Seven Dials

by Anne Perry

  “Inside!” he said abruptly.

  The wind was cold and there was a fine rain behind it. Narraway’s face hardened. “This had better be important, Pitt,” he said, now that his initial shock was controlled and the steel was back in his eyes.

  “It is,” Pitt answered between his teeth. Perhaps he would have been wiser to say it all out there on the doorstep. He knew it, even as he followed Narraway in and heard the door close. Narraway led the way across the hall into his study and swung around.

  “Well?” he demanded. “You have ten minutes. After that I am leaving whether you are finished or not. The trial resumes at ten. I mean to be there.” In the morning light through the large window, his face was ashen, the fine lines of strain and too little sleep marked harshly in the skin around his eyes and mouth.

  “But the special new witness is dead,” Pitt replied. “There’ll be no revelations about Ayesha Zakhari’s motive now. El Abd’s suicide is almost as good as a confession.”

  “Almost,” Narraway agreed tersely. “I still need to see the acquittal. What is it you want, Pitt?”

  “Why do you suppose el Abd killed himself?” Pitt asked. He wished he were anywhere but here, doing anything but this. “He was on the brink of success.”

  “We knew he was guilty,” Narraway said, but there was a fractional hesitation in his voice; perhaps no one but Pitt would have heard it.

  Pitt stared at him. “And he was afraid? Suddenly? Afraid of what? That we would arrest him on the way into court and stop him from testifying?”

  Narraway breathed in and out very slowly. “What are you saying, Pitt? There is no time for games.”

  If he did not say it now then the moment would be past, and he would live with the doubt forever.

  “Convenient for us,” he answered. “In fact, it has probably saved Suez.” He held Narraway’s gaze without blinking.

  Narraway was very pale. “Probably,” he agreed. Again there was the shadow across his face.

  “Why would el Abd do that?” Pitt asked.

  “I don’t know. It makes no sense,” Narraway admitted, still standing motionless in the middle of the floor.

  “If I had …” Pitt said. “Or you …”

  At last Narraway understood. The last vestige of blood drained from his face, leaving his skin like gray paper. “God Almighty! You think I killed el Abd!”

  “Did you?”

  “No,” Narraway said quickly. “No, I didn’t.” He did not ask if Pitt had; he already knew the answer. He also knew that Pitt’s question was genuine, and that it hurt him to ask. It was the doubt twisting inside him that drove him to speak. “Was he murdered?”

  “Are you certain he was murdered?”

  “Not beyond doubt. But I believe he was,” Pitt replied. “It was done well, with great skill. Impossible to tell if the injuries were just before death or just after … a deliberate blow or accidental as he fell, or even from a passing ship. We’ll prove nothing.”

  The shadow was there in Narraway’s face again. “Who would kill him, and why?”

  “Someone who knew of the massacre,” Pitt replied. “And who would do anything, even commit murder and allow Ryerson to hang for it, rather than see the truth exposed, and face what it will cost.”

  Narraway was truly astounded. “Is that what you think?” he said, his voice cracking with incredulity. “That I want Ryerson to hang?”

  “No, I don’t think you do,” Pitt said honestly. “I think you hate it. I think the guilt tortures you, but you’ll let him hang rather than expose the massacre and lose Egypt.”

  Narraway did not reply. The silence hung in the air like a gulf of darkness between them.

  “Don’t use my few minutes left for this,” Pitt said, not moving from his position blocking the doorway. He did not intend a physical threat; in fact, he was not even sure if he could provide one. Narraway was lighter and shorter, but he was lean and possibly he was trained in ways that Pitt had not even thought of. He might even be armed.

  Nevertheless, Pitt did not intend to move until he received an answer. It was emotion that held him, not reason. He had not thought what he would do if Narraway had confessed to having killed el Abd.

  The clouds cleared and for a moment sunlight dappled the floor.

  “It has nothing to do with Egypt, or Lovat’s murder, or the massacre,” Narraway said at last, his voice low and a little husky.

  Pitt waited.

  “Damn it, Pitt! It’s none of your business!” Narraway exploded. “It happened years ago … I … I just …” He stopped again.

  Pitt did not move.

  “Twenty years ago,” Narraway began again, “I was working on the Irish Problem. I knew there was an uprising planned—violence, assassinations …”

  Pitt was suddenly cold.

  “I needed to know what was going on,” Narraway said, his eyes unflinching but hot with misery. “I had an affair with Ryerson’s wife.” His voice shook. “It was my fault she was shot.”

  So it was guilt, just not for Lovat or Ayesha or anything that was happening now. Without even thinking about it, Pitt realized that he believed him.

  Narraway waited, still watching Pitt’s face. He would not ask.

  Very slowly Pitt nodded. He understood. More than that, he realized with amazement something that would probably never be said, never even be referred to again—Narraway cared what he thought.

  “Are we going to court?” Narraway snapped. He had seen the belief in Pitt’s face, and it was enough. Now the agony of tension was gone and he wanted the moment broken. He had a debt to pay and he was burning to be about it.

  “Yes,” Pitt agreed, turning back to the door and leading the way out again without looking to see Narraway following.

  THE OLD BAILEY COURTROOM was less than full. These last few days were something of an anticlimax. The newspapers had reported the death of Tariq el Abd, but only as an unknown foreigner who had apparently committed suicide. No connection was made with the Ryerson case, the verdict of which was now taken for granted, although it was not expected until tomorrow. The defense counsel was obliged to make some attempt at explanation, reasonable doubt, anything to appear to have done his best.

  Narraway and Pitt entered the courtroom just as Sir Anthony Markham, counsel for the defense, was rising to his feet to begin.

  The judge looked at Narraway with annoyance at the interruption. He had no idea who he was, simply someone with the ill manners to arrive late, and conspicuously.

  Pitt hesitated. Markham obviously knew Narraway, but there was no interest in his face, rather the opposite. He shook his head very slightly and turned back to the judge.

  Narraway stopped. Did Markham know about el Abd or not? Surely if he did not, he would be desperate for any defense at all. Then he realized with dismay that he was not certain whether el Abd had been a prosecution witness, to seal the case absolutely with a perfect motive, or a defense witness, to offer some mitigation for the crime?

  Or was the surprise witness not el Abd, but someone else? It came back to the same question, to which they still had no answer at all—who was the prime mover behind Lovat’s murder, the man who wished to bring down Suez and the eastern half of the empire? And was one of the two lawyers here in his pay?

  Who had murdered el Abd, and why?

  The courtroom was motionless. Pitt looked around. The public gallery was about three-quarters full. He saw Vespasia, the light on her pale face and catching the silver of her hair. She was wearing a very small, discreet hat today, possibly in consideration for those whose view she might block. In the row behind her was Ferdinand Garrick, his face rigid, eyes forward in a wide, fixed stare, almost as if he were mesmerized by what was about to play itself out on the courtroom floor below him.

  The jury sat waiting, sad and no longer really interested. They listened and watched because it was their duty.

  Narraway continued towards Markham and stopped at his side, Pitt a step behind hi
m.

  “The body under the bridge was Tariq el Abd,” Narraway said in so low a voice that Pitt caught only every other word. “It was he who killed Lovat. Miss Zakhari admitted it, and it makes perfect sense of the evidence.”

  Markham stood motionless. “How convenient for Miss Zakhari … and of course for Mr. Ryerson,” he replied with a glint of sarcasm. “Why did this Egyptian manservant kill Lieutenant Lovat? Do you know that as well?”

  “No, I don’t, and it doesn’t matter.” Narraway’s voice was cold. “Perhaps Lovat misused his daughter, or his sister, or even his wife, for all I know. Just get on with it! Call the river police. Then Pitt will identify the dead man for you.”

  Markham glanced at Pitt.

  Pitt nodded.

  Markham’s face was set hard. He disliked being told what to do, by anyone.

  “Do you intend to proceed, Sir Anthony?” the judge enquired with a touch of irritation.

  Markham looked up, as if already dismissing Narraway.

  “Yes, my lord. I have just learned of some very remarkable events which shed a totally different light on Lieutenant Lovat’s death. With your permission, I would like to call Thomas Pitt to the stand.”

  “This had better be relevant, Sir Anthony,” the judge said warily. “I will not have theatrics in my court.”

  “The evidence will be dramatic, my lord,” Markham replied coldly. “But it will not be theatrical.”

  “Then proceed with it!” the judge snapped.

  “I call Thomas Pitt!” Markham said loudly.

  Narraway looked very briefly at Pitt, then turned on his heel and walked two paces to the nearest row where there was a vacant seat, and left Pitt to go across the floor and climb up the steps to the witness stand.

  Pitt swore to his name and place of residence, and waited for Markham to ask him about el Abd. He was only slightly nervous about answering. This was the first time he had not testified as a police officer. Now he was a person from the shadows, without a rank or an occupation to give him status.

  “Were you acquainted with Miss Zakhari’s house servant, Tariq el Abd, Mr. Pitt?” Markham enquired.

  “Yes.”

  “In what capacity?”

  “As a servant at Eden Lodge,” Pitt replied. “I did not know him personally.”

  “But you spoke with him at some length?” Markham pressed.

  “Yes, perhaps an hour altogether.”

  “So you would know him if you saw him again?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you seen him since then?”

  The jurors were openly fidgeting.

  The counsel for the prosecution rose to his feet. “My lord, my learned friend’s idea of drama is very different from mine. I have never heard anything so unutterably tedious. Whatever relevance can it have if this … gentleman … has spent time gossiping with Miss Zakhari’s house servant … or not?”

  “I was establishing that Mr. Pitt was able to identify Tariq el Abd, my lord,” Markham said with injured innocence, and without waiting for any ruling he turned back to Pitt. “Where did you see him, Mr. Pitt … and when?”

  “In the morgue,” Pitt replied steadily. “Yesterday.”

  There was a gasp of breath indrawn around the room.

  The judge leaned forward, his face dark and angry. “Are you saying that he is dead, Mr. Pitt?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “From what cause?”

  The prosecution stood up. “My lord, Mr. Pitt has no established credentials in medicine. He is not qualified to give evidence as to cause of death.”

  The judge resented the objection, but he could not argue and he knew it. He glared at the counsel for the prosecution, then swiveled back to Pitt. “Where was this man found?”

  “Hanging by his neck on a rope from under London Bridge, I was told by the river police,” Pitt replied.

  “Suicide?” the judge barked.

  “I am not qualified to say,” Pitt answered him.

  There was a moment’s total silence, then a nervous titter washed around the room.

  The judge’s face was like ice. He looked at Markham. “Can you continue with your case in view of the man’s death?” he said with barely concealed anger. His face was pink. He would not forget that Pitt had made the court laugh at his expense.

  “Most certainly, my lord,” Markham said vigorously. “I cannot prove that Tariq el Abd’s death was suicide, but I can think of no conceivable way in which a man could find himself hanging with a rope around his neck under the arches of London Bridge by accident. I believe that any jury of twelve honest men must consider his responsibility for the death of Lieutenant Edwin Lovat a more than reasonable doubt as to whether my client is guilty or not. El Abd had every access to the gun which killed Lieutenant Lovat. It was his job to clean it. And he had every opportunity to have used it at that precise time and in that place. Justice, even reason, demands that you consider his guilt. His death now, almost assuredly by his own hand, makes it absurd not to.”

  “It was not Tariq el Abd who was trying to dispose of the body!” The counsel for the prosecution was on his feet, his voice harsh with indignation. “If Ayesha Zakhari did not kill Lovat, why was she outside in the garden with the corpse in a wheelbarrow? That is not the action of an innocent woman.”

  “It is the action of a frightened woman!” Markham said instantly. “If you came upon the body of a murdered man with your gun beside him, might you not attempt to hide it?”

  “I would call the police,” the counsel for the prosecution retorted.

  “In a foreign country?” Markham was close to jeering. “You would have such confidence in their justice, when you are of a different race, a different language, a different culture?” He did not continue. He could see in the faces of the jurors that he had made his point.

  The counsel for the prosecution swung around to the judge, his arms spread wide. “Why, my lord? What reason in the world could an Egyptian house servant have for murdering an English diplomat in the middle of London?”

  There was a movement in the gallery. A man rose to his feet. He was slender, elegant, beautifully dressed, his thick hair waved back from an aquiline face.

  Pitt was astounded. It was Trenchard! He must have come home on leave.

  “My lord,” Trenchard said with the utmost respect. “My name is Alan Trenchard. I am with the British Consulate in Alexandria. I believe I may be able to answer the court’s questions on that subject. I have lived and worked in Egypt for over twenty-five years, and I have been able to find a certain amount of knowledge on the issues concerned here since Mr. Pitt left Alexandria, which I was therefore unable to tell him at the time of his enquiry.”

  The judge frowned. “If Sir Anthony wishes to call you, then in the interest of justice, we should hear from you.”

  Markham had no choice. He excused Pitt, and Trenchard climbed the steps up to the witness stand and turned to face the court.

  Pitt sat next to Narraway and felt him stiffen as Markham moved forward again and Trenchard swore to his name and his residence.

  Markham seemed perfectly relaxed. His clients, who yesterday had faced certain conviction, now suddenly were on the brink of acquittal. It had been none of his doing, it was entirely due to circumstance he could not have foreseen or contrived, but it was still going to be an astonishing victory for him.

  “Mr. Trenchard,” he began, “were you acquainted with Lieutenant Lovat during his army service in Egypt?”

  “Not personally,” Trenchard replied. “I am in the diplomatic service; he was in the military. It is possible we may have met, but I am not aware of it.”

  The judge frowned.

  The jury glanced around them, their interest still barely caught.

  Pitt found his hands clenched, nails digging into his palms.

  Markham deliberately kept his eyes on the witness stand. “Did you know the dead man, Tariq el Abd?”

  “I learned a great deal about hi
m,” Trenchard replied. He was standing very stiffly with his hands on the rails, knuckles white.

  Pitt felt a ripple of fear go through him, wild and unreasonable. He turned to look at the dock. Ryerson was intent, but there was no leap of emotion in him; he dared not yet hope. But Ayesha was leaning forward, her eyes wide in amazement as she gazed at Trenchard, and Pitt realized with horror that unmistakably she knew him, not by repute, as he had said, but personally, face-to-face.

  Now, at last, the jury were straining to catch each word, even a look.

  The courtroom was warm, but Pitt felt a deep and terrible chill inside himself. He remembered Trenchard’s saying that he had loved an Egyptian woman who had died in an accident a short time ago. Suddenly, almost as if he were there sitting on the ground with his bones aching and the soft lapping of the Nile in the darkness outside, he heard Ishaq telling of his father, the imam, and his dying nightmares of slaughter and burning bodies, and the daughter who had nursed him, heard all his words, his passion of grief and guilt, and who also had died shortly afterwards.

  A hideous, knife-bright possibility shone in Pitt’s mind, which made perfect sense of everything. The imam’s daughter and Trenchard’s mistress were the same woman. That was all it needed. Trenchard, with his passionate love of Egypt, knew Ayesha’s loyalties, knew of the massacre, and had pieced together the rest of it—the four British soldiers that Ferdinand Garrick had shipped out of Alexandria to protect them, and in his soul-deep and absolute devotion to his country, to protect Britain’s empire in Africa and the East.

  Pitt turned to Narraway. “He’s going to tell them about the massacre,” he whispered, hearing his own voice tremble. “Maybe he always intended to do it himself to make it complete—with no one to argue, no one to lose nerve and fail. It’s not Ayesha’s motive he’s going to uncover—it’s el Abd’s. El Abd was not master to anyone—he was the perfect scapegoat. Ayesha to draw in Ryerson—so the world would be looking—el Abd to take the ultimate blame.”

  The blood drained from Narraway’s face. “God Almighty!” he breathed. “You’re right …”