Anne Perry - [Thomas Pitt 23]

by Seven Dials

  And if Suez fell, the repercussions of it would touch every life in Britain.

  But it was still wrong to sacrifice an innocent man to the rope. If he was innocent? Aunt Vespasia wanted to believe he was, but that did not make it so. Even she could be mistaken. People did things that seemed unimaginable to others when they were in love.

  Narraway stopped on the footpath, facing Pitt. “Garrick is safe enough for the foreseeable future, whatever that is. I’m less happy about Sandeman, but I think if he understands the dangers he will keep silent. If he wanted to be a martyr to soothe his own conscience, he would have done it before now. Staying in Seven Dials matters to him. It is his way of answering for his soul. I believe he will die before he will sacrifice that. And Yeats and Lovat are dead.”

  “Is it Ayesha?” Pitt said almost hesitantly. “For vengeance?”

  “Probably,” Narraway replied. “And God help me, I can’t blame her . . . except for drawing Ryerson in. And perhaps she couldn’t help that. It was chance that brought him there that night, exactly as she was disposing of the body. She couldn’t have been sure he would help rather than calling the police—as, if he had an ounce of self-preservation, he would have.”

  “Why did she wait for fifteen years?” Charlotte interrupted. “If some of my family had been killed like that, I wouldn’t.”

  Narraway looked at her with curiosity turning to interest. “Neither would I,” he said with feeling. “Something must have made it impossible before—a lack of knowledge? Of help? Power? Assistance from someone, their belief, money?” He looked from one to the other of them for an answer. “What would make you wait, Mrs. Pitt?”

  She thought only for a moment. A brewer’s dray with six gray horses rumbled past, their huge feet heavy on the cobbles, manes tossing, brasses bright. “Not knowing about it,” she said first. “Either not knowing it happened, or that my family was involved, or not knowing who did it or where to find them. Some situation that I couldn’t leave—”

  “What situation?” Narraway interrupted.

  “Illness,” she said. “Someone I had to nurse, a child or a parent? Or someone I had to protect, who might be hurt if I acted? Somebody implicated, maybe? A hostage to fortune of some kind.”

  He nodded slowly, and turned to Pitt, his eyebrows raised.

  “Only not knowing,” Pitt replied, and as he said it something tingled in his memory. “I knew of the fire, but the people I spoke to believed it was an accident, at least that is what they said. How did Ayesha learn that it wasn’t?”

  Narraway’s face set hard. “That’s a very good question, Pitt, and one to which I would like the answer, but unfortunately I have no idea where to begin looking. There is a great deal about this I would like to know. For example, is Ayesha Zakhari the prime mover, or is she acting with or for someone else? Who else knows about the massacre, and why did they not expose it in Egypt? Why wait, and why in London?” His voice dropped a little and became tight and hard with emotion he barely kept in control. “And above all, is personal revenge all they want, or is this just the beginning?”

  Neither Pitt nor Charlotte answered him. The question was too big, the answer too terrible.

  Pitt put his arm around Charlotte’s shoulders, almost without thinking, and drew her closer to him, but there was nothing to say.

  CHAPTER

  TWELVE

  VESPASIA WAS IN the withdrawing room, arranging white chrysanthemums and copper beech leaves floating in a flat Lalique dish, when she heard angry voices raised in the hall. She turned in surprise just as the door flew open and Ferdinand Garrick pushed past the maid and stood on the edge of the Aubusson carpet, his face suffused with anger and something close to despair.

  “Good morning, Ferdinand,” she said coolly, indicating with a slight nod that the maid might leave. She would have put an edge of ice to it sufficient to stop the Prince of Wales in his tracks but for the reality of the emotion she recognized in him. It overrode all consideration of personal manners, even the deepening dislike she felt for him. “I gather that something is seriously wrong, and you believe that I may assist you.”

  He was taken aback. He was quite aware of his almost unpardonable rudeness, and now that he thought of it, he had expected to meet with outraged dignity rather than any form of understanding. It robbed him momentarily of his assurance. He stood still, breathing hard. Even from across the space of the room she could see his chest rise and fall.

  She broke off the last two flower stalks and floated the heads in the fan of leaves, then set the bowl on the low table. It was exquisite, as beautiful as when she did it with bloodred peonies in the summer.

  “Tell me what it is that has happened,” she directed. “If you would care for tea I shall send for it, but perhaps it would only be an encumbrance now?”

  He jerked his hand, dismissing the idea. “My son is in desperate danger from the same people who murdered young Lovat, and now your idiot policeman has kidnapped him and removed him from the only place where he was safe!” he accused, his eyes burning. His voice shook when he went on, and he was struggling to get his breath. “For God’s sake, tell them to leave it alone! They have no idea what they’re meddling with! The disaster will be . . .” The enormity of it defied his ability to describe, and he stared at her in helpless fury.

  She could see that there was little purpose in attempting to reason with him; he felt too much panic rising towards a breaking point to listen to anything that seemed like argument.

  “If it was indeed Pitt who removed your son, then we had better inform him of the danger,” she replied calmly. “At this hour in the morning I doubt if Pitt will be at home, but I may be able to find him. If I do, I shall have to tell him specifically what the danger is in order for him to guard Stephen against it.”

  “The man’s a fool!” Garrick’s voice rose, quivering near to breaking. “He’s gone blundering in where he doesn’t understand a damn thing, and he could set a whole continent ablaze!”

  Vespasia was startled. Garrick’s words were wild, but in spite of her dislike of his self-righteous, rigid beliefs, he had been an excellent soldier. He had not the imagination to be hysterical.

  “Ferdinand, please calm yourself sufficiently to inform me what I must say to him,” she said firmly. “I cannot give him orders, I must persuade him. Where was Stephen, and when did you learn that he had been taken, and by Pitt?”

  Garrick made a tremendous effort to master the panic inside himself, but still his voice cracked with emotion.

  “The people who killed Lovat will stop at nothing whatever to kill Stephen also, and Sandeman if they can find him. Stephen knew it!” His face was pink, the embarrassment painful to see, nevertheless he continued with some semblance of control. “He was . . . not well . . .”

  She allowed the euphemism to pass. She knew what outward form his son’s illness had taken, but it was the cause of it that mattered now, so she did not interrupt.

  “He had episodes of delirium,” he continued more steadily. “I had him put in a hospital . . .” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “The Bethlehem Lunatic Hospital.”

  Vespasia was well aware of the reputation of Bedlam; it needed no words of his to expand the horror of it. That he would place his son in such a man-made hell said more than anything else could have to show her his fear.

  “And Pitt found him there and removed him?” she said with only the very slightest lift of question. “Do you not think that perhaps it was Martin Garvie he went seeking? You did send the valet as well, did you not?”

  His face was slack for a moment with surprise, then the look vanished. “It seems you know even more about it than I had supposed. Yes, I imagine Garvie might be more within his circle of—” He stopped, aware suddenly that he was running a great risk of antagonizing her, and he could not afford it. “Find him!” he said desperately. “Please?”

  She looked at his anguished face. “And what is it I should tell Pitt, or whoever is concerned
?” she asked. “What is the danger that you fear, Ferdinand?” She moved across to the sofa as she spoke, and gestured for him to be seated, but he remained unyielding on his feet.

  “Give him back to me, and I’ll take care of it,” he said between his teeth.

  She sat down. “I think if they wanted him so little that they would be prepared to give him back simply because I asked it, then they would not have gone to the trouble of taking him in the first place,” she said reasonably. “Is it not time to deal with rather more reality?”

  He started to speak, and then stopped.

  She waited. She would not ask again. He knew the facts. Stephen was his son.

  He lowered his eyes. “He has knowledge which I believe certain people will kill him to obtain,” he said.

  It was an oblique answer, less than the truth. However, it served the purpose, and she knew he would not give her more unless forced to. She would leave that to Victor Narraway, and she had already made up her mind that it was he to whom she would go.

  “I shall inform them of that,” she promised.

  Something in him eased a fraction, but now that victory was achieved, he moved from foot to foot in impatience for her to proceed.

  She regarded him coldly. “I have no intention of permitting you to accompany me, Ferdinand. You have told me all I require. As you have made clear, time is of importance. Good morning.”

  “Thank you,” he said stiffly. His expression was one of relief, gratitude, and almost disappointment, now that there was nothing more for him to do in his own cause. He hated dependence of any sort whatever, and upon a woman most of all. “Yes . . . I am obliged. Good day to you. I . . .”

  “I shall inform you of the outcome,” she replied coldly. “Should you not be at home, I shall leave a message with your butler.”

  “I shall be at home.”

  She inclined her head in the faintest acknowledgment.

  He colored deeply, but he offered no further argument. She rose to her feet to permit him to take his leave without seeming rude.

  Again, Vespasia used her telephone. It was an instrument she had been quick to adopt, and she was impatient with those who resisted its speed and convenience.

  She was certain that Victor Narraway was again attending the trial of Ryerson and the Egyptian woman, and that court would adjourn for luncheon at one. That gave her an hour to be there, and convey to him that she wished to see him urgently.

  As it was, they met on the steps as she was arriving. He came towards her with his customary elegance and an outward appearance of ease, but even before he spoke she saw in the shadows of his face, the tension within him, that he was profoundly worried, perhaps even afraid.

  “Good afternoon, Lady Vespasia,” he said quietly.

  “Good afternoon, Victor. I am sorry to call you away from the business of the court, but Ferdinand Garrick came to me in profound distress this morning.” She ignored his surprise. There was no time for the explanation of courtesy. “He is aware that Pitt has found Stephen Garrick in Bedlam, and removed him. I believe he would not have done that without your approval, and possibly your assistance.”

  He offered her his arm and she took it. Obviously he wished to move away from the steps, where they might be overheard.

  “Actually, it was Garvie we were more interested in—to begin with,” he told her.

  “Yes, I am aware of Charlotte’s concern for him; you do not need to explain that to me.”

  The shadow of a smile touched his lips and then disappeared. “It was Mrs. Pitt who learned where Garvie was,” he said wryly. “From a priest in Seven Dials.” They were walking along the footpath side by side, away from the Old Bailey down to Ludgate Hill, then east towards the vast shadow of St. Paul’s, its dome dark against a bright, windy sky.

  “That sounds like Charlotte,” she responded.

  He drew in breath as if to say something, then the thought vanished and another, far darker, took its place.

  “There was an atrocity in Egypt,” he said so quietly she could barely hear him. “Twelve years ago. Lovat, Garrick, Sandeman, and a man named Yeats were involved. Ferdinand Garrick concealed it then. If it is exposed now, to anyone at all, it could set Egypt ablaze, and cost us Suez. There are men who will kill to keep it silent.”

  “I see.” She drew in a long, shaky breath. The thought did not surprise her. Money, power and passionate loyalties were involved. “Do I assume that Lovat was murdered in revenge for this?”

  “It looks like it. God help them . . . who wouldn’t? But I shall protect Stephen Garrick as long as it is necessary, and you may tell his father so. I have as much interest in keeping him safe from his enemies as he has. Please say no more. I don’t know yet who is playing in this, or on which side. I would save Ryerson if I could, but it is beyond my ability now.”

  She hesitated only momentarily. “May I visit him, to offer the services of a friend?” she asked.

  “I will arrange it this evening,” he promised. “You should say all you wish to him then. Once the jury is in, I . . . I believe you may have no further opportunity.”

  She found without warning her voice was trembling. “I see. Thank you.”

  “Lady Vespasia!” He did not risk the impertinence of using her name without her title.

  “Yes?” She had her composure again.

  “I am truly sorry.” The pain in his face was momentarily naked. She did not know why Ryerson’s conviction should hurt him so much, or even whether he believed him guilty of more than foolishness, but she was certain beyond any hesitation at all that the emotion was deep and private, part of the man, not the calling.

  She stood still, facing him on the quiet footpath in the shadow of St. Paul’s. “There are some things we cannot do,” she said softly. “No matter how intensely we desire it.”

  He was self-conscious, something she had never seen in him before.

  “Come to the Newgate entrance at eight,” he said, then he turned and went back into the courtroom.

  EVEN NARRAWAY COULD CONTRIVE only a very brief visit for Vespasia. She had expected Ryerson to show signs of the strain he must be feeling, but in spite of her mental preparation for it, she was shocked when she saw him. She remembered him as a big man. The sense of his physical power had always been overwhelming, the most remarkable thing about him, more than the character in his face or the intelligence or the charm.

  Now as he stood up at her entrance into the cell, he looked drained. His skin was pale and had a peculiar dry, papery look, and although he wore the same clothes she had seen him in last time, today they seemed too big for him.

  “Vespasia . . . how good of you to come,” he responded huskily, holding out one hand to greet her, then withdrawing it the moment before he touched her, as if suddenly conscious that she might not wish it.

  She was stabbed by the terrible thought that the change in him was because he no longer believed in Ayesha Zakhari’s innocence. He did not look like a martyr to a cause, more like a man whose dreams have been broken.

  She forced herself to smile very slightly, just a warmth to her face.

  “My dear Saville,” she responded, “I shall owe favors to no end of people for the privilege.” It was not true, but she knew that just for an instant it would make him feel better. “And I have only a few minutes before some miserable man, tied to his duty, will return to fetch me,” she continued. “It occurred to me that there might be some service I could perform for you that perhaps you had not been able to ask of anyone else. If there is, then please tell me now, in case we do not have another opportunity to speak alone.” It was a brutal truth, but there was no more time left for skirting around it. This was the time, here, this evening.

  He controlled himself with a magnificent effort, and replied to her with total calm. Certain bequests to staff who had served him well were already attended to, but there were personal thanks he would like to have given, and an apology here or there. It was the latter which weighed u
pon him most heavily, and he was grateful to have her promise to do those things, should it prove necessary. He knew that she would do it graciously, with both the candor and the humility he wished.

  The guard returned. She told him icily to wait, but he did so standing at the door.

  “Is there anything else you need?” she asked Ryerson. “Anything personal that I may bring for you?”

  The ghost of a smile flashed on his face, and vanished. “No, thank you. My valet has done that for me every day. I am so . . .”

  She held up her hand to silence him. “I know,” she said quickly. She looked at the guard and permitted him to hold the door open for her. “Good-bye, Saville, at least for the moment.” She went out without looking back. She heard the sound of steel on steel as the door closed and the heavy tumblers of the lock fell into place.

  She was crossing the entrance on her way to the outside doors when she saw a discreetly clad dark-skinned man walk almost silently past her in the opposite direction, his eyes averted. He was holding a small, soft-sided bag in his hand. Presumably, this was Ayesha Zakhari’s house servant, taking her clean linen and whatever else she required. He was so self-effacing as to have mastered the art of being almost invisible, and she would not have recognized him were she to see him again in different clothes. She was forcibly reminded that he belonged to a very different culture. Then she realized with a sense of amazement that she had not actually seen Ayesha Zakhari, as far as she could recall. Surely if she had met her anywhere, she would have remembered?

  And yet she was the center of this storm which was going to destroy Ryerson, and possibly Stephen Garrick as well.