by Anne Perry
Then he saw that there were no lights in the house, at least not at the front. Drummond and Eleanor might be out for the evening, but the servants would have left on the outside lamps if that were so. They could not have retired this early. The only answer was that they must be away. Disappointment overwhelmed him, engulfing him like a cold tide.
“Was they expectin’ you, sir?” the cabby said from behind him. He must have seen the darkness and reached his own conclusion. Possibly it was compassion which kept him, equally possibly the hope of another immediate fare. “Shall I take you somewhere else, then?”
Pitt gave him his home address, then climbed in and shut the door.
“Thomas, you look terrible,” Charlotte said as soon as she saw him. She had heard his key in the lock and came into the hall to meet him. She was dressed in deep pink, and looked warm, almost glowing, and when he took her in his arms there was an air of may blossom about her. He could hear one of the children upstairs calling out to Gracie, and a moment later Jemima appeared on the landing in her nightgown.
“Papa!”
“What are you doing out of bed?” he called up.
“I want a drink of water,” she answered with assurance.
“No you don’t.” Charlotte disengaged herself and turned around. “You had a drink before you went to bed. Go back to sleep.”
Jemima tried another avenue. “My bed’s all untidy. Will you come and make it straight for me, please, Mama?”
“You’re big enough to make it straight for yourself,” Charlotte said firmly. “I’m going to get some supper for Papa. Good night.”
“But Mama …”
“Good night, Jemima!”
“Can I say good night to Papa?”
Pitt did not wait for Charlotte’s answer to this, but strode up the stairs two at a time and picked up his daughter in his arms. She was so slight, so delicately boned she felt fragile as he held her, even though she clung to him with surprising strength. She smelled of clean cotton and soap, and the hair around her brow was still damp. Why on earth did he challenge the Inner Circle? Life was too precious, too sweet to endanger anything. He could not destroy them, only bruise himself trying. Africa was half the earth away.
“Good night, Papa.” Jemima made no move to be put down.
“Good night, sweetheart.” He let her go gently, turned her around and gave her a little push on her way.
This time she knew she was beaten, and disappeared without further argument.
Pitt came downstairs too full of emotion to speak. Charlotte looked at his face, and was content to bide her time.
In the morning he slept in, then ignored Bow Street entirely and went directly to the Morton Club to look for Horace Guyler, the steward who had given evidence at the inquest. He was too early. The club was not yet open. Presumably there were maids and footmen cleaning the carpets, dusting and polishing. He should have thought of that. He was obliged to kick his heels for an hour, and then he was allowed in, and had to wait a further thirty minutes before Guyler was given the freedom to see him.
“Yes sir?” Guyler said with some apprehension. They were standing in the small steward’s room, at present empty but for the two of them.
“Good morning, Mr. Guyler,” Pitt replied casually. “I wonder if you would tell me a little more about the day Sir Arthur Desmond died here.”
Guyler looked uncomfortable, but Pitt had a strong feeling it was not guilt so much as a deep-seated fear of death and everything to do with it.
“I don’t know what else I can say, sir.” He shifted from one foot to the other. “I already said all I know at the inquest.”
If he were an Inner Circle member, he was a consummate actor. Or perhaps he was a cat’s paw? Perhaps the executioner simply used him?
“You answered all you were asked.” Pitt smiled, although no smile was going to put him at his ease. “I have a few questions the coroner did not think to ask you.”
“Why, sir? Is something wrong?”
“I want to make sure that nothing becomes wrong,” Pitt said ambiguously. “You were serving gentlemen in the drawing room that day?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Alone?”
“Beg pardon, sir?”
“Were you the only steward on duty?”
“Oh no, sir. There’s always two or three of us at least.”
“Always? What if someone is ill?”
“Then we hire in extra staff, sir. Happens quite often. Fact, I saw one that day.”
“I see.”
“But I was looking after that part o’ the room, sir. I was the one what served Sir Arthur, at least most o’ the time.”
“But someone else did for part of it?” Pitt kept the rising urgency out of his voice as much as possible, but he still heard it there, as Guyler did. “One of these extra staff, perhaps?”
“I don’t know for sure, sir.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well … I can’t really see what other stewards are doing if I’m pouring drinks for someone, taking an order or an instruction, sir. People is every so often coming and going. Gentlemen go to the cloakroom, or to the billiard room, or to the library, or the writing room or the like.”
“Did Sir Arthur move around?”
“Not as I recall, sir. But I don’t rightly know. I wouldn’t swear to nothing.”
“I certainly wouldn’t press you,” Pitt tried to reassure him.
Guyler’s anxious expression did not change in the slightest.
“You said that Sir Arthur drank a great deal of brandy that day,” Pitt pursued.
“Yes, sir. At my judgment, I would say five or six glasses at any rate,” Guyler replied with conviction.
“How many of those did you serve him?”
“About four, sir, clear as I can remember.”
“So someone else served him one, perhaps two?”
Guyler heard the lift of hope, even excitement in Pitt’s voice.
“I don’t know that, sir. I’m just supposing,” he said quickly, biting his lip, his hands clenched.
“I don’t understand….” Pitt was genuinely confused; he had no need to pretend.
“Well, sir, you see … I’m saying Sir Arthur had about five or six glasses o’ brandy because that’s what I counted from what people said—”
“From what people said?” Pitt broke in sharply. “What people? How many glasses did you serve him yourself, Guyler?”
“One, sir. One glass o’ brandy a little before dinner. The last one …” He gulped. “I suppose. But I swear before God, sir, that I never put nothing in it but brandy out o’ the best decanter, exactly as I’m supposed to!”
“I don’t doubt that,” Pitt said steadily, looking at Guyler’s frightened face. “Now explain to me these other four or five brandies you say Sir Arthur had. If you did not serve them, and you don’t know whether any of the other stewards did, what makes you assume they existed at all?”
“Well, sir …” Guyler’s eyes met Pitt’s with fear, but no evasion. “I remember Sir James Duncansby saying as Sir Arthur wanted another drink, and I poured one and gave it to him to take to Sir Arthur. Seeing as Sir James had one at the same time, and said as he’d take it back to Sir Arthur. It isn’t done to argue with gentlemen, sir.”
“No, of course it isn’t. That accounts for one. What about the others?”
“Well, er … Mr. William Rodway came and ordered a second one from me, saying as the first, which he’d had from one of the other stewards, he’d given to Sir Arthur.”
“That’s two. Go on.”
“Mr. Jenkinson said as he’d treat Sir Arthur, and ’e took two, one for himself like.”
“Three. You want one or two more.”
“I’m not really sure, sir.” Guyler looked unhappy. “I just overheard Brigadier Allsop saying as he’d seen Sir Arthur ordering one from one of the other stewards. At least I think it was one, I’m not sure. It could have been two.”
&nbs
p; Pitt felt a curious sense of lightness. The steward had served Sir Arthur only one drink! All the rest were hearsay. They might never have reached him at all. Suddenly the confusion and nightmare were sorting into some kind of sense. Sanity was returning.
And with sanity were the darker, uglier, but so much less painful conclusions that if this were not the truth but a conspiracy, then Sir Arthur had been murdered, just as Matthew believed.
And perhaps if Pitt had been there, if he had been home to Brackley and Sir Arthur had been able to turn to him in the first place with his terrible suspicion of the Inner Circle, then maybe Pitt could have warned him, have advised him, and he would not now be dead.
He thanked Guyler and left him, anxious and more puzzled than when he had come in.
Dr. Murray was not a man to be so easily led or persuaded. Pitt had been obliged to make an appointment to see him in Wimpole Street and to pay for the privilege, and Murray was not amused when he discovered that the purpose for Pitt’s presence in his surgery was to ask questions, rather than to seek aid for some complaint. The rooms were imposing, soberly furnished, exuding an air of well-being and confidence. It crossed Pitt’s mind to wonder what had drawn Arthur Desmond to such a man, and how long he had consulted him.
“Your request was somewhat misleading, Mr. Pitt, at the outset, and that is the kindest I can say for it.” Murray leaned back from his huge walnut desk and looked at Pitt with disfavor. “What authority have you for enquiring into the unfortunate death of Sir Arthur Desmond? The coroner has already given his judgment on the causes and closed the case. I fail to see what good can be done by further discussion of the matter.”
Pitt had expected some difficulty, and even if Murray were a member of the Circle, as he suspected, he knew his trick with Osborne would not work a second time. Murray was far too confident to be duped. And he thought it likely he was also much more senior in the hierarchy which governed it, and might well know who Pitt was, his past enmity to the Circle and his very recent refusal to join. He forced from his mind the further possibilities that Murray himself was the executioner, though as he sat in the consulting room with the door closed behind him, and the windows with their thick, velvet curtains, he could see the bright street beyond and carriages passing to and fro in the sunlight. But the glass was so thick and so well fitted he could hear nothing of the rattle and bustle of life. He felt suddenly claustrophobic, almost imprisoned.
He thought of lying about the coroner’s being dissatisfied, but then he dared not. The coroner might be an Inner Circle member as well. In fact almost anyone might be, even among his own men. He had always felt Tellman was too angry, too full of resentment to lend himself to anything so dedicated to the power of governing. But perhaps that was blind of him.
“I am a personal friend of Sir Matthew’s,” he said aloud. That at least was perfectly true. “He asked me to make a few further enquiries on his behalf. He is not well at the moment. He met with an accident in the street a few days ago, and was injured.” He watched Murray’s face intently, but saw not even a flicker in his eyes.
“I am so sorry,” Murray sympathized. “How very unfortunate. I hope it was not serious?”
“It seems not, but it was very unpleasant. He could have been killed.”
“I am afraid it happens all too often.”
Was that a veiled threat? Or only an innocent and truthful observation?
“What is it you wish to know, Mr. Pitt?” Murray continued, folding his hands across his stomach and looking at Pitt gravely. “If you are indeed a friend of Sir Matthew’s, you would do him the greatest service by persuading him that his father’s death was in many ways a mercy, before he became sufficiently ill to damage his reputation beyond recall, and possibly to have suffered greatly in his more lucid moments. It is most unpleasant to face, but less damaging in time than to go on fighting against the truth, and possibly causing a great deal of unpleasantness along the way.” A smile flickered across his face and disappeared. “Men of goodwill, of whom there are many, wish to remember Arthur as he was, but to rake the matter up over and over will not allow that to happen.” His eyes did not waver from Pitt’s.
One moment Pitt was sure it was a warning; the men of goodwill he referred to were members of the Circle, large in number, but immeasurably more powerful than number alone would suggest. They would retaliate if Matthew pressed them.
Then the next moment he knew there was no proof of that. Murray was simply a doctor stating the obvious. Pitt was developing a delusion about being persecuted himself, seeing plots everywhere, accusing innocent people.
“I shall be better able to convince him if I have some facts and details to tell him,” he replied, not moving his gaze either. “For example, had you ever prescribed laudanum for Sir Arthur before? Or was this his first experience with it, as far as you were aware?”
“It was his first experience,” Murray replied. “He told me that himself. But I did explain to him most carefully both its properties and its dangers, Mr. Pitt. I showed him precisely how and when to take it, and how much would produce a sleep of reasonably natural depth and duration.”
“Of course,” Pitt agreed. “But in his confused state … he was confused, was he not? Irrational and contradictory at times?”
“Not with me.” Murray said what he had to, to protect himself, as Pitt had expected. “But I have subsequently learned from others that he had some strange obsessions, not altogether rational. I take your point, Mr. Pitt. He may have forgotten what I told him and taken a lethal dose, thinking it would merely give him an afternoon nap. We can’t know what was in his mind at the time, poor man.”
“How was the laudanum made up?”
“In powders, which is the usual way.” He smiled very slightly. “Each dose separated and in a folded paper. It would be difficult to take more than one dose, Mr. Pitt, unless one had forgotten and taken a second in absentmindedness. I regret it could not more satisfactorily fill your theory. It is a precaution I usually take.”
“I see.” It did not affect Pitt’s real belief. It would still have been perfectly possible for Murray to make up a dose that was lethal and put it in with the others. He kept the look of agreeable enquiry on his face. “When did Sir Arthur come to you, Dr. Murray?”
“He first consulted me in the autumn of 1887, over a congestion of the lungs. I was able to help him and he effected a complete cure. If you are referring to this last visit, that was … let me see.” He looked through a calendar of appointments on his desk. “April twenty-seventh.” He smiled. “At four-forty in the afternoon, to be precise. He was here some half hour or more. He was very troubled indeed, I regret to say. I did all I could to reassure him, but I am afraid he was beyond my ability to help this time. I don’t think I flatter myself if I say he was past the help of any man of medicine.”
“Did you make up the laudanum yourself, Dr. Murray?”
“No, no. I don’t keep supplies of all the drugs I prescribe for my patients, Mr. Pitt. I gave him a prescription which I presume he took to an apothecary. I recommended Mr. Porteous of Jermyn Street. He is an excellent man, both knowledgeable and extremely careful. I am most particular, for the very cause you mention, that the laudanum should be precisely measured and each dose separately wrapped. Sir Arthur had been to him on several previous occasions, and said that he would indeed use him.”
“I see. Thank you very much, Dr. Murray. You have been most patient.” Pitt rose to his feet. He had learned only little that was of use, but he could think of no more to ask without raising suspicion, if not actual certainty, that he was pursuing the Inner Circle again, and that he was convinced of murder. That would achieve nothing, and he was acutely aware of his own danger.
As it was, he was absurdly relieved to be outside in the bright air amid the rattle of hooves and hiss of carriage wheels and the vitality and movement of the street.
He went straight to Jermyn Street and found the apothecary’s shop.
“Sir Arthur Desmond?” The old man behind the counter nodded benignly. “Such a nice gentleman. Sorry to hear about his death. Very sad. So unfortunate. What may I do for you, sir? I have just about everything a body can need to repair or ease whatever troubles you. Have you seen a physician, or may I advise you?”
“I don’t need to purchase anything. I’m sorry for misleading you. It is your memory I need to consult.” Pitt did feel guilty for offering no business, but there was nothing he needed. “When was Sir Arthur last in here?”
“Sir Arthur? Why do you wish to know that, young man?” He squinted at Pitt curiously but not unkindly.
“I—I am concerned about his death … the manner of it,” Pitt answered a little awkwardly. The old man looked not unlike Sir Arthur, and it brought an odd twist of memory back, seeing him behind the counter of the dark shop.
“Oh. Well, so am I, and that’s the pity of it. If he’d come here with his writ from the doctor, as he usually did, I’d have given him the laudanum all wrapped separately, as I always do for all my customers, and then this dreadful accident would never have happened.” The old man shook his head sorrowfully.
“He didn’t come here?” Pitt said sharply. “You are sure?”
The old gentleman’s eyebrows rose. “Of course I am sure, young man. Nobody serves behind this counter but myself, and I did not serve him. I haven’t seen Sir Arthur since last winter. About January, it would be. He had a cold. I gave him some infusion of herbs to put in hot water, to clear his head. We talked about dogs. I recall it very well.”
“Thank you. Thank you, Mr. Porteous. I am greatly obliged to you, sir. Good day.”
“Good day, young man. I shouldn’t run like that, sir, if I were you. No good for the digestion. You’ll get overexcited….”
But Pitt was out of the door and off down Jermyn Street at a flying pace.
He was halfway along Regent Street before he realized he did not know where he was going. Where had Sir Arthur obtained the laudanum? If not in Jermyn Street, then from some other apothecary. Or had Murray given it to him after all? Was there any way whatever of proving it?