Traitors Gate (35 page)

“But you do not think it impossible she may have found some friendship or admiration elsewhere?”

“Not impossible, Superintendent, but unlikely.” She turned back to face him. “I liked Susannah very much, Mr. Pitt. She was a woman of intelligence, courage, and great integrity. She loved her husband, but she was well able to speak and act for herself. She was not … dominated. She had spirit, passion and laughter….” Suddenly her eyes filled with tears and they spilled down her cheeks. She
stood quite still and wept without screwing up her face, simply lost in a deep and consuming grief.

“I am so sorry,” Pitt said quietly, and went to the door. He found Jeremiah Thorne in the hall outside, looking surprised and a little anxious.

“What the devil are you doing here?” he demanded.

“Mrs. Chancellor has been murdered,” Pitt replied without preamble. “I had reason to believe your wife might also have been harmed. I am delighted that she is not, but she is distressed and in need of comfort. Mr. Chancellor will not be in to the Colonial Office today.”

Thorne stared at him for a moment, barely comprehending what he had heard.

“I’m sorry,” Pitt said again.

“Susannah?” Thorne looked stricken; there was no mistaking the reality of his emotion. “Are you sure? I’m sorry, that’s an absurd question. Of course you are, or you would hardly have come here. But how? Why? What happened? Why in God’s name did you think Christabel was involved?” He searched Pitt’s face as if he might have seen some answer in it more immediate than words.

“Mr. Chancellor had been under the impression that his wife was intending to visit Mrs. Thorne yesterday evening,” Pitt replied. “But apparently she did not reach here.”

“No! No … she was not expected.”

“So Mrs. Thorne told me.”

“Dear God, this is dreadful! Poor Susannah. She was one of the loveliest women I ever knew—lovely in the truest sense, Pitt. I am not thinking of her face, but of the spirit that lit her inside, the passion and the courage … the heart. Forgive me. Come back and ask anything you like later on, but now I must go to my wife. She was deeply fond of Susannah….” And without adding anything further he turned and went towards the library, leaving Pitt to find his own way out.

It was far too soon to expect any information from the medical examiner. The body would barely have reached
him. The physical evidence was slight. As the boatman had said, she could have been put into the water upstream after the tide had turned at about two-thirty and drifted down, or downstream on the flood tide, and have been carried up, and thus left when the ebb began. Or as likely as either of those, she could have gone in roughly where she was found. Below the Tower were only Wapping, Rotherhithe, Limehouse, the Surrey Docks, and the Isle of Dogs. Deptford and Greenwich were too far for the brief time before the change from flow to ebb. What on earth would Susannah Chancellor have been doing in any of those places?

Above were much more likely sites: London Bridge, Blackfriars, Waterloo; even Westminster was not so far. He was talking about miles. Although she was probably put in either from a bridge or from the north bank to have washed up on the north side as she was.

To have gone in where she was found, at the Tower of London, seemed impossible. What could she have been doing there? Nor could she have been in the immediate area. There was only Customs House Quay on one side and St. Catherine’s Docks on the other.

The best thing would be to find out what time she left her home in Berkeley Square, and how. No one had mentioned if she took one of her own carriages; presumably they had at least one. Where had the coachman left her? Was it conceivable she had been killed by one of her own servants? He could not imagine it, but it had better be eliminated all the same.

He was already retracing his steps to Berkeley Square and it took him only another few minutes to reach number seventeen again. This time he went down to the areaway steps rather than disturb them at the front door.

It was opened by the bootboy looking white-faced and frightened.

“We ain’t buyin’ nuffink today,” he said flatly. “Come back another time.” He made as if to close the door.

“I am the police,” Pitt told him quietly. “I need to come in. You know what has happened. I have to find out who did it, so I must discover all you know.”

“I don’t know nuffink!”

“Don’t you know what time Mrs. Chancellor went out?”

“Who is it, Tommy?” a man’s voice called from somewhere behind him.

“It’s the rozzers, George.”

The door opened wider and a servant with his right arm in a sling faced Pitt suspiciously.

Pitt handed him his card.

“You’d better come in,” the man said reluctantly. “I don’t know what we can tell you.”

The bootboy stood aside to allow Pitt in. The scullery was full of vegetables, pots and pans, and a small maid with red eyes and her apron bunched up in one hand.

“Mr. Richards is busy,” the man went on, leading Pitt through the kitchen and into the butler’s pantry. “And the footmen are in the hall. The maids are all too upset to answer the door.”

Pitt had assumed he was a footman, but apparently he was mistaken.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Coachman, George Bragg.”

Pitt looked at the arm. “When did you do that?”

“Last night” He smiled bitterly. “It’s only a scald. It’ll mend.”

“Then you did not drive Mrs. Chancellor when she went out?”

“No sir. She took a hansom. Mr. Chancellor went with her to get one. She was going to be some time, and Mr. Chancellor himself was planning to go out later, in the carriage.”

“They keep only one carriage?” Pitt was surprised. Carriages, horses and general harness and livery were marks of social standing. Most people kept as many and of as high
a quality as they could, often running into debt to maintain them.

“Oh no sir,” Bragg said hastily. “But Mrs. Chancellor hadn’t been planning to go out, and so we hadn’t got the big carriage harnessed up, and Mr. Chancellor was going to use the brougham himself, later. She was going only less than a mile away. I daresay she’d have walked it in daylight.”

“So it was after dark when she left?”

“Oh yes sir. About half past nine, I would say. And looked like it could come on to rain. But Lily saw her go. She would tell you more exact. That is if she can pull herself together long enough. She was very fond of Mrs. Chancellor, and she’s in a terrible state.”

“If you can find her, please,” Pitt requested.

George left Pitt alone to do as he asked, and was gone nearly a quarter of an hour before he returned with a red-faced, puffy-eyed girl of about eighteen, who was obviously extremely distressed.

“Good morning, Lily,” Pitt said quietly. “Please sit down.”

Lily was so unused to being asked to sit in the presence of superiors, she did not comprehend the order.

“Sit down, Lily.” George pushed her with a gentle hand into the chair.

“George says you saw Mrs. Chancellor leave the house last night, Lily,” Pitt began. “Is that so?”

“Yes sir.” She sniffed.

“Do you know what time that was?”

“About half past nine, sir. I’m not sure exact.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“I were up on the landing, from turning down the beds, an’ I saw the mistress going across the ‘all to the front door.” She gulped. “She were wearin’ her blue cloak which she’s so fond of. I saw her go out the front door. That’s the truth. I swear it is.” She started to cry again, quietly and with surprising dignity.

“And you usually turn the beds down at half past nine?”

“Yes, yes … sir …”

“Thank you. That’s all I need to trouble you for. Oh—except, you saw Mrs. Chancellor. Did you see Mr. Chancellor as well?”

“No, sir. ’e must a’ gone out already.”

“I see. Thank you.”

She stood up with a little assistance from George, and left the room, closing the door behind her.

“Is there anyone else you need to see, sir?” the coachman asked.

“You said Mr. Chancellor went out later?”

“Yes sir.”

“But you didn’t drive him?” Pitt looked at the arm in the sling.

“No, sir. I hurt my arm before he went out, in fact just before. Mr. Chancellor drove himself. He’s quite good with a light vehicle. He could manage the brougham easily, and of course he’d called down before, so it was already harnessed.”

“I see. Thank you. Do you know what time he came back?”

“No sir. But he’s often late. Cabinet meetings and the like can go on half the night, if the government’s got troubles … and when hasn’t it?”

“Indeed. Thank you, I don’t think there is anything else I need to ask here, at least for the moment. Unless you can tell me anything you think may be of use?”

“No sir. It’s the most terrible thing I ever heard. I don’t know what can have happened.” He looked grieved and confused.

Pitt left, his mind full of doubts and ugly speculation. He walked back along Bruton Street deep in thought. Susannah had told her husband that she was going to see Christabel Thorne, but apparently that was untrue; unless she had been waylaid somewhere along Mount Street, within ten minutes of leaving home?

But why lie, unless it was something she did not wish him to know? Where could she be going, and with whom, that she felt compelled to keep it from him? Was it possible she knew who the traitor was in the Colonial Office? Or at least that she suspected? Was it even conceivable that it was she herself, stealing information from Chancellor without his knowledge? Did he take papers home with him, and she had somehow seen them?
Or
did he discuss such matters with her, since her family was so prominent in banking? Could she have been on the way, even then, to the German Embassy? Then who had stopped her? Who had found her between Berkeley Square and Upper Brook Street, and taken her to the riverbank and killed her? He must have been waiting for her, if that were true.

Or was it a far simpler, more ordinary explanation, one of an assignation with a lover? Christabel Thorne had doubted it, but she had not thought it impossible. Was that what lay between Susannah and Kreisler, and all the arguments about Africa were of only secondary importance, or even none at all? Was the emotion that racked her guilt?

And why had the hansom driver not come to the police? Surely he would do once the discovery of the body was broadcast throughout London when the newspapers reached the streets. That could only be a matter of hours. The early editions would have it now, and by lunchtime newsboys would be shouting it.

It was a bright day, people were smiling in the sun, women in frocks of muslin and lace, parasols spread, carriage harnesses shining, and yet he felt none of it as he walked, head down, towards Oxford Street.

Was it even imaginable that it was anything to do with the Inner Circle? She had known Sir Arthur, and apparently liked him profoundly. Could she possibly have known anything about his death? Was that the secret that troubled her, some dreadful suspicion which she had at last realized?

If so, who was it? Not Chancellor. Pitt would be prepared to swear Chancellor was not a member. What about
Thorne? Susannah was a close friend of Christabel. She would feel she was betraying a relationship that was dear to her, and yet she would feel equally unable to keep her silence in the face of murder. No wonder Charlotte had said she looked tormented.

Two young women passed him, laughing, their skirts brushing his feet. They seemed a world away.

Did Christabel know anything about it? Or was she speaking the truth when she said Susannah had not been there? Perhaps she had no idea that the husband she seemed so close to was capable of murdering her friend to prevent her from exposing the Circle. How would she bear it when she was forced to know?

Was Jeremiah Thorne, in his own way, another victim of the Inner Circle, destroyed by a covenant made in ignorance, if not innocence, a man who dared not be true to himself, for fear of losing … what? His position, his social standing, his financial credit, his life?

In Oxford Street he hailed a cab and gave the driver the address of the Bow Street station. The medical examiner might have made a preliminary report, at least, a guess as to the time of death, and apart from that, he should see Farnsworth.

He spent the journey considering what steps to take next. It would be difficult. One did not lightly investigate the wife of a cabinet minister, and one of the most popular at that. People would have their own ideas as to what had happened to her, fundamental beliefs they would not wish challenged. Emotions would be raw. He would present an easy target, someone to blame for the grief and the anger, and for the fear which would follow. If a cabinet minister’s wife, in a hansom in Mayfair, could be murdered, who is safe?

By the time he alighted in Bow Street the late editions of the newspapers were on sale, and a boy was shouting in a clear, penetrating voice.

“Extra! Terrible murder! Minister’s wife! Linus Chancellor’s
wife found dead at Tower o’ London! Extra! Extra!” His voice dropped. “’ere, Mr. Pitt. You wanna copy? It’s all ’ere!”

“No thank you,” Pitt refused. “If I don’t know it already, then it is a lie.” And leaving the boy giggling, he walked up the steps and into the police station.

Farnsworth was already there, tight faced and less immaculate than usual. He was coming down the stairs as Pitt reached the bottom to go up.

“Ah, good,” Farnsworth said immediately. “I’ve been waiting for you. Good God, this is awful!” He bit his lip. “Poor Chancellor. The most brilliant colonial secretary we’ve had in years, possibly even a future prime minister, and this had to happen to him. What have you learned?” He turned on the steps and started back up again towards Pitt’s office.

Pitt followed him up, closing the door before replying.

“She left the house at half past nine yesterday evening, Chancellor with her, but he only went so far as to call her a hansom and put her in it. She said she was going to visit Christabel Thorne, in Upper Brook Street, about fifteen minutes away at the most. But Mrs. Thorne says she never reached there, nor was she expecting her.”