The Angel Court Affair (Thomas Pitt 30) (15 page)

‘Thank you,’ Pitt accepted his tea, and one of the tiny chocolate sponge cakes that came with it. He must remember not to eat it in one mouthful.

‘Do you think Barton Hall had anything to do with it?’ Narraway asked, sitting back comfortably and crossing his legs. He was naturally elegant in a way Pitt never would be. Birth and education gave him a confidence no later learned skills could ape.

‘The possibility is too great to ignore,’ Pitt replied. He was not being evasive, but trying to say exactly what he meant, with the implications understood.

Narraway looked pensive. ‘Do you know the man’s importance, Pitt? I don’t mean socially, I mean in banking circles?’

‘He’s head of one of the smaller banks that cater to major figures,’ Pitt replied, wondering what Narraway was thinking. ‘Including the Church of England, and some members of the Royal Family. I’m sure Sofia is an embarrassment to him. She would be to most prominent families, but I really can’t see him kidnapping her, or her followers, whatever he thinks of her theology. I did wonder if he would try to have her arrested, or even deported. Not that that matters now. This is far beyond embarrassment. The women killed in Inkerman Road were two of the most awful murders I’ve seen.’

Narraway glanced at Vespasia, then back at Pitt.

‘You’re thinking emotionally. Consider the financial implications.’

‘Of what?’ Pitt tried to keep the rising emotion out of his voice and failed. He heard the revulsion and the panic in it. ‘If you are asking me if I think he’s involved in the murder of the two women, no I don’t. But even if he were, I have no doubt the bank would disown him, publicly and vehemently, within hours.’

‘I don’t doubt it either,’ Narraway agreed. ‘But scandal of any sort is bad for banking, almost all of which is built upon confidence. Money is largely a fiction, a piece of paper that represents real assets, or the trust that assets exist. Take away this trust and it is worth nothing. A run on one bank is like a contagious disease. People panic and follow with runs on other banks. No doubt you played dominoes as a child?’

‘One or two fall and they all go,’ Pitt answered. ‘And if personal scandal about a banker could do that then there wouldn’t be a bank in Europe still standing.’

Narraway smiled bleakly. ‘Not personal scandal, for heaven’s sake! Or there wouldn’t be a throne standing either,’ he said drily. ‘Power would be changing hands every season. Every form of stability would go, and investment would go with it. And without investment there’s no industry, no prosperity. I’m talking about loss of confidence as a motive for actions that otherwise seem out of proportion. Don’t lose sight of Barton Hall as a man with extraordinary interests to guard.’

Pitt looked at Narraway closely, trying to read behind the cool dark eyes. ‘Perhaps I should investigate your new interests since you were elevated to the House of Lords.’

Narraway’s smile reflected his amusement at what seemed to him an absurdity, and the still painful memory of having been betrayed by his own men, which had resulted in his being dismissed from a job he loved, and at which he was extraordinarily gifted. Pitt was still awkwardly aware that he far from filled Narraway’s shoes. No one had been condescending enough to lie to him that he was. The kindest thing that could be said came from Narraway himself. It was that he had qualities to bring to it that Narraway lacked, painful qualities such as mercy and self-doubt, which meant he would not allow the power of it to go to his head. He might attain it, but he would never exercise it too much. Doubt would always creep in and question.

‘By all means do,’ Narraway said mildly. ‘I am not on the board of his bank, but I have acquaintances who are.’

‘Do you know Barton Hall?’ Pitt pursued it. ‘Can you tell me anything that might be useful?’

‘I know his background,’ Narraway said, pursing his lips. ‘He comes from a wealthy county family. Studied at Oxford and did very well. Economics, of course, and the humanities. I don’t know what specifically, but he graduated with a good first. Mixed with all the right people, and was surprisingly popular, for a man who played few sports and has very little social charm.’

Vespasia was watching Narraway. It flickered through Pitt’s mind to wonder how well they were coming to know each other in the radically new situation of sharing not only a home but a bed. He recalled vividly with both affection and amusement his early days with Charlotte. But they had been so much younger, and therefore perhaps less vulnerable. Vespasia had been long widowed from a moderately comfortable marriage. The greatest love of her life had been an Italian revolutionary named Mario Corena. He had been killed only a few years ago, here in London. It was the first time they had met since they battled for Italian freedom in their youth, side by side at the barricades in Rome, in the revolutions that had swept across Europe, briefly victorious, and then beaten within the year.

That she loved Narraway, Pitt did not doubt. Their relationship had also been forged in battles, but of a different sort. They had helped Pitt in some of his past cases, struggling against crime and confusion. They had won in the end, but not without paying a price of one sort or another. Some cases had been small: an individual injustice, a single death, or innocence shattered. Others had been large; the cost of failure would have been terrible.

They had all worked side by side, sitting around the kitchen table planning, questioning, counting the risks and the price of failure, always finding a way to push ahead. Trust, and the shared passion in victory and defeat, had become love. Pitt hoped, perhaps with a degree of naïvety, that these would turn out to be the happiest years of Vespasia’s life.

Narraway, on the other hand, had never been married. Without question he had had affairs, some more honourable than others, but he had allowed Pitt to form the opinion that none of them had tested the depth of his ability to love wholly and passionately. If he had married Vespasia without loving her more than he could control, more than he could ever walk away from, then Pitt would not forgive him. And he would pity him. The inability to love was an affliction, not a sin. He realised that as he watched Narraway looking at Vespasia now, and thought of his own feelings for Charlotte.

‘What about Dalton Teague?’ he said at last.

Narraway turned his attention back to the moment. ‘Interesting. Why do you ask?’

‘He offered his help today,’ Pitt replied, waiting for the response.

‘I assume you accepted it?’ Narraway asked curiously.

‘You didn’t!’ Vespasia said at the same moment.

Pitt saw Narraway’s head lift and a sudden expression of doubt cross his face. Then he controlled it and it was gone, as if it had been no more than an illusion of the light.

But Pitt understood. It was fear. Narraway had come only lately into Vespasia’s life. He had no idea whom she had known in the rich years of her past, who had loved her, or how deeply, and perhaps how unwisely. He felt vulnerable, because it was a part of her life in which he had no place, and the exclusion hurt. He did not want to think of those who might have loved her then, and to think she loved them equally.

Pitt concealed his perception. ‘I’m afraid I could think of no good reason to refuse him,’ he said ruefully. ‘He has many admirers all over the country, and financial investments employing people who would do anything he asked of them. I have very few men I can spare from what they are already doing, and he knows that.’

‘I’m sure he does,’ Vespasia agreed with a twisted little smile.

Pitt did not ask her opinion of Dalton Teague, but he would do, later, alone.

Narraway nodded slowly. ‘I imagine you have considered that the purpose of this atrocity could be primarily to attract attention and engage a large part of your forces? Yes, of course you have. That was not intended as a question.’ He looked across at Vespasia and saw the flicker of amusement and acknowledgement in her eyes.

‘Yes, I have,’ Pitt agreed. ‘Teague is also a man I cannot at the moment afford to have as an enemy. God knows, I have enough.’

‘No,’ Narraway agreed. ‘You can’t. But be careful, Pitt. Be very careful.’

PITT STOOD in front of Sir Walter again. He was not surprised to have been asked to report, although he had nothing useful to say, and it was a waste of time that he could have used to more effect. Sir Walter probably knew that, but he too had to appear to be in control.

‘Yes, sir,’ Pitt said respectfully, standing before Sir Walter’s desk. Sir Walter himself stood by the window, the sunlight making a halo of what was left of his silver hair.

‘Ugly business,’ Sir Walter muttered, as much to himself as to Pitt. ‘Very ugly indeed. Delicate situation regarding Spain just at the moment. War with America and so on. Sure you’re doing what you can. Narraway says you were a remarkably good policeman . . .’ His blue eyes narrowed and were surprisingly bright. ‘You damn well better be!’

Pitt felt even more uncomfortable than he had foreseen. It sounded as if he were making excuses. ‘It’s a police matter, sir. Regular murders don’t concern Special Branch, even if they are brutal. Can’t take it out of police jurisdiction.’

‘Damn it, man!’ Sir Walter said savagely. ‘The two women were Spanish citizens. What do I tell the Spanish Ambassador?’ He waved his hand impatiently and paced a couple of yards as if his pent-up energy needed release. Then he stared at Pitt again. ‘That’s beside the point. What really matters is what this is all about. I’m beginning to wonder if this is the beginning, not the end. You’re new to Special Branch. What does Narraway say about all this? I presume you’ve asked him? He might have left the service but he hasn’t left the country. Still a patriot!’

He swivelled round and knifed his hand through the air again. ‘No! Damn it! I hate the word. Excuse for some of the worst blackguards in history to do whatever they want! But he’s not a petty man, Pitt. He’d give you advice, if you’ve the humility to ask it, and the wisdom to accept it.’

Pitt felt a cold prickle of anxiety. Special Branch had been specifically asked to look after Sofia Delacruz, which meant it was Pitt’s responsibility. He had taken it too lightly. He had let her down, and therefore also Narraway, who had recommended him for the position. And of course, all the men who served under him. And Charlotte, who had believed in him always. He wondered whether to apologise again, or if that would make him seem even weaker. Heaven knew, the evidence was bad enough.

Sir Walter was staring at him, waiting.

‘Yes, sir,’ Pitt replied. ‘I saw him only yesterday evening.’

‘Hmm. Say anything useful?’

Pitt knew it was unwise to say he had not. ‘No, sir, only that there may be far more behind this than at first appeared. Possibly someone is using her . . .’

‘Yes, of course someone is using her, damn it!’ Sir Walter cut across him. ‘But who? Spanish anarchists, probably. God knows, they have enough cause to be desperate.’ He pulled his mouth into a thin, bleak line. ‘What do you know about them, Pitt? Worst of it was a bit before your time . . .’

Pitt could not hide his amazement.

‘Not your time alive, man!’ Sir Walter exploded. ‘Your time in the job! Superintendent of Bow Street, what the devil would you care about Spanish disasters and their repercussions? Nothing to do with your home-grown murders. No reflection on you. Can’t bear people who can’t keep their minds on their own jobs! What do you know about Zarzuela?’

Pitt didn’t know if it was a place or a person.

‘Nothing, sir.’

‘January of ’92,’ Sir Walter began. ‘Andalusia. Dirt poor. Peasants worked all the hours of daylight for the price of a loaf of bread.’ He resumed his pacing back and forth in front of the window, turning at exactly the same spot on the carpet each time. ‘Four hundred of them, armed with scythes, pitchforks, whatever came to hand. Marched on the village of Jerez de la Frontera.’

Pitt did not interrupt.

Sir Walter cleared his throat and continued, his voice quieter. ‘They meant to rescue five of their friends imprisoned for life because they were involved in a labour dispute ten years before.’

Pitt thought of the labour disputes he had known in London, the terrible poverty, the injustice, finally the desperation. They had become violent, but it was minor. There had been no reprisals of the sort Sir Walter was suggesting. He waited for the end of the story, the part that echoed today, into 1898 and the murders in Inkerman Road, where two women had been eviscerated, and a third taken away, swallowed into silence.

‘It was not done by the military.’ Sir Walter stood still while he spoke, but his voice shook a little and his eyes were shadowed and intense. ‘Four of the leaders were garrotted. They do it by tying the person to a post, then from behind, putting a scarf around their throat and twisting it until they are strangled to death. Zarzuela was one of them. He died calling out to the crowd to avenge them.’

Pitt waited. There had to be more. So far it had no possible relevance to Sofia Delacruz.

‘Heard of General Martínez de Campos?’ Sir Walter asked.

‘Yes,’ Pitt said quickly. ‘Wasn’t he behind the restoration of the Spanish monarchy in ’74?’

‘Yes, among other things. He also put down a Cuban insurrection pretty brutally. Damn fool! All leading up to the war with America now! By late ’93 he was Minister for War in Spain. He was recruiting the troops in Barcelona when an anarchist named Paulino Pallas threw a bomb, killed one soldier and five bystanders, and unfortunately the general’s horse, poor beast. But not the general.’

‘Pity.’ The word was out of Pitt’s mouth before he considered the wisdom of it.

‘Quite,’ Sir Walter agreed. ‘Pallas was tried and found guilty – of course. Not even allowed to say goodbye to his wife or mother – God knows why. He was shot by a firing squad – shot in the back, for God’s sake! He too promised “Vengeance will be terrible”!’

Bits and pieces of foreign news began to come back into Pitt’s memory.

‘November ’83,’ he said aloud. ‘The bomb at the opening night of the opera season in Barcelona. Lots of people killed . . .’