The Angel Court Affair (Thomas Pitt 30) (19 page)

‘Have they got any money?’ Daniel asked with surprise. ‘And do they want her back anyway? The newspapers say that they might not.’

‘Not wanting someone is not the same as letting them be killed if you don’t pay,’ Charlotte said quickly. ‘You’d do that even for someone you really disliked. And they didn’t dislike her, they just didn’t agree with everything she said!’

Jemima looked at Pitt. ‘Is she right in what she is preaching, Papa? Is it possible for anyone to become like God?’

‘Oh, really!’ Daniel said with exasperation. ‘Nobody’s perfect! She’s just letting people hear what they want to hear! Doesn’t matter how bad you are, there’s always a way back? Try hard enough and you can become like God? There isn’t any inequality in forever, we’re all just the same?’

‘She didn’t say that!’ Jemima said angrily, her voice raised. ‘And anyway, people don’t want to hear it! They like to think that they’re special. If just anyone can get to heaven, what’s the point? They only want it if they can shut someone out. Don’t you listen at all?’

‘She’s just a woman, Jemima,’ Daniel said patiently. ‘She’s not a saint. She doesn’t know any more than the rest of us.’

‘Yes she does!’ Jemima retorted. She swung around to Pitt. ‘Doesn’t she, Papa? She is different. She has courage, and passion. She’s seen something that other people haven’t . . . hasn’t she?’

Pitt had known that that question would come, and he would have to answer it, he just wasn’t expecting it so soon. He was not ready. What if he told Jemima that Sofia was honest, and then it turned out she was helping political terrorists? Jemima would have lost not only her belief in Sofia, but in Pitt also. It sounded so weak to say that he did not know, as if he were evading an answer. But he did not know.

‘I don’t know what she is.’ He picked his words slowly. ‘But you should judge what she says for its own value, not because of who says it. Flawed and imperfect people can still speak the truth.’

Daniel frowned. ‘Are you saying it’s the truth, Papa? Or that you know she’s imperfect?’

‘We’re all imperfect.’ This time Charlotte stepped in. ‘Even you, my darling. We love you anyway.’

Daniel ignored his mother and kept on staring at Pitt, waiting for him to answer.

‘Your mother might have said it with a smile,’ Pitt told his son, ‘but I think she meant it very seriously. And it’s time you went to bed. I don’t know what has happened to Sofia Delacruz, but I am doing everything I can to find out and if possible to rescue her and punish whoever is responsible for killing the two women in Inkerman Road. It may have to do with religion, or politics, or money, or private hatred. I don’t know, and I’m not going to judge until I do. That is the end of the subject for tonight.’

Jemima drew in her breath and started to say something else, then changed her mind and gave Pitt a quick hug before saying good night and leaving the room.

‘She’s going to be sick as anything if that Sofia turns out to be a fake,’ Daniel said unhappily. ‘She shouldn’t build up people’s dreams like that. It’s really bad.’

‘Yes it is,’ Pitt agreed. ‘Don’t give up hope yet.’

Daniel stood up slowly. ‘I’m not sure I like religion much. It’s either boring or it’s dangerous. I’m not sure boring isn’t better.’ He walked slowly towards the door, touching Charlotte lightly on the arm as he passed her.

‘Life is a bit like that,’ she said quietly.

‘Boring or dangerous?’ Pitt asked with surprise.

‘Safe or taking risks,’ she replied. ‘And risks can hurt, but at least you tried. Sometimes it’s wonderful.’ She smiled at him, and he felt the warmth flood back into the room. He smiled back without arguing.

Charlotte stood up and quietly went out of the room. Jemima’s distress troubled her. There was something deeper in it than concern for the safety of a woman she had seen once, on a stage.

She went up the stairs and knocked on Jemima’s bedroom door. She heard a muffled answer and took it for permission to go in.

Jemima was sitting on the bed, lost in thought until Charlotte disturbed her. She looked up questioningly.

Charlotte closed the door behind her and sat at the foot of the bed.

‘What is this really about?’ she said directly. ‘Why do you care so much about Sofia Delacruz?’

‘Is she trying to create a stir, or does she really believe what she says?’ Jemima asked.

‘I think she means it. Why?’

Jemima did not answer.

‘Why, if she’s honest does it matter whether it’s true?’ Charlotte persisted.

‘Nobody knows whether it’s true,’ Jemima answered, looking up and meeting Charlotte’s eyes. ‘Nobody can know. If you know, for sure, then it wouldn’t be faith at all.’

‘No,’ Charlotte agreed. She told herself to be patient. ‘Why does that matter?’

‘They hate her because she’s clever, and she speaks out. Some of what she says makes more sense than what they’re saying.’ Jemima’s face was pinched with fear.

Charlotte wanted to comfort her, but no platitudes were going to do that. ‘Yes,’ she agreed.

‘Does Papa really think her own husband could be behind it?’ Jemima’s voice was little more than a whisper now.

‘I don’t think so,’ Charlotte said, puzzled by Jemima’s thoughts. ‘But he has to consider the possibility. Husbands do kill wives sometimes.’

‘Because they’re right?’ Jemima asked. ‘Because they won’t be quiet and do what they’re told? And think what everyone else does?’

Charlotte swallowed. ‘Sometimes. But there are lots of reasons why people quarrel, get angry or jealous, or greedy. Why are you thinking of it now? We don’t know what’s happened to Señora Delacruz.’

‘She’s beautiful, don’t you think?’ Jemima asked, her face puckered with confusion.

‘Yes, in a way she is. Why does that matter?’

‘He probably loved her in the beginning, until she started to talk about her beliefs so well.’

‘He may still love her.’

Jemima took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh.

‘Do you remember the party at Lady Cromby’s?’

‘I remember you going to it, yes.’

‘Her son was there. He was really very nice. No, that’s a stupid word!’ There were tears in Jemima’s eyes now and she blinked them away angrily. ‘He was funny and clever, and . . . very handsome. He liked me. I could see it in his face. Everyone could. We started to talk really sensibly. He asked me what I thought, and I told him. I shouldn’t have. It wasn’t what he thought, and what I said was right. Some of the others could see it. He had asked me if I would go to the theatre with him . . . properly, chaperoned, of course. At the end of the evening he said, “I’d better not go to the theatre after all, because I wouldn’t like the play.”’ She stopped, her throat too tight to speak.

‘I’m sorry,’ Charlotte said gently. She struggled to think of something to say that was honest, and couldn’t find it.

Jemima fished for a handkerchief and found one.

‘I’ve had that before, and it didn’t hurt as much. But I really like him. Annabelle told me afterwards that if I had any sense I would agree with boys, because that’s what they like, no matter how wrong they are. It isn’t right and wrong! It’s just being able to think what you want to, and talk about it. But what if nobody ever loved you? Am I going to have to pretend all the time, or be alone for always?’

She fished again for her handkerchief. ‘To care about what happened at this one party is just stupid, I know that. But do I always have to tiptoe around things and say I don’t know, even if I do?’

Suddenly Charlotte saw it all very clearly. What could she possibly say that was true? She saw herself in her daughter so clearly. She remembered being Jemima’s age. Her friends had got married one by one, and she had not. She was handsome enough, just as Jemima was, but also like Jemima, she was far too opinionated.

But was there another Thomas Pitt around to love and marry Jemima? And how much hurt lay between now, and finding him?

She chose her words with care. ‘You don’t have to say you agree. Sometimes silence is wiser.’

‘I asked him to explain,’ Jemima said reasonably.

‘Oh, darling!’ Charlotte sighed. ‘Never do that. He can’t possibly explain if he doesn’t understand! And if you think about it, you’ll realise that . . .’

‘But is that why they killed Señora Delacruz?’

‘We don’t know that she’s dead, and if she is we don’t know who killed her, or why.’

‘But will anyone love me if I say what I believe, and it’s not what they believe?’ Jemima persisted.

‘You may not find love easily, but if you do, it will be real, and it will last. Even so, it’s a very good idea to keep your own counsel at times. Believe me, I have learned that the hard way myself, at times. Not just with men, with anybody. Right is not the same thing as wise.’

Charlotte leaned forward and hugged her, relaxing at last as Jemima hugged her back.

There was another large article by Frank Laurence in
The Times
the next morning. He did not belabour the fact that neither the police nor, as far as anyone knew, Special Branch had made any progress in discovering who had murdered the unfortunate women in Inkerman Road, or what had happened to Sofia Delacruz. He did not even speculate as to whether she was alive or dead.

Pitt read on, then was startled to see what it was that Laurence was really addressing. It was written with such searing honesty that he could hear Laurence’s voice as if he were beside him at the table. He could even see in his mind’s eye Laurence’s face with its high intelligence and the quick, bright humour.

‘If she is dead it is a tragedy, and unquestionably one of the ugliest crimes in this city,’ Laurence wrote.

But if she is alive and well, able to contact us if she chose, then it is a sin of a deeper nature. There are many ways of cheating people, of robbing them of money, land, opportunity, of office or even glory they have earned. Often it is by deluding us so that our own greed is our undoing. The prospect of getting something more than we have deserved is a lure for many of us. I’ve tasted it! I’ve been tempted. In small ways I’ve taken the bait. Who hasn’t? It can be as small a thing as making a wager when you have the odds far better than the other person.

But if Sofia Delacruz has deceived us then she has taken our dreams, our trust in prayer, and the most sacred words on the lips of a believer. A man in terror for his life cries out to God for help. How many soldiers’ last words on earth are a prayer? How many of us weighed down by guilt plead in prayer for forgiveness? A woman nursing a sick baby begs God to help her, save her life, ease her pain at any cost? How many of us are children, overwhelmed by life, confused and stumbling, turning to God for a light anywhere along the path?

And we look to heroes. We search for those who have found a faith in the God we only seek somewhere in the darkness around us. We see honour in them, and courage to do what we long to. We see mercy and wisdom, and above all faith. If they can find a way, then so can we. Is there anything more blessed, more healing than hope?

How deep is the sin of those who ask for the trust of the innocent, then destroy it? And we are all children at heart when we are frightened, alone and in need.

Of course there is a place for questioning one doctrine or another. There is a place for doubt and for argument. But it is not on the lips of those who promise hope. If you take the role of hero and accept the trust of the vulnerable, then you have made a covenant with them. We do not expect perfection, but we expect honour.

Has Sofia Delacruz blasphemed the God she claims to believe in by betraying that promise? We don’t know yet. We are working on it, striving day and night, doing all we can, because it matters. If she has not, then there is something beautiful we can treasure. If she has, then we need to find a way to heal it, to find another light to follow. Perhaps one of us needs to become that light. It doesn’t always have to be someone else.

To Pitt it would almost have been better if Laurence had done as so many of the more lurid newspapers had, and simply dealt on the horror of the crime in Inkerman Road. Even anger against a woman being outspoken, inappropriate, opinionated and self-seeking would be only what was expected. Those who agreed would be satisfied, and those who did not would ignore it.

Laurence appealed to the thoughtful, the fair, those who were looking for hope and trust in these desperately uncertain times. He was attacking those who were the anchor of the rest, the loyal, and slow to judge.

He folded the newspaper and rose from the table. ‘Not very helpful,’ was the only comment he made.

When he arrived at Lisson Grove Stoker told him he had made an appointment for him to visit Barton Hall, but it was not for an hour and a half yet.

Pitt thanked him. ‘Any news from Spain?’ he asked, without expecting any more than a perfunctory answer. Stoker could have told him already if there were.

‘Nothing that helps, sir. But I looked into Laurence a bit more.’ Stoker was standing halfway between Pitt’s desk and the door as if he could not make up his mind.

Pitt felt a sudden misgiving. ‘Why? What did you find?’

‘Odd, sir,’ Stoker replied. ‘He told you he knew Teague at school only by repute.’

‘Yes,’ Pitt agreed. ‘But Teague said he knew him quite well. One of them lied. Do you know which one, or if it matters why?’

‘Laurence lied, sir.’ Stoker stood stiffly in the middle of the floor. ‘He was really bright, ahead of his years. Smart-arsed little beggar, so they said, but easily up to it academically. Lot better student than Teague. But of course rubbish on the sports field. Oddly enough, Hall wasn’t too bad. He was bright too, so they said. Got a few prizes of the academic sort. So did Laurence. But later, of course.’

‘Laurence lied?’ Pitt said reluctantly. ‘What might Teague know about him that Laurence would rather we didn’t?’

Stoker frowned. ‘Could Laurence be a suspect in this?’ he asked dubiously. ‘I can’t see how!’