Southampton Row

by Anne Perry

  We are deeply sorry to report the death of the Reverend Francis W. Wray, discovered at his home in Teddington yesterday. He was seventy-three years old, and was still grief-stricken at the recent death of his beloved wife, Eliza. He leaves no children, all having died in their early years.

  The police, in the person of Thomas Pitt, lately relieved of his command of the Bow Street station, and with no acknowledged authority, called upon Mr. Wray several times, and spoke to other residents in the area, asking them many intrusive and personal questions regarding Mr. Wray’s life and beliefs and his recent behavior. He denied that this was in his so-far-unsuccessful pursuit of the murder in Southampton Row, Bloomsbury, of the spirit medium and conductor of séances, Miss Maude Lamont.

  After Mr. Pitt’s latest enquiries in the village he visited Mr. Wray in his home, and a later caller found Mr. Wray in a state of extreme distress, as if he had been reduced to weeping.

  The next morning Mr. Wray’s housekeeper, Mary Ann Smith, found Mr. Wray dead in his armchair, leaving no letter, but a book of poetry marked at the verse by the late Matthew Arnold which appears his tragic, despairing farewell to a world he could no longer endure.

  The doctor was called, and gave his opinion that the cause of death was poison, most likely of the type that creates damage to the heart. Speculation has occurred that it might have been something from the wide variety of plants within Mr. Wray’s garden, because it is known that he did not leave home after Mr. Pitt’s call.

  Francis Wray had an outstanding academic career . . .

  It then went on to list the achievements of Wray’s life, followed by tributes from a number of prominent people, all of whom mourned his death and were shocked and grieved by the manner of it.

  Pitt closed the paper and made himself another cup of tea. He sat down again, nursing his tea between his hands, trying to think exactly what he had said to the people in Teddington that could have gone back so quickly to Wray, and how it could possibly have hurt him so deeply. Had he really been guilty of such crass clumsiness? Certainly he had said nothing to Wray himself. The distress Octavia Cavendish had seen was the grief for his wife . . . but of course she could not know that, nor in the circumstances would she be likely to believe it. No one would. That Wray had grieved for his wife only added to Pitt’s sin.

  How could he fight Voisey now? The election was too close. Aubrey Serracold was losing ground, and Voisey gaining it with each hour. Pitt had made not the slightest mark in Voisey’s success. He had watched it all happen and had about as much effect on it as a member of the audience has on a play on the stage in front of him, visible, audible, but totally beyond his reach.

  He did not even know which one of her three clients had killed Maude Lamont. All he felt certain of was that the motive had been the blackmail she was exercising over them because of their different fears: Kingsley that his son had died a coward’s death; Rose Serracold that her father had died insane, and the truth or falsity of that was still unknown; and the man represented by the cartouche, and Pitt had no idea who that was or what his vulnerability might be. Nothing he had heard from Rose Serracold or Kingsley shed any light on it. There was not even a suggestion. Those already dead could in theory know anything at all. It could be a family secret, a dead friend betrayed, a child, a lover, a crime concealed, or simply some foolishness that would embarrass by its intimacy. All it had to be was sufficient for the knowledge of it to be worth paying a price to keep hidden.

  Perhaps if he started at the other end of the reasoning it would make more sense? What was the price? If it was connected with Voisey, then it was something that provided fuel in his campaign for power. He had all the help he needed in his own speeches, his funds, the issues to address. What could help him was to undermine Serracold. That is what he had had Kingsley do. His own supporters were already won; the victory lay in turning those who would be natural Liberals, holding the balance of power. Who had attacked Serracold to any effect . . . who that one would not have expected?

  Reluctantly, he picked up the newspaper again and looked through the political commentary, the letters to the editor, the reports of speeches. There were plenty praising and blaming candidates on both sides, but most of them were general, aimed more at party than individual. There were several barbed comments about Keir Hardie and his attempt to create a new voice for the workingman.

  Underneath one such Pitt found a personal letter criticizing the immoral and potentially disastrous views of the Liberal candidate for Lambeth South and praising Sir Charles Voisey, who stood for sanity rather than socialism, the values of thrift and responsibility, self-discipline and Christian compassion rather than laxity, self-indulgence and untried social experiment which took away the ideals of worth and justice. It was signed by Reginald Underhill, Bishop in the Church of England.

  Of course Underhill was entitled to political opinions, and to express them as fiercely as he wished, like any other man, regardless of whether they were logical, or even honest. But was he doing so from his own conviction or because he was being blackmailed into it?

  Except what reason could there possibly be for a bishop of the church ever to have consulted a spirit medium? Surely, like Francis Wray, he would have abhorred the very idea.

  Pitt was still considering the possibility when Mrs. Brody arrived. She said good morning to him civilly enough, then stood moving her weight from one foot to the other, obviously embarrassed.

  “What is it, Mrs. Brody?” he asked. He was in no mood to care about a domestic crisis today.

  She looked miserable. “I’m sorry, Mr. Pitt, but arter wot’s in the papers this mornin’, I can’t keep on comin’ ter do for yer. Me ’usband says it in’t right. There’s plenty o’ work goin’ ’round about, an’ ’e says I gotta find another place. Tell Mrs. Pitt I’m very sorry, like, but I gotta do like ’e says.”

  There was no point in arguing with her. Her face was set in unhappy defiance. She had to live with her husband, whatever her own opinions. She could walk away from Pitt.

  “Then you’d better go,” he said flatly. He took half a crown out of his pocket and put it on the table. “That’s what I owe you for this week so far. Good-bye.”

  She did not move. “I can’t ’elp it!” she accused.

  “You have made your decision, Mrs. Brody.” He stared at her with equal anger, all the hurt and helplessness boiling up inside him. “You have worked here for over two years, and you have decided to believe what is written in the newspapers. That’s an end of the matter. I’ll tell Mrs. Pitt that you left without notice. Whether she gives you a character or not is her decision. But then as you are believing ill of her by inference because she is my wife, I doubt that as my wife her recommendation would be of much value to you anyway. Please close the front door as you leave.”

  “It in’t my doing!” she said loudly. “I don’t go out ter some poor old man an’ ’ound ’im ter ’is death!”

  “You think I suspected him without grounds?” he asked, his own voice louder than he had meant it to be.

  “That’s wot it says!” She stared back at him.

  “Then if that is sufficient for you, you had better judge me equally without grounds, and leave. As I said, please make sure the front door is closed behind you. It is the kind of day when anyone might come in off the street with ill will. Good-bye.”

  She snorted loudly, picked up the money off the table, then swiveled on the heel of her boot and went marching down the passage. He heard the front door bang loudly, no doubt so he would entertain no question as to whether she had left.

  It was another miserable quarter of an hour before the doorbell rang. Pitt very nearly ignored it. It rang again. Whoever it was did not intend to accept refusal lightly. It rang a third time.

  Pitt stood up and walked the length of the passage. He opened the door, ready to defend himself. Cornwallis stood on the step looking miserable but resolute, his face set grimly, eyes meeting Pitt’s.

  “Go
od morning,” he said quietly. “May I come in?”

  “What for?” Pitt asked less graciously than he meant. He would find criticism from Cornwallis harder to take than from almost any other man. He was surprised and a little frightened by how vulnerable he felt.

  “Because I’m not going to talk to you standing here on the step like a peddler!” Cornwallis said tartly. “I’ve no idea what to say, but I’d rather try to think of something sitting down. I was so damned angry when I read the newspapers I forgot to have any breakfast.”

  Pitt almost smiled. “I’ve got bread and marmalade, and the kettle’s on. I’d better stoke the stove. Mrs. Brody’s just given her notice.”

  “The daily?” Cornwallis asked, stepping inside and closing the door behind him as he followed Pitt back down the passage.

  “Yes. I’ll have to start fetching for myself.” In the kitchen he offered tea and toast, which Cornwallis accepted, making himself reasonably comfortable sitting on one of the hard-backed chairs.

  Pitt stoked the stove with coal and poked it until it was burning brightly, then put a slice of bread on the toasting fork and held it to brown. The kettle started to whistle gently on the hob.

  When they had a piece of toast each and the tea was brewing, Cornwallis began to talk.

  “Did this man Wray have anything to do with Maude Lamont?” he asked.

  “Not so far as I know,” Pitt replied. “He had a hatred of spirit mediums, especially those who give false hope to the bereaved, but so far as I know not to Maude Lamont in particular.”

  “Why?”

  Pitt told him the story of the young woman in Teddington, her child, her consulting of the spirit medium at the time, the violence of her grief and then her own death.

  “Could it have been Maude Lamont?” Cornwallis asked.

  “No.” Pitt was quite certain. “When that happened she could not have been more than about twelve years old. There’s no connection, except the one Voisey created to trap me. And I did everything to help him.”

  “So it would seem,” Cornwallis agreed. “But I’m damned if I’m going to let him get away with it. If we can’t defend ourselves, then we must attack.”

  This time Pitt did smile. Surprise and gratitude welled up inside him that Cornwallis should so fully and without question take his part. “I wish I knew how,” Pitt answered. “I have been considering the possibility that the real man behind the cartouche was Bishop Underhill.” He was startled to hear himself say it aloud, and without fear that Cornwallis would dismiss it as absurd. Cornwallis’s friendship was the only decent thing in the day. He knew inside himself that Vespasia would react similarly. He was relying on her to help Charlotte in what would be a very difficult time to bear—not only for herself, both in her anger and inability to help, and her pain for him, but also for the cruelty the children would endure from school friends, even people in the street, barely knowing why, only that their father was hated. It was something they had never known before and would not understand. He refused to think about it now. Terrible enough when he had to, no need to anticipate the pain when he could do nothing about it.

  “Bishop Underhill,” Cornwallis repeated thoughtfully. “Why? Why him?”

  Pitt told him his line of reasoning based upon the assistance the Bishop had given Voisey.

  Cornwallis frowned. “What would take him to a spirit medium?”

  “I’ve no idea,” Pitt replied, too lost in his own unhappiness to catch the emotion in the other man’s voice.

  Further discussion was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell again. Cornwallis stood up immediately and went to answer it without giving Pitt the opportunity. He returned a few moments later with Tellman behind him, looking like the chief mourner at a funeral.

  Pitt waited for one of the other two to speak.

  Tellman cleared his throat, then sank back into a wretched silence.

  “What did you come for?” Pitt asked him. He heard his voice edgy and accusing, but it was beyond his control.

  Tellman looked at him, glaring. “Where else would I be?” he challenged. “It was my fault! I told you to go to Teddington! You’d never have heard of Wray if it weren’t for me!” His face was filled with anguish, his body rigid, his eyes hot.

  Pitt saw with a rush of surprise that Tellman really did blame himself for what had happened. He was scalded with a shame too deep to find words. At another time, if Pitt were hurting even a little less himself, he would have been moved by Tellman’s loyalty, but now his own fear was too deep. It all stemmed back to his evidence before Whitechapel. If only he hadn’t been so sure of himself, so pigheaded in giving evidence because he wanted his idea of justice served!

  He had been right, of course, but that was not going to help now.

  “Who told you about Francis Wray?” Cornwallis asked Tellman. “And for heaven’s sake sit down. We’re standing around as if we were at the graveside. The battle is not over yet.”

  Pitt wanted to believe that, but there was no rational hope that he could grasp.

  “Superintendent Wetron,” Tellman answered. He glanced at Pitt.

  “Why?” Cornwallis persisted. “What reason did he give? Who suggested Wray to him? He didn’t know him himself, so who told him about Wray? Who made the connection between Wray and the unknown man who visited Maude Lamont?”

  Absentmindedly, Pitt thought how Cornwallis had grown in his knowledge of detection. He looked at Tellman.

  “He never said,” Tellman replied, his eyes widening. “I did ask him, but somehow he never really answered. Voisey? It must have been.” There was a thin thread of hope in his voice. “All the information about Wray came from Superintendent Wetron, so far as I know.” His mouth tightened. “But if he believes in Voisey, or . . . or maybe he is Inner Circle himself?” He said it with disbelief, as if even now the thought of his superior’s being one of that terrible society was too monstrous to be more than a bad idea, something to be said and discarded.

  Pitt thought of Vespasia. “When we disgraced Voisey we may have fractured the Inner Circle,” he said, looking from Cornwallis to Tellman and back again. Tellman knew all about the Whitechapel matter; Cornwallis knew something, but there were still large gaps in his knowledge, although even as Pitt watched him he saw his understanding leap forward. He asked no questions.

  “Fractured?” Tellman said slowly. “You mean like in two parts?”

  “At least,” Pitt answered.

  “Voisey and someone else?” Cornwallis’s eyebrows rose. Wetron?”

  Tellman’s sense of decency was outraged. “Oh no! He’s a policeman!” But even as he protested he was entertaining the idea. He shook his head, pushing it away. “A small member, maybe. People do, to get on, but . . .”

  Cornwallis chewed his lip. “It would make a lot of sense. Someone with a great deal of power, a very great deal, had you dismissed from Bow Street a second time,” he said to Pitt. “Perhaps it was Wetron? After all, he was the one who took charge from you. Superintendent of Bow Street is a very nice place for the head of the Inner Circle.” He looked rueful, even for an instant aware of fear. “There’ll be no end to his ambition.”

  No one laughed, and no one denied it.

  “He’s an ambitious man,” Tellman said very seriously.

  Cornwallis leaned forward a little across the table. “Could they be rivals?”

  Almost as if he had spoken it aloud, Pitt knew what he was thinking. It was the first spark of real hope, wild as it was. “Use it?” he asked, almost afraid to put words to it.

  Cornwallis nodded very slowly.

  Tellman stared at them, his face pale. “One against the other?”

  “Can you think of anything else?” Cornwallis asked him. “Wetron is ambitious. If he thinks he can challenge Voisey for leadership of half the Inner Circle, and I think we can assume he is the one who led the breakaway, if not at first, then at least by the time it achieved its independence, then he is very ambitious indeed. And he ca
nnot be fool enough to think Voisey will forgive him for it. He will have to live the rest of his life watching his back. If you know you have an enemy, better make a preemptive strike. If you believe you can do it effectively, finish your man.”

  “How?” Pitt asked. “Tie Voisey in to the Southampton Row murder?” The idea strengthened as he was speaking. “There must be a continuous connection: Voisey goes to Maude Lamont with social connections, money, whatever it is she wants, and in return she blackmails certain of her clients to speak out against Voisey’s opponent in the election, Aubrey Serracold. Which in turn helps Voisey.”

  “Ties up,” Tellman agreed. “Voisey to Maude Lamont to her clients, who do what she tells them, which helps Voisey. But we can’t prove it! Maude Lamont was the link, and she’s dead.” He took in a deep breath. “Just a minute! Did the blackmail stop? Did they stop helping Voisey?” That question was asked of Pitt.

  “No,” he said. “No. So Maude didn’t do the blackmailing, she just provided the information as to where they were vulnerable.” Then the chill returned. “But we found no connection to Voisey. We searched all her papers, letters, diaries, banking accounts, everything. There is no trace of a link between them. But then he wouldn’t leave one. He’s far too clever for that. For a start, she could have used it herself!”

  “You are looking at the wrong enemy,” Cornwallis said with a rising note of excitement in his voice. It was almost as if he was reliving one of his battles at sea, lining up the opposing ship to fire the broadside that would hole her below the waterline. “Wetron! We shouldn’t aim at either one, but make them attack each other.”

  Tellman scowled. “How?”

  Pitt felt a leap of triumph again and turned to stifle it in case it flared up out of control, and the darkness afterwards was too deep to bear.

  “Wetron is an ambitious man,” Cornwallis said again, but this time with a new intensity. “If he could solve the Southampton Row murder in a spectacular way, personally taking the credit for it, it would enhance his position, make him strong enough no one could challenge him in Bow Street, and perhaps build a rung higher in the ladder.”