by Anne Perry
“Have you ever noticed how a room changes if you move the light?” Teague continued. “Shadows fall in different places. Different directions change the look of everything.”
Pitt was startled by his perception, and a little uncomfortable. It was an image he had not thought of. His mind started to play with it.
Teague smiled quite openly now. “You have had the light on Sofia. What if you move it to Barton Hall? What do you see then?” He was watching Pitt intently, as a cat watches a mouse hole in the wall.
Pitt considered for a moment. It was not a question of what he saw in Hall, but of what he wanted Teague to think he did, and perhaps even more, of what Teague wanted him to see! This was an opportunity to shine the light on Teague. Without appearing to, he could ask all manner of questions, and what he would not say to Teague was how much you could learn not only from what a person answered, but how they answered, what they volunteered even though you had not asked, the silence they had filled in unnecessarily. Above all, it was what they did not say. This was an opening he might never have again.
“I see a man who is related to a very troublesome woman,” he answered. “But who is closely involved in spite of himself because he is the only family she has in England. He disapproves intensely of her beliefs, and finds her open preaching of them in his own country most embarrassing.”
Teague smiled tolerantly. “But that is not new, Mr. Pitt. She has apparently been doing this for years.”
“Not in England.” Pitt saw a sudden opening. He pursued it. “This is the first time she has come here and commanded large audiences, right under his nose.”
Teague smiled. “So you think he was so hysterical about it that he had her kidnapped?” His voice was gently reproving, as if a favorite pupil had disappointed him. “With what result? She is now known by millions rather than a few hundred. She is no longer the troublemaker disturbing people’s quiet, habitual certainties. She has become the victim of brutal suppression, by murder, of a person’s right to believe as they choose, and speak their faith.”
He leaned forward with a sudden urgency, so his physical presence was intense. “Barton Hall is not a fool, Pitt. He is a highly intelligent man. His brain works swiftly and easily. He may be a little hide-bound in his imagination, but he has some vision, and a fine grasp of detail, judgment and, at times, courage. He is responsible for investing part of the great fortunes of the Church and of the Crown! Do you think he would do something so foreseeably idiotic?”
Pitt had to keep the excitement out of his voice. “You sound as if you know him quite well, Mr. Teague.”
“I do! For God’s sake, man, I went to school with him. I probably knew him better than his own family did. He was a swot, but a damn good one. He sailed through exams the rest of us labored for.” He pursed his lips very slightly, as if he were dismissing something in modesty. “Not I, but…most people. We studied together sometimes, helping, challenging…you understand it?” He knew perfectly well that Pitt had not been to any university, let alone Cambridge. He did not know that Pitt had actually been privately tutored at the manor in which Pitt’s mother had worked, before his father’s conviction and transportation to Australia.
Pitt smiled. He spoke with calculation. “Yes, I do. I was tutored with Sir Arthur Desmond’s son. Privately, of course, but the principle is the same. A little friendly rivalry, perhaps a little not quite so friendly. It was both a help and a spur.”
Teague’s eyes widened. For a moment he was caught wrong-footed, a rare experience for him.
“We came to know each other very well, and perhaps in ways no one else could have,” Pitt continued. “I should have taken more notice of your opinion of Hall.” He smiled, waiting.
Teague was still on the wrong foot and for a moment not sure how to reply. He made the decision quickly. He was used to it. When a cricket ball is flying through the air at you, you have less than a second to decide exactly how you will strike it.
“My fault,” Teague said ruefully. “I should have informed you. I admit, I had not until very recently appreciated how responsible Hall might be in this whole business. I was entirely bent on trying to find out where Sofia Delacruz is. Or was.”
“You have evidence to suggest she’s not alive?” Pitt asked.
Teague drew in his breath. “Oh, no, not at all. Surely if anyone wished her dead, they would simply have killed her there on Inkerman Road, with the other women? Why keep her alive, if not for some purpose? If a ransom is asked, you will not give it unless you know she is alive…will you?”
“No,” Pitt agreed. “Of course not.”
“But no ransom has been asked?”
Pitt had no hesitation in answering. “Not a penny…so far. Perhaps they are playing a cat and mouse game with us, until we are so desperate we make a mistake?”
Teague stared at him. “Maybe. But the time will come, and I think soon, when they will have to make a move. Can we afford to delay? What if they become desperate and lose their nerve?”
“Then they will kill her, and escape,” Pitt answered. “I’m curious—knowing Hall as you do, what do you see when you turn the light on him?”
Teague answered straightaway. “I see a man who has plunged into something far deeper than he realized, and has found himself drowning.” His voice was perfectly level, and yet there was emotion in it, curious and impossible to identify. Part of it was pain, but there was no way to tell if it was old or new. “He is terrified and has no idea where to turn.” He looked straight into Pitt’s eyes without flinching.
“I agree with you,” Pitt hesitated only a moment. To have disagreed would have tipped his hand. Teague knew he was not that much of a fool. If he earned Teague’s contempt intellectually as well as possibly socially, he would have put himself at a great disadvantage. As it was, Teague was playing with him, enjoying the game. Pitt needed to play it too, in order to learn, to read and interpret the omissions, to play it at Teague’s pace, his way, let him reveal what he did not mean to. He kept his own face bland. “But that does not mean his fear is to do with Sofia’s disappearance, or any guilt he has in it beyond lending Melville Smith the house on Inkerman Road.”
He saw the flash of understanding in Teague’s eyes, just a very slight widening, but for the first time the man hesitated before replying. Then he recrossed his legs again. It was a casual, very elegant gesture, consciously so.
“I agree,” Teague said. “It might be quite unrelated. I am sure you are already familiar with his professional responsibilities. His anxieties may be in that direction and Sofia no more than a distraction. It would explain why he did not find time to see her, or insist on making the opportunity, immediately after she arrived in England. To a banker, religion is part of the bedrock of society, but not a matter for any kind of question, still less any change. Bankers hate change. Money and trust are the realities. He does not wish to appear callous regarding her disappearance, but it is not the cause of his fear. Have you the power to investigate that?” For an instant there was a shadow across his eyes.
Pitt saw it. “Not easily, but if there is some cause, I can inquire.” He watched Teague minutely, his face, his long hands lying in his lap, even the tension in his body so gracefully sprawled in the chair. “Do you think I should?”
Teague took a shallow breath, and let it out slowly. “I think you would be unwise not to, Mr. Pitt.”
—
BY LATE AFTERNOON PITT had learned little of Barton Hall that was not already in the public knowledge, and he was again sent for by Sir Walter.
“What the devil does Hall’s banking have to do with Sofia Delacruz’s disappearance?” Sir Walter demanded when Pitt stood in his office, the late sun golden on the carpet bringing out the colors. “Do you have any idea what you are asking?”
“Yes, sir,” Pitt replied gravely. Sir Walter was clearly tired and no doubt beginning to taste failure in the case. Pitt played his strongest card. “I know that Hall’s bank holds a consider
able amount of money for both the Crown and the Church of England, therefore its reputation must be above reproach.”
“Exactly,” Sir Walter agreed. “Questioning them would be tantamount to a suggestion that there could be something…amiss. Banks around the world survive on the world’s confidence in them. It’s all one vast house of cards. A bad enough disaster in one of them can spread until they are all tainted. Then panic sets in…”
“I want to prevent such a suggestion from ever happening.” Pitt kept his voice level, free from the anxiety he felt. “Before it is even whispered about.”
“Before what is whispered about, Pitt? Stop dancing around like a damn ballerina and tell me what you mean.”
“The suggestion that I look into a few matters, very discreetly, was made by Mr. Dalton Teague, sir. In view of his standing, and his long acquaintance with Mr. Hall, I dare not ignore it.”
“I see.” Sir Walter thought for a moment, weighing the two sides of the matter before conceding. “Then I suppose you had better do it. I’ll get you the appropriate permission. Best not to let Hall know himself. Keep this very quiet indeed, Pitt. Even a whisper could bring ruin to a great many important families. Only takes a word to start a run on a bank. You had better not tread heavily with those big feet of yours!” He smiled bleakly, the shadows of exhaustion like bruises on his face.
“No, sir,” Pitt said quietly. “You won’t even find my prints.”
—
BEFORE GOING TO THE bank with the necessary documents of permissions, Pitt went back to his own office. He read again through Sofia’s letters and papers that had been taken from Angel Court. With notes from them he then went to the bank, where Sir Walter had smoothed his path to absolute discretion and he read the records of Hall’s investments, working far into the night. His eyes were weary in the gaslight, and the bank guard was pacing impatiently outside the locked private office when he finally found what he believed was at least the beginning of the answer.
Hall had invested a great deal of money in land in Canada, an amount that to Pitt seemed like a king’s ransom. Most of it belonged to the Church of England, and at first it seemed no different than the many other purchases of land the Church already possessed, and from which it drew a huge income. Only with several handwritten notes, hard to read, did Pitt realize that Hall was now trying desperately to raise a similar amount from other sources.
Was it possible that it was this that had brought Sofia to London, and to see Hall? Was it speculation from which she expected to profit? Or was it a disaster she hoped to prevent?
He did not wish to think that it was a terrible error for which she intended to manipulate him into some act he would not otherwise contemplate, but of course it was possible. Had she meant to warn him, help him, blackmail him, or ruin him? And how had she learned about it in the first place?
Whatever the answers were might now cost her her life.
He made notes, incomprehensible to anyone else, then he returned all the files and documents to exactly the places he had found them and told the guard he was ready to leave.
The man looked at him with suspicion and resentment.
“Thank you,” Pitt said graciously. He was perfectly happy to lie; he could see the necessity for it. “I believe what I am looking for is not here, but I appreciate your time so that I could assure myself of it. Good night.”
“Good night, sir,” the man replied, somewhat mollified. “Glad you didn’t find it here, sir, if you’ll not mistake my meaning. We take care of some very important people. Wouldn’t do for them to be uncomfortable. Might lose their business.”
“Quite,” Pitt agreed. And he felt the weight of that knowledge heavy on his mind as he went out into the warm night oppressed by possibilities that had not even crossed his mind before. Perhaps Narraway was right, and it was to do with money after all. If the anarchists wanted to bring down governments, then a scandal that ruined a bank, and the ensuing collapse that would spread around the world like fire across the plains, consuming everything, would be far more effective than any individual assassinations, no matter who was killed.
CHAPTER
11
VESPASIA FINISHED TALKING WITH Narraway about what she had heard from Sister Maria Madalena. He had listened without interrupting her, his face grave. When he finally spoke it was with more emotion than she had expected.
“There’s something very major that we don’t know,” he said softly. “The more I hear about Sofia, the more I am obliged to take her faith seriously. Not that I believe it is true, but I have to accept that she does. The dilemma about what to do gets worse with every new fact.” He took a deep breath, his eyes unmoving from Vespasia’s face. “I think she will die before she denies it.”
They were sitting in the hotel on a balcony overlooking a small square, the evening light gold and long-shadowed across the cobbled street. It was completely without wind; the leaves hung motionless. A lean, handsome young man swaggered up the middle of the street as if he owned it. He went into the engraver’s shop opposite. Toledo steel was famous around the world.
“She knows something that they will torture her to death in order to learn,” Narraway went on quietly. “And it has its roots here in Spain. Someone confessed something to her.”
“Will it help if we know what?” Vespasia asked.
“Possibly. But we need to know who too,” he answered. “The details might matter.”
“Maybe the man Sister Maria told me of, who confessed to Sofia, lied about the violence,” she suggested. “Perhaps he did kill the man they found eviscerated, or at least knew who had done it.”
Narraway frowned. “I think she would have made him repent of it, and tell the police, at least to stop anyone else from being blamed.”
“Are you certain it is not anything to do with revenge by the family of his first wife? It’s a fearful grief to lose your child by suicide, and your grandchildren by murder. I suppose it’s impossible Nazario caused it directly somehow? Do you think that would be what this is about? Whether it is true or not, they believe he killed them all?”
“There’s a great deal still to learn,” he agreed.
Vespasia looked at him in the fading light. The gold in it made his skin look even darker, his eyes black. He easily could have been Spanish himself. Only because she knew him did she see the anxiety in his face.
“What is it?” she said quietly. “What are you thinking?”
He smiled bleakly. “I have no reason to believe Nazario himself is guilty, but we mustn’t forget that possibility.”
“Do we know if his wife’s family blames Sofia?” She was afraid of the answer, but she had to ask. Why would it hurt her if they did? Did she really admire the woman she was coming to know so much that it would darken a hope, or a dream, if she was to blame? Did Sofia forgive so passionately because she understood the need to be forgiven? If so, had Vespasia never walked that path herself that she was so quick to judge, or to be disappointed?
She was aware of Narraway watching her, perhaps more closely than she wished. How vulnerable it made her to care so much about what he thought; how much of her he read!
“No,” he said with slight surprise. “I wasn’t able to get a sense of who was truly at fault in the matter. I would like to know more, but there isn’t time. I think I must go and see Nazario himself tomorrow.”
But it proved far more difficult than he had expected. Inquiries at the old abbey where Sofia and Nazario lived elicited the fact, told reluctantly, that Nazario had spent the last several weeks in a monastery many miles outside the city, where he had been helping the people of the nearest village. It was apparently something he did regularly. No one knew when he was due back to Toledo. There was nothing for Narraway to do but hire a guide, and a horse, and travel to the monastery.
He returned to the hotel and told Vespasia of it, somewhat to her alarm. He saw, wryly and with a degree of self-consciousness, that she was afraid for him.
&n
bsp; “My dear,” he said gently. “I began my career in the Indian Army. I am perfectly comfortable riding a horse. I have even fought battles with a saber in one hand and reins in the other. I shall manage to ride at a decent pace along a rather good road, I promise you.” He leaned forward and touched her cheek, closing his eyes and feeling the softness of her skin. In part he did not wish to embarrass her further by seeing the hot color as she blushed, but he was also aware of how much they did not yet know each other.
She searched for words, and found none, so she touched him gently, and bit her lip as she watched him leave.
—
IT WAS SEVERAL HOURS’ ride through the deepening evening light from Toledo to the monastery, but Narraway enjoyed it. It was a long time since he had ridden a horse at all, let alone a strong animal such as he had now, both eager and biddable, picking its way along what was clearly a familiar path. To begin with he sat in the saddle comfortably, but he knew that by the end of the journey his body would be aching. He must not let his pride make him ridiculous by denying it. It would be an easy mistake, and the thought of it brought heat to his face.
He relaxed and gave the horse its head. He stared around him with interest. Some of the landscape he could see brought back memories of India, even though it resembled it very little. It was a quality in the light, the width of the view and the shadows on the horizon, the warmth of the air on his face, but perhaps most of all the sway in the saddle, the constant adjustment of his weight, the smells of earth and dust and crushed herbs.
And he admitted this was also the chance to put off a little longer the need to face Nazario Delacruz and tell him of the ransom demand. He was further pleased to delay the time when he must come to some judgment of the man. It was instinctive after so many years to make assessments of people, but he disliked it more and more as he moved away from command of Special Branch. There was a freedom in not having to be right. Now mistakes, however serious, would be no more than an embarrassment. The responsibility was all Pitt’s.