Traitors Gate (11 page)

“Now that you mention it …” He recovered his composure almost immediately. It was a quality in him she both admired and found intensely irritating. He was like one of those toys with a round, weighted base which one cannot knock over because automatically it rights itself the moment you let go of it.

“Yes?”

His face lit with enthusiasm again. “I have recently been permitted to join a most exclusive organization,” he said eagerly. “I say ‘permitted’ because members are accepted only when proposed by another member and closely examined by a selection committee. It is entirely charitable of course, with the highest possible aims.”

She waited, trying to keep her mind open to hear all he said. There were, after all, a legion of societies in London, most of them excellent in their purposes.

He crossed his legs, his face supremely satisfied. He had
rather round, hazel-gray eyes, and they were shining with enthusiasm.

“Because all the members are men of means and in many cases considerable power in the community, in the world of finance or government, a great deal can be accomplished. Even laws changed, if it is desirable.” His voice rose with the vigor of his feelings. “Enormous amounts of money can be raised to aid the poor, the disadvantaged, those suffering from injustices, disease or other misfortune. It is really very exciting, Mama-in-law. I feel highly privileged to be a member.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

“It sounds most praiseworthy. Perhaps I should join? Could you propose me?”

She watched his face with amusement. His mouth fell open, and his eyes reflected utter confusion. He was not even sure whether she was indulging in some distasteful joke. He had never been entirely certain of her sense of humor.

She waited, regarding him without a flicker.

“Mama-in-law, no serious society I know of accepts women! You must surely be aware of that?”

“Why not?” she asked. “I have money, no husband I am obliged to obey, and I am as capable of doing good as anyone else.”

“That is not the point!” he protested.

“Oh. What is the point?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What is the point?” she repeated.

Eustace was saved from justifying what to him was an assumption about the nature of the universe which was as beyond questioning as it was beyond explanation. The parlormaid came in to say that Mrs. Pitt had arrived.

“Oh, good gracious. Thank you, Effie,” Vespasia said, acknowledging her. “I had not realized it was so late. Please ask her to come in.” She turned back to Eustace. “Charlotte
will accompany me while we take our cards to the Duchess of Marlborough.”

“Charlotte will?” Eustace was dumbfounded. “To the Duchess of Marlborough? Really, this is preposterous, Mama-in-law! She is utterly unsuitable. Heaven knows what she might say or do. Surely you’re not serious.”

“I am perfectly serious. Thomas has been promoted since you last saw him. He is now a superintendent.”

“I don’t care if he is commissioner of Scotland Yard!” Eustace said. “You still cannot have Charlotte call upon the Duchess of Marlborough!”

“We are not going to call upon her,” Vespasia said patiently. “We are simply going to leave our cards, which, as you know as well as I do, is customary after attending a function. It is the accepted way of expressing our appreciation.”

“‘Our appreciation’! Charlotte was there?” He was still completely nonplussed.

“She was.”

The door opened and Charlotte was shown in. As soon as she saw Eustace March her face registered a conflicting mixture of emotions—surprise, anger, self-consciousness—all overridden by curiosity.

Eustace’s feelings were much plainer. There was nothing in his face but a pure and simple embarrassment. He rose to his feet, his cheeks flaming.

“What a pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Pitt, how are you?”

“Good afternoon, Mr. March.” She swallowed hard and came forward.

Vespasia could guess what manner of event she was remembering, most probably the ridiculous episode under the bed. No doubt, from the scarlet in Eustace’s cheeks, so was he.

“I am in excellent health, thank you,” she added. “I am sure that you are also.” That may have been a memory of his ever open windows in Cardington Crescent, even on
cloudy mornings when the wind blew the breakfast room to almost intolerable temperatures, and everyone except Eustace was shivering over the porridge.

“Always, Mrs. Pitt,” Eustace said briskly. “I am blessed in that manner.”

“Eustace has been telling me about an excellent society he has been privileged to join,” Vespasia said, indicating a chair for Charlotte.

“Ah—yes,” Eustace agreed. “Dedicated to works of charity, and to influencing society for good.”

“Congratulations,” Charlotte said wholeheartedly. “You must feel a great sense of achievement. It is certainly sorely needed.”

“Oh indeed.” He resumed his own seat, sounding far more relaxed. He was back to discussing a subject which obviously pleased him enormously. “Indeed, Mrs. Pitt. It is most gratifying to feel that one can join with other men of like mind and dedication to the same purposes, and together we can be a real force in the land.”

“What is the name of this society?” Charlotte asked innocently.

“Ah, you must not ask further, my dear lady.” He shook his head a fraction, smiling as he did so. “Our aims and purposes are public and open to everyone, but our society itself is anonymous.”

“You mean secret?” Charlotte asked boldly.

“Ah well.” He looked taken aback. “I would not have chosen that word; it has a ring about it which gives quite the wrong idea, but it is anonymous. After all, is that not the way Our Lord commanded us we should do good?” His smile returned. “‘Let not your left hand know what your right hand doeth’?”

“Do you think a secret society was what He had in mind?” Charlotte asked with absolute seriousness, staring at him as she awaited his answer.

Eustace stared back at her as if he had been stung. His brain knew she was tactless, but he had almost forgotten
the manner and the reality of it. It was ill-mannered to embarrass anyone, and she consistently embarrassed him; he thought, deliberately. No woman could be quite as unintelligent as she sometimes appeared.

“Perhaps ‘discreet’ would be a better word,” he said finally. “I see nothing questionable in men helping each other to meet the needs of the less fortunate. In fact it seems like excellent sense. The Lord never extolled inefficiency, Mrs. Pitt.”

Charlotte smiled suddenly and disarmingly. “I am sure you are right, Mr. March. And to claim public admiration for every act of charity is to rob it of any virtue at all. It is possibly even a fine thing that you yourselves will know only a few other members, simply those of your own ring. Then it is doubly discreet, is it not?”

“Ring?” All color had gone from his face now, leaving it oddly pale under the sun and windburn of his complexion, assiduously earned in good outdoor exercise.

“Is that not an appropriate term?” Charlotte asked, wide-eyed.

“I—well …”

“Never mind.” Charlotte waved it away. She had no need to press it; the answer was obvious. Eustace had joined the Inner Circle, in innocence, even naïveté, as had so many before him—Micah Drummond and Sir Arthur Desmond, to name only two. Micah Drummond had broken from it and survived, at least so far. Arthur Desmond had not been so fortunate.

She turned to look at Vespasia.

Vespasia was very grave. She held out her hand to him.

“I hope you will be a powerful influence for good, Eustace,” she said without pretense. “Thank you for coming to tell us your news. Would you care to stay to luncheon? Charlotte and I will not be long.”

“Thank you, Mama-in-law, but I have other calls to make,” he declined rapidly, rising to his feet and bowing very slightly, then similarly to Charlotte. “Charming to
meet with you again, Mrs. Pitt. Good day to you both.” And without waiting for anything further he left the room.

Charlotte looked at Vespasia and neither of them spoke.

3

T
HE INQUEST
on Arthur Desmond was held in London since that was where he had died. Sitting in the gallery of the court, Pitt was grimly sure that it was also so that members of the Inner Circle could keep a greater command of the proceedings. Had it been in Brackley, where he and his family had been known and revered for three centuries, the personal regard in which he was held might have overridden even their power.

As it was he sat beside Matthew, who this morning looked almost haggard, and together they waited while the formal opening of the inquest took place amid a hush of anticipation. The room was full. People bumped and jostled each other making their way through the narrow doorway and under the beamed arch into the main area. The buzz of noise died away as people took their seats, facing the single bench at the front, the table to one side where an official in a black gown took notes, his pen at the ready, and the other side, where there was a stand for witnesses.

Pitt felt a strange sense of unreality. He was too filled with emotion to allow his mind to function with the clarity it usually had on such occasions. He had lost count of the number of inquests he had attended before this.

He looked towards the front. He could see at least fifteen or twenty men of sober bearing, dressed in full or half mourning, sitting shoulder to shoulder ready to give testimony
as they were called. Most of them had the solid, confident look of wealth and assured position. He assumed they were either professional experts of some sort or else the members of the club who had been present on the afternoon of Sir Arthur’s death. A nervous man, a few years younger, dressed less expensively, was probably one of the club stewards who had served the brandy.

The coroner was ill-suited by appearance for his task. Anyone more robust and full of the vigor of life would be hard to imagine. He was large with red-gold hair and a highly florid complexion, features broad and full of enthusiasm.

“Well now,” he said heartily, as soon as the preliminaries were completed. “Wretched business. Very sorry. Let us get it over with as soon as we may, with diligence and dispatch. Diligence and dispatch, best way to deal with the trappings of loss. Condolences to the family.” He looked around the room and saw Matthew. Pitt wondered whether he had already met him, or if he were simply skilled enough to recognize bereavement at a glance. “Shall we proceed? Good, good. Let us hear the first witness to this sorry event. Mr. Usher, send for him, if you please.”

The usher obediently called for the club steward, who was, as Pitt had surmised, the man with the less expensive coat, and whose general embarrassment was now acute. He was overwhelmed, afraid of making a mistake. His manners were self-conscious, as were his clothes and his voice. He was awed by all the majesty of the law, even at this level, and by the finality of death. He mounted the witness stand with his eyes wide and his face pale.

“No need to be afraid, my man,” the coroner said benignly. “No need at all. You didn’t do anything wrong, did you? Didn’t kill the poor creature?” He smiled.

The steward was appalled. For half a second, a blood-chilling second, he thought the coroner was serious.

“N-no sir!”

“Good,” the coroner said with satisfaction. “Then compose
yourself, tell us the truth, and all will be well. Who are you and what do you do? What have you to tell us about all this. Speak up!”

“M-my name is Horace Guyler, my lord. I am a steward at the Morton Club for Gentlemen. It was me as found poor Sir Arthur. I mean, o’course we all knew where ’e was, but …”

“I take your meaning perfectly,” the coroner encouraged. “It was you who discovered he was dead. And I am not a ‘my lord.’ That is for the judges. I am merely a coroner. ‘Sir’ will do very well when you address me. Proceed. Perhaps you had better begin with Sir Arthur’s arrival at the club. What time was that? When did you first see him? What was his appearance, his manner? Answer one at a time.”

Horace Guyler was confused. He had already forgotten the first question, and the second.