by Anne Perry
Nazario glanced up at Narraway, then back at his plate again.
“There is no point in killing someone as a warning if the corpse is not found,” he went on almost under his breath. “Juan Castillo, the other man in the hoax, understood the message and he was terrified for his own life. He knew he would be next. Above all, he was afraid of dying without having made a confession and receiving some absolution he could believe in. He came to Sofia and told her all that he had done. I have no idea the nature of this hoax or what it was because of course she did not tell me.”
“What happened to Castillo?” Narraway asked.
“I don’t know,” Nazario replied. “But she hid him—so far as I know, successfully. At least she believed he was still alive when she went to England.”
“You don’t know where?” Narraway knew the answer, but he had to ask.
“I have no idea,” Nazario replied. “She would tell no one. And the police have never found any clue at all as to who killed Alonso, or why, and whether Castillo had any part in it. But from the description of how Cleo and Elfrida were murdered, I fear there is some connection.”
“You have no clue at all as to the nature of the hoax?” Narraway had to press the matter as far as he could. Sofia’s life might depend on it; and maybe more than that.
Nazario hesitated.
This time Narraway did not wait. “Even if she did not tell you, you must be able to piece some of it together,” he said urgently. “We need every shred we can get. We’re fighting in the dark.”
“Money,” Nazario replied. “A vast amount of it, a king’s ransom.”
“How? You say a hoax. That implies a trick rather than a robbery. Why did she want to see Barton Hall? Is he connected to it?”
“I would guess so,” Nazario answered. “Or perhaps he could have done something to help? I know of no other reason she would go to see him now. Their quarrel was years ago, and is a difference of belief that cannot be mended. Neither of them will change, and she would not wish him to pretend. What he would wish I don’t know. I’ve never met him.”
“But she said that she must go to him alone?”
“She told me there could be no discussion about it, and certainly no argument. I saw from the look on her face that she dreaded it, yet she had no honorable choice but to go.”
“Was she afraid?” Narraway asked.
Nazario smiled bitterly. “If you knew her, you would not ask that. I think so, but certainly not of murder. Something has happened she did not foresee, not even in imagination. But I have no idea what.”
“Could she have known who killed Alonso, and therefore who would be trying to kill Castillo?” Narraway suggested.
“And that person killed Cleo and Elfrida?” Nazario’s eyes narrowed. “Then why take Sofia rather than kill her too? It doesn’t make any sense. Sofia had no part in the hoax, whatever it was about, and neither did Cleo or Elfrida.”
“Then Sofia is hiding something, possibly concerning the whereabouts of Castillo,” Narraway concluded. “And therefore the key to the hoax.”
“Where does Hall fit in? Whose side is he on in this?”
“Probably his own,” Narraway said bleakly. “You said the hoax has to do with money? He is a banker, with fortunes in his charge. It seems unlikely they are not connected.”
“Are you certain Sofia did not speak with him?” Nazario asked.
“Yes, at least according to Hall,” Narraway sighed. “It’s possible he lied, of course. And I wish I knew what happened to Castillo.”
“So do I,” Nazario agreed. “He comes to Sofia to help him save his soul. She gave him all the passion, honor and pity she could, and I loved her for it. But I will not let it cost her life.”
“Then come to England with me and we will face the dilemma.”
Nazario was ashen-faced. “I can’t let them kill her…but neither can I say she was a whore, and responsible for Luisa’s death. That would destroy everything she is, all she believes and has worked to teach.”
“I know,” Narraway agreed. “We must try to create a third way. But we need to have all the facts to do that. We have a few days yet. I dare say they will know when we have returned to London. Take time to study all the possibilities, and fast and pray, or whatever you do.”
Nazario sank his head into his hands and did not reply. Narraway saw the man’s shoulders heave in sobs he could no longer control, and stood up silently. He could at least give him privacy.
—
THEY RODE BACK THROUGH the night, hoping to arrive in Toledo by dawn.
Narraway was pleased to have the same horse, even though he had told the guide that he would leave earlier and go in the daylight.
The vast sky stretched above them, glittering with stars, and the wind was cool in their faces, blowing from the east. One huge shoulder of hillside gave way to another. The slow moon, three-quarters full, rose to the southeast and made their shadows black as Indian ink on the road, pooling and shifting and gathering again as the angles shifted against the light.
They did not speak. Narraway was glad. Nazario rode in front of him, and conversation would have been difficult, and there was nothing to say. Perhaps Nazario was lost in memories. Narraway would have been. He would have lived again every moment of happiness, even the smallest things: sunlight on his face as Vespasia turned to smile at him, the touch of a hand at a moment of beauty when to speak would have interrupted it, like a stone breaking a pool of still water.
Sunsets changed from second to second and finally died. But there would always be another. Next spring would be as beautiful as this one, yet one could hardly tear one’s eyes from blossom trees, or the sheets of bluebells strewn across the ground like fallen skies, so thick there was nowhere to tread without crushing a flower.
How could anyone love, and bear to let it go? Was there always a last day, a last time, a last touch?
With a sudden, almost unbearable pain he wanted Sofia’s idea of eternity to be true. Anything less was unendurable. Now that he loved, the thought of being alone again was one that he fought against as a drowning man fights for air.
Maybe Sofia was a fantasist, but her vision was a dream of such loveliness he longed for it to be true. The strength of it should survive. He knew why she would die before she would be made to deny it. But how long did they have before her captor realized that?
As they came over the last hill with the sun blazing above the horizon in the east, Narraway was so tired his whole body ached, yet the view of the city in the distance still caught his breath with its ancient splendor, its memory of a kinder age.
They rode the last distance without speaking, by mutual agreement. The streets were stirring with the first business of the day when they parted outside Nazario’s home and Narraway went on to the hotel. He gave the horse to the groom and went inside and up to his bedroom.
Vespasia was asleep on the bed, still in her clothes, as if she had been reluctant to give herself over to exhaustion. He stood in the doorway looking at her. Her hair was loose, but more as if it had come undone than that she had deliberately unfastened it. Her face was peaceful, the lines of anxiety smoothed out of it by sleep. She looked both younger and incredibly vulnerable.
He was tired and dirty after the long ride, and the emotionally harrowing experience of watching Nazario’s pain. He was also unshaven, and acutely aware of it. He wanted to lie down beside Vespasia and sink into oblivion himself, even if it was only for a couple of hours, but he would disturb her, and he knew he must smell of leather and horse sweat.
He watched her silently a moment longer, then went into the bathroom, took off his clothes, washed and shaved, then went back and lay on the bed.
—
IT SEEMED ONLY MINUTES before he woke again, his head aching and his body so stiff he winced to move at all. Vespasia was standing over him, fully dressed, her hair casually curled and pinned, and a cup of steaming tea in her hands. He saw both anxiety and a thread of amusement
in her silver-gray eyes.
She did not speak, and he realized she had woken him by touch.
“I’m sorry,” she said gently. “But I had to wake you.” She put the tea down on the small table beside the bed. “Drink it, and tell me what happened. What is Nazario like? He must feel bruised to the soul by this. What must we do next to help?”
“I have to get up…” He moved, trying to mask the pain.
“No, you don’t.” She pushed him back softly, but with her weight behind her arm. “You will drink your tea, and tell me what you learned. No one does their best work when they are exhausted, not even you, my dear. If we had the time, I never would’ve woken you.”
He stared at her, and drew in breath to argue. Then he realized not only was she right, but she was quite aware he knew it also.
He sipped the tea. It was hot, but exactly the right temperature to drink. He was glad she forbore from making any comments about his soreness, or his riding in the Indian Army, or cavalry charges. It had been a long time ago.
He told her what Nazario had said, adding only a little of his own impressions of the man. He wished her judgment to be untainted by his feelings.
She waited until she was certain he had finished.
“Well?” he prompted.
“You believe him, don’t you.” It was not a question.
“Yes. But nevertheless I intend to confirm it, as much as I can. And we can only do it here in Toledo. It will cost us a couple of days, but that will make no difference. Whoever has Sofia will not act until we have replied. I believe whoever it is will kill her only when they are certain they have failed in their demands.”
She looked at him with horror, but she did not argue. That in itself was chilling. Vespasia was always ready to fight if she thought there was any hope at all of winning.
“Sleep a few more hours,” she said finally. “I have made some contacts, and it should be possible for me to learn more of this Englishwoman whom Sofia cared for. She will have had servants, and servants see a great deal.”
“Vespasia, be careful! Whoever it is—”
“Of course I will be careful, Victor,” she said briskly. “I shall ask the hotel to bring you something to eat in a few hours. If I am not back by dinnertime you may send the dogs to look for me.”
“Vespasia!” he called out as she reached the doorway.
She turned to look at him. He was struck again by what an extraordinarily beautiful woman she was. For an instant he caught his breath.
“You are not following me,” she said with a smile. “You are wearing your nightshirt. You will look absurd. I shall see you this evening.” She gave him a sweet smile, and left the room.
“Damn,” he said quietly, but he was so tired that sleep overtook him before he could think about it anymore.
CHAPTER
12
PITT WENT HOME FROM the bank with his mind in turmoil. He had lost track of time while he was looking through the papers and records, which had drowned him in information and only at last had he seen some order and connection in the large amounts of money.
At first it had looked to him as if the monumental investments in land had already given returns far exceeding what even the most optimistic could have hoped for. Then after reading the papers several times, he had realized that the money coming in was from different sources altogether, and what seemed to be a connection was not in fact so.
But what remained a mystery was whatever it was that Barton Hall had feared so much that he had been driven into the panic of suddenly raising such vast sums and had then gone to so much trouble to conceal something that was perfectly legal.
And of course the ultimate thought that Pitt tried to put away was always there at the end. Was there treason involved? Was this money actually invested in foreign armaments? Germany’s heavy industry was overtaking Britain’s and openly boasted about. Was that why Hall had concealed it?
The hansom pulled up at the curb. Pitt paid the driver and thanked him absentmindedly before going across the pavement and in at the door.
He found Charlotte sitting up waiting for him, as if he were often this late, and it caused her no anxiety, let alone inconvenience. She put down her sewing and stood up, giving him a quick kiss, then disappeared into the kitchen.
He took his boots off and sat down by the embers of the fire. Even this far into May it could be cool in the evenings.
Less than ten minutes later Charlotte came back with a tray of hot tea, cold beef sandwiches and a large slice of fruitcake. She put it down on the table beside him and poured tea for both of them. The sandwiches and the cake were for him. He had not realized until now that he was hungry.
He thanked her and sat back to enjoy the few moments before he needed to think again. The French doors to the garden were closed because it was dark and the air was cool, but the smell of flowers and cut grass still lingered. It would have been a good time to forget everything and let himself sink into the peace and the silence, let it unravel the knots inside him. If he did, he knew that as soon as he had finished eating he would fall asleep.
He realized that Charlotte was watching him. He smiled and eased himself back a little farther. He wished he could tell her what he had discovered. It seemed like a bright island, a long time ago, when he had been merely a policeman and crimes had been at times appalling, but individual, involving only a handful of people. Now his job was about impersonal injury and sharing it with her would have been no help or pleasure.
This case was different, however. The murders of the two women and the torture of Sofia were fearful; but the future of whole countries could be affected, if what he began to dread was true. America and Spain might be only the beginning.
The thought that he had not understood this huge international responsibility when he took the position was the sort of self-indulgence he would have despised in another man. But it was hard to put the burden of it aside, especially when he was tired, and confused by too much knowledge in some areas, and too little in others.
He had enjoyed asking Charlotte’s opinion of people, especially either of women, or of her own social class with which he was not familiar. Of course she had interfered in his cases, sometimes at considerable risk to herself, but she had actually proved very astute, and more than one case he could not have solved without her.
Since he had joined Special Branch everything was different. There was too much that was based in secrecy. It made the job far lonelier. He missed the balance of another judgment and very often a subtler view than his own.
It was Charlotte who broke the silence.
“Is she still alive, do you think?” she asked, her voice quiet. He had not told her about seeing Sofia, beaten, swollen-faced in the hansom.
“She was alive just before Narraway and Vespasia went to Spain,” he answered. “I don’t know about now. I…I don’t know how long she can last. But they’ll kill her as soon as she tells them whatever it is they want to know. I think it’s about someone she is protecting, I don’t know who or why.”
Charlotte sat very still, her face pale even in the glow of the gas lamps on the wall.
Had he told her too much?
“I’m sorry,” he held out his hand, palm open. “You didn’t need to know that.”
She put her hand on his, gripping him, glaring at him through her tears. “Were you ever going to tell me? How can I protect Jemima, or explain anything to her, if I don’t know?” she demanded. “She’s terrified, Thomas. She thinks all women who speak their beliefs or fight for what they want won’t ever be loved. They’ll be respected, feared, hated, admired, but no man will ever want to marry them.”
It was absurd, painful and desperately easy to understand. History was marked with heroines who were essentially alone. What girl of sixteen wants to be excluded for any reason?
“That’s how she sees Sofia: brave and betrayed by a husband who grew tired of her courage and battles,” Charlotte went on. “Is she nearly right?�
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“I don’t know,” he said. “I just don’t know.”
She must have seen his exhaustion, because she said nothing more but leaned into him and put her head on his shoulder. He closed his arms around her and held her more and more tightly.
—
THE NEXT DAY PITT was again waylaid on the street by Frank Laurence.
“Good morning, Commander,” Laurence said soberly, falling in step with Pitt as they passed a boy selling newspapers. A current scandal had replaced Sofia’s disappearance on the front pages.
“I have nothing to tell you, Mr. Laurence,” Pitt replied.
“Actually, much against my better instincts,” Laurence replied, “I care what happens to Sofia Delacruz. You know the remarkable thing is that I don’t think she expects this God of hers to rescue her. I’m not even sure that she expects you to. Which makes it the more remarkable that she had the courage to do whatever it is she is doing. By the way, you haven’t worked out what that is yet, have you?”
Pitt knew that if he lashed out at Laurence in words it would betray no more than his own desperation. So with an effort he controlled himself.
“I believe you,” he said calmly. “What is it you intend to do to put her, and yourself, back on the front pages?”
Laurence winced. “Not I, Commander. Mr. Teague. He will do something to keep it in the public eye. You can’t need me to tell you that, surely?”
Pitt stopped again. “You really hate Teague, don’t you? Enough to lie about how well you know him, quite unnecessarily. Until you lied, I didn’t care at all. Now I wonder why.”
Laurence looked uncomfortable. For a moment he did not meet Pitt’s eyes, and then when he did he was hesitant, as if deciding whether to lie again, or finally tell the truth.
Pitt let out his breath and turned as if to walk away.
“You’re right,” Laurence agreed. “There are things I know that I cannot prove, and I was reluctant to mention them. My slight evasion was to avoid the subject altogether.”