The Angel Court Affair (Thomas Pitt 30) (13 page)

But had Elfrida been coming down the stairs, perhaps hearing Cleo cry out? Or had she been going up, trying to run away? Or to warn Sofia? Even to defend her?

Pitt wondered how the murderer had got into the house. The front door was unmarked and no windows at either the back or front appeared to have been jemmied. Had one of the women let him in? At which door, back or front?

He stood staring at the body, picturing it in his mind. She was lying slightly sideways, her head a couple of steps higher than her feet. The knife was in her chest, and yet she seemed to be going upwards. She must have turned to face the killer. Had she been going down then he would have been behind her. She would have fallen forward much further.

If it was someone she knew, had she run only after he had killed Cleo? If she had been afraid immediately then she would surely have gone out of the door and into the street, screaming for help.

Or maybe Sofia had done that. But then where was she? Escaped? Still alive and taken somewhere else? Or dead, but the body in some other place?

He went upstairs and found the linen cupboard. He took two sheets and spread one out over Elfrida’s body, then returned to the kitchen and forced himself to look at Cleo.

Her face seemed vacant, as if the feeling had drained out of it with the pools of blood on the floor. Again he had to swallow his rage at the flies and study the way the body lay, the clothes, her position relative to the table, the stove, the door. He must learn everything he could.

One leg was twisted half under her. She must have turned. He worked out which way she had been looking when she fell. It was towards the back door. But had that been to run out of it or could her attacker have come in that way?

He studied the few articles on the floor: a wooden spoon, a cloth, a china bowl broken into two pieces. There was spilled egg yolk on the boards, dried hard now. She had been starting to make something. Whatever else she had been going to use was still in the pantry. It must have been a calm hour of the day when they were busy doing simple chores and then violent and terrible death had come on them, with perhaps only seconds’ warning.

It was another twenty minutes before the local police arrived accompanied by the surgeon, and the formal process of investigation began. Pitt had found nothing more, except further signs of struggle, but slight. There was a dent in the wooden table in the hallway. The raw wood was still new. But it could have been made by anyone in the last month or so. There was a small tear in the net curtain by the window beside the front door. He saw three other small tears neatly mended, suggesting that this one was recent. It could mean anything or nothing.

Inspector Latham was a tall, spare man. He introduced himself to Pitt, glanced around the kitchen and noted the body covered over with the bed sheet. He cleared his throat as if to say something, then changed his mind. He nodded to the police surgeon, a Dr Spurling, who nodded to Pitt, then bent down, removed the sheet carefully, and began his examination.

‘Thank you, sir,’ Latham said to Pitt. ‘Very nasty indeed.’ He, too, had a long, sad face and it expressed his emotions perfectly. ‘We’ll take it over from here. But before you leave, you’d better tell me what you know. Who are these women? They’re not locals. The house belongs to the family of Mr Barton Hall, the banker. Part of his wife’s estate, if I remember correctly. They rent it out.’ He shook his head. ‘Very nasty indeed.’

Briefly Pitt told him about Sofia Delacruz and her mission in England.

Latham shook his head. ‘Oh dear. Well, if we find anything we’ll let you know. We’ll question the neighbours. There are half a dozen of them hanging around already. We’ll keep you informed. Any trace of Señora Delacruz and we’ll report it.’ He nodded. It was dismissal, and Pitt was happy to leave.

Pitt arrived home late and tired. Charlotte had already heard of the murders at Inkerman Road. They were in the late editions. He did not tell her the details, or how he felt about discovering the bodies of the two women, but she knew him well enough not to need words. The news had spread like a flood tide through London. By morning all the newspapers carried the story in various degrees of horror from the stately loathing of the most respectable through to the lurid gore of the pamphlets in the East End. Common to them all was the speculation about religious vengeance and the shame that such a crime should happen to foreigners visiting London. The police were excoriated everywhere. Pitt felt a rising anger in their defence, and an embarrassment that Special Branch, which had been given the specific task of protecting Sofia Delacruz, and forewarned of the threat, should have so signally failed.

At first glance Laurence’s article in
The Times
was less cruel than it might have been. Pitt looked at it with trepidation, and when he came to the end he felt a breath of relief. Then he looked across the breakfast table at Charlotte and saw her expression.

‘You’ve read it?’ he said quietly.

She nodded, her face bleak with sympathy. He stared at her for a moment or two, and slowly he understood. Laurence’s article avoided all the direct and obvious criticism, but it was sharper, funnier than the others, and filled with additional information about Sofia Delacruz and the substance of her very different philosophy. It explained quite clearly why it could be so disturbing to the Establishment. It raised questions the other accounts did not. It caught the attention, made one laugh and shiver at the same time.

It ended by reminding the readers of the radical changes of the last half-century. Science had given people new worlds, but it had also shaken the foundations of the old.

The advances of science make it difficult for many of us now to believe in the Bible as the literal truth. If it is figurative, then who is to interpret it for us? Science is impartial. It offers no comfort, no moral authority, and certainly no help or mercy. The strong survive. But the strong are not necessarily the funny, the brave, the wise or the gentle. And they are not necessarily the ones we love. Why did Sofia Delacruz’s message frighten people and make them so angry? Is this what we have become, killers of those we do not understand?

Frank Laurence’s article would be read, and remembered, by the people with influence, and the power to call Pitt’s position into question. None of it could he disclaim.

Charlotte said nothing for a moment, then when she did speak it was very quietly. ‘Is he right, Thomas? Have we really come to so terrible a place that we doubt everything? I know poverty is worse than ever, and violence. But hasn’t it always been bad somewhere?’

How could he answer her without either lying to comfort her, or telling the truth and destroying her sense of safety, of trust?

‘I don’t know whether I believe what the Church of England teaches. It isn’t really enough, is it? It blurs all the questions I really want to ask. I get the answer that it’s a divine mystery, or I wouldn’t understand. Mostly it’s simply that I don’t need to know. Jemima asked the Reverend Mr Jameson some questions a month ago, and was told that she should just be kind and obedient, and that was all she needed.’

Pitt could imagine the scene, and about how well it had been received.

‘Poor man had no idea himself,’ he said with some sympathy. Jemima could be devastatingly direct.

‘Then it would have been better if he had said so,’ Charlotte answered ruefully, and not without sympathy. ‘But is Laurence right, Thomas? Whether she means to or not, is Sofia Delacruz eating away at the foundations of the Church, and therefore also at the Throne? The Queen is the Protector of the Faith, and so at least nominally the head of the Church. Do you suppose Sofia has even thought of that?’ She bit her lip. ‘Or is that exactly what she is meaning to do?’

‘That would be one reason for silencing her,’ Pitt admitted unhappily. It was a possibility he did not want to think about, and yet he must. ‘It’s just not the way to do it!’

‘Should we let anyone silence her?’ Charlotte asked. ‘What if she’s right? What if she won’t be silenced, except by violence?’

‘Thank God that’s not my decision,’ Pitt said with intense gratitude.

‘And if it were?’ she persisted.

‘I don’t know what I believe.’ He found the words hard to say. ‘I wish it could be as simple for me as it was for my mother. She believed. It was there in her face, in her eyes. It’s all I can remember about her really clearly. Sometimes I see her, for an instant, in Jemima, although really she looks like you. It’s just in the turn of her head, an expression sometimes. Or maybe I just want to, so I can repair some old mistakes I can’t reach any more.’ He smiled at her very slightly, and felt her hand close round his and her fingers tighten.

In the office Brundage was waiting for Pitt, and almost as soon as he had finished his report on the few facts they had gained from Latham’s men, Stoker came in also. His bleak, bony face was grim. He acknowledged Brundage, and then spoke directly to Pitt.

‘The police surgeon, Spurling, has nothing useful to add, sir. From the post mortem, seems the two women were both caught pretty much by surprise. The one in the kitchen, immediately. Never had time to defend herself. The older woman on the stairs looked to be trying to run away. Neither of them fought worth speaking of. No wounds where you’d expect them if they had. Looks like maybe they knew whoever did it, poor creatures. At least the bastard didn’t cut them up alive.’ His expression registered a degree of anger Pitt did not remember seeing in him before. Then he thought with sudden surprise that the younger woman had had lovely hair, auburn in colour, like Kitty Ryder, whom they had spent so long searching for only a few months ago, and who had held Stoker’s imagination so tightly. It was a side of his nature Pitt had not seen before. He wondered about the family who would grieve for Cleo Robles.

‘We’ve got to find these swine,’ Stoker said with a wave of fury. ‘I don’t care if they think it’s some religious crusade, or what they believe about anything. This is plain, brutal murder.’

‘We’ll get ’em on the end of a rope, sir,’ Brundage said suddenly. ‘I don’t know if it’s a help or not, but it’s got a hell of a public outcry.’

Pitt winced. ‘I know. I suppose someone has to waste time going through all the lunatics who threatened her. Sort out the dangerous ones from the crackpots.’

‘I’ll do that, sir,’ Brundage said quickly. ‘I’d like to scare them witless. Let them think I believe they ripped those poor women’s bellies out. They won’t open their mouths again in a hurry.’

Stoker gave a rare smile at the thought.

‘While you’re about it, don’t forget that some of them might actually be respectable,’ Pitt said bitterly. ‘Religious lunacy doesn’t know any bounds. If you doubt it, take a look at some of the things we did in the Reformation. We burned a fair few people for their beliefs.’

‘We?’ Stoker’s eyes opened wide.

‘Yes, “we”,’ Pitt answered decisively.

There was a knock on the door and a young man looked in, his face pale, eyes wide.

‘What is it, Carter?’ Pitt asked.

‘Mr Teague is here, sir,’ Carter replied breathlessly. ‘Dalton Teague. He’d like to speak to you, sir.’

Even Stoker looked impressed, in spite of himself.

Pitt understood. Dalton Teague was a national hero. He excelled at many sports, but at cricket he was supreme. He played not only with such skill and leadership that he seldom lost, but he had a grace that was a joy to watch. He typified the courage, honour and sportsmanship that was the essence of the game. Pitt remembered seeing him at Sofia’s lecture, and being surprised. Had he come to exert some influence in the search for Sofia? As if they were not doing all they could! Now he was standing for Parliament. As a Conservative candidate he must loathe everything Sofia Delacruz stood for.

‘What on earth does Teague want?’ Pitt said with exasperation. He was not in the frame of mind, or the position of strength, to receive a national figure at the moment. He searched for an excuse, and found none. He glanced at Stoker, then at Brundage.

‘You had better ask him to come in,’ he conceded.

Almost immediately the magnificent figure of Teague filled the doorway. With his pale-coloured clothes and fair hair he seemed to carry the light with him.

Pitt rose to his feet and stared at him levelly. ‘Good morning, Mr Teague. What may we do for you?’ he said courteously, offering his hand.

Teague shook it with a powerful grip, then sat down gracefully in the nearest chair. He did not acknowledge either Brundage or Stoker, not as if he had not seen them, but as if they were servants, to whom one naturally did not speak.

‘Good of you to see me,’ he said casually. His features were excellent, his skin burned golden by the sun.

‘I imagine you have no time to spare for calling on anyone without a specific purpose,’ Pitt replied, keeping up his own pleasant expression with something of an effort.

‘Precisely,’ Teague agreed. ‘So I shall come to the point. Like everyone else, I am aware of the murders of the women from Angel Court, and the disappearance of Sofia Delacruz. I am not an admirer of her teachings. Frankly I think them preposterous. But I am an Englishman, and I do not wish her to come to harm while in my country. I shall be happy to do all I can to help find her, and if it should be necessary, help to rescue her from whoever is responsible for this.’ He smiled very slightly, holding up one hand as if to prevent Pitt from interrupting him.

‘I have considerable means at my disposal,’ he went on. ‘You may not be aware of the extent of my interests, but I can call upon scores of men all over the Home Counties to do whatever is necessary to search for Señora Delacruz. You cannot be unlimited in the number of men you can deploy, since your responsibility is far wider than this one miserable incident.’ He smiled bleakly. ‘God knows, the world seems to be on the brink of a precipice, and losing its balance. Even America, which I’ve always thought of as the sanest and most idealistic of countries, is setting out on wars of aggression all over the place.