The Angel Court Affair (Thomas Pitt 30) (22 page)

‘I can go somewhere else . . .’

‘No. I’ll do it. Can’t afford not to, can I?’

‘Do you want to avoid it?’

‘No . . . I’ll write it,’ Laurence conceded. ‘Interesting subject – ransom. You won’t tell me what it is!’

‘Not yet. But I’ll owe you.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Laurence agreed. ‘Indeed you will!’

The answer was swift in coming. A letter written in the same hand as before was delivered to Pitt’s office at Lisson Grove.

Well done Commander,

Wise of you to accept my offer. Of course you wish to see that she is still alive. At least for the time being. Come to the old chandler’s shop near the Horseferry Stairs this evening at seven o’clock. I doubt you would be foolish enough to do anything stupid like attempt to seize her or anyone with her. If you do you will not pay for it but she will.

Do I need to detail that for you? The human body can take a great deal of pain without finding the release of death.

Do as I tell you and you will see that Sofia is still alive.

Pitt stared at the piece of paper for long, silent moments, then he went to the door and called for Brundage.

Pitt and Brundage walked quickly and almost silently along the narrow road. There was nothing but warehouses between them and the river, and on the inland side of them, a few shops, and lodging houses.

‘Left here,’ Brundage said quietly, and led the way through an alley into the street at the other end. It was even more deserted, and only one of the dozen or so streetlamps was unbroken. The chandler’s shop was right opposite it.

‘He chose well,’ Pitt said with disgust as he picked his way across the broken cobbles of the street. The door had been forced open some time ago and the rusted lock hung on the frame. He pushed it open and Brundage came in behind him, half-lifting the door to get it almost closed again.

The glass in the windows was still whole, and sufficiently clean to let in the light from the lamp immediately outside.

Pitt looked around. The shop was deserted. There were no goods left; they had probably been stolen months ago. There were a few broken candles on the floor and the remnants of the boxes they had come in, some nails and old screws, rat droppings.

‘Watch where you step,’ he warned. ‘Don’t want a nail through your boot.’

‘No, sir,’ Brundage agreed. ‘Good place, though. Come at us out of darkness, and go back into it. But we’ll see him clear for a moment or two, just enough to see her . . . and if she’s alive.’

‘It’s all we need. I’m not doing anything without it,’ Pitt replied, then settled into silence to wait.

‘Can’t we do something?’ Brundage said restlessly as the minutes passed by. Seven o’clock, five past, ten past. ‘He isn’t coming!’ he said between his teeth, anger making his voice hard-edged. ‘He’s set us up as fools!’

‘Maybe,’ Pitt agreed. ‘More likely he’s just exercising his power. He is enjoying watching us wait, and fume. Be patient.’

‘I’d enjoy watching him swing by the neck!’ Brundage snarled.

‘I’m working on it. Actually if it’s done right, they don’t swing. They just drop.’

‘Pity,’ Brundage replied.

He froze, and then turned to face the window as they both heard the sound of hoofs on the road outside. Brundage took a step forward towards the door and Pitt grasped him by the arm as hard as he could, and felt hard muscle with his fingers.

‘She’ll pay for it, not us,’ Pitt hissed at him.

Brundage stopped.

Outside under the lamp a hansom stopped. Pitt strained his eyes to see who was in it. There looked to be two people: a woman close to them, a man sitting on the far side beyond her, his figure no more than a shadow.

The woman turned towards them. She moved awkwardly, as if her body was stiff. Her right arm, closer to them, was heavily bandaged, her fingers curled over as though useless to her. Her thick hair was wild and matted. She turned towards them, staring straight at the window as if she could see through its panes and recognise them staring back at her. One of her eyes was puffed, the cheek below swollen and dark with bruises. There was blood on the other side of her face, and bloodstains on the collar of her clothes. Nothing but the angle of her hand and the blazing stare of eyes, which were almost black, was recognisable as Sofia Delacruz.

‘God in heaven!’ Brundage let out his breath.

Pitt said nothing. He let his hand fall from Brundage’s arm. He knew neither of them would move.

The driver of the cab flicked his whip and it started forward again, leaving Brundage standing stiffly, and Pitt feeling as if he had been turned to ice.

It was well after nine when he got home. He told Charlotte nothing of what had happened, except that he had seen Sofia and knew that she was alive. He was glad that he did not have to face Jemima and Daniel. He was not certain he could have hidden his horror from them, or the feeling of being overwhelmed.

He was sitting on the sofa in his own home, the french windows on to the garden closed and locked for the night. Although the room was warm, and he could smell the perfume of the flowers on the side table, tonight he did not feel its comfort.

‘I’ll have to send someone to Spain to tell him,’ he said to Charlotte, trying to think who could carry such a message, and make Delacruz believe it so he came with him to London and faced that appalling decision.

Charlotte bit her lip. ‘Be careful, Thomas. It could be dangerous. Whoever has her must have a great deal of power. They seem to know a lot about Sofia in Spain, and also here. They very cleverly engineered her capture, even though she was expecting trouble, and her own people were supposed to be looking after her.’ She tactfully forbore from saying that Special Branch had been watching Sofia as well, but he was bitterly aware of it, and knew that she was too.

‘I don’t know if Delacruz believes Sofia’s teaching, or simply loves her,’ Pitt said slowly.

‘You don’t know what anyone really believes. We don’t always know ourselves, until the time comes when it’s needed.’ Charlotte stared at him, her eyes gentle, very grave. ‘If you believe in yourself you can do almost anything, and if you don’t, then you won’t even try, so of course you’ll fail.’

‘Most people don’t really have a religion,’ he said with a sudden sadness. ‘They have social groups they belong to with a moral core, but they wouldn’t live or die for it. Certainly not be horribly murdered like those poor women in Inkerman Road . . . and Sofia . . .’ He felt a wave of nausea at the memory, and a pity that for a moment was overwhelming.

Charlotte stood perfectly still, not moving towards him, meeting his eyes rather than touching him.

‘I’m not talking about Sofia,’ she said. ‘I think she might be prepared to die rather than deny everything she is. Listening to her – and I did, very carefully – I don’t think she would necessarily believe that God would rescue her. But if she denies her own heart and mind, what has she left? A long, slow death from self-loathing?’

Pitt looked up at her and was deeply afraid that she was right. There was something in her not totally unlike Sofia Delacruz. The root of it might be a different faith, but Charlotte was hot-headed, passionate in causes that touched her heart, burningly angry at injustice far beyond the stage where she weighed her own safety. If that were taken from her, if she were made to betray it to protect herself, what of her would be left?

Would he prefer to see her dead rather than eaten away and destroyed? It was a meaningless question because he would always seek another way; cling on to the hope of finding it, even until it was too late. Then blame himself. Nazario Delacruz was probably just the same, unless of course he was behind it.

If that were so, maybe Sofia would rather die than be forced to know that! Except that her captor had sworn that it would be a slow, desperate and terrible way to go, and Pitt believed him.

Charlotte was right. For most people religion was a Sunday thing, a fundamental part of acceptance in society, being a piece of something larger, and on the whole better than the individual, at least in their darker moments. It was a way of knowing and helping others, a common morality far stronger than some gave it credit for.

‘Are you going to speak to Nazario Delacruz yourself?’ Charlotte asked.

‘I can’t leave London now,’ he replied. ‘She’s here, and so is whoever took her. I need to send someone who understands the situation and everything involved in it, and who speaks pretty fluent Spanish.’

‘Have you any men like that?’

‘I’ve already sent the best ones to find out what they can. They’ve been tracing the threats to her that we know about, from the letters. So far these threats are all noise and no substance. I shall see if I can find a diplomat whom I can trust with the confidentiality of it,’ he said. ‘Narraway may know of someone.’

‘A good idea,’ she agreed, relaxing a little at last.

On Vespasia’s doorstep Pitt felt intrusive, and oddly resentful that he could no longer call on Vespasia any time he chose, and expect to be welcome. He had not appreciated before just how much he had taken that for granted.

But he needed Narraway’s advice, and this issue would not wait. He was prepared to inconvenience anybody.

The maid who answered the door held her surprise at seeing him so late. She was too well trained to have done otherwise, regardless of what she thought.

Fortunately Vespasia and Narraway were still up, and Pitt was shown to the quiet sitting room. The moment the maid withdrew, Narraway spoke with concern.

‘What is it? Have you found Sofia Delacruz?’

‘Yes, and no,’ Pitt replied. ‘I have a kind of ransom letter.’ He pulled it out of his pocket and passed it over to Narraway. His voice shook a little. ‘And I know she is alive, as of a couple of hours ago. But she has been beaten, and perhaps one arm broken.’ His voice wavered.

Narraway took the letter and read it silently, then without asking Pitt, handed it to Vespasia.

‘Oh dear,’ Vespasia said softly, putting the letter down on the table beside the small crystal bud vase with its single peach-coloured rose. ‘You have to respond, Thomas. It is very clever, and I believe he means it. In fact quite possibly he has deliberately asked for something he knows he cannot be given.’

‘He means it,’ Narraway agreed. ‘But I am not sure why. What does he want from it? Have you any idea yet who it is, Pitt?’

‘No. It might be someone in her church. I know Melville Smith planned to take over a good deal of the leadership. He may have told himself it was to moderate her doctrine and make it more accessible to a greater number of people . . .’

Narraway smiled very slightly, but there was no joy in it.

‘That much is evident from what he is saying,’ Vespasia agreed. ‘But do you think he planned this?’ She was being polite, as was usual for her, but the shadow of deep emotion was in her eyes.

‘No,’ Pitt said without hesitation. ‘He is an opportunist, as Henrietta said. I think Barton Hall was definitely behind her disappearance, with Smith’s help. It is Barton Hall’s house in Inkerman Road.’

‘Why?’ Vespasia said practically. ‘Because she is an embarrassment to the family? That is absurd. Of course he would rather she had remained in Toledo and not reminded England of her crusade. But not to the point of committing the gruesome double murder of her largely innocent followers. Someone else is exerting an irresistible pressure on him, Thomas. You must find out who it is, and why.’

‘And how,’ Narraway added. ‘How are they doing it? Where is his weakness?’

‘First I must find someone to take this message to Nazario Delacruz in Toledo,’ Pitt replied. ‘Or wherever he is. Please God he is not the man behind it.’

Vespasia winced. She did not need to speak the thoughts that filled her mind; they were visible in her face: the knowledge of love, the belief in it, and then this ultimate, terrible betrayal. It was far sharper to her now than it could have been a year ago, even a few months.

Narraway glanced at her, then at Pitt. ‘I’ll go myself,’ he said firmly. ‘I haven’t used my Spanish in a while, but it’s pretty good. And I could pay for a Spaniard to assist me. I have before. But that is the least of your concerns. None of this makes sense with the little we know so far. There’s a lot of information, but hardly any of it is certain or makes sense of what is happening. There has to be at least one major factor we have no idea of yet. Why did Sofia really come to England?’

‘It certainly wasn’t to preach her new ideas,’ Vespasia said decisively. ‘Interesting as they are, and as profoundly as I think she believes them.’

‘England is the country of her birth, her heritage,’ Pitt said seriously.

‘Then she should know it well enough not to imagine she would have any success here,’ Vespasia responded immediately. ‘She came for some other reason, Thomas. Was she coming here, or was she leaving Spain?’

Narraway and Pitt looked at each other.

‘What about Barton Hall?’ Narraway asked. ‘Do you know whether he is part of it, or the murders being at his property is coincidental? Discovering his part in all this may be of the greatest importance.’

‘I know he is terrified, but I don’t know exactly of what,’ Pitt answered. ‘I saw his face when he spoke on the telephone, just as I was leaving his office. I had told him about Sofia’s habit of helping fugitives, penitents in trouble.’

Vespasia’s eyebrows rose. ‘Really?’

Pitt thought back again to Hall’s expression. ‘But I think he had suddenly realised something rather than that he intended malice from the beginning. I had the impression of a man unexpectedly and severely out of his depth. I think he found Sofia’s troubles embarrassing, but he did not intend her to be hurt, or anyone to be killed. Someone has made use of him . . .’

‘Opportunism?’ Narraway suggested. ‘I don’t trust coincidences. Hall is very traditional, even for a banker. Always done the appropriate things since the day he was born.’