The Lineup

by Otto Penzler

  He sighed and sat back. “Tell me something about the man, so I feel as if I know him better than a casual encounter at the club, if you please.”

  “You will not encounter him at your club,” she replied, as if the very notion entertained her. “Or at anyone else’s. He would greatly prefer to be at home by his own fireside or, better yet, in the kitchen. It is an extraordinarily agreeable room. The floor is wooden and frequently scrubbed, as is the large table. I like the smell of clean wood, perhaps just a trifle damp still, do you not?”

  He was taken aback.

  “I… I’ve never thought about it,” he admitted. “Did he tell you this?”

  “Of course not.” She was dismissive. “I have observed it. There is a Welsh dresser against the wall, with blue-and-white ringed china on it, and some with painted butterflies and wild grasses, drawn extremely well. There are copper kettles and pans on the wall, and more often than not, clean linen on the airing rail, which hangs from the ceiling. The aroma of that brings back to me memories of laughter and friendship, of desperate battles against evil fought side by side, and good people who are no longer with us. Perhaps that is why he has no wish to move from Keppel Street, even though he could well afford to. The house is full of the past, of triumphs and disasters that have both been enriching.” Her eyes seemed far away for several moments, then suddenly she returned. “And you are not entirely correct about the untidiness. He has always loved good boots, ever since his sister-in-law, Emily, gave him his first pair. So far as I know, it is his only extravagance, the very best boots.”

  “And his indulgences?” he asked.

  She did not hesitate an instant.

  “Cider, and steak-and-kidney pudding, the proper sort with mushrooms in, and even oysters, and of course a suet crust. That is absolutely imperative. And black currant jam, preferably on toast. Dark marmalade, sharp enough to bite back at you, but then anyone with any taste at all likes that. Must be made with Seville oranges, of course, obtainable only in January. But you must know that yourself. I apologize for telling you. Pockets full of string, paper clips, pipe cleaners, penknives, stubs of pencil, mint humbugs, and anything else which might conceivably one day be useful… or not.”

  “I begin to like him,” Naylor remarked.

  “Good. Although it is irrelevant.”

  “A very different kind of man,” he observed.

  “Very,” she agreed with a smile, as if she knew much that she would not say.

  “That brings me to Charlotte Pitt.” He leaned forward again. “A somewhat unconventional woman, one might even say ‘meddlesome.’”

  “Unless one were being unhelpfully tactful, one would definitely say ‘meddlesome,’” she agreed. “Usually to excellent effect.”

  He tried to hide a smile, and failed. “Might she be his greatest weakness, Lady Vespasia? His Achilles’ heel?”

  “Socially?” The idea appeared to amuse her. “She comes from a good family, Sir Peter. Not top drawer, but perhaps second. Her sister Emily married very well indeed. Her son is Lord Ashworth. She is now, of course, Mrs. Jack Radley.”

  “Member of Parliament. Yes, I know. He is definitely a great supporter of Pitt,” he acknowledged. “He did not conceal the relationship. Not that I imagine he could have, or wished to. But Emily Radley is perfectly respectable. That does not mean that her sister is the same. It is a matter not only of blood but of behavior.”

  “Of course it is. I have known women who could scarcely name their parents and who were so respectable they could barely speak at all for fear of saying something unconventional, even to an opinion on the suitability of the curtains.” Her eyes widened. “And, thank heaven, I have also known duchesses who could be outrageous, and frequently were. I hope no one has ever said of me that I was respectable?”

  Now it was his turn to be amused. “Never, Lady Vespasia, I swear. Beautiful, brave and wise, charming and of devastating wit, always fashionable, because if you wore something it automatically became fashion. I cannot recall anyone even hinting that you could be… tedious.”

  “Thank you. I am very relieved. I hope to die before I risk becoming sanctimonious and predictable.”

  He leaned forward again. “I have heard that Mrs. Pitt is unpredictable. Is that a fair thing to say?”

  “I sincerely hope so.”

  “Lady Vespasia… ”

  She raised an elegant hand only a few inches.

  “Yes, yes, I understand. You need the truth. Charlotte was the second daughter of Edward and Caroline Ellison, well-to-do gentry. Her eldest sister, Sarah, married Dominic Cord, who is now a dynamic and rather outspoken… ”

  Naylor was startled. “The Dominic Cord? Really? Some of his views are a trifle unorthodox. And his wife is certainly extraordinarily outspoken. I believe she has offended the archbishop of Canterbury himself!”

  Vespasia did not attempt to hide her admiration. “So I heard,” she said enthusiastically. “I hope profoundly that it is true. It is very good for the mind to be upset every now and then, rather as taking a brisk walk is good for the constitution. It sets the blood flowing.”

  “You were telling me about Sarah Cord. I assume she died, or Cord himself could not have married again?”

  “To be more precise, she was murdered,” Vespasia corrected him.

  “Good God!” The color fled from his face.

  “It was nothing to do with the family,” she assured him. “A number of very respectable young women were murdered in the area at the time. She happened to be one of them. She was doing nothing amiss whatever. That was the case in which Charlotte met Thomas Pitt. Naturally her mother had intended her for a more socially fortunate marriage, but she had the wisdom to allow Charlotte to follow her heart. And she has been very happy ever since. It cost her her social standing, and of course a great deal of money. However, she learned to live on a policeman’s salary and keep house with the assistance of one all-purpose maid. She had to reduce drastically the size and quality of her wardrobe, which is never easy for a handsome woman, but she managed. I do not believe she has ever regretted her choice, and that is more than most women can say.”

  He looked a little startled.

  “She is happy, Sir Peter,” Vespasia repeated. “She does not look back with question or regret. She does not envy anyone. And possibly that does not make her the right wife for a man seeking high office. She knows both sides of society. She can dance with a duke, but she never had the art of making trivial conversation or flattering to please. And so far as I know, she never made the attempt to hide her opinions on subjects about which she cared.”

  “What subjects might they be?” he asked warily.

  “Right and wrong,” she replied. “Justice and injustice, prejudice, intolerance, self-righteousness, cruelty, hypocrisy, and the building and destroying of dreams.”

  “Are you sure we are speaking of Charlotte Pitt, my lady, and not perhaps a little of yourself?” His voice was gentle and a trifle wry.

  She sighed, her gaze far away. “Maybe I see in her what I wish to, but I think nevertheless that I am accurate. Charlotte was never as beautiful as I, so she had not the confidence in herself, nor perhaps the arrogance. Nor had she the title or the wealth, which both bound and freed her. But she married the man she loved, and she always knew in her heart that he loved her. That gave her a different kind of confidence, and an inner peace which few of us ever know.”

  Naylor said nothing, touched by a sort of truth deeper and possibly more painful than anything they had said before.

  “She is also capable of rubbing elbows with the washerwoman,” Vespasia went on, “and speaking sensibly to her of home and domestic duties, of poverty and good ways in which to save money. That she learned first from Pitt, then from experience. She does not belong completely to either one world or the other, which leaves her lonely at times. She is impetuous and given to acting before she fully considers the possible outcome. But then, too much thought, too much awareness
of the pitfalls and the losses ahead, would rob us all of the courage or the passion to act. We can creep cautiously to death from inertia, and expire safely in our beds of old age and spiritual paralysis. We can look back on an unblemished career of never having said or done anything wrong—or anything right either. We could pass through the world without having left a mark.”

  He said nothing, an abyss of emptiness opening up before his mind.

  “No one will say that of Charlotte,” Vespasia continued. “She is a person one would remember for her vitality, the strength of her feeling, not always wise, certainly, but always honest. She is lukewarm about nothing.”

  “I have not met her,” he admitted. “She sounds rather daunting.”

  “I think you would like her,” she told him. “She is very attractive, both to look at and to speak with. She is fairly tall, but Pitt himself is of good height and has a certain artless grace of movement. She, of course, moves excellently, as do all girls brought up by a strict mother who has ambitions towards a good marriage. She practiced the customary walking while balancing books on her head, sitting with a straight back and shoulders, speaking with perfect diction, and knowing how to address everyone correctly, from the archbishop to the cook, and saying something pleasant and innocuous to all of them.”

  “That is not what I have heard of her,” he said dubiously.

  “She has good features and very beautiful hair,” Vespasia continued, ignoring his interruption. “And perhaps too handsome a figure entirely for her own good. She has drawn much admiration at times, even if her strength of character has alarmed some people.”

  He was curious, both interested and now concerned. “Are you trying to say that certain men have been… attracted to her?” he asked.

  She gave him a withering look. “I know of three or four who were unquestionably in love with her. What I do not know is if she herself was aware of it. She has my considered respect if she was and managed never to show it. It must have made difficult situations a great deal easier for the men in question.”

  “Who were they?”

  “How indelicate,” she reproved him. “Since I am quite certain that nothing improper took place, I do not think it is your concern.”

  “It does not leave this room,” he promised. “Either in word or deed. But the knowledge may affect my decision. Who were they?”

  “General Brandon Ballantyne and Victor Narraway,” she replied. “Among others.”

  “Indeed!” He was truly surprised. “I know them both. Neither are men of easy passion. I begin to look at Mrs. Pitt in a new light. She must have more depth of character and more integrity of purpose than I had supposed.”

  Vespasia smiled. “You saw her as meddling in Pitt’s cases out of boredom, mistaken idealism, the kind of arrogance that assumes abilities it does not possess and lacks the imagination to see what harm the well-meaning but ignorant can do?”

  He blushed. “I had not thought of it quite so cruelly, but I suppose that is more or less what I had supposed. Pretty women sometimes are led to believe that charm can overcome any deficit in intelligence or experience.”

  “I can hear Charlotte’s laughter in my mind as you say that,” Vespasia responded. “She is very observant of small things, as women often are. She notices tone of voice, the way people stand, look at each other, the expressions on faces when they imagine themselves unobserved. But of course she would be far too wise to tell you what she had seen—at least she would now.”

  “And earlier?”

  “That was a different matter,” Vespasia admitted. “If one’s mistakes are dramatic enough, one does not repeat them.”

  “You alarm me, and intrigue me,” he said. “I shall most certainly meet Mrs. Pitt. Tell me, do you think she will wish him to take this position, should it be offered him?”

  Vespasia thought for several moments. “Oh yes, she will wish him to accept it. She was never a coward. But she will not be blind to its costs. She will know that the decisions he has to make will at times be dangerous and painful. He will make mistakes, because we all do, and he will grieve over them. He will lie awake wondering how he can spare people, knowing there is no way and yet still laboring to find one. He is a man born poor, who understands the poor, the ordinary, and the fearful. He will speak to the common man as an equal. He will at times be something of a prude and offend the aristocratic, as he has offended the king. He will not always know when to laugh and when to keep silent. But sooner or later he will earn their respect, because they will come to know that they can trust both his judgment and his kindness. That is a lot to say of any man, Sir Peter.”

  “And Mrs. Pitt?” he asked.

  “Oh, you may trust her to be shocking, charming, disastrously frank, and utterly loyal. You will like her, whether you wish to or not, because you will not be afraid of her. She is impractical only in the things that do not matter at all, except to people who have no sense of proportion.” Her face tightened fractionally. “A sense of proportion is going to matter in the times ahead, I think. We will need to know with great certainty what it is we value, what we are prepared to give our lives to preserve. Yes, Sir Peter, the prime minister should offer this position to Thomas Pitt. He is the essential Englishman, rooted in the soil of his ancestry, willing to live and die for the common decencies of life, the honor and tolerance, the kindness and the absurdities.

  “You will be happy to sit at the kitchen table with him and drink tea with a slice of cake at the end of a long case, and know that you have done your best.”

  He rose to his feet. “Thank you, Lady Vespasia. I shall recommend to the prime minister that we overrule His Majesty’s misgivings and do exactly that. I appreciate your candor. I believe that I now know more of Thomas and Charlotte Pitt than anyone else could have told me.”

  She inclined her head and smiled, with a faraway, dreaming look of long and happy memory.

  DOUGLAS PRESTON and LINCOLN CHILD

  Douglas Preston was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, in 1956. He graduated from Pomona College in Claremont, California, where he studied mathematics, biology, chemistry, physics, anthropology, geology, astronomy, and English. He worked at New York’s American Museum of Natural History for eight years as writer and editor of the in-house publication, eventually writing the nonfiction book Dinosaurs in the Attic for St. Martin’s Press, where his editor was Lincoln Child. They formed a friendship that resulted in their coauthoring the bestselling FBI Agent Pendergast series and other novels.

  Lincoln Child was born in Westport, Connecticut, in 1957. He graduated from Carleton College in Northfield, Minnesota, majoring in English. He took a job with St. Martin’s in 1979 and, after editing more than a hundred books and founding the company’s horror division, left in 1987 for a position with MetLife as a programmer and systems analyst. His first collaborative novel with Preston, Relic, was published in 1995.

  Preston and Child have collaborated on thirteen novels, nine about Pendergast and four stand-alones: Mount Dragon (1996), Riptide (1998), Thunderhead (1999), and The Ice Limit (2000).

  On his own, Child has written the thrillers Utopia (2002), Death Match (2004), Deep Storm (2007), and Terminal Freeze (2009).

  Preston’s solo works are Dinosaurs in the Attic (1985), Jennie (1994), The Royal Road with José Antonio Esquibel and photographs by Christine Preston (1998), Cities of Gold (1999), The Codex (2004), Tyrannosaur Canyon (2005), Blasphemy (2008), and Monster of Florence with Mario Spezi (2008).

  ALOYSIUS X. L. PENDERGAST

  BY DOUGLAS PRESTON AND LINCOLN CHILD

  Douglas Preston

  My first job out of college was as an editor at the American Museum of Natural History in New York. It was over a quarter mile from the front door of the museum to my office, way in the back, and it took seven and a half minutes to make that walk (I timed it). I had to pass through the great African Hall, with the elephants, a series of smaller halls, the Egyptian Alcove, the Hall of Man in Africa, the Hall of Bi
rds of the World, the Precolumbian Gold Hall, and the Hall of Mexico and Central America. It is one of the largest museums in the world, and I found it an amazing place to work.

  Part of my job was to write a column about the museum in Natural History magazine. I wrote about the Copper Man, about the Ahnighito meteorite, about Meshie the chimpanzee, about the dinosaur mummy, and the Star of India.

  One day, I got a call from an editor at St. Martin’s Press. He had been reading my columns in the magazine and wondered if I would do him the kindness of joining him for lunch at the Russian Tea Room to talk about a possible book.

  I said I would certainly do him that kindness, and I rushed down to the Salvation Army to buy a jacket so I could get into the Russian Tea Room. When the appointed day came, I showed up expecting to meet an éminence grise from St. Martin’s Press. Instead, waiting for me at a table in the back was a kid even younger than I was: Lincoln Child.

  Lincoln Child

  I had been a fan of the museum ever since coming to New York as a dewy-eyed college graduate. I loved nothing better than taking the behind-the-scenes tours and seeing the cubbyholes where real-life Indiana Joneses hung their pith helmets. After each such tour I would leave the museum thinking, “What an amazing old pile! When I retire I’ll have to write its history.” Then one day I realized: “You dolt! Why go to all that work when you can pay some other poor scrivener to do it?” After all, I was a book editor, and it was my job to find new projects for my house to publish. I found Doug’s articles in the museum’s magazine, and I invited him to lunch. He was exactly the kind of person I was looking for: young and hungry looking (note to Preston-Child readers: imagine Bill Smithback). I pitched the idea of an informal history and armchair tour of the museum, to be written by him. He immediately jumped at it: he was more than ready to graduate from articles to full-length books. And that was the birth of what was to become Doug’s nonfiction title Dinosaurs in the Attic.