Anne Perry - [Thomas Pitt 23]

by Seven Dials

  “I am gratified,” she responded. “But it is incidental. I would like to do something far more practical, and of greater duration. Thomas has gone to Alexandria to see what he can learn of Ayesha Zakhari before she came here, and of Edwin Lovat—if there is anything to learn.” She saw him tense again. “Saville, are you afraid of the truth?”

  “No!” he said instantly, almost before she had let the last word drop.

  “Good!” she continued. “Then let us discuss this without games of words and evasions of what is less than pleasing. Where did you meet Miss Zakhari?”

  “What?” He was startled.

  “Saville!” she said impatiently. “You are a senior government minister in your middle fifties; she is an Egyptian woman of what . . . thirty-five? Your worlds do not meet, let alone cross. You are a Member of Parliament for Manchester, a cotton-spinning county. She is from a cotton-growing area of Egypt. Do not pretend to be a fool!”

  He sighed and ran his hand through his heavy hair. “Of course she sought me out because of the cotton,” he said wearily. “And of course she tried to persuade me to scale down the industry in Manchester and invest in Egypt’s spinning and weaving its own cotton. What would you expect of an Egyptian patriot?” Now his eyes were clear and challenging, as burningly dark as if he were Egyptian himself.

  She smiled. “I have no quarrel with patriots, Saville, or with their arguments to be fair to their own people. Were I in her place I hope I would have the passion and the courage to do the same. But no matter how good the cause, there are acts that may not justifiably be committed in its furtherance.”

  “She did not kill Lovat.” He made it a simple statement.

  “Do you believe that, or know it?” she asked.

  He met her eyes, calm and silver-gray, and his flickered first. “But I do believe it, Vespasia. She swore it to me, and if I doubt her then I doubt everything I love and treasure, and which makes life precious to me.”

  She drew in her breath to say something, then realized she had nothing that would help or answer his need. He was an ardent man who had denied his nature for a long time, and now he was deeply in love. The dam gates had burst. “Then who did?” she asked instead. “And why?”

  “I have no idea,” he admitted quietly. “But before you suggest it was done to involve me and bring me to disgrace and loss of office, that would hardly benefit the cotton industry in Egypt. Any minister following me would be less likely than I to be of help to them. No single man has the power to change an entire industry, whether he wishes to or not. Ayesha knows that now, even if she imagined in the beginning that she could persuade me to begin such a movement for reform.”

  “Then why was she still here in London?” Vespasia had no alternative but to be brutal if she was to serve any purpose at all beyond comfort that would last only as long as she was in the room, if that.

  “Because I wished her to be,” he answered. Then he went on tentatively, as if he was half afraid she would doubt him. “And I believe she loves me as much as I do her.”

  To her surprise, she did not doubt him, at least not that he spoke the truth of his own feelings. Whatever Ayesha felt she was less certain of, but looking at him where he sat opposite her, there was such intensity in him, such a power of conviction, an unwavering resolve, she would not find it hard to imagine a young woman discovering that barriers of age, culture and even religion might disappear. She also found herself believing that Ryerson would go all the way to trial, even to conviction, rather than betray his mistress. He was a man of absolutes, he had been for as long as she had known him, and time had deepened his character rather than mellowed it. He was wiser, more mature in judgment and temper than in his youth, but in the last analysis his heart would always rule his head. He was the stuff of crusaders, and of martyrs.

  What would Pitt find in Alexandria? Probably not a great deal. It was a city where he knew no one, where even the language was strange to him, the beliefs, the long, intertwining connections of who knew whom, of debts and hatreds, relationships and money and faith. Unless either the woman or Lovat himself had been remarkably careless, there would be little to find for a foreign policeman who was not even certain what he was looking for.

  Which raised the question in her mind, why had Victor Narraway sent him at all? Was the purpose that Pitt should be in Alexandria? Or that he should not be in London?

  She remained with Ryerson another quarter of an hour, but she learned nothing further that was of use. She did not lie by offering him encouragement, she merely asked if there was anything she could send to him to help his discomfort.

  “No, thank you,” he said instantly. “I have all I need. But . . . but I would value it above anything else if you would arrange a few comforts for Ayesha. See at least that she has clean linen . . . toiletries . . . I . . . another woman would have . . .”

  “Of course,” she responded before he could finish. “I doubt they will permit me to see her, but I shall arrange for such things to be delivered. I can imagine what I would wish myself, and see that it is done.”

  His face flooded with gratitude. “Thank you . . .” His voice caught with emotion. “I am profoundly . . .”

  “Please!” she dismissed it. “It is a small thing.” She was already on her feet. “I hear them returning for me.” She met his eyes. She wanted to add something else, but the words died. She smiled, and turned to go.

  IT TOOK HER another day and exhaustive enquiry, again a matter of discreetly seeking the return of past favors, a little flattery and a great deal of charm, before she learned where she could find Victor Narraway, and contrive to run into him. It was a reception to which she had been invited, and had declined. It was an awkwardness she loathed to have now to invent an excuse, and beg to accept instead.

  Because her acceptance had been most uncomfortable she felt she had the choice either of dressing in excellent but subdued taste, something conservative in a soft color, or of being as bold and outrageous as possible, defying anyone to comment on her change of mind. She might speak with Narraway with less remark or interruption were she to choose the former, but no matter what she wore, she was not an unremarkable figure. She chose the latter, and had her maid take out a gown she had ordered in a moment of extraordinary confidence, a deep indigo silk of so fine a texture it seemed to float. The low neck and the waist were embroidered with silver thread and pearls in a rich, medieval design.

  Standing in front of the glass, she was startled by the gown’s drama. She usually chose the aristocracy of understatement, neutral shaded satins and laces, subtle with her silver hair and clear eyes. But this was magnificent, arresting in its simplicity of line, and the somber color was like a whisper of the night itself, elemental and mysterious.

  She arrived late at the reception, causing a very considerable stir. It was not her habit to be so obvious. The lateness was her fault rather than her intention. She had left herself little time for the journey, not wanting to be early, and directed her coachman to take a route around the park, which had unfortunately been blocked by a traffic accident—a coach wheel came off, or something of the sort—and they ended arriving late.

  She walked into the room alone, and there was a momentary hush. Several people, most of them men, quite openly stared. She had an instant of wondering if she had made a misjudgment, and the gown was wrong after all. She had no jewelry but pearl earrings. Maybe she was too pale, too bleached of her own color for such a depth of tone?

  She saw the Prince of Wales, his blue eyes widening with amazement and then appreciation. Beside him a younger man, whom she did not know, cleared his throat, but continued staring at her.

  She was greeted by her host, and within five more minutes found herself presented to the Prince. Apparently he had desired to speak to her. They had known each other for years, but it was still a highly formal occasion. One did not presume.

  It was over an hour before she managed to find Victor Narraway and converse with him without bei
ng overheard.

  “Good evening, Victor.” She set the tone as she intended to continue it. She did not know him well, but she was quite aware of who he was, and of the regard in which he was held in the highest political circles, both his virtues and his shortcomings. But he was an intensely private man, and of his true self she knew very little. He mattered to her because of Ryerson, and she acknowledged to herself now, even more so because much of Thomas Pitt’s future lay in his hands.

  “Good evening, Lady Vespasia,” he replied, a shadow of amusement in his dark eyes, but also a wariness. He was far too sophisticated to imagine she had found him more or less alone purely by chance.

  There was no time to waste, they would be joined within minutes. “I visited Saville Ryerson yesterday,” she told him, and saw no change of expression in his face. “He is going to tell you nothing, in part because I think he knows nothing. It makes no sense that the woman intended to ruin him and hope for someone in his place who would be more favorable to Egyptian financial independence. No such person exists, and she must have been as aware of that as we are.”

  “Of course,” he agreed. If he was curious as to what she wanted of him, he was not going to allow her to see it. He remained politely interested, as a dutiful man towards an older woman of rank, but no importance.

  It irritated her. “Victor, do not treat me like a fool!” she said, her voice low but her diction so crystal clear as to be cutting. “I know that you have sent Thomas to Alexandria. What on earth for? The first answer that comes to my mind is in order to keep him out of London.” She was satisfied to see him stiffen so imperceptibly that she could not have told which muscle had moved, only that the tension in his body had increased.

  “Lovat and the Zakhari woman knew each other in Alexandria,” he replied. His words were innocent but his eyes held hers, probing, trying to feel for what she sought from him. “It would be remiss not at least to make enquiries.”

  “To find what?” She raised her eyebrows slightly. “That they had a love affair? One takes that for granted. Ryerson loves her, and I imagine he does not wish to know of her past admirers, but he is not naÏve enough to imagine there were none.”

  She stopped speaking as a small, thin woman in peach-colored silk moved past them, clinging to the arm of a gentleman with receding hair.

  Narraway smiled to himself, his composure perfect.

  Vespasia wished she knew him better. She was aware, with amusement at herself, that were she younger she would have found him attractive. His inaccessibility was in itself a challenge. There was emotion behind the cool intelligence, of what nature she did not know. Was there moral or spiritual courage? The answer mattered, because of his power over Pitt.

  “If you are considering the possibility that there was some scandal over which Lovat could have blackmailed her,” she went on when they were alone again, “then you could have written a letter to the British authorities in Alexandria and asked them. They would be in a position to find out for you and advise accordingly. They will speak the language, know the city and its inhabitants, and have contacts with the kind of people who inform of such things.”

  He drew his breath in as if to argue with her, then looked more clearly into her eyes, and changed his mind. “Perhaps,” he conceded. “But they will answer only what I ask them, whereas Pitt may find other things, answers to questions I have not thought of.”

  “Ah . . .” She believed him, at least as far as he had spoken. There was far more that he was not saying, but had she been able to draw from him anything he did not wish to tell her, then that would have meant that he was inadequate to his job, which thought would wake in her a real fear, deep and abiding.

  He smiled very slowly. It had a charm that surprised her. For the first time she wondered if he had ever loved anyone sufficiently profound to disturb that thick layer of self-protection around him, and if so, what kind of woman she had been.

  “And of course you are looking into Ryerson, and Lovat’s other associates here yourself, or have someone else doing so,” she stated. “One wonders whether that other person is more able to enquire into London than Thomas would be . . . or less able in Alexandria.” She did not make it a question because she knew he would not answer.

  His smile stayed perfectly steady, but the tension in him increased yet again, perhaps only in the totality of his stillness. “It is a delicate matter,” he said so quietly that she barely heard him. “And I agree with you entirely, judging by what we know now, that it makes no sense. Lovat was nobody. Ayesha Zakhari may be vulnerable to blackmail, but I doubt profoundly that anything a man like Lovat could tell Ryerson would affect his feelings for her. It would be infinitely more likely to end in Lovat’s being charged, or more simply dismissed from his position in the diplomatic service, and unable to find a new posting anywhere at all. He would probably be blackballed from his clubs as well. He had already contrived to make himself more than sufficient enemies. Also, Miss Zakhari’s patriotism is easily understandable, but imagining that she could affect British policy in Egypt shows a naÏveté which an intelligent woman could hardly have sustained for long, once she was here in London.”

  “Exactly,” she agreed, watching every shadow in his face.

  “Therefore . . .” he said somberly and in little more than a whisper, more like the sighing of a breath, “I am obliged to consider what profound thing it is, worth committing murder and going to the gallows for, that we have not yet considered.”

  Vespasia did not answer. She had been trying to avoid the thought, but now it was dark and inevitable on the horizon of her mind as it was of Victor Narraway’s.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  PITT WAS GAINING an increasingly clearer picture of Ayesha Zakhari and the people and political issues which had driven her. But as he stood at the window of his hotel room gazing at the wide, balmy night, the smell of spices and salt thick in the air, it was with a start of amazement that he realized he had never seen a picture of her. She would be dark, naturally, and he had assumed that she was beautiful, because he had taken it for granted that that was her stock-in-trade. But as he faced out towards the sea, the vines stirring very gently in the breeze, and stared up at the vast bowl of the sky, pale with stars, he thought of her differently. She had become a person of intelligence and strength of will, someone who fought for beliefs with which he could very easily sympathize. If it were England and not Egypt which was occupied, almost governed, by a nation foreign not only in language and look, but in faith and heritage as well, a comparatively new nation that had been civilized—building, writing, dreaming—when his own people still were savages, how would he have felt?

  He heard the sound of laughter in the wind, a man’s voice and then a woman’s, and a stringed instrument, full of curious half tones. He took off his jacket; even at this hour the air was so warm, the cotton of his shirt was more than sufficient. He had worn it for dinner as a formality.

  He gazed around, trying to imprint it all on his mind so he could tell Charlotte about it, the sounds that were so unlike England, the close, comfortable feel of the air on the skin, almost clammy, the heaviness of smell, sweet, close to stagnant at times, and of course always the flies. There was no cutting edge to the wind. It was languorous, hiding danger in ease, resentment behind smiling faces.

  He thought of the wave after wave of peoples over the centuries who had come here as soldiers, religious conquerors, explorers, merchants, or settlers, each absorbed by the city, staying here and changing its nature.

  Now it was the time of his own people, the English, unalterably foreign with their pale skins and Anglo-Saxon voices, their stiff backs and unshakable ideas of right and wrong. It was at once admirable and absurd. And above all it was monumentally inappropriate. This was an Egyptian city and they had no right here, except as they were invited.

  He thought about Trenchard and his obvious love of the land and its people. Later, after their shopping, he had spoken a little
of his life here. Apparently he had no close family in England anymore, and the woman he had loved, although not married, was Egyptian. He had spoken of her only briefly. She had been Muslim—in fact, the daughter of an imam, one of their holy men. She had died less than a year ago, in an accident that Trenchard had been unwilling to speak of, and naturally Pitt had not pressed him.

  It was in some turmoil of emotions that he stood now, not yet ready to go to bed because he knew sleep would elude him. He could understand Ayesha so easily, the patriotism, the outrage at the way her people were robbed, the poverty and the unnecessary ignorance, and then in London with Ryerson, the torn loyalties.

  But had it led her to murder? He still had not escaped the driving conclusion that it had. If not she, then who else?

  In the morning he would continue learning what he could about Edwin Lovat. There must still be people here who had knowledge of him that would be more vibrant, more detailed and perhaps more honest than mere written records.

  He turned away from the window and prepared to go to bed.

  IT DID NOT take him long to discover exactly where Lovat had spent most of his time, and he was on his way there when he passed through the carpet bazaar. It was a baked-mud street perhaps forty feet wide, or more, and roofed over, three stories high, with vast wooden beams stretching from one side to the other and loosely filled over with more timber so the roof cast a barred and dappled shade on the ground. Everywhere there were awnings, over doorways, from windows, from poles like those set horizontally for flags.

  Scores of people, almost entirely men, sat around with bales of cloth, rolled-up carpets, brassware, and magnificent hookah pipes emanating lazy smoke. There were many reds—scarlet, carmine, crimson, terra-cotta—and creams, warm earth shades, and black. Noise and color pressed in on every side in the heat.