate and The Angel Court Affair, and the William Monk novels, including Revenge in a Cold River and Corridors of the Night. She is also the author of a series of five World War I novels, as well as twelve holiday novels, most recently A Christmas Message, and a historical novel, The Sheen on the Silk, set in the Ottoman Empire. Anne Perry lives in Los Angeles and Scotland.

  anneperry.co.uk