Seven Dials (3 page)

“I am aware of that!” Pitt said sharply. “What is your name?”

“Tariq el Abd, sir,” the man replied.

Pitt produced his card again and held it out, assuming that el Abd could read English. “I am from Special Branch. I believe the police have already spoken to you, but I need to ask you a few further questions.”

“Oh, I see.” He pulled the door wider open and reluctantly permitted Pitt to go through the scullery and up a step into a warm and exotically fragrant kitchen. There was no one else there. Presumably, el Abd did such cooking as was required, and other household staff who did the laundry and cleaning came in daily.

“Would you like coffee, sir?” el Abd enquired graciously, as if the kitchen were his. His voice was low and he spoke almost without accent.

“Thank you,” Pitt accepted, more out of curiosity than a desire for more coffee. There was a smell of spices in the air, and of strange-shaped loaves of bread cooling on a rack near the farther window. Unfamiliar fruit lay rich and burnished in a bowl on the table.

El Abd took only a few moments to heat the coffee to the desired temperature again and bring a tiny cup of it over to present to Pitt, offering him a seat and enquiring after his comfort. He was a lean man who moved with a silent grace that made his age difficult to estimate, but the weathered skin of his hands made Pitt guess him to be well over forty, perhaps closer to fifty.

Pitt thanked him for the coffee and sipped it. It was so strong as to be almost a syrup, and he did not care for it much, but he kept all expression from his face except polite enquiry.

“What happened here last night?” he asked.

El Abd remained standing, so Pitt was forced to look up at him.

“I do not know, sir,” the manservant replied. “Something awakened me, and I arose to see if Miss Zakhari had called, but I could not find her anywhere in the house.” He hesitated.

“Yes?” Pitt prompted him.

El Abd looked down at the floor. “I went to the window and I saw nothing to the front, so I went to the back, and I saw movement through the bushes, the ones with the flat, shining leaves. I waited a few moments, but there was no more sound, and I knew of no reason to suppose there was anything wrong. I thought then that perhaps it was only the sound of the door that had wakened me.”

“What did you do then?”

He lifted his shoulders slightly. “I was not required, sir. I went back to my bed. I do not know how long it was until I heard the people speaking, and the police called me downstairs.”

“Did they show you a gun?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And ask you whose it was?”

“Yes, sir. I said it was Miss Zakhari’s.” He looked down at the floor. “I did not know then what it had been used for. But I clean it and oil it, so of course I know it well.”

“Why does Miss Zakhari have a gun?”

“It is not my place to ask such questions, sir.”

“And you don’t know?”

“No, sir.”

“I see. But you would know if she had ever fired it before, since you clean it.”

“No, sir, she has not.”

“Thank you. Did you know Lovat… the dead man?”

“I do not think he has been here before.”

That was not precisely what Pitt had asked, and he was aware of the evasion. Was it deliberate, or simply a result of the fact that the man was speaking a language other than his own?

“Have you seen him before?”

El Abd lowered his eyes. “I have not seen him at all, sir. It is my understanding that the policeman knew who he was from his clothes and the things in his pockets.”

So they had not asked el Abd if he had seen Lovat before. That was an omission, but perhaps not one that would make a great deal of difference. He was Miss Zakhari’s servant. Now that he knew she was accused of murdering Lovat, he would probably deny knowledge of him anyway.

Pitt finished his coffee and rose to his feet. “Thank you,” he said, trying to swallow the last of the sweet, sticky liquid and clean his mouth of the taste.

“Sir.” El Abd bowed very slightly, no more than a gesture.

Pitt went out of the back door, thanking Constable Cotter as he passed him. Then he walked along the mews and around the corner into Connaught Square, where he looked for a hansom to take him back to Narraway.

“WELL?” Narraway looked up from the papers he was reading. His face was a little pinched, his eyes anxious.

“The police are holding the woman, Ayesha Zakhari, and completely ignoring Ryerson,” Pitt told him. “They aren’t investigating it too closely because they don’t want to know the answer.” He walked over and sat down in the chair in front of Narraway’s desk.

Narraway breathed in deeply, and then out again. “And what are the answers?” he asked, his voice quiet and very level. There was a stillness about him, as if his attention were so vivid he dared not distract himself by even the slightest action.

Pitt found himself unconsciously copying, refraining from crossing one leg over the other.

“That Ryerson helped her, at least in attempting to dispose of the body,” he replied.

“Indeed…” Narraway breathed out slowly, but none of the tension disappeared from him. “And what evidence told you that?”

“She is a slender woman, at the time wearing a white dress,” Pitt replied. “The dead man was slightly over average height and weight. It took two mortuary attendants to lift him from the barrow into the wagon, although of course they may have been more careful with him than whoever was trying to dispose of him.”

Narraway nodded, his lips tight.

“But her white dress was not stained with mud or blood,” Pitt went on. “Only a little leaf mold from where she had knelt on the ground, possibly beside him where he lay.”

“I see.” Narraway’s voice was tight. “And Ryerson?”

“I didn’t ask,” Pitt said. “The constable was quite aware of why I enquired, and of the obvious conclusions. Do you want me to go back and ask him? I can do so perfectly easily, but it will then-”

“I can work that out for myself, Pitt!” Narraway snapped. “No. I do not want you to do that… at least not yet.” His eyes flickered for a moment, then he looked over at the far wall. “We’ll see what happens.”

Pitt sat still, aware of a curious, unfinished air in the room, as if elusive but powerful things were just beyond the edge of perception. Narraway had left something unsaid. Did it matter? Or was it just an accumulation of knowledge gathered over the years, a feeling of unease rather than a thought?

Narraway hesitated also, then the moment passed and he looked up at Pitt again. “Well, go on,” he said, but with less asperity than before. “You’ve told me what you saw and what the constable reported. We’ll save Ryerson from himself, if we can. The next move is up to the police. Go home and have breakfast. I might want you later.”

Pitt stood up, still looking at Narraway, who stared back at him-his eyes bright, almost blank of emotion, but with deliberate concealment. Pitt was as certain of that as he was of the charge in the room, like electricity in the air on a sultry day.

“Yes, sir,” he said quietly, and with Narraway still looking at him, he went out of the door.

WHEN HE GOT HOME, it was late morning. His children, Jemima and Daniel, were at school, and Charlotte and the maid, Gracie, were in the kitchen. He heard their laughter the moment he opened the front door. He smiled to himself as he bent and took off his boots. The sounds washed around him like a balm: women’s voices, the clatter of pans, a kettle whistling shrilly. The house was warm from the kitchen stove, and there was an odor of freshly laundered cotton, still a little damp, clean wood from the scrubbed floor, and baking bread.

A marmalade-striped cat came out of the kitchen doorway and stretched luxuriously, then trotted towards him, tail up in a question mark.

“Hello, Archie,” Pitt said softly, stroking the animal as it swiveled under his hand, pressing against him and purring. “I suppose you want half my breakfast?” he went on. “Well, come on then.” He stood up and walked silently down to the doorway, the cat following.

In the kitchen, Charlotte was tipping bread out of its tin onto a rack to cool, and Gracie, still small and thin although she was now well over twenty, was putting clean blue-and-white china away on the Welsh dresser.

Sensing his presence rather than seeing him, Charlotte turned around, questions in her face.

“Breakfast,” he replied with a smile.

Gracie did not ask anything. She was outspoken enough once she was involved. She did not regard that as impertinence, rather the role of helping and looking after him, which she had taken upon herself almost from the time she had arrived in the household, at the age of thirteen, half starved, and with all her clothes too big for her. Her hair had been scraped back off her bright little face, and although then she could neither read nor write, she had a wit as sharp as any.

Now she was far more mature, and considered herself to be an invaluable employee of the cleverest detective in England, or anywhere else, a position she would not have exchanged for one in service to the Queen herself.

“It’s not the Inner Circle again, is it?” Charlotte said with an edge of fear in her voice.

Gracie stood frozen, the dishes in her hands. No one had forgotten that dreadful, secret organization which had cost Pitt his career in the Metropolitan Police-and very nearly his life also.

“No,” Pitt said immediately and with certainty. “It’s a simple domestic murder.” He saw the disbelief in her face. “Almost certainly committed by a woman who is the mistress of a senior government minister,” he added. “Equally certain he was there, if not at the time, then immediately afterwards, and helped her attempt to get rid of the body.”

“Oh!” she said with instant perception. “I see. But they didn’t get away with it?”

“No.” He sat down on one of the straight-backed wooden chairs and stretched out his legs. “The alarm was raised by someone who heard the shots, and the police arrived in time to catch her in the back garden with the corpse in a wheelbarrow.”

She stared at him in a moment’s disbelief, then saw from his eyes that he was not joking.

“Must be a bleedin’ idjut!” Gracie said candidly. “I ’ope ’e in’t in charge o’ summink wot matters in the gov’ment, or we’ll all be in the muck!”

“Yes,” Pitt agreed with feeling. The cat leapt up onto his knee and he stroked it absently, fingers gentle in the deep fur. “I’m afraid we will.”

Gracie sighed and started to sort out the dishes he would need for breakfast, and to make him a cup of tea first. Charlotte went to the stove to begin cooking, her face eloquent of the trouble she could foresee.

THE EVENING NEWSPAPERS had carried a brief account of the finding of Edwin Lovat’s body at Eden Lodge; however, the following morning they were full of the murder in detail.

“There you are!” Gracie said, presenting the
Times
and the
London Illustrated News
to Pitt at the breakfast table. “All over the place, it is. Says the foreign woman did it, an’ the man wot’s dead was real respectable, like, an’ all.” Charlotte had taught her to read, and it was an accomplishment of which the maid was extremely proud. A door had been opened into new worlds previously beyond even her imagination, but more important than that, she felt she could face anyone at all on an intellectually, even if not socially, equal footing. What she did not know, she would find out. She could read, therefore she could learn. “Doesn’t say nothin’ ’bout the gov’ment man at all!” she added.

Pitt took both papers from her and looked at them for himself, spreading the pages wide over half the table. Charlotte was still upstairs. Jemima came in looking very grown up with her hair in pigtails and her school pinafore on over her dress. She was ten years old, and very self-possessed, at least on the surface. She was growing tall, and the slight heels on her buttoned-up boots added to her height.

“Morning, Papa,” she said demurely, standing in front of him and waiting for his reply.

He looked up, ignoring the newspaper, aware that she required his attention, more especially lately, since their adventure in Dartmoor, when their lives had been in danger and for the first time he had been unable to protect them himself. His sergeant, Tellman, had done an excellent job, at considerable risk to his own career. He was still at the Bow Street station, now under a new superintendent, a man named Wetron. Wetron was cold and ambitious, and with good cause; they believed him to be a senior member of the Inner Circle, possibly even with eyes on the leadership.

“Good morning,” he replied gravely, looking up at her.

“Is there something important in there?” she asked, glancing for a moment at the paper spread across the table.

He hesitated only a moment. His instinct was always to protect both his children, but especially Jemima, perhaps because she was a girl. But Charlotte had told him that evasion and mystery were far more frightening than all but the very worst facts, and being excluded, even for the best of reasons, hurt. And Jemima especially nearly always understood if she were being shut out. Daniel was two years younger, and far more self-contained, happier to go about his own affairs, less reflective of Pitt’s mood. He watched and listened, but not as she did.

“I don’t think it will be,” he said frankly.

“Is it your case?” she pressed, watching him solemnly.

“It’s not a dangerous one,” he assured her, smiling as he said it. “A lady seems to have shot someone, and an important man might have been there at the time. We have to do what we can to see that he doesn’t get into trouble.”

“Why?” she asked.

“That is a good question,” he agreed. “Because he is in the government, and it would be embarrassing.”

“Should he have been somewhere else?” she said, seeing the point immediately.

“Yes. He should have been at home in bed. It happened in the middle of the night.”

“Why did she shoot him? Was she afraid of him?” It was the obvious thought to her. A few months ago she had known what it was like to get up in the middle of the night, pack all your belongings and run away in a pony cart along the edge of the moor in the dark.

“I don’t know, sweetheart,” he said, putting out his hand and touching her smooth, blemishless cheek. “She hasn’t said anything yet. We still have to find out. It’s just like police work, the way I used to do it a year ago, before I went to Whitechapel. There’s nothing dangerous in it at all.”

She looked at him steadily, deciding if he was telling her the truth or not. She concluded he was, and her face lit with satisfaction. “Good.” Without waiting any longer she sat down in her own place at the table. Gracie put her porridge in front of her, with milk and sugar, and she began to eat.

Pitt returned his attention to the newspaper. The
Times
article was unequivocal. It gave a glowing obituary to Edwin Lovat, lauding him as a distinguished soldier before illness had obliged him to return to civilian life, where he had used his skills and experience in the Near East to great effect in the diplomatic service. A bright future had lain ahead of him until he was cruelly cut down by an ambitious and ruthless woman who had grown tired of his attentions and desired to seek richer and more influential patronage.

Saville Ryerson’s name was not mentioned, even by implication. Exactly what patronage the murderess had sought was left to the imagination of the reader. What was spelled out very clearly was her unquestionable guilt of the crime, and the fact that she should be tried for it, and hanged without argument or delay.

Pitt found the ease of assumption behind the paper’s account disquieting, even though he knew far more than the writer of the article. There was an essential absurdity in denying the story, given that the murder weapon was Ayesha Zakhari’s gun and she was discovered actually trying to dispose of the body. She knew the man, and had offered no excuse at all, reasonable or otherwise, for anything that had occurred.

Perhaps it was the failure to mention Ryerson which galled him, and the fact that the writer had not even enquired into the case, but had leapt to his conclusions rather than simply reporting the evidence.

Jemima looked at Pitt solemnly, and he smiled at her. He saw the tension ease in her shoulders, and she smiled back.

He finished his breakfast and stood up as Charlotte and Daniel came into the kitchen. The conversation turned to other things-the school day, what there would be for dinner, and the question of whether they would go to watch the cricket match on Saturday afternoon, as long as it was not rained off, or to the local outdoor theater, also if the weather permitted. An argument ensued as to what one could do in the rain, and ended only when both children left for school and Pitt set out to go to Narraway’s office.

HE FOUND THE ROOMS empty and closed, but Jesmond, waiting on the curb, told him that Narraway would be back within an hour and would be angry if Pitt were not there waiting for him.

Pitt masked his impatience at the time wasted. He could have been closing the case he had been working on before this tragedy happened, which as far as he could see was irrelevant to Special Branch. He paced up and down the small room at the bottom of the stairs, turning the matter over and over in his mind, to no effect at all.

Narraway arrived forty-five minutes later, looking grim. He was wearing a beautifully cut light gray suit in the latest fashion, with high lapels, and a gray silk waistcoat underneath.

“Come in,” he said briskly, unlocking the door of his room and leaving Pitt to follow. He sat down behind the desk without glancing at any of the papers on it, and Pitt realized he had already read them. He had been in early, and left to go somewhere important, which he had foreseen and dressed for accordingly. It had to be to see someone high in government. Did they really care about the murder of Edwin Lovat, or that Ayesha Zakhari should be blamed? Or had something else happened?

Pitt sat down in the opposite chair.

Narraway’s face was tight, his eyes wide and wary, as if even here in his own room there were something to be guarded against.

“The Egyptian ambassador went to the Foreign Office late last night,” he said in carefully measured words. “They, in turn, have spoken by telephone to Mr. Gladstone, and I was sent for this morning.”

Pitt waited without interrupting, the chill growing inside him.

“They were aware of the murder in Eden Lodge by yesterday afternoon,” Narraway continued. “But it was in the afternoon papers, so half of London knew of it.” He stopped again. Pitt noticed that Narraway’s hands were stiff on the desk, his slender fingers rigid.

“And the embassy knew that Ayesha Zakhari was arrested,” Pitt concluded. “Since she is an Egyptian citizen, I suppose it is natural for them to enquire after her well-being, and ensure that she was properly represented. I would expect as much of the British embassy were I arrested in a foreign country.”

Narraway’s mouth twisted a little. “You would expect the British ambassador to call the first minister of that country on your behalf? You overrate yourself, Pitt. A junior consul might see that you were appointed a lawyer, but not more than that.”

There was no time to be embarrassed or annoyed. Obviously something had happened that worried Narraway profoundly.

“Does Miss Zakhari have some importance that we were unaware of?” Pitt asked.

“Not so far as I know,” Narraway replied. “Although it does raise the question.” His expression of anxiety deepened. His fingers curled and uncurled, as if he were making sure he could still feel them. “The question raised was one of justice.” He took a deep breath, as though it was difficult for him to say this, even to Pitt. “The ambassador was aware that Saville Ryerson was at Eden Lodge when the police found Miss Zakhari with the body, and they want to know why he was not arrested also.”

It was a perfectly reasonable question, but that was not the thought that rippled through Pitt like fire in the bones. “How did they know that?” he asked. “Surely no one allowed her to contact her embassy and say such a thing? Anyway, didn’t she tell the police at the time that she was alone? Who told the ambassador?”

Narraway’s mouth twisted in a bitter smile and his eyes were hard. “An excellent question, Pitt. In fact, it is the principal question, and I don’t know the answer. Except that it was not the police, nor was it any lawyer of Miss Zakhari’s, because she has not yet asked for one. And Inspector Talbot assures me that she has not answered any further questions or mentioned Ryerson’s name to anyone.”

“What about the constable who was first on the scene… Cotter?”

“Believe me, Talbot has had him over the coals at least twice, and Cotter swears he spoke to no one outside the station, except you.” There was no accusation in his voice, not even doubt.

“Which leaves us with our anonymous informer who heard the shots and called the police,” Pitt concluded. “Apparently he-or she-remained around to see what happened, and presumably saw Ryerson and recognized him.”

“It was hardly the first time he’d been there,” Narraway pointed out. “They may have seen him on several occasions before.” He frowned, his fingers still stiff on the tabletop. “But it raises further questions, beginning with why tell the Egyptian embassy and not the newspapers, who would almost certainly pay them?”

Pitt said nothing.

Narraway stared at him. “Or Ryerson, himself,” Narraway went on. “Blackmail might net them a nice profit, and on a continuing basis.”

“Would Ryerson pay?” Pitt asked.

A curious expression crossed Narraway’s face: uncertainty, sadness, but something which was unquestionably painful. With an effort he wiped it away, concentrating on the practicalities of the answer. “Actually I doubt it, particularly since, if Miss Zakhari has chosen to deny he was there, he would be seen to be a liar when it came to court, because the police know he was there. He is a very recognizable figure.”

“Is he? I don’t think I’ve ever seen him.” Pitt tried to bring him to mind, and could not.

“He’s a big man,” Narraway said very quietly, his voice a little raw. “Over six feet tall, broad-shouldered, powerful. He has thick, graying hair, and strong features. He was a fine athlete as a young man.” His words were full of praise, and yet he said them as if he had to make himself do it, a matter of justice rather than desire. For some inner reason of his own he was compelled to be fair.

“Do you know him, sir?” Pitt asked, then instantly wished he had not, although it was a necessary question. There was something in Narraway’s face which told him he had intruded.

“I know everyone,” Narraway replied. “It is my job to know them. It is your job too. I am told that Mr. Gladstone desires us to keep Mr. Ryerson’s name out of the case, if it is humanly possible. He has not specified how it is to be done, and I assume he does not wish to know.”

Pitt could not conceal his anger at the injustice of it, and he resented the implication that he should try to. “Good!” he retorted. “Then if we are obliged to tell him that it was impossible, he will not have the information to argue with us.”

There was not even a flicker of humor in Narraway’s face; even the usual dry irony in his eyes was absent. In some way this touched a wound in him not yet healed enough to be safe. “It is I who will answer to Mr. Gladstone, Pitt, not you. And I am not prepared to tell him that we failed, unless I can prove that it was already impossible before we began. Go and see Ryerson himself. If we are to save him, then we cannot work blindly. I need the truth, and immediately, not as it is unearthed a piece at a time by the police. Or, God help us, by the Egyptian ambassador.”

Pitt was confused. “You said you knew him. Would it not be far better for you to see him? Your seniority would impress on…”

Narraway looked up, his eyes angry, his slim hand white-knuckled on top of the desk. “My seniority doesn’t seem to impress you. At least not sufficiently for you to obey me without putting up an argument. I am not making suggestions, Pitt, I am telling you what to do. And I do not propose to explain myself. I am accountable to Mr. Gladstone for my success, as I will answer to him for my failure. You are accountable to me.” His voice rasped. “Go and see Ryerson. I want to know everything about his relationship with Miss Zakhari in general, and that night in particular. Come back here when you can tell me, preferably tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir. Do you know where I will find Mr. Ryerson at this time of day? Or should I simply make enquiries?”

“No, you will not make enquiries!” Narraway snapped, a flush in his cheeks. “You will tell no one but Ryerson himself who you are or what you want. Begin at his home in Paulton Square. I believe it is number seven.”