Traitors Gate (31 page)

“Good day to you.” Osborne drew breath as if to add something further, then changed his mind.

    By the time Pitt had found Calvert, the third man who had given evidence at the inquest, it was late, and in spite of being mid-May, nearly dark. He heard a similar story from him, full of hearsay, confusion, accusations repeated with outrage, ignorance of Africa except that somehow it should be British by right, moral if not political.

Pitt was so weary his feet were sore and he found he had unconsciously clenched his shoulders and his jaw till his throat ached. It was all nebulous, a matter of impressions, assumptions springing from anger, and a sense of having been betrayed by someone they should have been able to trust. For all the words of pity, the blame was there all the time. Arthur Desmond had made public suggestions, true or false, that they were corrupt. Men who should have given them respect would now not do so. People who should not even have guessed at the existence of the Inner Circle would wonder and speculate about it. That had been the greatest sin in the man’s view, the spreading before the general gaze of that which should have been private. No matter what the sin or the crime, one did not wash one’s linen in public. It was not the act of a gentleman. If you could not rely upon a gentleman to behave like one, what was there left of worth?

Pitt did not know if the man was a member of the Inner Circle or not. What he had said could simply have been a class loyalty. So could what Osborne had said, for that matter, but he was almost certain of Osborne.

Who else? Hathaway, Chancellor, Thorne, Aylmer? Of Farnsworth there was no doubt, and he loathed Farnsworth. But he had loved Arthur Desmond all his life, and he had been a member. So had Micah Drummond, whom he had grown to like immensely and to trust without question.
He should talk to him. He was probably the only person who could help. Even as he lengthened his stride along the footpath, his decision was made. He would go now!

Membership had now been offered to Pitt. It was not exclusive to gentlemen. Anyone might be a member, might even be the executioner. It could have been the steward of the club, or the manager. Or the doctor who was called.

He was walking briskly and the night was balmy. He should have been warm, but he was not. He was chilled inside, and his legs were so tired every step required an effort of will, but he was determined to see Drummond, and the sense of purpose lent him strength.

A hansom came around the corner too quickly and he was obliged to move sharply out of its way, knocking into a stout man who had not been looking where he was going.

“Have a care, sir!” he said furiously, facing Pitt with bulging eyes. He held a heavy carved walking stick in one hand, and he gripped it tightly as if he would have raised it to defend himself if necessary.

“Look where you are going, and I won’t need to!” Pitt said.

“Why you raffian!” The man lifted the end of the stick a foot off the ground in a threatening gesture. “How dare you speak to me like that. I’ll call the police, sir! And I’ll warn you, I know how to use this, if you force me.”

“I am the police! And if you touch me with that thing, I’ll arrest you and charge you with assault. As it is, keep a civil tongue in your head or I’ll charge you with being a public nuisance.”

The man was too startled to retaliate, but he kept his hand hard on his stick.

Had Pitt gone too far with Osborne? Perhaps Osborne was high enough in the Inner Circle to know perfectly well who were members and who were not. Pitt had damaged the Inner Circle before. It was naive to imagine they would not know him. They had killed Arthur Desmond—why not Pitt? An attack in the street, a quick push under the wheels
of a vehicle. A most regrettable street accident. It had already happened once, with Matthew—hadn’t it?

He turned on his heel and strode away, leaving the man gibbering with outrage.

This was absurd. He must control his imagination. He was seeing enemies everywhere, and there were above three million people in London. There were probably no more than three thousand of them members of the Inner Circle. But he could never know which three thousand.

Around the corner he took a cab, giving Micah Drummond’s address, and sat back, trying to compose himself and master his flying thoughts. He would ask him if he had any idea how large the Circle was. He was frightened of the answer, yet it could be helpful to know. On thinking of it now, he was foolish not to have gone to him for help as soon as he knew of Sir Arthur’s death. Drummond had been naive to begin with, and perhaps he still only half understood the evil even now, but he had been a member for many years. He might recall incidents, rituals, and see them in a different light with the wisdom of hindsight.

Even if he had no new insights, no concrete suggestions, Pitt would feel less alone simply to talk to him.

The cab pulled up and he alighted and paid the driver with something close to a sense of elation.

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.”

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.”