The Angel Court Affair (Thomas Pitt 30) (18 page)

‘I can’t tell you anything about Teague,’ he said. ‘Nor would I if I could, Mr Laurence.’

Laurence laughed outright. ‘That is the world of difference between us, Mr Pitt, in a nutshell. I can tell you a great deal about Dalton Teague, especially the people he helped, and those he destroyed. And bit by bit, I shall do.’

Pitt stared at him, searching his face, but the emotion was gone; he saw only intelligence and wit.

‘Good luck with Mr Hall,’ Laurence added. ‘He is more interesting than you may yet appreciate, but keep looking.’ He turned and walked away, leaving Pitt to return to his office to ponder what he had just learned.

BEFORE PITT went to see Barton Hall at his bank, he went back to Lisson Grove to see if there was any news from Latham and the investigation at Inkerman Road, or from the men he had sent to Spain. Not that he expected them to find much. It was not a local crime. But the more he thought of it, the more concerned he was that the origin of it lay in Spain. Perhaps it was time he sent one of his senior men to see the Spanish Ambassador and ask a few pertinent questions, tactfully, of course. It was an extremely delicate time.

Five minutes later James Urquhart stood in front of him, smiling slightly. He was a good-looking man in a gentle way, and very well spoken.

‘I think it’s time we paid a friendly visit to the Spanish Embassy,’ Pitt began. ‘Don’t make a big issue of it, just assure them as a courtesy that we are doing everything we can to find Señora Delacruz, and to bring to justice whoever killed the other two women. You could ask the Ambassador if he has any advice to offer us.’ He looked at Urquhart closely to see if he understood both the delicacy and the urgency of the situation. He had been a diplomat before joining Special Branch. There were times when both his knowledge and his skill were remarkably useful.

‘Yes, sir,’ Urquhart nodded. ‘I doubt they will be of much help, poor devils, but you never know. What is it exactly that we need?’

Pitt had given it some consideration. ‘What they know of Señora Delacruz, or suspect but would not wish officially to say,’ he replied. ‘Hints, suspicions, confidences, things they would rather not have attributed to them.’

‘Right,’ Urquhart agreed. ‘Understood, sir.’ He excused himself and left.

A moment later Stoker came in looking unhappy. ‘Sorry, sir, there’s nothing from Latham. About all they can do is rule out the villains they know. We never thought it was any of them anyway.’ He half sat on the edge of Pitt’s desk. Pitt stood by the window. ‘Narrowed down the time by putting together a lot of other bits and pieces,’ Stoker went on. ‘Two or three strangers they saw turned out to be a plumber and two delivery men, all accounted for.’ He frowned. ‘Do you think it’s political, sir? Or some religious lunatic?’

‘Political.’ Pitt was surprised how easily he answered. He had not realised he was so certain. ‘Not that it would be beneath them to use a religious maniac.’

‘Spanish?’ Stoker asked.

‘The politics, or the maniac?’ Pitt enquired.

Stoker smiled for the first time. ‘Both. If it’s the maniac it has to be Spanish. None of us has that much heat in religion.’ He said it with a shadow of regret.

Pitt was curious. It was a side of Stoker he had not seen before.

‘Sorry, sir,’ Stoker said.

‘Don’t be,’ Pitt responded instantly. ‘You’re right. This is a crime of deep passion, no matter how hideous that is. Henrietta Navarro told me how Sofia took in all kinds of penitents and fugitives from one thing and another: the Church’s outcasts, or society’s. Why not political anarchists running from the law after an atrocity, whether they were guilty or not? Some of the poor devils were driven to their wits’ end, and beyond.’

‘Looks like she played some dangerous games,’ Stoker agreed. ‘But what’s Hall got to do with it? What did she come here for?’

‘I don’t know,’ Pitt admitted. ‘I am going to see him. He has a lot of explaining to do as to why he lent her the house in Inkerman Road, and who else knew about it.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ Stoker straightened up immediately.

‘No need,’ Pitt shook his head.

‘If it’s anarchists, sir, and they murdered these two women, and took Sofia, and Mr Hall is on their side . . .’

‘There’s nothing to suggest he is,’ Pitt pointed out, stopping at the door and blocking Stoker’s path. ‘In fact, since he’s a banker I would expect him to be the very opposite. Banking flourishes in order. He is supremely established, right at the heart of it. Church, Crown and money! How rooted in order can you be? If Sofia has any sympathy with rebels, anarchists or just the hungry, then it’s little wonder he disapproves of her. They’re natural enemies.’

‘Bloody hunted and prey!’ Stoker said, then blushed at his own outspokenness.

It was the first time Pitt had laughed in a while. It was not so much amusement as surprise. ‘Indeed,’ he said with feeling. ‘Unfortunately we can’t do much about it.’ He walked as far as the coat stand and took his jacket off the hook.

Before Pitt could put it on there was a knock on the door, and when he opened it Brundage was standing there with Dalton Teague a yard or two behind him. Brundage looked embarrassed. Before he could announce the obvious, Teague stepped forward.

‘Afternoon, Commander.’ He held out his hand.

Pitt had no alternative but to accept it. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Teague.’ It seemed almost redundant to ask if he had anything to report. The gleam of satisfaction in his eyes belied the gravity of the expression. Pitt put his coat on the hook again, stepped backwards into his office and invited Teague in.

‘Thank you.’ Teague sat down in the large, leather-seated captain’s chair, leaving Pitt to sit in the other, opposite him. He crossed his long legs and leaned back. ‘Hideous business in Inkerman Road,’ he said gravely. ‘It begins to look like a different kind of matter. Newspapers are getting a little hysterical, which doesn’t help. Not that helping is what they have in mind, of course.’ He had a bitter little smile on his face. ‘“Give aid and comfort to the enemy” at times.’

‘Very ugly,’ Pitt agreed. He wondered what Teague had come for.

‘I suppose you’ve read some of the articles Frank Laurence has written? He seems to be taking this whole business very seriously as a political threat, although he doesn’t make it very clear of what kind. War with Spain, I suppose? But then he is better at suggestions than facts. Always was.’

‘You’ve known him a long time?’ Pitt kept his tone casual, but he was suddenly interested. Laurence already disliked Teague, but he had said it was by repute. They had been at the same school and university, but not in the same years.

Teague gave a slight shrug. ‘Since schooldays, Commander. He hasn’t changed so much. He was an eager little bastard then. Always inquisitive, looking, listening, adding up. Memory like an elephant.’

‘You know him well?’

Teague’s eyes widened.

‘Good God, no! He was very junior. Ran errands for older boys, you know? Traditional. We all do it. Fetching and carrying, that sort of thing. He did it for me for a while. Got to know him.’

Pitt could imagine it easily. He had never been to such a school, but he knew those who did. The hierarchy was rigid, with traditions going back not decades but centuries. Was Teague lying, or Laurence? And why? It seemed so trivial.

Pitt was aware of Teague watching him. He kept his face expressionless, although Teague would notice that too. It was unnatural. He must find some response to make.

‘Do you think he has any concern in this, other than to make a good story?’ he asked. ‘And of course get credit for it.’

Teague smiled. ‘Commander, I don’t think Frank Laurence has any object in life other than to get a good story, and credit for it, let the chips fall where they may.’

‘Have you something to report, Mr Teague?’ Pitt asked quietly.

‘Ah,’ Teague leaned back in his chair again. ‘Time to report to the team captain?’ He was smiling, but his eyes were expressionless, guarded. Pitt had no idea whether the remark was a joke, or a jibe.

‘You are not a man who wastes his time,’ Pitt pointed out.

Teague’s body relaxed a little and he crossed his legs the other way.

‘You must already be aware that Barton Hall owns the house in Inkerman Road where the murders took place. Which is not so surprising. Yes, of course you are. It has come to my notice, through certain connections I have, that both Sofia and her husband, Nazario Delacruz, have been known to extend both sympathy and a degree of assistance to fugitives from the law in Spain. Some of them were penitents of one sort or another, but some were political, fleeing from the Government – perhaps unjustly accused, perhaps persecuted for their fights against oppression. I make no judgements.’

‘And your point regarding the murders?’ Pitt said softly. He did not have to pretend interest, not of the facts, of which he was well aware, but that Teague also knew.

‘Sofia’s sympathies are with the persecuted, for whatever cause, and justified or not,’ Teague replied, watching Pitt’s face closely. ‘Some who fought for the rights of the poor are admirable. Others are not. Some anarchists simply want to destroy. They might welcome any violence, even that of this new, miserable war. They worship chaos and hate anyone who possesses what they do not. The authorities make little distinction.’

It was what Pitt himself had been thinking, but he was still acutely interested in what Teague had to say, and why. Another thought came to him that was increasingly disturbing as he listened to Teague’s reasoning: how much of what he was saying had he learned from listening to and watching Pitt’s own men in Special Branch? Was he now leading or learning? Why? How much else was there he had observed, and was not speaking about?

As Pitt listened to Teague he tried to work out whether Nazario Delacruz was allied to the Spanish anarchist movement. Could this be revenge against Sofia by the Spanish Government? Or was it intended to manipulate Nazario to betray any of those he had sworn to help? All these thoughts had occurred to Pitt before Teague came into the room. The question was whether Teague was here to give him information, or to gain it: even whether he had some personal interest that he was using Pitt, and Special Branch, to pursue.

Teague was related to half the aristocracy of England, even indirectly to the Prime Minister himself. That might mean everything or nothing. Traitors could come in the highest places. He dare not refuse Teague’s help, but he could direct Stoker to speak discreetly to the men about exactly what they said in front of Teague, or any of his employees with whom they co-operated.

Or was it already too late?

Was it even possible Teague’s purpose was to test the discretion of Special Branch? It had enemies in government as well as friends. The Prince of Wales was no friend of Pitt’s. Pitt’s dismissal would please him greatly. There were many other men he would consider far better in his place, not only more skilled, but who would understand the unspoken rules of how gentlemen treated each other, what secrets were kept, who owed what and to whom. Narraway had known. Pitt was learning, but slowly, and with mistakes.

‘I have some contacts in Spain,’ Teague was saying. ‘When I went yachting at one time or another. But there’s no point in calling in favours to learn something you already know.’ His eyes searched Pitt’s face. ‘For example you must be aware of the political climate in Spain at the moment . . .’

‘Of course,’ Pitt agreed.

‘Is it possible Señora Delacruz has alliance with anarchists? Might she be protecting one of the fugitives after the murders in Barcelona? Or some other episode like it?’

Pitt was aware of the tension in Teague. He was awkwardly still, as if his muscles were locked tight to stop some involuntary movement that might betray him.

Pitt’s thoughts raced before he answered. Surely it was impossible for a man like Dalton Teague to have sympathy with anarchists? He had some other reason for wanting to know. Sympathy with the Spanish authorities? Extremely unlikely. Something to do with spies, and the new Spanish-American War?

‘It is possible,’ he said slowly. ‘She is certainly radical enough.’

‘But you don’t know?’ Teague urged. ‘Smith has said nothing to you about her protecting anyone?’ Again his eyes searched Pitt’s face. Then he suddenly became aware of it and broke the tension. ‘If she had some mistaken pity for the anarchists it would become embarrassing for us . . . even more.’

Pitt was acutely aware of how embarrassing it was already.

‘Or possibly she betrayed them,’ Teague went on. ‘Or they thought she did. Is that possible, from what you know?’

‘I don’t know enough to answer that,’ Pitt replied. ‘Not yet.’

‘Perhaps when you do, you will tell me?’ Teague smiled.

‘Meanwhile I will make all the enquiries I can.’

As Teague rose to his feet, Pitt did also. This time he was the first to offer his hand.

It was now too late to see Barton Hall, so Pitt went home. He was still deep in thought, and unprepared to face Jemima’s anxious questions, but a warning glance from Charlotte told him that his response was important. What he did badly now would not be easily undone.

They were sitting in the parlour after dinner. Unusually all four of them were present. Homework had been completed and no one had any other commitments.

‘Do you know anything more about Señora Delacruz, Papa?’ Jemima asked anxiously.

‘Not yet, but we are looking for her and following every clue we can find,’ he answered, aware that it sounded empty. He saw Charlotte’s warning glance.

‘She could be dead,’ Daniel pointed out.

Pitt was about to tell him to be quiet, and the words were on his tongue when he knew that that too was something they would all have to face. ‘Of course she could,’ he agreed. ‘But the most likely thing is that she is being held prisoner somewhere, and when everyone is really upset and desperate, whoever is holding her will ask for a ransom.’

‘Who’d pay?’ Daniel asked.

‘The people at Angel Court, of course,’ Jemima said sharply.