The Angel Court Affair (Thomas Pitt 30) (8 page)

Whether you are mad or wicked no longer matters. You preach evil, and must be fought with all weapons at the disposal of decent people. Change your words, take back your teachings, or prepare to become the victim of your own sins of pride.

I speak for every man!

Adam

Pitt put down the paper slowly. How deep a threat was intended? The writing was steady, an easy script without flourish, the name presumably symbolic.

The next two were more hasty, written in anger, but the theme was there again: pride, a woman who did not know her place and sowed discontent, disorder, the break-up of hearth and home, which has been the centre of civilisation, of comfort, art, law, the keeping of peace for countless generations.

The further half-dozen or so were angrier, less literate and less thought through, but the fear of anarchy, and the destruction of the known and loved, was the same.

Did they amount to serious threat? Pitt did not know, but he could not afford to ignore the weight of feeling they expressed. They were written by people who felt their way of life threatened. To some Sofia was only a symbol of the disorder that seemed to lie at the edges of everything, but she was highly visible, a target they could all see.

He stuffed the letters into his jacket pockets and stood up to leave.

As he walked across the cobbles of Angel Court, towards the figure of the angel near the entrance, he was still uncertain as to whether Sofia Delacruz had left so dramatically in the middle of the night in order to whip up even more public interest in herself, and so gain a greater platform for her message. He remembered vividly the passion in her face, the timbre of her voice ringing with certainty. He had no doubt she was a woman who would do what she believed to be right, and take the consequences later. But was that holiness, was it human obsession, or was she on the brink of insanity? Was she, albeit unintentionally, the danger the latter witness believed her to be?

He could understand very well why Melville Smith wanted so much for her to be acting in holiness. The world was full of uncertainty. They were hurtling towards the end of the century. There was social and religious unrest everywhere. The sense of certainty that had been there since the Middle Ages was suddenly questioned on all sides.

There were too many questions that no longer had answers. There was a seed of anarchy in belief, not as to which God was true, but in any God at all. It matched the already growing social anarchy in politics throughout Europe. This year had seen a meeting of the Anti-anarchist Society in Rome, where they had founded an international police force. It was long overdue.

And as he turned the corner into the street and walked towards the main road, he saw the newsboy selling papers. The headline said something about mounting tensions in South Africa.

He must liaise with the Spanish Embassy to make sure his enquiries did not ruffle diplomatic feathers, and tomorrow he would go to see Barton Hall and find out what he knew of Sofia Delacruz and her real purpose in coming to England.

EARLY THE next morning the hansom drew up to the kerb in Eaton Square and Pitt stepped down on to the pavement and paid the driver. He walked past the wrought-iron railings and up the steps to the panelled oak door of Barton Hall’s home. Apart from the lion-headed door knocker, the house was as elegantly Georgian as all the others facing the square. It was formal and perfectly proportioned. There were no flippant fancies to mar its classic exterior.

Pitt raised the door knocker and let it fall. It was only moments before it was opened by a man of immense dignity, grey-haired before his time. His face had an expression of imperturbable calm.

‘Good morning, sir. How may I help you?’ He was holding a small silver salver, the sort used to take a gentleman’s card.

Pitt dropped his card on it, adding as he did so, ‘Commander Pitt of Special Branch. I would like to speak with Mr Barton Hall. It is a matter of the greatest urgency.’

‘Yes, sir. If you would like to come in I will see if Mr Hall is available.’ The butler stepped back into the wide, marble-flagged hall.

‘Perhaps you would like to wait in the morning room, sir?’ It was not an enquiry so much as a direction. He indicated the way with a very slight movement of his hand.

Pitt was happy to accept. Morning rooms were often revealing not only of a man’s character but also of his means, his interests, and the comfort and discipline of his household.

This one was no exception. As the butler closed the door and his footsteps retreated over the marble, Pitt stared around at the dark curtains, the polished wood floor with its very traditional red and blue Turkey carpet and the one wall entirely lined with books, comprising sets uniformly bound in leather. As he had expected, they were arranged according to size and colour, rather than by subject matter or by author. They looked expensive, well cared for, infrequently moved from their places.

He walked over and pulled one out. The shelf was sufficiently well dusted that there was no mark. He smiled and pushed the book back into line. It was a history of Schliemann’s excavations in the ruins now believed to be Troy.

He turned and looked more closely at the two paintings on the further walls. They were rather staid pastoral scenes, undisturbed by any signs of real country life. Everything was artistically proportioned from the haywain to the slant of the thatched roof.

There was one photograph that caught his eye. It was in a frame on one of the smaller tables. It showed the head and shoulders of a middle-aged woman whose dark hair was pulled back in a fashion of at least ten years ago. At first glance she was ordinary, her features strong but a little heavy for handsomeness. But the longer Pitt looked at her, the more he saw in her, not only a frankness but a humour. She seemed the sort of woman that, when you knew her well, you would miss very much when she were absent. Barton Hall was a widower. Was she his wife?

His thoughts were broken by the opening of the door as Barton Hall came in and closed it silently behind him. He was a tall man with slightly receding hair, which was greying at the sides. He was very formally dressed, bony wrists showing beneath his white shirt cuffs.

‘Good morning, Commander Pitt,’ he said quietly. ‘How may I be of assistance to you?’ Hall’s voice was more than pleasing, there was a depth to it, almost a music.

‘Good morning, Mr Hall,’ Pitt replied, inclining his head. ‘I believe you are related to Sofia Delacruz?’

Hall winced very slightly. ‘I am,’ he admitted. ‘She is a cousin on my late mother’s side of the family.’ He remained standing. ‘But please do not hold me accountable for her eccentric views. Believe me, sir, were I able to dissuade her from speaking of them publicly, I would already have done so.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I apologise for the embarrassment she may cause. I am acutely aware of it, but helpless to prevent her. All the family’s pleading has changed nothing.’

Pitt felt a degree of sympathy with him. There were few people who were not embarrassed by their families at some time in their lives, but usually not to this extent. Hall was also clearly touched by anxiety.

‘I am not looking for your help in moderating her speaking,’ Pitt replied. ‘I already assumed you had done all you could.’

Hall frowned. He was still standing in the middle of the Turkey rug looking vaguely at a loss. ‘Then what is it you wish of me?’

‘Sofia Delacruz was staying at a residence in Angel Court . . .’ he answered. He saw Hall’s bleak smile. He imagined the humour at the name of the place, and the tension of long-known foreboding. ‘She disappeared from there some time during the night before last,’ he continued. ‘Her people are anxious because it has meant they have had to cancel a meeting this evening.’

Hall’s eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘And you thought she might have come here? I’m sorry, I have no idea why she should do something so . . . irresponsible.’ He sighed. ‘Although I should not be surprised. Her whole life has been a journey of one irresponsibility after another. This is merely the latest.’

‘Irresponsibilities that were against her own interest?’ Pitt asked quickly.

Hall stared at him, a confusion of thoughts racing across his face.

Pitt waited.

Hall swallowed hard. ‘Perhaps I spoke in haste. I have known very little of her for the last ten years or so.’ He cleared his throat again. ‘One always hopes that people may change.’

Pitt had no intention of allowing the subject to rest. He was angry with himself for allowing this situation to arise. He had been more concerned with rumour of an anarchist group in Greenwich and mention of gunpowder, and of course the industrial sabotage. Together they might prompt a widespread strike. He had taken Sofia Delacruz too lightly. Yes, he had ordered the appropriate checks and guards for her, according to the little they knew. He had never believed the threat to be real. Even now he thought it likely that it was a sleight of hand rigged up by Smith, possibly with the help of Henrietta, in order to gain greater publicity for Sofia’s eccentric brand of religion. She thrived on controversy. Being the victim of kidnap could only add to her notoriety.

He realised with surprise how angry he was. It was not just that innocent and genuinely enquiring people were made fools of, and that Special Branch was being used and the newspapers manipulated, but he acknowledged with a jolt of understanding that he too was disillusioned. He had believed that she was sincere, even that she had a vision of a glory in the world that made sense of some of the pain, the waste, and the seeming chaos.

And it seemed now as if she were very probably a charlatan. The taste it left in his mouth was bitter. If Barton Hall had endured a lifetime of this deceit then Pitt had every sympathy with his anger now.

Hall was waiting for Pitt to continue. His face was creased with concern and he stood unnaturally still.

‘Has she contacted you since she arrived in England?’ Pitt asked.

‘Oh, yes.’ Barton Hall spoke wearily. ‘She sent a perfectly civil letter from Southampton, and then a note when she reached London. She had asked to meet with me the day after they arrived in the city, but I had other arrangements. She agreed that it should be tomorrow.’

Pitt wondered at Sofia’s keenness to meet her cousin. Was it simply that the meeting was unpleasant and she had wished to get it over with as soon as possible, whereas Hall had preferred to delay it, possibly even avoid it altogether?

‘She may return before then,’ he said.

‘And if she doesn’t?’ Hall asked. ‘I presume you are looking for her? Questioning these . . . people that she has now made her life with?’ His shoulders were tight, pulling the fabric of his coat, and there was a thin thread of fear in his voice. ‘For God’s sake, do you know anything about them? You must be making some sort of enquiries!’

‘We are,’ Pitt replied. ‘But all of them are Spanish, apart from Melville Smith, and we are having to work with the Spanish Embassy—’

‘Sofia is English!’ Hall interrupted angrily. ‘She was born and bred here, from generations of English! Marrying some damn Spaniard doesn’t rob her of that!’

Pitt was surprised by the heat of the anger in Hall’s words. His fists were by his sides, but Pitt could see they were clenched so the large knuckles shone white.

Hall stared at Pitt for a moment, then apparently realised that he had betrayed too much emotion and deliberately composed his face into total gravity.

‘I apologise, Mr Pitt. Sofia has always been a deep concern to her family, but that does not mean we are indifferent to what happens to her.’ He cleared his throat again. ‘Or that the thought of her coming to some harm is not extremely distressing, especially to me, since I am the last one who was close to her parents. I regret to say both my aunt and her husband are deceased.’

‘No brothers or sisters?’ Pitt allowed himself to be led, at least temporarily.

‘She had one brother who died as a child,’ Hall said simply. ‘You understand why I am concerned.’ It was a statement, not a question. He would not have accepted a negative answer.

‘Of course,’ Pitt agreed. ‘It is perfectly natural. I shall see that you are informed of any progress we make.’ They were still standing on the middle of the carpet. Pitt did not feel as if he could sit in any of the comfortable armchairs until Hall should invite him to. There was a charge of emotion in the air like the tension before a storm. Any ease would be pretended.

‘Thank you,’ Hall acknowledged.

‘Were you in regular correspondence with Señora Delacruz?’ Pitt continued.

‘Señora Delacruz? For God’s sake!’ Hall’s voice was tight, the music that had been in it so agreeably, now completely gone. ‘No, I wasn’t. If our family had not lived in this house for generations I doubt if she would have known where to find me.’

‘She lives in Toledo?’ Pitt asked, trying to judge how much Hall had kept up his information about her.

‘So I am told. Is that relevant?’ Hall appeared surprised.

‘I don’t know,’ Pitt answered. ‘She seems to have gained enemies long before she came to England, at least according to the threats she has received.’

‘Hardly surprising,’ Hall snapped back. ‘She has a gift for it. Her ideas are absurd, which is irrelevant, but they are also deeply offensive to many who revere the teachings of their own Churches, whose faith is nearly two thousand years old, and has stood the test of time and hardship!’ He started to clear his throat and turned it into a cough. ‘How can they not be?’

‘Christianity has certainly withstood terrible persecution,’ Pitt agreed, watching Hall’s face.

‘And now on top of her . . . her blasphemous philosophy, a cheap trick to gain attention,’ Hall said desperately. ‘And from a woman in my own family! Thank God her parents are not alive.’

Pitt was taken aback. Hall spoke as if he considered himself the persecuted, not the aggressor. There was almost a hunted look about him.