Traitors Gate (13 page)

“I suppose I should have expected this,” he said at last as they turned the corner. He was about to walk on and Pitt caught him by the arm. “What?” he asked.

“Opposite.” Pitt indicated a public house sign for the Bull Inn.

“I’m not hungry,” Matthew said impatiently.

“Eat anyway,” Pitt instructed, stepping off the curb and avoiding a pile of horse droppings. Matthew trod in it and swore.

At another time Pitt might have laughed at the sight of Matthew’s face, but he knew this was not the occasion. They hurried to the far side, and Matthew scraped his feet angrily against the curb. “Don’t they have any crossing sweepers anymore?” he demanded. “I can’t go inside like this.”

“Yes you can. They’ll have a proper boot scraper at the door. Come on.”

Reluctantly Matthew followed Pitt to the entrance, used the iron scraper meticulously, as if the state of his boots were of the utmost importance, and then they went in side by side. Pitt ordered for both of them and they sat down in the crowded, noisy room. Tankards gleamed on pegs above the bar, polished wood shone darkly, there was sawdust on the floor and the smell of ale, heat and bodies.

“What can we do?” Matthew said finally when their meal was served: thick bread with sharp crusts, butter, crumbling cheese, dark aromatic pickles and fresh cider.

Pitt made his sandwich and bit into it.

“Did you ever mean that we could achieve anything?” Matthew went on, his plate untouched. “Or were you just trying to comfort me?”

“Of course I meant it,” Pitt replied with his mouth full. He was also angry and distressed, but he knew the importance of keeping up their strength if they were to fight. “But we cannot prove them liars until we know what they’ve said.”

“And then?” Matthew asked with disbelief in his voice.

“And then we try,” Pitt finished.

Matthew smiled. “How very literal of you. Absolutely exact. You haven’t changed, have you, Thomas?”

Pitt thought of apologizing, and then realized there was no need.

Matthew appeared to be on the point of asking him something further, but decided against it and bit into his own sandwich. He ate it with surprising appetite, and did not speak again until it was time to leave.

The first witness of the afternoon was the medical examiner, who gave his evidence in detail, but he was very practiced at this unhappy task and avoided scientific terms. Quite simply, Arthur Desmond had died of an overdose of laudanum, administered within the hour. It was sufficiently large to have killed anyone, but there was a certain amount of brandy in his stomach, and that might well have masked the flavor. Personally he thought the laudanum would have tainted the brandy. He favored a very good cognac himself, but that was a matter of taste.

“Did you find any other signs of illness or deterioration?” the coroner asked.

The medical examiner pulled a long face. “Of course there was deterioration. The man was seventy! But that taken into account, he was in excellent health. I’ll be happy to be as fit if I reach that age. And no, there was no other sign of illness whatever.”

“Thank you, Doctor. That is all.”

The medical examiner gave a little grunt and left the stand.

Pitt would have wagered that he was not a member of the Inner Circle. Not that he could think how that fact would be of any use.

The next witness was also a doctor, but an utterly different man. He was serious, attentive, polite, but he knew himself to be of great importance. He acknowledged his name and his qualifications and addressed himself to the matter in hand.

“Dr. Murray,” the coroner began, “I believe you were Sir Arthur’s physician; is that correct?”

“I was indeed.”

“For some time.”

“The last fourteen years, sir.”

“Then you were very familiar with the state of his health, both in mind and body?”

Beside Pitt, Matthew was sitting forward, his hands clenched, his face tense. Pitt found himself also straining to hear.

“Naturally,” Murray agreed. “Although I must confess I had no idea the deterioration had gone so far, or I should not have prescribed laudanum for him. I am speaking of the deterioration in his mood, his frame of mind.”

“Perhaps you would explain further, Dr. Murray. What precisely are you referring to? Was Sir Arthur depressed, worried over some matter, or anxious?”

Now there was a breathless silence in the room. Journalists sat with pencils poised.

“Not in the sense you mean, sir,” Murray replied with confidence. “He had bad dreams, nightmares, if you will. At least that is what he told me when he came to see me. Quite appalling dreams, you understand? I do not mean simply the usual unpleasant imaginings we all suffer from after a heavy meal, or some disagreeable experience.” He shifted his position slightly. “He seemed to be increasingly disoriented in his manner, and had developed suspicions of
people he had trusted all his life. I admit, I assume that he was suffering some senile decay of his faculties. Regrettably, it can happen to even the most worthy people.”

“Very sad indeed,” the coroner said gravely.

Matthew could bear it no longer. He shot to his feet.

“That’s absolute nonsense! He was as lucid and in command of his mind as any man I know!”

A flash of anger crossed Murray’s face. He was not accustomed to being contradicted.

The coroner spoke quite quietly, but his voice carried across the entire room, and everyone turned to stare.

“Sir Matthew, we all understand your grief and the very natural distress you feel at the loss of your father, and especially at the manner of it, but I will not tolerate your interruptions. I will question Dr. Murray as to his evidence.” He turned to look at Murray again. “Can you give any instance of this behavior, Doctor? Were it as strange as you suggest, I am surprised you gave him laudanum in sufficient quantities to allow the event which brings us here.”

Murray did not seem in the least contrite, and certainly not guilty. His words, like Osborne’s, were full of apology, but his face remained perfectly composed. There were the marks of neither pain nor humor in it.

“I regret this profoundly, sir,” he said smoothly, and without looking towards Matthew. “It is a sad thing to have to make public the frailties of a good man, especially when we are met to ascertain the causes of his death. But I understand the necessity, and the reason for your pressing the point. Actually I was not aware of all these things myself at the time I prescribed the laudanum, otherwise, as you say, it would have been a questionable act.”

He smiled very faintly. One of the men in the front now nodded.

“Sir Arthur told me of his nightmares and his difficulty in sleeping,” Murray resumed. “The dreams concerned wild animals, jungles, cannibals and similar frightening images. He seemed to have an inner fear of being overwhelmed by
such things. I was quite unaware of his obsession with Africa at that time.” He shook his head. “I prescribed laudanum for him, believing that if he would sleep more easily, and deeply, these thoughts would trouble him less. I only learned afterwards from some of his friends how far his rational thoughts and memory had left him.”

“He’s lying!” Matthew hissed, not looking at Pitt, but the words were directed to him. “The swine is lying to protect himself! The coroner caught him out so he twisted immediately to excuse himself.”

“Yes, I think he is,” Pitt said under his breath. “But keep your counsel. You’ll never prove it here.”

“They murdered him! Look at them! Sitting together, come to blacken his name and try to make everyone believe he was a senile old man who had so lost his wits he accidentally killed himself.” Matthew’s voice was cracking with the bitterness which overwhelmed him.

The man on the far side of him looked uncomfortable. Pitt had the distinct impression he would have moved away were it not that it would have drawn such attention to him.

“You won’t succeed by attacking him face-to-face,” Pitt said harshly between his teeth, aware—with a chill in his stomach—of a new fear: that they had no way of knowing who was involved, who was friend and who enemy. “Keep your powder dry!”

“What?” Matthew swung around, incomprehension in his eyes. Then he understood the words, if not the weight of all that was behind them. “Oh. Yes, I’m sorry. I suppose that’s exactly what they’d expect, isn’t it? Me to get so angry I lose my sense of tactics.”

“Yes,” Pitt said bluntly.

Matthew lapsed into silence.

Dr. Murray had been excused and the coroner had called a man named Danforth who was a neighbor of Arthur Desmond’s in the country, and he was saying, with some sadness, that indeed Sir Arthur had been extraordinarily
absentminded lately, quite unlike his old self. Yes, unfortunately, he seemed to have lost his grasp on matters.

“Could you be more specific, sir?” the coroner suggested.

Danforth looked straight ahead of him, studiously avoiding the public benches where he might have met Matthew’s eyes. “Well sir, an instance that comes to mind was approximately three months ago,” he replied quietly. “Sir Arthur’s best bitch had whelped, and he had promised me the pick of the litter. I had been over to look at them, and fine animals they were, excellent. I chose the two I wanted and he agreed, approved of it in fact.” He bit his lip doubtfully for a moment before continuing, his eyes downcast. “We shook hands on it. Then when they were weaned I went over to collect them, only to find Arthur had gone up to London on some errand. I said I’d come back in a week, which I did, and he was off somewhere else, and all the pups had been sold to Major Bridges over in Highfield. I was very put out.” He looked at the coroner, frowning. There was a slight movement in the room, a shifting of position.

“When Sir Arthur finally came back I tackled him on the matter.” The umbrage was still apparent in his voice and in the set of his shoulders as he gripped the edge of the box. “I’d set my heart on those pups,” he went on. “But Arthur looked completely confused and told me some cock-and-bull story about having heard from me that I didn’t want them anymore, which was the exact opposite of the case. And then he went on with a lot of nonsense about Africa.” He shook his head and his lips tightened. “The terrible thing was, he obviously believed what he was saying. I’m afraid he had what I can only call an obsession. He imagined he was being persecuted by some secret society. Look, I say, sir … this is all very embarrassing.”

Danforth shifted awkwardly, clearing his throat. Two or three men in the front now nodded sympathetically.

“Arthur Desmond was a damn decent man,” Danforth
said loudly. “Do we have to rake up all this unfortunate business? The poor devil accidentally took his sleeping medicine twice over, and I daresay his heart was not as strong as he thought. Can’t we call an end to this?”

The coroner hesitated only a moment, then acquiesced.

“Yes, I believe we can, Mr. Danforth. Thank you for your evidence, sir, in what must have been a painful matter for you. Indeed, for all of us.” He looked around the room as Danforth left the stand. “Are there any more witnesses? Anyone who has anything relevant to say in this matter?”

A short, broad man stood up in the front row.

“Sir, if you please, so this tragedy can be laid to rest, I and my colleagues”—he indicated the men on either side of him—“the full extent of the front row were in the Morton Club on the afternoon of Sir Arthur’s death. We can confirm everything that the steward has said, indeed everything that we have heard here today. We would like to take this opportunity to extend our deepest sympathies to Sir Matthew Desmond.” He glanced around in the general direction of the bench where Matthew sat hunched forward, his face white. “And to everyone else who held Sir Arthur in esteem, as we did ourselves. Thank you, sir.” He sat down amid murmurs of agreement. The man immediately to his right touched him on the shoulder in a gesture of approval. The one on the left nodded vigorously.

“Very well.” The coroner folded his hands. “I have heard sufficient evidence to make my verdict sad, but not in doubt. This court finds that Sir Arthur Desmond died as the result of an overdose of laudanum, administered by himself in a moment of absentmindedness. Possibly he took the laudanum in mistake for a headache powder, or a remedy for indigestion. We shall never know. Death by misadventure.” He looked up at Matthew very steadily, something of a warning in his expression.

The court erupted in excitement. Newspaper reporters made a dash for the doors. People in the public benches
turned to one another, bursting with comment and speculation; several rose to their feet as a relief from sitting.

Matthew’s face was ashen, his lips parted as if he were about to speak.

“Be quiet!” Pitt whispered fiercely.

“It is not a misadventure!” Matthew retorted between his teeth. “It was cold-blooded murder! Do you believe those—”

“No I don’t! But on the evidence, we are damned lucky they didn’t bring in a verdict of suicide.”

The last traces of color drained out of Matthew’s face. He turned to look at Pitt. They both knew what suicide meant: it was not merely dishonor, it was a crime against both the church and the state. He would not be given a Christian burial. He would die a criminal.

The coroner adjourned the court. The people rose and filed out into the sunshine, still talking busily, full of doubts, theories, explanations.

Matthew walked beside Pitt in the dusty street, and it was several minutes before he spoke again. When he did his voice was husky, almost paralyzed in the savaging of his pain and confusion.

“I’ve never felt like this in my life. I didn’t think it was possible to hate anyone so much.”

Pitt said nothing. He did not trust his own emotions.

    Vespasia spent the afternoon in what had once been a very usual pursuit but was now one she practiced less and less often. She sent for her carriage at five minutes before three o’clock, and dressed in ecru-colored lace and a highly fashionable hat with a turned-up brim and trimmed with a huge white cabbage rose. And then, carrying an ivory-handled parasol, she came down the front steps and was assisted up into her carriage.