by Anne Perry
He opened the door and stepped through it, hesitated for several moments, then turned back in time to see Hall’s face turn ashen pale and the phone almost slip from his fingers.
CHAPTER
8
PITT SAT AT THE breakfast table, his tea ignored and the toast going cold in his hand. The letter had come by the first postal delivery of the day. Charlotte had brought it from the hall minutes ago. There was one sheet written in a scrawling hand, addressed to him personally. The lines went down at the end, and there were no commas.
Commander Thomas Pitt
I have the self-styled prophetess Sofia Delacruz in my keeping for the time being safe and no more than slightly injured. Well not a lot more. Of course that could change for the better or the worse. This depends on your skill.
You must be aware by now of the nature of her marriage to Nazario Delacruz and the resulting terrible death of his first wife Luisa and of their two little children. If by any chance you are so naïve you do not know of this it is easily verifiable.
Your choice is simple. Find Nazario Delacruz in Toledo, and have him write in detail exactly how Sofia seduced him into betraying his family and abandoning them for her. Publish the account in the personal column of the London Times. I appreciate that he will be reluctant to do this. It will make her a laughingstock and those who previously loved her will end up hating and despising her. Her preposterous religion will crumble into dust.
But on the other hand it will save her life because if she does not then she will die most unpleasantly. The deaths of Cleo and Elfrida were comparatively quick. Hers will not be so.
The decision of course will be her husband’s not yours. You must convey this choice to him. Naturally that will take some time. I will allow you exactly two weeks from the date you receive this letter. If by then I do not see Nazario’s confession of guilt in The Times and believe me I will not be fooled by a fake edition then Sofia will receive the martyrdom she professes to crave.
I don’t think that is what you wish. You are something of a squeamish man and you have a wife and children yourself!
See what you can persuade Nazario to do. We shall discover where his loyalties really lie!
There was no signature.
Pitt was aware of Charlotte watching his face, her brow wrinkled in concern as he tried to figure out what to say to her. He felt cold, numb. His first dreadful thought was what he would do were he in Nazario Delacruz’s place. He could hardly fail to know Sofia’s nature and the depth of her belief. To write the letter that was asked of him could destroy everything she had built and betray every person who had believed in her.
And yet he could not doubt that the man who held her would murder her, violently and terribly, if he did not. It explained why he had killed the other poor women in such a way. Not because they had done anything to incur his fury, they were simply a demonstration of his seriousness.
“Thomas!” Charlotte said urgently, fear in her voice now.
He needed her opinion, her understanding of Sofia. There were no women in Special Branch. He handed her the letter.
She read it through again, slowly, to be certain she had really seen it as it was. When she looked up her face was white.
“Do you know anything about him?” she asked huskily.
“Of course I don’t,” he replied, confused. “We’ve no idea who it is. Except it is a complete muddle. The handwriting is awful, in places almost indecipherable, and yet the spelling is correct. And he uses some unusual words as if with ease: ‘martyrdoms she professes to crave.’ And there are no commas.”
“Not who wrote this!” Desperation made her tone sharp. “Sofia’s husband! This…Nazario. What will he do? Does he love her, or is he some religious fanatic who would accept her death as the greatest boost to her faith?”
“You think he could be behind all of this?” The thought was appalling.
“Couldn’t he be?” she insisted. “And if the story of him leaving his wife for Sofia is true, what about the first wife’s family? They could easily want revenge.”
“Why would they wait all this time?” he asked, as much to himself as to Charlotte. “Wouldn’t they have taken revenge back when it happened? A lot of people would have understood that. Why do it in London?” He drew in a deep breath. “What a mess. And none of this explains why Cleo and Elfrida were murdered. None of it was their fault.”
Charlotte raised her eyebrows. “You’re expecting bereaved and distressed people taking revenge to be reasonable?” Then she saw his face and came forward, standing very close to him and touching him gently on the cheek. “I am sorry. You’re right, it is a mess.”
For several moments he said nothing, trying to picture Sofia’s face accurately from the brief times he had spent with her, recall if she had said anything about her husband. He could recall nothing. She had spoken only about her belief. But that was all that he had asked her about.
What if this was, as they had feared, some plot to involve England in the Spanish-American war, which was getting uglier by the day? Was that why Sofia had been kidnapped in London, not Toledo? Then the obscene murder of the two other women could have been to make certain it was news in the headlines everywhere.
“The kidnapping is all over the news here,” he said quietly. “Anyone could have written this letter. She could be already dead.” He felt Charlotte’s body tighten, her hand freeze. He pulled away and looked up at her.
“But what if she is not? This could be her only chance!”
“But do we take this choice—either destroy all her work, deny her faith, disillusion heaven knows how many people, or let her be tortured to death—to her husband without knowing if the person who wrote this letter truly has her? Or if she is alive?”
Charlotte was very pale. Instead of letting her hands fall, she clung on to him more tightly. “No. You’re right. You need to know this is genuine before you ask Nazario Delacruz to make the decision. But how are you going to do that?”
“The writer of this must expect that I will ask for proof she is alive.”
“But he hasn’t given you any way of answering him to say so,” she pointed out.
“If he truly wants me to do anything, he’ll write again.”
She swallowed. “You mean we just…wait?”
“Not quite. I think I’ll go and find Frank Laurence. I’ll get him to write a specific article. See if we can shake something loose.”
“You like him, in spite of yourself, don’t you?”
“Definitely in spite of myself,” he agreed ruefully. “And I’d like to know why he lied about knowing Teague at school. It seems a silly thing to do.”
“Maybe that’s all it was.”
He shook his head. “People don’t lie for no reason.”
“Be careful, Thomas.”
She had not said it, but he knew what she was thinking. He was still new at the task of leading Special Branch. He was still struggling to think like a politician and see a wider view than the solution of one crime, regardless of where it led.
“I’ll be careful,” he promised.
—
“YOU WANT ME TO write a piece about ransom?” Laurence said with interest. He picked up his tankard of ale and stared at Pitt over the rim. They were sitting in a noisy, crowded public house where their conversation could not be overheard by anyone. A burst of laughter and loud cheers made it necessary to lean forward across the table to hear each other.
“Only a fool pays ransom without proof that the victim is alive,” Pitt replied. “If we waited, he might get in touch with us, but I would rather take that decision from him. And I don’t know how she is, or if she will last if I wait and play a slow game.”
“Last?” Laurence said quickly, leaning forward over the table. “You mean she’s injured? Or they are torturing her? Pitt, I hate to say this, but do you think they can afford to hand her over alive, even if you do pay?”
Pitt could feel his body go cold. He could
see the pity in Laurence’s eyes and he believed it was real.
“No,” he admitted. “I don’t. And it isn’t money they want.”
“What do they want?”
“I’ll tell you when you need to know, if that ever happens.”
“The street runs both ways, Pitt,” Laurence said carefully. “I want something in return.”
Pitt stiffened, possible threats running through his mind.
“I’ll do it,” Laurence said quietly. “But when you see her, I want to be with you. I give you my word I’ll do nothing except look at her.”
“Then write it up in The Times for everyone to read,” Pitt said bitterly. “No.”
“You want my help…” Laurence began.
“I can go somewhere else.” Pitt started to get up.
“No…No! I’ll write it,” Laurence conceded. “Interesting subject, ransom. And you really won’t tell me what it is they are asking for?”
“Not yet. But I’ll owe you.”
“Oh, yes,” Laurence agreed. “Indeed you will!”
—
THE ANSWER WAS SWIFT in coming. A letter written in the same hand as before was delivered to Pitt’s office at Lisson Grove.
Well done Commander
Wise of you to accept my offer. Of course you wish to see that she is still alive. At least for the time being. Come to the old chandler’s shop near the Horseferry Stairs this evening at seven o’clock. I doubt you would be foolish enough to do anything stupid like attempt to seize her or anyone with her. If you do you will not pay for it but she will.
Do I need to detail that for you? The human body can take a great deal of pain without finding the release of death.
Do as I tell you and you will see that Sofia is still alive.
Pitt stared at the piece of paper for long, silent moments, then he went to the door and called for Brundage.
—
PITT AND BRUNDAGE WALKED quickly and almost silently along the narrow road. There was nothing but warehouses between them and the river, and on the inland side of them, a few shops, and lodging houses.
“Left here,” Brundage said quietly, and led the way through an alley into the street at the other end. It was even more deserted, and only one of the dozen or so streetlamps was unbroken. The chandler’s shop was right opposite it.
“He chose well,” Pitt said with disgust as he picked his way across the broken cobbles of the street. The door had been forced open some time ago and the rusted lock hung on the frame. He pushed it open and Brundage went in behind him, half lifting the door to get it almost closed again.
The glass in the windows was still whole, and sufficiently clean to let in the light from the lamp immediately outside.
Pitt looked around. The shop was deserted. There were a few broken candles on the floor and the remnants of the boxes they had come in, some nails and old screws, rat droppings.
“Watch where you step,” he warned. “Don’t want a nail through your boot.”
“No, sir,” Brundage agreed. “Good place, though. Come at us out of darkness, and go back into it. But we’ll see him clear for a moment or two, just enough to see her…and if she’s alive.”
“It’s all we need,” Pitt replied, then settled into silence to wait.
“Can’t we do something?” Brundage said restlessly as the minutes passed by. Seven o’clock, five past, ten past. “He isn’t coming!” he said between his teeth, anger making his voice hard-edged. “He’s set us up as fools!”
“Maybe,” Pitt agreed. “More likely he’s just exercising his power. He is enjoying watching us wait, and fume. Be patient.”
“I’d enjoy watching him swing by the neck!” Brundage snarled.
“I’m working on it. Actually if it’s done right, they don’t swing. They just drop.”
“Pity,” Brundage replied.
He froze, and then turned to face the window as they both heard the sound of hoofs on the road outside. Brundage took a step forward toward the door and Pitt grasped him by the arm as hard as he could.
“We can’t do anything about it now. She’ll pay for it, not us,” Pitt hissed at him.
Brundage stopped.
Outside under the lamp a hansom stopped. Pitt strained his eyes to see who was in it. There looked to be two people: a woman close to them, a man sitting on the far side beyond her, his figure no more than a shadow.
The woman turned toward them. She moved awkwardly, as if her body was stiff. Her right arm, closer to them, was heavily bandaged, her fingers curled over as though useless to her. Her thick hair was wild and matted. She turned toward them, staring straight at the window as if she could see through its panes and recognize them staring back at her. One of her eyes was puffed, the cheek below swollen and dark with bruises. There was blood on the other side of her face, and bloodstains on the collar of her clothes. But she was still recognizable as Sofia Delacruz.
“God in heaven!” Brundage let out his breath.
Pitt said nothing. He let his hand fall from Brundage’s arm. He knew neither of them would move.
The driver of the cab flicked his whip and it started forward again, leaving Brundage standing stiffly, and Pitt feeling as if he had been turned to ice.
—
IT WAS WELL AFTER nine when he got home. He told Charlotte nothing of what had happened, except that he had seen Sofia and knew that she was alive. He was glad Jemima and Daniel were in bed. He was not certain he could have hidden his horror from them, or the feeling of being overwhelmed.
He was sitting on the sofa in his own home, the French windows onto the garden closed and locked for the night. Although the room was warm, and he could smell the perfume of the flowers on the side table, tonight he did not feel its comfort.
“I’ll have to send someone to Spain to tell him,” he said to Charlotte, trying to think who could carry such a message.
Charlotte bit her lip. “Whoever has her must have a great deal of power. They seem to know a lot about Sofia’s life in Spain, and also here. They very cleverly engineered her capture, even though she was expecting trouble, and her own people were supposed to be looking after her.” She tactfully forbore from saying that Special Branch had been watching Sofia as well, but Pitt was bitterly aware of it, and knew that she was too.
Pitt looked up at her. There was something in her not totally unlike Sofia Delacruz. The root of it might be a different faith, but Charlotte was hot-headed, passionate in causes that touched her heart, burningly angry at injustice far beyond the stage where she weighed her own safety. If that was taken from her, if she was made to betray her beliefs to protect herself, what of her would be left?
Would he prefer to see her dead rather than eaten away and destroyed? It was a meaningless question because he would always seek another way; cling on to the hope of finding it, even until it was too late. Then blame himself. Nazario Delacruz was probably just the same—unless of course he was behind everything.
If he was, maybe Sofia would rather die than be forced to know it! Except her captor had sworn it would be a slow, desperate and terrible way to go, and Pitt believed him.
“Why don’t you go speak to Nazario Delacruz yourself?” Charlotte asked.
“I can’t leave London right now,” he replied. “She’s here, and so is whoever took her. I need to send someone who understands the situation and everything involved in it, and who speaks fluent Spanish.”
“Have you any men like that?”
“I’ve already sent the best ones out there. But I don’t know if any of them have the tact or experience to handle something as delicate as meeting with Nazario. They’ve been tracing the threats to her that we know about, from the letters. So far they’re are all noise and no substance. I shall see if I can find a diplomat whom I can trust with the confidentiality of it,” he said. “Narraway may know of someone.”
“A good idea,” she agreed, relaxing a little at last.
—
ON VESPASIA’S DOO
RSTEP PITT felt intrusive, and oddly resentful that he could no longer call on Vespasia anytime he chose, and expect to be welcome. He had not appreciated before just how much he had taken that for granted.
But tonight he needed Narraway’s advice, and it would not wait. He was prepared to inconvenience anybody.
The maid who answered the door held her surprise at seeing him so late. She was too well trained to have done otherwise, regardless of what she thought.
Fortunately Vespasia and Narraway were still up, and Pitt was shown to the quiet sitting room. The moment the maid withdrew, Narraway spoke with concern.
“What is it? Have you found Sofia Delacruz?”
“Yes, and no,” Pitt replied. “I have a kind of ransom letter.” He pulled it out of his pocket and passed it over to Narraway. His voice shook a little. “And I know she is alive, as of a couple of hours ago. I saw her. But she has been beaten, and perhaps has a broken arm.” His voice wavered.
Narraway took the letter and read it silently, then without asking Pitt, handed it to Vespasia.
“Oh dear,” Vespasia said softly, putting the letter down on the table beside the small crystal bud vase with its single peach-colored rose. “You have to respond, Thomas. It is very clever, and I believe he means it. In fact quite possibly he has deliberately asked for something he knows cannot be given.”
“He means it,” Narraway agreed. “But I am not sure why. Have you any idea yet who it is, Pitt?”
“No. It might be someone in her church. I know Melville Smith has taken over a good deal of the leadership. He may have told himself it was to moderate her doctrine and make it more accessible to a greater number of people…”
Narraway smiled very slightly, but there was no joy in it.
“But do you think he planned this?” Vespasia said. The shadow of deep emotion was in her eyes.
“No,” Pitt said without hesitation. “He is merely an opportunist, as Henrietta said. I believe Barton Hall is more involved than he has let on, though. He gave me the impression he was hiding something great. He does not look well.”