by Anne Perry
Of course she knew. She was related to most of them herself. She was born to her title; she had not married into it. Now that he knew her so much better, and she was real to him in the intimacy of flesh, laughter, physical joy and pain, and he had touched the delicate, private moods of her heart, Society’s world was revealed to be a mirage. Inextricably wound in with incidents he would prefer to forget.
When he had been younger in Special Branch, long before he was its head, he had worked in some of the more complicated areas of personal loyalties and intrigues in the earlier years of the Irish troubles. Narraway had been just into his forties, Teague at the height of his sporting career. Narraway had seen Teague’s charm, and his weaknesses, and he had used both to his advantage to create a dangerous trap, and to spring it. It had accomplished its purpose, but they had both been hurt, as had others who were no more than bystanders, shallow and careless perhaps, but not wicked. The whole fascinating and ultimately tragic episode with Violet Mulhare still lingered in his memory with embarrassment. Perhaps that was the reason he disliked Teague, who had been able to walk away from it without embarrassment? There was something to be said for a man who could at least feel guilt for the pain he caused.
He would rather not have had Vespasia know anything about it, but he could not evade it without lying to her, and perhaps it mattered to the present case. Probably not, but it was the implicit lie to Vespasia that mattered.
“I think you are right about Teague, and the last thing he would do is agree with Sofia’s beliefs,” he said slowly. “At first glance I would say he is seeking the limelight as usual. He is posing as the hero, using his money and power to help someone very visibly in trouble. The fact that he does not subscribe to her creed only heightens the nobility of what he is doing.”
Vespasia gave him a wry look, a bleak amusement behind her smile. “You really don’t like him, do you? Not that it surprises me.”
He had a sudden, terrible thought that Teague might once have been an admirer of hers, even a lover. His dislike of Teague crystallized into a blaze of hatred.
Then he saw himself as ridiculous, and regained at least some control. He had had affairs. What normal man of his age had not? In some of them he had cared passionately at the time. Only later did he look back and see the flaws, the self-deception, the veneer of romance hiding a more pedestrian, physical reality, and maybe also a loneliness temporarily dispelled, only to close in more tightly afterward.
“I didn’t expect you to like him, my dear,” she said gently, watching the white gulls dip and swerve above the water. “He is essentially an opportunist, I think, a man empty of any convictions, except those that serve the moment.”
“Do you suppose that Pitt sees that in him?” he asked.
“Thomas is not as naïve as you fear,” she answered. “Gentlemen don’t impress the servant class nearly as much as they like to think they do.”
“The servant class?” he said incredulously. He had never thought of Pitt in that way.
She smiled patiently. “His mother was a laundress in one of the great houses in the Home Counties. Sir Arthur Desmond, I believe. A very good man, but human, nevertheless, with his flaws and eccentricities. Thomas was a policeman many years. He has seen the frailties of the rich and powerful more than most of their fellows imagine. It’s not the wealth or the breeding of Teague that bothers me; it is his grace and courage on the cricket field. Out there in the white flannels, and the sun in your eyes, you become a demi-god to millions. That tends to make people imagine you are innocent to the limitations of the rest of us.”
Narraway considered that for minutes, looking into the distance where the chalk cliffs were beginning to fade into the skyline. She was right. That was where Teague differed from other men of position and wealth.
“Why do you dislike him?” she interrupted his thoughts.
“I don’t know. Completely unfounded suspicion,” he admitted, then realized she would know he was evading the issue. “Actually, I ran across him in a case, a long time ago. Twenty years, at least. He was on the fringes of it.”
She remained with her face half turned away, still looking at the gulls. “I know that many things must remain secret, Victor. I am not asking for confidences, only to know if Thomas is in a danger that he is not aware of. It is the present that matters, not the past. Is your reason for doubting Dalton Teague anything that may affect Thomas now?”
There was no sound but the swirl of the water and the whisper of it against the sides of the ferry, and now and then a cry of birds.
“It was an old case,” he said at last. “I didn’t behave very well. I was in love with Violet Mulhare. At least I thought so at the time. I used Teague, and then I caught them both. Teague betrayed her so that he escaped and she was caught, as was the man I was after. Teague told me afterward that he knew all the time.”
Vespasia said nothing.
“I know,” he admitted. “I used both of them.”
“Did you believe Teague?” she asked.
“No. I think he lied. He changed sides at the last moment, when he knew I would turn them both in. But I couldn’t prove it.”
“Of course,” she said wryly. “Teague is far too careful for that.”
Did Vespasia care if he had loved Violet or not? He looked at her and had no idea. It mattered to him in a way he could not explain. It shouldn’t, not now. That past happened to different people, more impulsive and so much shallower than now.
Slowly Vespasia turned to face him, searching his eyes. He felt uncomfortably stripped of pretense. He was not accustomed to being so vulnerable.
“I think your judgment of Teague is probably correct,” she said gently. “I knew him very little, but I chose not to. I felt I was being very unfair about it, but what you have said makes me feel less guilty of prejudice. Possibly it was a better instinct than I thought.” She took a last look at the pale gleam of cliffs in the distance, almost vanished as the sun lowered. The long summer dusk was beginning to fade. They would disembark in Le Havre in the early morning and catch the first train south.
Vespasia wanted to stay up here on the deck until there was no light to see any longer, perhaps until the first stars pricked the sky. It was not that she did not wish to relax, or to be alone with him in the small cabin. That would be a pleasure. She had been married before, and borne children, but that seemed like another life. Long, long ago, when she was very young, she had fought at the barricade in Rome, in the Revolutions of ’48. She had loved Mario Corena, and thought that she would never love like that again.
Her first marriage had been one of affection, but never passion. The long years afterward had held romances of differing kinds. She had not expected to care beyond her ability to savor, and lose without unhealable wounds.
At first she had seen Victor Narraway as an ally in the desperate battles that Pitt had faced. Gradually she had come to think of him as a friend. Perhaps that was the difference that mattered. He was not a lover whose fire had tamed itself into a kind of friendship; it had been a companionship in a common cause, which had deepened into one that had changed everything in his life. He had accepted it and swallowed whatever trepidation he had felt. And she knew that he had felt fear, even though it had been deep, and very private, the sort one hides inside oneself.
She thought back to her own life, the loves great and small, the good times and the pain. She and Mario Corena had had no time together except in the hectic battles of youth. She could not be sure how much she had idealized it in her mind.
Victor Narraway was real, witty and resolute, cynical in worldly matters, startlingly vulnerable at heart. And for all his experience in the Indian Army, the government and the secret services, Special Branch with its secrets and betrayals, he had little day-to-day understanding of women. Part of him expected her to be so much more fragile than she was, idealistic, unaware of the grubbier realities of life. It was part of the myth that women were gentler than men, purer and more de
licate. She would have to disenchant him of that very carefully. Some dreams are hard to let go of.
There was a moment’s silence, then she continued, reverting back to her original question. “Why do you think Teague is so interested in this case, Victor?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. “But I’m certain he has a reason. There’s something he wants.”
“Revenge?” she suggested quietly.
“No. No, it’s far too long ago.” But even as he said it he knew that time would make no difference. Teague might have been waiting for the perfect opportunity. He would not damage Narraway; he would deliberately injure the man who had taken Narraway’s place, his friend and protégé, which would wound him far more painfully and add guilt to the depth of it. There was an elegance to it that was exactly Teague’s nature.
“Is it?” Vespasia asked.
“Yes.” He tried to sound far more certain than he was. He would fight this case to the end. He must not let Sofia be destroyed or the murder of the two women go unsolved, but above all, he must not let Teague revenge himself on Pitt.
Vespasia moved a little closer to him and linked her arm through his.
—
THEY LANDED IN LE Havre and went straight to the train. It was a long journey to Madrid, where they spent the night before going on the following day, arriving at Toledo a little before sunset. It was a magnificent walled city dating from the great days not only of Spain’s growing worldwide power, but of its medieval splendor. Tolerance had reigned supreme, Christian, Muslim and Jew had lived and worked side by side, sharing the wonders of art and knowledge freely and all profiting from its glory. Of course that was before 1492, and the expulsion of both Moors and Jews, and the rise of the Inquisition, when to be different became a sin and all questioning was forbidden.
They went straight to the hotel they had booked in advance of their arrival. They had discussed all the plans they had made and all the possible variations they could think of beforehand. Now they sat back in the carriage in silence and enjoyed the ride through the ancient streets. Many of the buildings were as they had been centuries ago.
It brought back memories to Vespasia and the years slipped away until she felt the same sense of exhilaration she had when she had first come here, seeking excitement, novelty and adventure. She had found at least some. It had been a good time.
Now she was happier than she could ever remember, even in the heady days of youth. The fact that she and her husband had come in an attempt to avoid a tragedy did not sour the underlying sense of peace.
The hotel was excellent, and after an early dinner they returned to their room.
“I have a message from one of Pitt’s men,” Narraway said quietly. “He followed up on a lot of the threatening letters, but didn’t find anything except angry people who have nothing else about which to feel articulate or important. The main thing is that he did actually find all of the ones who put their names to their words. There are more of them in England. Once they put their rage on paper that seemed to be enough for them.”
Narraway sighed. He stood with his back to the light, but not directly in front of the great window with its view over the ancient city.
“I don’t think this has anything to do with Sofia’s rather eccentric religious views,” he said quietly. “Deeply as they will offend some people, their weapon of choice would not be to attack Cleo and Elfrida.”
Vespasia frowned. “Was that not so vile in order to make us believe that Sofia really will be killed in the same way if her husband does not ruin her cause by denouncing her? That sounds religious to me, even if it is a creed of the devil.” She took a breath. “That’s melodramatic, isn’t it? I’m sorry. But I think both you and Thomas have underestimated the power of the belief people have as to who they are in the universe. People have died for it before, tens of thousands of them.”
“I know that,” Narraway said gently, moving a step closer to her. “But there’s something more behind this. Pitt said that Barton Hall is deeply afraid, and it’s not of losing a religious battle. There is something real and measurable that’s frightening him. And he daren’t tell Pitt what it is, which means that it’s illegal, or it’s a scandal that would ruin him, or someone he cares about.”
“His reputation,” she agreed. “Or it’s to do with a vast amount of money. And since he invests for the Church, and some of the Royal Family, either way he would indeed be ruined.”
Vespasia had not told Narraway, nor anyone else for that matter, but she had read a little of the writings of certain self-proclaimed revolutionaries. They burned with anger and pity at the injustice of all social orders, the power that robbed people of dignity and hope, and too often even of life. They believed that without government, men would revert to a natural goodness, and it would be the dawn of a new age. Only one passionate, violent act was needed to initiate it and give everyone else the courage. None of them explained why the violent wars of the past had not caused such new birth.
She understood their rage and pain, but she thought them totally deluded in their philosophy, perhaps driven mad by the injustice they saw, and in most cases also experienced.
Sofia Delacruz was not angry, she was full of hope. At least that was how she had seemed. Was Vespasia so easily misled? Did the key perhaps lie in the nature of Nazario, the man she had married, and presumably loved?
But if what Barton Hall had told Pitt was true, then they were joined by an act of selfishness that had ended in tragedy for others. A woman and two children were dead as a result of adultery and abandonment. Could any happiness, let alone a bond of trust, be founded on acts so utterly callous?
Was repentance enough to expunge such horror? Sofia herself had said that repentance was incomplete if you kept the fruits of your sins. There was a natural justice that demanded you repay in some fashion. Words mattered, but if the acts negated them then the words were an added offense, a hypocrisy.
She hoped intensely that she could find some other answer to Sofia’s actions, something that fitted with her words. Except, of course, that sometimes it is the bitterness of knowing what you have done that teaches change, and the understanding and need for your own forgiveness that makes you forgive others.
She must be prepared for whatever she learned.
—
NARRAWAY PREPARED TO LEAVE early, telling Vespasia only that he had no idea how long he would be gone, but that there was no cause for anxiety if he did not come back by dark.
He stood near the door from their room into the passageway to the stairs down into the main hall. It was a very comfortable hotel. He had decided they would be more conspicuous in a smaller hotel than here in what would have been a natural choice were they simply tourists. Neither had any wish to be taken for people on honeymoon, which was perhaps what they were.
Vespasia in particular felt self-conscious and rather absurd to be so happy in a condition that usually belonged to people a third her age. And yet she felt few young couples would have treasured their time together so deeply, or been so acutely aware of how precious happiness is, how easily wasted, or scarred with small acts of thoughtlessness and self-importance.
She stood now looking at him. She would like to have touched him, perhaps kissed him, but would he find it inappropriate, misplaced when he was about to go out in search of answers to horrific murders.
And yet a moment not taken might be regretted for a long time, and never completely undone. Then was her decision complete in her mind.
She walked over to him, head high as always, and touched his cheek gently. She was almost his height. “Good luck,” she whispered, and kissed his cheek.
He put both arms around her for an instant, then let her go and turned to leave, but she saw the smile on his face, and the emotion that for a moment almost overwhelmed him.
When he was gone Vespasia’s first action was to obtain copies of the local newspapers for the last few days, and study the Society pages. She was searching for any n
ames with which she was familiar, and a reasonable guess as to where she might contrive to meet these people in a manner that would appear to be chance. It needed to be as soon as possible. The letter the kidnapper had sent to Pitt did not allow for much time to find Nazario Delacruz and persuade him of the issues, then accompany him back to England. More importantly than that, and weighing far more heavily, how much longer could Sofia endure such misery and pain? Her abductors might even kill her without intending to.
As Vespasia considered the matter, the obstacles to success seemed immense. And yet haste might jeopardize their slim chances of making the right decisions, choosing the right words, judging Nazario correctly. She could not start imagining the heartbreak of the decision he’d have to make; the pain of it would distract her from the only useful thing she could do.
Having studied the newspapers carefully, she knew exactly what she needed.
Accordingly, the late afternoon found her tired, suffering a little from the weariness of traveling and the considerably greater warmth of southern inland Spain, as compared with London. She dressed in one of the few more fashionable gowns she had brought with her, a warmer color than she usually wore, and very flattering.
At half past five she alighted from her hired carriage at the entrance to classical gardens where an early evening soirée was being held.
She entered with her head high, and such an air of both elegance and command that no one questioned her right to be there.
It took her half an hour of polite and completely meaningless chatter, compliments and name-dropping before she came face-to-face with the woman she had come to meet.
Dorothea Warrington was not beautiful, but she had money and a certain flair. She possessed a sharp wit and remarkable hair and she made the best of both. She stood still by the fountain in the center of the garden and stared with growing incredulity as Vespasia approached her.
“Good evening, Dorothea,” Vespasia smiled. “I had no idea you were still in Spain, but it suits you admirably. I have never seen you look so very well. You make the rest of us seem positively insignificant.”