The Angel Court Affair

by Anne Perry

  Pitt saw Narraway’s head lift and a sudden expression of doubt cross his face. Then he controlled it and it was gone, as if it had been no more than an illusion of the light.

  But Pitt understood. It was fear. Narraway had come only lately into Vespasia’s life. He had no idea whom she had known in the rich years of her past, who had loved her, or how deeply, and perhaps how unwisely. He felt vulnerable, because it was a part of her life in which he had no place, and the exclusion hurt.

  “I’m afraid I could think of no good reason to refuse him,” Pitt said ruefully. “He has many admirers all over the country, and financial investments employing people who would do anything he asked of them. I have very few men I can spare from what they are already doing, and he knows that.”

  “I’m sure he does,” Vespasia agreed with a twisted little smile.

  Vespasia clearly had much to say about Dalton Teague. Pitt decided he would ask her more about her opinion later, when they were alone.

  Narraway nodded slowly. “I imagine you have considered that the purpose of this atrocity could be primarily to attract attention and engage a large part of your forces? Yes, of course you have. That was not intended as a question.” He looked across at Vespasia and saw the flicker of amusement and acknowledgment in her eyes.

  “Yes, I have,” Pitt agreed. “This solves that problem. Teague is also a man I cannot at the moment afford to have as an enemy. God knows, I have enough of those.”

  “No,” Narraway agreed. “You can’t. But be careful, Pitt. Be very careful.”

  CHAPTER

  6

  PITT STOOD IN FRONT of Sir Walter again. He was not surprised to have been asked to report, although he had nothing useful to say, and it was a waste of time that he could have used to more effect. Sir Walter probably knew that, but he had to appear to be in control.

  “Yes, sir,” Pitt said respectfully, standing before Sir Walter’s desk. Sir Walter himself stood by the window, the sunlight making a halo of what was left of his silver hair.

  “Ugly business,” Sir Walter muttered, as much to himself as to Pitt. “Very ugly indeed. I’m sure you’re doing what you can…” His blue eyes narrowed and were surprisingly bright. “You damn well better be, anyway.”

  Pitt felt even more uncomfortable than he had foreseen. “It’s a police matter, sir. Regular murders don’t concern Special Branch, even if they are brutal. I can’t take it out of police jurisdiction. But finding Sofia Delacruz is certainly a priority.”

  “Damn it, man!” Sir Walter said savagely. “The two women were Spanish citizens. What do I tell the Spanish ambassador?” He waved his hand impatiently and paced a couple of yards as if his pent-up energy needed release. Then he stared at Pitt again. “That’s beside the point. What really matters is that I’m beginning to wonder if this mess with Ms. Delacruz is the beginning of something, not the end. Have you consulted with Narraway? If not, you should.”

  He swiveled round and knifed his hand through the air again before Pitt could respond. “He’s not a petty man, Pitt. He’d give you advice, if you’ve the humility to ask it, and the wisdom to accept it.”

  Pitt felt a cold prickle of anxiety. Special Branch had been specifically asked to look after Sofia Delacruz, which meant it was Pitt’s responsibility. He had taken it too lightly. He had let her down, and therefore also Narraway, who had recommended him for the position. And of course, all the men who served under him. And Charlotte, who believed in him always. He wondered whether to apologize again, or if that would make him seem even weaker. Heaven knew, the evidence was bad enough.

  Sir Walter was staring at him, waiting.

  “Yes, sir,” Pitt replied. “I saw him only yesterday evening.”

  “Hmm. Say anything useful?”

  Pitt knew it was unwise to say he had not. “Only that there may be far more behind this than at first appeared. Possibly someone is using her—”

  “Yes, of course someone is using her, damn it!” Sir Walter cut across him. “But who? Spanish anarchists, probably. God knows, they have enough cause to be desperate.” He pulled his mouth into a thin, bleak line. “What do you know about them, Pitt? Worst of it was a bit before your time…”

  Pitt could not hide his amazement.

  “Not your time alive, man!” Sir Walter exploded. “Your time in the job! Superintendent of Bow Street, what the devil would you care about Spanish disasters and their repercussions? Nothing to do with your homegrown murders. No reflection on you. Can’t bear people who can’t keep their minds on their own jobs! What do you know about Zarzuela?”

  Pitt didn’t know if it was a place or a person.

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “January of ’92,” Sir Walter began. “Andalusia. Dirt poor. Peasants worked all the hours of daylight for the price of a loaf of bread.” He resumed his pacing back and forth in front of the window, turning at exactly the same spot on the carpet each time. “Four hundred of them, armed with scythes, pitchforks, whatever came to hand. Marched on the village of Jerez de la Frontera.”

  Sir Walter cleared his throat and continued, his voice quieter. “They meant to rescue five of their friends who had been imprisoned for life because they were involved in a labor dispute ten years earlier.”

  Pitt thought of the labor disputes he had known in London, the terrible poverty of the people involved, the injustice, finally the desperation. Many such disputes had become violent, but usually in a minor way. There had been no reprisals of the sort Sir Walter was suggesting. He waited for the end of the story, the part that echoed today, into 1898 and the murders in Inkerman Road, where two women had been eviscerated, and a third remained missing.

  “It was not done by the military.” Sir Walter stood still while he spoke, but his voice shook a little and his eyes were shadowed and intense. “Four of the leaders were garroted. They do it by tying the person to a post, then from behind, putting a scarf around their throat and twisting it until they are strangled to death. Zarzuela was one of them. He died calling out to the crowd to avenge them.”

  Pitt waited.

  “Heard of General Martínez de Campos?” Sir Walter asked.

  “Yes,” Pitt said quickly. “Wasn’t he behind the restoration of the Spanish monarchy in ’74?”

  “Yes, among other things. He also put down a Cuban insurrection pretty brutally. Damn fool. By late ’93 he was Minister for War in Spain. He was recruiting the troops in Barcelona when an anarchist named Paulino Pallas threw a bomb, killed one soldier and five bystanders and, unfortunately, the general’s horse, poor beast. But not the general.”

  “Pity.” The word was out of Pitt’s mouth before he considered the wisdom of it.

  “Quite,” Sir Walter agreed. “Pallas was tried and found guilty, of course. Not even allowed to say good-bye to his wife or mother—God knows why. He was shot by a firing squad, shot in the back. He too promised ‘Vengeance will be terrible!’ ”

  Bits and pieces of foreign news began to come forward into Pitt’s memory.

  “November ’83,” he said aloud. “The bomb at the opening night of the opera season in Barcelona. Lots of people killed…”

  “William Tell,” Sir Walter agreed. “Not one of my favorites. Prefer Verdi, myself. Teatro Lyceo. Chucked the damn bombs off the balcony into the crowd. Fifteen killed instantly. Rest panicked. Hysterics. Fought one another like animals to get out. Blood all over the place. Twenty-two dead altogether. Another fifty wounded.”

  Pitt could imagine the reprisals for that, but he let Sir Walter tell him.

  “Police raided every damn place they could think of,” Sir Walter continued. “Thousands were arrested and thrown into the dungeons of Montjuïc. That’s the huge fortress seven hundred feet above the sea. So full they had to shackle the rest in warships in the harbor below. Tortured them.” The skin across his face seemed to be pulled tight and his voice shook. “Burned them with irons. Forced them to keep walking for fifty hours at a time. Even dug out some of the
more inventive tortures from the Inquisition. God forgive them. Their people won’t.”

  Pitt was cold. He tried to force the pictures out of his mind, but they would not leave. If Sofia Delacruz knew of these things—and surely she must if here in London Sir Walter did—then she might well make it part of her mission to crusade against the police and the government of Spain. Was that what lay at the heart of her disappearance?

  Sir Walter was staring at him, watching the emotions in his face, waiting for his response.

  “I’ll send a couple of men to Spain to see what they can learn of the political situation. And I’ll ask Melville Smith if Sofia Delacruz had any connection to the unrest.” Pitt found the words slowly. “He may lie. But I might learn from his silences, whatever he doesn’t tell me.”

  “Good point,” Sir Walter agreed. “Don’t tell all your men about this yet, Pitt. Tell one or two, perhaps, but not the rest. We don’t want anyone jumping to conclusions or making incorrect assumptions in such a delicate situation.”

  Pitt said nothing. He felt numb.

  “Get on with it, man!” Sir Walter said suddenly.

  Pitt found his voice, hoarse and tight in his throat. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. If you need anything, say so.”

  “Yes, sir. I will.”

  —

  ANGEL COURT WAS QUIET and dusty in the sunlight and there was no one in sight inside the arched entrance except the old woman who seemed to spend all her time sweeping the cobbles, scrubbing the few steps into the kitchen and scullery or tending the ancient pots holding her herb garden.

  She looked up as Pitt passed her.

  “Good morning,” he said with a slight nod.

  Her eyes were watchful, her face brown, the skin worn with exposure to sun and wind. She cannot ever have been beautiful, but there was humor and strength in her features. Yet this time, looking more closely, Pitt saw also a consuming fear.

  She had been snipping off small pieces of rosemary and sage, and the pungent smell of the herbs was in the air. Now she turned away from him, without answering, and went back to the plants. He noticed her drab skirts were a little short for her, exposing bony ankles. Her shoulders were bent, hunched protectively over her flat chest.

  Pitt wondered if she was a believer, someone rescued from one kind of misfortune or other, one of Sofia’s projects. He was curious. She might have observed much of the people here, seeming almost invisible herself, but she clearly did not want to talk to him. He would mention it to Stoker.

  He knocked on the door and it was answered by Henrietta. As soon as she recognized him the demand was in her eyes. She read the lack of news without waiting for his words.

  She pulled the door open silently.

  “Thank you.” He stepped inside. “Is Mr. Smith in?”

  “Yes,” she said shortly.

  Pitt changed his tactics. “I see he has been busy keeping up the schedule of speaking that Señora Delacruz had planned.” He watched her expression, the moment of anger, taken over by helplessness, then something he thought was a deep disgust. He wondered again what story lay behind her joining Sofia’s group. What had she not found in the Church in which she grew up? Was Melville Smith aware of how she despised him?

  She was regarding him now with frustration and disappointment. How much of it was religious, how much personal affection for Sofia? He could not imagine living in what amounted to a religious order with its closeness, the discipline, the passion and the lack of privacy, the watchfulness for error.

  “Will she be grateful to him when she comes back?” he asked suddenly.

  Henrietta’s eyes widened, then she smiled bitterly. “She will be furious,” she said with a hollow smile. “You want me to say it?” she challenged him. “Yes, Melville Smith is taking the chance while she is gone to twist all that she taught so that it faces another way. It is all gentler, without the edge that cuts through hypocrisy. It has a sweet smell, like something that is beginning to rot! Is that what you want me to say?” She stood with her body all at sharp angles, as if she would be rigid to the touch, bones and muscles locked.

  “Did he create the chance, or only seize the opportunity?” Pitt asked.

  Some of the anger seemed to drain away from her. “I don’t know. I think he hasn’t the courage or the imagination to have made it happen. He is just using it…and I hate him for that! You see, don’t you? It’s in your face. I have allowed him to make me into what I do not want to be! Perhaps it is myself I hate. Sofia would say he holds up a mirror to me and I see the worst in myself. The mirror she held showed me the best.” Her eyes filled with tears.

  For a moment Pitt had no answer. A memory came to him of Sofia Delacruz standing in the hall talking, her face alight with the passion of her faith. For that brief time in her presence he had believed what she was saying. Now in the emptiness afterward, with the confusion of stories about her and the mutilated bodies of Cleo and Elfrida, all her fire of purpose had disappeared.

  Then he recalled himself to the reason he was here, and Henrietta watching him.

  “Was Smith against coming to London?”

  She looked startled. “Yes. But she said she had to come. There was no choice.” Henrietta closed her eyes. “I could not dissuade her, it was pointless because she had decided. Preaching had nothing to do with it. But there is no point in asking me over and over again. I don’t know anything beyond the fact that she was scared. I’d never seen her so scared.”

  She blinked, indecision in her eyes. For seconds she fought it, then overcame the temptation. “I’ve known Melville Smith for five years,” she said quietly. “He would not…not kill anyone, not ever anything so…violent. His feelings are always…as if he had swallowed them.”

  Pitt thought he understood what she was saying. “And Ramon is the same way?”

  This time her reaction was instant. “No. He would never hurt someone else. He was always for helping. Sometimes I think he is too soft.”

  “Too soft how?” he asked.

  “Innocent,” she replied with a smile. “Saw what he thought should be there, whether it was or not. Like his own family.” Then seeing Pitt’s surprise she instantly regretted it. “I shouldn’t have said that. That’s what we should be…family. Not that you’ve got to like family. Sometimes they’re the worst…”

  He considered pressing the thought, but he saw in her eyes that she was angry with herself for giving away a confidence. He did not want her to transfer that blame to him. He needed her trust now.

  “I know,” he agreed. “Do you think Sofia is soft as well?”

  She let her breath out with relief. She was too frightened to smile, but the ease in her face was back. “No. She took risks with people, but she did it with her eyes open,” she answered.

  “What kind of risks?” He asked it mildly, as if it were of no great importance.

  “Protecting them, giving them second chances. Helping to make bad things right again. She helped many people burdened by guilt for their past mistakes. There was a constant stream of penitents of all kinds to her door.”

  “Anyone in particular you remember, just before you all came to London?” He thought of all those labeled as anarchists, merely because they wanted a living wage, that were driven to violence because no one would listen to them. Hunger changed people. He had seen it often enough in the backstreets of London too. It could create a kind of madness. Who could watch their children starve, and stay reasonable?

  Henrietta stared at him. Why should she trust him? He was the law. At least he was supposed to be. He should have no sympathy with madness, whatever the cause.

  “There was one poor man in terrible fear—for his life or his soul, I don’t know which,” she said after a moment. “But Sofia had to leave him to come here. I told you before, she was hell-bent on seeing Barton Hall,” Henrietta reminded him. “But she wouldn’t tell any of us why. Melville was furious, but it made no difference. They quarreled about it. She won.” She
said that last with considerable satisfaction, even though she knew nothing of the issue at stake.

  “So Cleo and Elfrida didn’t know?” he asked.

  “No.” She blinked rapidly but it did not stop the tears, or the sudden pallor of her face.

  He thanked her and then went to look for Melville Smith. He found him in the room that had been Sofia’s study. He was sitting at the desk, clearly deep in thought, a pen in his hand and a sheet of paper half covered with neat handwriting. He looked up blankly as Pitt came in.

  Pitt closed the door behind him with a sharp click of the latch.

  Smith’s face creased with annoyance. It was a long, silent moment before he decided not to express it in words.

  “Have you news, Mr. Pitt?” he said with a sudden eagerness, which was better prepared than Pitt had expected; it forced him into immediate apology.

  “No, I am sorry. The police seemed to have learned very little, except that the murderer was not any of the people already known to them for violence, and there was nothing taken of significance.” He sat down in the chair opposite the desk.

  “We have nothing of significance,” Smith said tartly. “Except our lives! Those were certainly taken.”

  Pitt felt the sting of the rebuke, but he did not acknowledge it. “Why did the three women go to Inkerman Road, Mr. Smith? Surely whatever the threat, they would have been far safer to have remained here at Angel Court with the rest of you?”

  Smith looked at him steadily. “Of course they would! Who knows why Sofia did half the things she did?” He smiled bleakly, merely a twitch at the corner of his lips.

  Pitt refused to be put off, or to allow his irritation at Smith’s disloyalty to distract his attention from his purpose. He smiled back.

  “You are too modest, Mr. Smith. I think you know Señora Delacruz very well indeed. I don’t believe you could have worked so closely with her for five years or that she would have trusted you were she not certain of your loyalty and your grasp of the fundamentals of her faith.”

  Smith sat rigid, a faint color slowly staining his cheeks. “I do what I can,” he said awkwardly. “But…but I find her behavior difficult to understand sometimes…” He left the words hanging, unable or uncertain how to finish.