by Anne Perry
“Good-bye,” Anstiss replied with the faintest inclination of his head. The dismissal was unmistakable and absolute.
Fitz turned away. With a glance at Anstiss by way of excusing herself, Charlotte followed Fitz through the crowd, as he trod on skirts, brushed past people balancing glasses and plates, till he stood next to a glorious rosebush trailing flowers over an ornamental arch.
There he stopped and faced her.
“I hope you haven’t come to argue me out of it? No—of course you haven’t. You are Mrs. Radley’s sister.”
“I am also Fanny’s friend,” Charlotte said with chill.
He blushed. “I’m sorry. That was appallingly rude, and quite unjustified. I have no one to blame but myself, for any of it. And I’ve treated Odelia abominably. I hope her father will break off our engagement officially, and say that I have consorted with an unsuitable woman and proved myself unworthy of his daughter. Otherwise her reputation…” He left the rest unsaid. They both knew the ugly speculations that followed when a man jilted a young woman. There was the inevitable whisper that he had discovered she was not above suspicion.
“That will damage your own reputation,” Charlotte pointed out. “And untruly.”
“Not untruly. I have consorted with totally unsuitable women.”
“Have you?”
“Fanny …”
“You haven’t consorted with her—you have met her only socially in a way we all have.”
“I will have consorted with her by then—if you will be good enough to tell me where I may find her? You said across the river.”
“I don’t know where, but I can find out, if you are sure. She did not deny her relationship with Mr. Carswell, you know.”
He was very pale.
“I know.”
A few yards to the left a large gentleman in a hussar’s uniform gave a roar of laughter and slapped the shoulders of a slender young man with a large mustache. Behind them two ladies laughed vacuously.
“What Lord Anstiss says is true,” Charlotte went on carefully. But there was a growing hope in her, quite unreasonable and against all her common sense. What happiness could there be for Fitz and Fanny Hilliard? Even if he was rash enough to marry her, and she accepted him, that would not lift her to his social status. His friends would never look upon her as one of them. Whatever they supposed the truth to be, they would remember the charges, and that she had not denied them. She was a loose woman, and he a fool for marrying her. And Anstiss had made it plain that selection for Parliament was ended. Fanny would have to realize what it would cost him. And knowing Fanny better than Fitz did, Charlotte thought she would not marry him at that price.
The hussar hailed someone he knew and went striding over, crying out loudly.
“And consider it from Fanny’s view,” Charlotte went on. “If she loves you, she will not accept you at such a price to you. What happiness would that give her?”
He stared at her, not with the derision she had expected, but with suddenly candid eyes and a dawning brilliance in them.
“You think she loves me? You do. And far more to the point, Mrs. Pitt, you think her a woman of selflessness and such honor that she would prize my welfare and my reputation above her own, and her security as my wife.” Impulsively he put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her cheek. “Bless you, Mrs. Pitt, for a devious and unconventional woman. Now you will find out for me where I may call upon Fanny, because having gone this far you cannot now abandon me. And you will do your brother-in-law a favor, because he is an excellent fellow, and will make a fine member of Parliament, thoroughly acceptable to his lordship, having a wife above criticism, intelligent, tactful, charming and I suspect extremely clever. And her reputation is spotless.”
“I will find out,” she agreed with a rueful smile. “But I will ask Fanny if she wishes to receive you.”
“No—don’t do that. She will refuse. Allow me to press my own suit. I give you my word I will not harass her. And she has a brother to protect her—just tell me where I may call. For heaven’s sake, Mrs. Pitt, I am gentleman enough not to pay my attentions where they are unwanted.”
Charlotte bit her lip to suppress her amusement.
“Have they ever been unwanted, Mr. Fitzherbert?”
A little of the natural color returned to his face. He was being teased, and he could see it.
“Not often,” he admitted with a spark of the old humor. “But I think I’ll know it if I see it. Promise me.”
“I promise,” she conceded. “Now I must return to Emily and see what progresses. I shall send the address to her, and you may fetch it there.”
And with that he was content. He thanked her again and she excused herself and threaded her way back to where Emily was talking about climate to a retired colonel with a bristling mustache and stentorian opinions about India.
While Charlotte was attending the garden party, Pitt returned to the job he hated of further investigating Samuel Urban. It was something he could not avoid, whatever his personal liking for the man or his desire to believe him guilty of no more than misjudgment, and seeking a second and forbidden income in a manner which would have been perfectly legal had he not been in the police. It was far preferable in his mind to Latimer’s gambling and condoning of bare-knuckle fistfighting. But bitter experience had taught him that people otherwise law abiding and in many ways likable could, when frightened enough, caught without time to think, commit murder. And often men he despised for cruelty, indifference to others’ pain or humiliation, were nevertheless capable of coolness of thought which avoided the need for violence. Not that they abhorred it but because they understood the terrible consequences for themselves.
It was little use retracing his steps over Urban’s old cases until he knew of something else to look for. He had found no unexplainable irregularities the first time, and he knew where the extra money came from. Whether he had used his office to further the cause of the Inner Circle or not could wait for another time. Pitt thought not. He remembered how angry Urban had been over the Osmar case, and the influence he believed the Circle had brought to bear on that. And the very fact that he had betrayed them so far as to tell Pitt of their existence and his own membership was proof which way his loyalties lay.
In fact the more Pitt thought of him, the deeper was his liking for Urban personally, and his conviction that the Inner Circle had not succeeded in corrupting him to its uses. His disobedience had been the reason his name was on the list in the first place.
Then why was Carswell’s name there? He had succumbed. He had dismissed Osmar’s case. And what about Latimer? He needed to know more.
Where to find it?
He began with the music halls where Urban might have been seeking more remunerative employment, if he was telling the truth about the night Weems was killed. They were tawdry in the daylight: stages dusty, backdrops unreal; all the glamour lent by music, shadows and spotlights was gone, leaving a curious nakedness. It took him all day tramping from one hall to another, questioning reluctant management, which was very much on its dignity, protesting uprightness, moral probity and reputations not helped by having the like of Pitt hanging around asking questions. Yes of course they inquired into the backgrounds of everyone they hired. It was regrettably necessary to employ people to keep order, human nature being as it was, but they took on only men of the best character. It was grossly unfair that anyone should suggest otherwise.
Pitt brushed aside their arguments. He was not on this occasion interested in the general excellence of the establishment, only had they recently interviewed a man answering the description he gave.
Unfortunately three managers said they had. But in each case the description was so general it could have been Urban, or any of a thousand others. It only highlighted the impossibility of proving Urban innocent, unless the managers were faced with the actual man, and their memories were clear enough to make a positive identification.
Finally he went back to the ha
ll in Stepney where he knew Urban had worked and asked to see the manager. A large man with thin hair scraped across the top of his head, and graying at the temples, came out to see him. He was well dressed, and it flashed through Pitt’s mind that he possibly owned the building as well as ran it.
“Yes, Inspector? My name is Caulfield, Hosea Caulfield. What can I do for you?” he asked agreeably. His voice was light and his diction a little sibilant. “Always help the police, if I can. What is it this time? Not that bouncer fellow again, is it? Getting hisself into trouble? Police were ’ere asking about him.”
“Yes it is,” Pitt answered, watching the man’s face, noticing the way he stood. There was something about him that puzzled, something not what he expected.
“Oh dear.” Caulfield rubbed his hands together as if he were cold, although it was midsummer and humid. “I feared as much, since the other officer was here. But I can’t help you.” He shook his head. “He never came back. Scarpered, you might say. Suspicious that, in itself.”
Pitt struggled to place what it was in the man that troubled him. He had spoken to enough music hall managers. They were all civil, but they were not fond of the police, and were better pleased to see him leave than arrive. But Caulfield was almost eager. He stood on the balls of his feet and under his fair brows his eyes were sharp on Pitt’s face. He was waiting for something, and it was not for Pitt to go. He wanted something first. Was it to receive information, or to give it?
To give it. Pitt could tell him nothing he could not have found out from Innes, and by general inquiry. And there was some emotion in him far stronger than fear, at least than fear of Pitt.
“What is it I can tell you, Inspector?” Caulfield urged, his face eager, his manner wavering between the dignified and deferential, as though he was uncertain of his role. “I know very little of the man, except he did his job well. Never gave me any trouble. Although he was an odd one.” He shook his head, then when Pitt was silent, pursued his thoughts regardless. “Struck up some strange friendships, or perhaps acquaintances would be a better term for it. I suppose a music hall is a good place for meeting people casually, unobserved, as it were, if you know what I mean?” He looked at Pitt questioningly.
Pitt found himself disliking him, and instinct fought with reason. He was being unfair. The man was probably anxious for his livelihood. There had already been one policeman inquiring about his employees. If he now suspected there had been some criminal activity on his premises he had every reason to be worried. An innocent man would behave this way.
Caulfield was watching Pitt’s face closely.
“Do you want to see the room he used?” he asked, licking his lips.
“Used?” Pitt said with a frown. “For what purpose?” Caulfield looked uncomfortable.
“Well—perhaps ‘room’ is a bit of a grand term for it.” He shrugged elaborately. “More of a cubbyhole, really. He-he asked to keep things now and then.” He looked sideways at Pitt rapidly then away again. “So of course I said ’E could. No harm in obliging.” He seemed to feel some need to explain himself as he led Pitt along a narrow, airless corridor and unlocked the door of a room very spartanly furnished with a wooden table, an unframed glass on the wall above it, two wooden chairs and a set of cupboards against the far wall, several tall enough to serve as wardrobes, and an uncurtained window looking into the blind wall of the next building.
“We use it for changing rooms for extra artistes,” Caulfield explained, waving his arm vaguely at the table.
Pitt said nothing.
Caulfield seemed to feel compelled to go on talking, his face growing pinker.
“Your man used that cupboard at the end there.” He pointed with a well-manicured hand.
Pitt looked, but did not move towards it.
Caulfield took a deep breath and licked his lips again. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to take a look inside?”
Pitt raised his eyebrows.
“Is there something in it?”
“I—well—I, er…” Caulfield was plainly caught in some embarrassment. Why? If he had looked that was not hard to understand. It was his cupboard and the man to whom he had lent its use had gone without warning. It would be usual to look and see if he had left anything behind. Such an act needed no explanation and certainly no apology.
Pitt regarded him unblinkingly and Caulfield colored.
“No,” he denied. “I don’t know if there’s anything there. I just thought—you bein’ police, and interested in the man, like, you’d want to see.”
“I do,” Pitt agreed, certain now that he would find something. It was unfair to be angry with the manager. It should have been Urban; it was Urban who had been greedy for the pictures and Urban who had gone moonlighting to get the money. No one had pushed him into ruining his career, certainly not this curiously uncomfortable man with his red face and constantly moving hands. “By the way, why was the room locked? There hardly seems anything worth stealing.”
Again Caulfield was thrown off balance. He shifted his feet.
“I—er—well—habit, I suppose. Sometimes people leave things …” He tailed off. “Do you want to see in the cupboard? Don’t mean to be uncivil, sir, but I do have duties …”
“Of course.” Pitt went over to the corner and opened the cupboard door. Inside was a large parcel, about two feet by three feet tall, but barely two inches thick, and wrapped in brown paper tied with string. He did not need to undo it to know what it was.
For once Caulfield kept silent. There was not even an in-drawn breath of surprise.
“Did he often leave pictures here?” Pitt asked.
Caulfield hesitated.
“Well?” Pitt asked.
“He often had parcels that size with ’im,” Caulfield said nervously. “He didn’t say what they were, an’ I didn’t ask. It did cross my mind as he was an artist, maybe, an’ that was why ’E needed the work extra.”
“An artist carrying his pictures about with him to work at a music hall?” Pitt sounded dubious.
“Well—yes.” Caulfield rose to his feet and his eyes were very wide as he gazed at Pitt. “ ’E did come with one picture sometimes, an’ leave with a different one.”
“How do you know? At first you didn’t even know they were pictures. You said ‘parcels.’ ”
“Well—I mean—the parcel ’E left with was a different size. an’ I just supposed they were pictures cause o’ the shape.” His voice grew sharper with irritation. “An’—An’ he carried them very careful, like. And because he asked to keep ’em safe, I took it as they was of value to ’im. What else could they be?”
Slowly Pitt undid the string and the paper and disclosed a large, very ornate, carved and gilded frame, containing nothing but a bare wood backing.
“Frames?” he said with a lift of bleak astonishment in his voice.
“Well I never!” The response was not wholly convincing. “What’d ’E do that for? I wonder what ’appened to the picture? Looks like there was one, don’t it?”
“It does,” Pitt conceded reluctantly. The frame was far from new and the backing was dark with age. It was probably the frame and backing from an old work of value. He ran his fingers over it and felt the smooth surfaces. He was not sure, but he thought it was probably gold leafed, not merely gilt paint.
“You reckon it’s stolen?” Caulfield said from close behind him.
“A stolen picture frame?” Pitt said with surprise.
“Well obviously there was a picture in it. Whoever it was he sold it to didn’t want the frame.”
“Or maybe he found an old frame for someone and brought it for them?” Pitt suggested, not believing it himself for a moment.
“Well it’s your business,” Caulfleld said resignedly. “You do as you like. I got my own affairs to run. If you seen what you need, maybe you’ll take that with you and I’ll call it an end to the matter.”
Pitt picked up the frame and rewrapped it.
“Yes, I’ll tak
e it.”
“I’ll want a paper,” Caulfleld warned. “Just to protect me, like. I don’t want some other police officer comin’ ’ere and saying I kept it or sold it for myself.” This time he looked Pitt squarely in the face.
Pitt understood. What he meant was that he wanted proof that Pitt had found it, so he would be obliged to report it to his senior. That was the purpose of it, to make sure Urban was implicated. In what? Art theft, forgery, fencing stolen works—bribery with paintings for an officer who was prepared to turn his back now and again on theft? He was chilled inside. The Inner Circle again? Urban had defied them a second time by pressing for prosecution in the Osmar case. He had invited a more severe discipline than merely his name on Weems’s list. Was this it?
A loathing for the manager welled up inside him, although he knew it was unreasonable. Very probably the man was caught by the Inner Circle himself.
“That’s quite fair,” he said with a smile over bared teeth. “I shall take the matter back to Bow Street and report it to Mr. Urban; he’s head of the uniformed men there. I’ll tell him you are most cooperative. I daresay no one will bother you any further.”
Caulfleld drew in his breath sharply, his eyes wide. He was about to protest, then remembered just in time that he was not supposed to know who his employee had been. He had almost betrayed himself. With care he ironed out the expression from his face and forced himself to smile back at Pitt, a bare glimmer of triumph in his eyes for at least one snare avoided.
“Yes of course. I’m obliged. Now the paper, if you please? Just for my safeguard, you understand.”
“Oh I understand,” Pitt said viciously. “I understand perfectly. You’d better bring me a pen and paper.”
Caulfleld inclined his head. “Of course, right away, Officer.”
* * *
While Pitt was in Stepney struggling with the question of Urban and the Inner Circle, Charlotte sought for Fanny’s address and sent it to Emily so she might give it to Fitz. Then after a day spent in furious housework, baking bread and cakes more than anyone wanted, and ironing everything she could reach, laundered or not, she finally came to a decision the following morning. She confided to Gracie what she was going to do, and then set out in her best summer day dress and coat against a rising wind. She hired a hansom cab to take her to the magistrate’s court where Addison Carswell was accustomed to preside.