Traitors Gate tp-15

by Anne Perry

  Of course that was perfectly possible, but why should she do such a thing? If anyone had asked her to come secretly, without any of the servants seeing her, what explanation could they give for such an extraordinary request? Had it been Thorne, or Christabel, or both?

  If indeed they had anything to do with it, it seemed far more likely one of them had gone out and met her in the street and taken her to wherever she had been killed, then left and returned to the house through the side entrance.

  But looking at Christabel Thorne’s clear, wide eyes, full of intelligence, anger and grief, he could not imagine that she had taken part in anything so duplicitous.

  But then again, if she loved her husband, perhaps he had persuaded her it was necessary, either for some higher good politically or morally, or simply to save him from discovery and disgrace.

  “I really am sorry to be of so little assistance, Superintendent,” she said earnestly. They were in the study, where the doors led into the garden and he could see the flowering shrubs beyond her from where he sat. “Believe me,” she continued, “I have racked my brains to think of anything that could possibly be relevant. Mr. Kreisler was here, you know, and asked me all the same questions you are doing, and I could offer him nothing.”

  “Kreisler was here?” he said quickly.

  Her eyes widened.

  “You didn’t know? He seems most concerned to learn the truth. I confess, I had not realized he cared so much for Susannah.” Her expression was difficult to read; there was confusion, surprise, sadness, even a faint shred of wry, hurt amusement.

  Pitt had other thoughts on the subject. He was beginning to wonder which motives lay behind Kreisler’s enquiries. Was it a passion to avenge Susannah, either through assisting the police or privately? Or was it in order to learn how much they knew, so he might guard either himself or someone else? Or was it to lay false information, to mislead and even further confuse the search? The more he knew of Kreisler, the less certain he was about him.

  “No,” he said aloud. “I think there is a lot yet to be learned on that matter.”

  She looked at him with a sudden quickening of interest. “Do you suspect him, Superintendent?”

  “Of course, Mrs. Thorne.”

  There was a flash of humor across her face, this time undisguised. “Oh no,” she replied. “I am not going to give words to any speculation. You must imagine what you will. I enjoy trivial gossip, but I abhor it when it touches on things that matter.”

  “And Mr. Kreisler matters?”

  Her high eyebrows arched. “Not in the slightest, Superintendent. But accusations of complicity in murder matter very much.” Her face darkened. “And Susannah mattered, to me. I liked her profoundly. Friendship matters, almost as much as honor.”

  She had spoken with intense seriousness, and he answered her in equal vein.

  “And when the two conflict, Mrs. Thorne?”

  “Then you have one of life’s tragedies,” she replied without hesitation. “But fortunately I am not placed in that situation. I know nothing about Susannah to her dishonor. Or about Linus either, for that matter. He is a man of deep conviction, and he always openly and honestly proclaimed both his intent and the means by which he would bring it to pass.

  “And believe me, Superintendent, he has never entertained the slightest improper intentions towards another woman.” It was a simple and rather obvious statement, one any friend might make in the circumstances, and frequently did. Normally it sounded trite, it was merely an exercise in loyalty, but looking at Christabel’s face with its fierce intelligence and almost disdainful pride, he was unable to dismiss it so lightly. There was no sentimentality in her; it was not an emotional response, but one born of observation and belief.

  They were both oblivious of the quiet room or the sunlit garden beyond, even of the wind moving the leaves to cast the occasional shadows on the glass.

  “And Mr. Kreisler?” he asked.

  “I have no idea. A contentious man,” she said after a moment’s consideration. “I had thought him attracted to Miss Gunne, which would be most understandable. But certainly he pursued Susannah as well, and even with his undoubted arrogance, I doubt he can have deluded himself he could achieve anything of a romantic nature with her.”

  Pitt was less certain. No matter how much Susannah might still be in love with her husband, people were capable of all sorts of strange acts where passion, loneliness and physical need were concerned. And Susannah had certainly gone somewhere she preferred not to tell anyone about.

  “Then what?” he asked, watching her expression as she sought for an answer.

  The veil came down over her thoughts again. Her eyes were bright and direct, but no longer revealing anything unguarded of herself.

  “That is your profession to find out, Superintendent. I know nothing that would help you, or I should already have told it to you.”

  And Pitt learned nothing further from Thorne himself when he visited him at the Colonial Office. Garston Aylmer was more forthcoming.

  “Absolutely frightful,” he said with deep emotion when Pitt said that he was now here in connection with Susannah’s murder. “Quite the most personally shocking thing I have ever heard.” And indeed he looked very shaken. Seeing his pale face, slightly sunken eyes and yet the steadiness of his gaze when he met Pitt’s, it would be difficult to imagine it was assumed, or indeed that it had anything to do with guilt.

  “I knew her quite well, naturally,” Aylmer went on, his short thick fingers playing absently with a pencil on the desk in front of him. “One of the most charming of women, and with an unusual integrity.” He looked up gravely, the pencil frozen in mid-motion. “There was an inner honesty in her which was both very beautiful and at times quite disconcerting. I really am profoundly sorry she is gone, Superintendent.”

  Pitt believed him entirely, and felt naive even while he did so.

  “What do you know of the relationship between her and Mrs. Thorne?” Pitt asked.

  Aylmer smiled. “Ah-Christabel. A very rare type of lady … thank goodness! A couple of dozen of her, and London would be revolutionized and reformed to within an inch of its life.” He shrugged his heavy shoulders. “No, Superintendent, that is unfair. Christabel is charming at times, and always interesting. But women with quite such a driving force for good terrify me. It is a little like finding oneself accidentally in the path of a tornado.”

  “Tornados are destructive forces,” Pitt pointed out, looking clearly at Aylmer to see if he intended the analogy.

  “Only to one’s peace of mind.” Aylmer smiled ruefully. “At least as far as Christabel is concerned. She has a passion for educating women which is most disturbing. It genuinely frightens a great many people. And if you know her at all, you will know she does nothing in half measures.”

  “What is it she wishes to reform?”

  Aylmer spread his hands in a gesture of abandonment. “Just about everything. Attitudes, beliefs, the entire role of women in the world, which of course means of men as well.” He smiled. “Specifically? Improve radically the role of the odd women …”

  “The odd women?” Pitt was totally confused. “What odd women?”

  Aylmer’s smile grew broader. “All odd women. My dear fellow, odd women are all women who are not ’even,’ that is to say, married. The women, of whom there are a large and ever-increasing number who have no man to provide for them financially, make them socially respectable and give them something to do, namely to care for him and whatever children there may be.”

  “What on earth does she propose to do about it?”

  “Why, educate them! Have them join the professions, the arts, the sciences, anything they wish. The odd women, if that is where their abilities or their desires lead them. If Christabel succeeds, next time you call your dentist, your plumber, your banker or your architect, you may find it is a woman. Heaven help us when it is your doctor or your priest!”

  Pitt was dumbfounded.

&nbs
p; “Precisely,” Aylmer agreed. “Apart from women’s complete unsuitability both emotionally and intellectually-not to mention physically-for such tasks, that will throw thousands of men out of work. I told you, she is a revolutionary.”

  “And … people allow it?” Pitt was amazed.

  “No of course they don’t. But have you ever tried to stop a truly determined woman? Any woman, never mind Christabel Thorne?”

  Pitt thought of trying to stop Vespasia, and knew precisely what Aylmer meant.

  “I see,” he said aloud.

  “I doubt it.” Aylmer shook his head. “To see the full enormity of it, you would have to know Christabel. Incredible courage, you know. Doesn’t give a damn about the scandal.”

  “Was Mrs. Chancellor also involved?” Pitt asked.

  “Good gracious, what an appalling thought! I have no idea. I don’t think so. No … Susannah’s interests were all to do with her family, banking, investment, finances and so on. If she had any radical ideas, it was about that sort of thing. But she was far more conventional, thank God.” His brow darkened suddenly. “That is what she quarreled with Kreisler about, so far as I can recall. Curious man. He was here, you know, asking me questions about her. In fact, Superintendent, he was rather more pressing than you are!”

  Pitt sat a little farther upright. “About Mrs. Chancellor’s death?”

  “Yes. Yes, he seemed most concerned. I couldn’t tell him anything I haven’t told you … which is almost nothing at all. He also wanted to know about both Mr. and Mrs. Thorne.” He laughed a little self-consciously. “And about me. I am not sure if he suspected I might have some involvement, or if he was simply desperate enough to pursue anything at all.”

  Pitt was wondering the same thing, both about Aylmer and about Kreisler. This information that he had been to see Aylmer was most disquieting.

  He was further disturbed when he saw Ian Hathaway, ostensibly to ask if there had been any progress with the falsified figures, but also to see if he could learn anything more about either Mr. or Mrs. Thorne and their possible connection with Susannah or with Arthur Desmond.

  Hathaway looked puzzled. He sat in his quiet, discreet office with its slightly faded good taste and solidity.

  “No, Superintendent. That is what is so very curious, and, I admit, beyond me to understand. I would have called you this afternoon had you not come here to see me. We do have information from the German Embassy….”

  Pitt drew in his breath involuntarily, his heart beating a little faster, in spite of his effort to remain perfectly composed.

  Hathaway saw it and smiled, his small, clear blue eyes steady.

  “The message includes figures quite specifically, and this is what is incomprehensible. They are not any of those which I distributed, nor are they the genuine figures which I retained and passed to Lord Salisbury.”

  “What?” Pitt could scarcely believe what he had heard. It made no sense whatever. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Precisely,” Hathaway agreed. “I can see no sense in it at all. That is why I delayed contacting you.” He sat motionless. Even his hands on the desk were quite still. “I made doubly sure that I had received the message correctly. It was my first thought that somehow figures had been transposed or misunderstood; but it was not so. The message was clear and correct, the figures are quite different, and indeed if acted upon, seriously misleading. I have no desire whatever to disabuse the German Embassy of its error. I am also, at this stage, at a loss to understand what has happened. I did take the liberty of informing Lord Salisbury of the matter, to be sure he had the correct figures himself. I need hardly say that he has.”

  Pitt sat in silence, digesting what Hathaway had told him and trying to think of some explanation. None came to his mind.

  “We have failed, Superintendent, and I confess to total confusion,” Hathaway said ruefully, leaning back in his chair again and regarding Pitt steadily. “I am perfectly prepared to try again, if you think there is any purpose to it?”

  Pitt was more disappointed than he cared to admit. He had been counting on this producing some result, however small or difficult to follow. He had no idea where to turn next, and he dreaded confessing to Farnsworth that what had seemed such an excellent plan had failed so completely. He could already imagine his response, and the contempt with which it would be delivered.

  “About the death of Mrs. Chancellor,” Hathaway said quietly. “I fear I can be of little help there either. I wish I knew something of service to you. It seems such a pointless tragedy.” He looked totally sincere, a decent man expressing a profoundly felt regret for grief, and yet Pitt also sensed in him a reasoning in his brain that superseded emotion. Was he distinguishing between pointless tragedies and those which were necessary, and had meaning?

  “Did she ever mention Sir Arthur Desmond to you, Mr. Hathaway?” Pitt asked.

  Not a flicker crossed Hathaway’s face.

  “Sir Arthur Desmond?” he repeated.

  “Yes. He used to be at the Foreign Office. He died recently at his club.”

  “Yes, yes I know who you mean.” He relaxed so slightly it was barely noticeable, a mere shift of the muscles in his shoulders. “Most unfortunate. I suppose such things tend to happen from time to time, when a club’s membership is on the elderly side. No, I cannot recall her having mentioned him. Why? Surely he can have nothing whatever to do with this latest business? His death was a very ordinary sort of misfortune. I was at the club that afternoon myself, in the writing room with a business colleague.”

  He let out his breath in a very gentle sigh. “As I understood it from the newspapers, Mrs. Chancellor was attacked very violently, presumably while in her hansom cab, and then put in the river afterwards. Is that so?”

  “Yes, that is correct,” Pitt conceded. “It is simply that Sir Arthur was vehemently against the development of Central Africa as planned by Mr. Rhodes, and so is Mr. Kreisler, who …” He stopped. Hathaway’s face had changed noticeably.

  “Kreisler?” Hathaway said slowly, watching Pitt very closely. “He came to see me, you know? Also regarding Mrs. Chancellor’s death, although that was not the reason he gave. He concocted some story about mineral rights and leases and so on, but it was Mrs. Chancellor and her opinions which seemed to concern him. A most unusual man. A man of powerful passions and convictions.”

  He had a curious habit of stillness which conveyed an intense concentration. “I assume you have naturally considered him as a possible suspect, Superintendent? I don’t mean to tell you your business, but anyone who asks as many questions as to detail as does Mr. Kreisler has a far more than passing interest in the outcome.”

  “Yes, Mr. Hathaway, I have considered him,” Pitt replied with feeling. “And by no means discounted the possibility that they quarreled, either about Africa and Mr. Chancellor’s backing of Mr. Rhodes, or about something else, possibly more personal, and that that quarrel became a great deal more savage than either of them intended. I imagine Mr. Kreisler is well able both to attack and to defend himself as the situation may require. It is possible he may do either instinctively when aroused to uncontrolled rage, and far too late to realize he has committed murder.”

  Hathaway’s face pinched with distress and distaste.

  “What a very grave and uncivilized way to behave. Temper of such violence and complete lack of control is scarcely a characteristic of a human being, let alone a man of honor or intellect. What a dismal waste. I hope that you are not correct in your assumption, Superintendent. Kreisler has real possibilities for better ends than that.”

  They spoke a little further, but ten minutes later Pitt rose to leave, having learned nothing about Susannah Chancellor, and in a state of confusion about the information from the German Embassy.

  “And what has that to do with anything at all?”

  Charlotte was paying a duty call upon her grandmother, who, now that Charlotte’s mother was recently remarried (a fact which Grandmama disapproved of with
almost apoplectic fury), was obliged to live with Charlotte’s sister and her husband. Emily and Jack found this arrangement displeasing; the old lady was of an exceedingly difficult temperament. But she could no longer remain at Cater Street with Caroline and Joshua-in fact she had refused point-blank to do so, not that the opportunity had been offered. And there was certainly no room in Charlotte’s house, although in fact she had refused to consider that either. She would not dream of living in the house of a person of the police, even if he was recently promoted and now on the verge of respectability. That, when all was said and done, was only marginally better than being on the stage! Never in all the history of the Ellison family had anyone married an actor until Caroline had lost her wits and done so. But then of course she was an Ellison only by marriage. What poor Edward, Charlotte’s father, would have said could only be guessed at. It was a mercy he was in his grave.

  Charlotte had pointed out that were he not, the question of Caroline’s remarrying anyone would not have arisen. She was told curtly not to be impertinent.

  Now since Emily and Jack were on holiday in Italy, and Grandmama was thus alone, apart from the servants, Charlotte felt duty-bound to call upon her at least once a fortnight. She had kept a treat for herself after honor was satisfied. She was going out with Harriet Soames to visit the flower show.

  Grandmama was keen to hear all the gossip Charlotte could think of. In fact, with Caroline living in Cater Street and seldom calling (being newly married and much occupied with her husband), and Emily and Jack abroad, she was starved for something to talk about.

  Charlotte had idly mentioned Amanda Pennecuick and Garston Aylmer’s pursuit of her, and that Mr. Aylmer was unusually homely.

  “It has quite a lot to do with many things, if one is to consider marrying him,” Charlotte replied candidly. They were sitting in Emily’s large, airy, rather ornate withdrawing room. There were portraits of past Ashworths on all the walls and an Aubusson carpet specially woven for the room.