The Lineup: The World's Greatest Crime Writers Tell the Inside Story of Their Greatest Detectives

CHARLOTTE AND THOMAS PITT
BY ANNE PERRY

I would like you to tell me as much as you can about Thomas Pitt,” Naylor said respectfully.

“Really?” Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould raised her silver eyebrows in surprise. She had considered the possibility that Naylor might come to her, and then dismissed it. She did not often make mistakes. She had survived Victorian society dazzlingly, as one of Europe ’s greatest beauties and, far more important, as a woman of passion and courage who dared to say what she thought. She had reached an age that she no longer cared to name in this year of our Lord 1912.

“And why is that, Sir Peter?” she inquired.

“Matters in Europe are becoming most grave,” Naylor replied. “We need a man of extraordinary abilities at the head of our Intelligence Services in this country. The prime minister is considering Mr. Pitt, but there are those who speak against him, primarily the king himself. We cannot afford to be wrong, now of all times.”

A flicker of amusement moved Vespasia’s lips, but it was not untouched by sadness. She knew quite as well as Peter Naylor how darkly the future loomed.

“Thomas Pitt has been one of my friends for thirty years. Do you trust me to have an unbiased opinion?” she asked.

“I trust you to tell me the truth, Lady Vespasia,” he replied. “You understand human nature, and the politics of Europe, therefore you know what must lie ahead. And if you are fond of Thomas Pitt, then you will not wish to see him in a position of leadership for which he is unqualified. It would be not only a disservice to your country, it would be a tragic end to his, so far, highly distinguished career. And I do not use the word tragic lightly or melodramatically.”

“I know,” she answered him. “It may be offensive to underrate a man; it is the ultimate cruelty to overrate him. What is it you wish to know? I assume you already have a history of his cases?”

“I do, for what it is worth. The details are open to interpretation.”

“And you have spoken with Pitt himself?”

“Of course. That is why I need your estimation all the more. The man is an enigma to me, a Gordian knot of contradictions.”

She waited for him to continue, sitting motionless in her ivory silk gown, her back still straight, a cascade of pearls almost to her waist, her throat and wrists masked in lace. There was a gold lorgnette on the small table beside her, but either she did not require it in order to see him or she was not sufficiently interested in the details of his appearance to use it.

Since she was apparently not going to prompt him, he continued. “He sounds like a gentleman, his diction is perfect and his vocabulary wide, yet he looks… ” He hesitated.

“As if he had dressed in the dark, in someone else’s clothes,” she supplied. “And quite obviously not found a hairbrush. And yet I have never seen him unshaven.”

“Quite. Can you explain it?”

“With ease. His father was a gamekeeper on Sir Arthur Desmond’s estate. Desmond’s own son was young Thomas’s age, a charming boy but lazy. Sir Arthur decided to educate them together, as a spur to his son, at least to exceed the gamekeeper’s boy in academic achievement, if not in sportsmanship.”

Naylor smiled. “And did he?”

“No. I believe in neither respect. Pitt excelled beyond young Desmond in intelligence, and lagged behind him in athleticism, and barely knew or cared about one end of a horse from the other. However, he was a good shot, I believe.”

Naylor smiled again. “All that would explain his speech and his apparent education. Still, he has never forgotten his humble origins, to judge from his manner, and a certain… ” He stopped, clearly not wishing to offend her.

She allowed him to fumble. She was quite aware of what he meant, but she was not going to assist him.

“Attitude of mind, an ordinariness,” he finished lamely.

Naylor knew she was amusing herself, but he also knew that she would not let him leave without all the information he needed, honest to the last word and beyond, even to the unsaid implication.

“Part of him never left the servants’ quarters,” he said, watching her face. “And yet it is not a lack of ambition which holds him there. And I am certain beyond any doubt whatever that it is not an innate respect for those who might consider themselves his ‘betters.’ Will you tell me what it is, or do I have to guess?”

The amusement was there on her face again. “His father was accused of poaching-not on Desmond’s land but on that of his immediate neighbor. He was found guilty, wrongly, Pitt believed. So did Desmond himself, but there was nothing he could do. It was an old feud, and Pitt’s father paid for it. He was transported to Australia. It was the time when we still did that.”

“I see.” Naylor nodded, tight-lipped. “Yes, that explains much. His passion for justice no doubt stems from that time. And perhaps a knowledge that it does not always prevail. Yes, that would explain why he worries a case to the last degree. He may see in every accused man the shadow of his father.”

“You are being too clever, Sir Peter,” Vespasia corrected. “As a young man that may have been true. He is in his sixties now, and has seen too much of life to be so full of dreams. He knows that very little is so simple as that would suggest.”

“I thought him something of an idealist.” He was not quite contradicting her, but he was certainly questioning her estimation.

“A man with ideals,” she corrected him mildly. “It is not the same thing. He is a realist who has never lost hope, a man who has made enough mistakes to forgive those of others, knowing that a great many of them will inevitably be repeated.”

Something in Naylor’s face pinched with a shadow of disappointment. “A compassionate man,” he observed. “Others said that of him.”

“Compassionate,” she agreed. “Not indecisive, Sir Peter. What I believe you are asking me is, will he have the strength to make harsh and unpopular decisions, or act against those he may still pity. Are you afraid that he is too eager to please his social superiors to risk making a decision that will displease them? Or perhaps he is like the man driving one of those new motors towards the cliff edge, so balanced in judgment that he can see the virtues of turning to the left so equally with those of turning to the right that he cannot choose for either and ends in going into the abyss. He is of the servant class by birth, Sir Peter, and far too practical for such a piece of stupidity.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” he conceded. “But servant class, all the same. Might that not make him too easily swayed to give respect where regrettably it is not due?”

This time she laughed outright, a rich, happy sound of pure delight. “My dear young man”-he was close to fifty but seemed very young to her-“if you imagine that our servants are blind to our faults or our weaknesses, then you are utterly naive. I’m sure your valet treats you with the utmost respect, but do not forget that he has seen you at your most vulnerable and most absurd.” She ignored his blushes, although she may have been well aware of the kind of incident he was recalling with such embarrassment. “He may be very fond of you,” she continued. “But it is not a blind affection. On the contrary, it is probably more clear-eyed than that of your wife. And you may be certain she thinks a great deal that she is far too tactful to say.”

At this point he felt very young indeed, and at a considerable disadvantage. Had he not been directed by the prime minister himself to obtain this information from Lady Vespasia, he would have excused himself stiffly and left.

Vespasia was still smiling at him. “It was Pitt’s very painful decision in a certain matter some years ago which rescued His Majesty when he was still Prince of Wales. It was a situation which might well have cost him the throne-indeed have cost England its monarchy. Instead it earned Pitt the undying enmity of the king. Queen Alexandra will confirm what I say. Thomas Pitt may agonize over a decision, but he will make it according to his conscience, not according to orders, favors, or threats. That is something you may wish to consider both for him and against him. But he will place his duty to his country first, which I believe is what you are asking me?”

“Yes,” he said reluctantly. “I suppose I am. But he is fallible!”

“Of course,” she agreed. “And occasionally stubborn. He knows a good painting when he sees one, from his time in the Metropolitan Police when he investigated the thefts of art from the homes of the wealthy. He is particularly fond of land- and seascapes, and pictures of cows. That is because he has a deep love of the land. He was too close to it in childhood to be sentimental about it. He knows it is full of little deaths; he chooses not to think of them.

“He loves poetry, because he loves language and ideas, but he might as well have ears of cloth as far as great music is concerned. I have watched him suffer a form of torture, having no choice in courtesy but to sit through an entire ballet and pretend that he was not bored to tears by it. It is to his credit that he almost succeeded. The transfixed look on his face was mistaken for rapture. He was invited to go again, and I was obliged, out of pity, to rescue him.”

“His manners are not of concern to us,” Naylor admitted graciously. “And we will do something so he does not look as if he has dressed out of the ragbag.”

“I doubt that,” Vespasia replied. “His wife has tried for a quarter of a century and not made the slightest difference that I have observed.”

“Ah, yes, his wife. I shall come to her in due course. The clothes may be addressed later, if necessary. To more delicate subjects.” He looked at her gravely. “All men have weaknesses. Please do not be evasive out of kindness, Lady Vespasia. I ask because I require to know. I cannot protect a man-and believe me, he will have enemies-unless I know where his vulnerabilities lie, the points at which he may be betrayed from within, manipulated by the unscrupulous, or threatened by the ruthless. The safety of our nation may come to lie in his hands.”

“I am quite aware of why you ask, Sir Peter,” she told him. “His family is his greatest strength and his greatest weakness, which is perhaps true of all of us. We can be reached most wildly and dangerously through what we love.”

Naylor bit his lip. “He has a son, Daniel, and a daughter, Jemima, I believe. Daniel is at university, studying medicine, and Jemima has just married an American.” He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“If you are considering that that may be a problem,” she answered, “then you know something unfortunate of Anglo-American relations that I do not. Many of our great families have married Americans, to their benefit. The Churchills and the Astors, to name but two.”

He sighed and sat back. “Tell me something about the man, so I feel as if I know him better than a casual encounter at the club, if you please.”

“You will not encounter him at your club,” she replied, as if the very notion entertained her. “Or at anyone else’s. He would greatly prefer to be at home by his own fireside or, better yet, in the kitchen. It is an extraordinarily agreeable room. The floor is wooden and frequently scrubbed, as is the large table. I like the smell of clean wood, perhaps just a trifle damp still, do you not?”

He was taken aback.

“I… I’ve never thought about it,” he admitted. “Did he tell you this?”

“Of course not.” She was dismissive. “I have observed it. There is a Welsh dresser against the wall, with blue-and-white ringed china on it, and some with painted butterflies and wild grasses, drawn extremely well. There are copper kettles and pans on the wall, and more often than not, clean linen on the airing rail, which hangs from the ceiling. The aroma of that brings back to me memories of laughter and friendship, of desperate battles against evil fought side by side, and good people who are no longer with us. Perhaps that is why he has no wish to move from Keppel Street, even though he could well afford to. The house is full of the past, of triumphs and disasters that have both been enriching.” Her eyes seemed far away for several moments, then suddenly she returned. “And you are not entirely correct about the untidiness. He has always loved good boots, ever since his sister-in-law, Emily, gave him his first pair. So far as I know, it is his only extravagance, the very best boots.”

“And his indulgences?” he asked.

She did not hesitate an instant.

“Cider, and steak-and-kidney pudding, the proper sort with mushrooms in, and even oysters, and of course a suet crust. That is absolutely imperative. And black currant jam, preferably on toast. Dark marmalade, sharp enough to bite back at you, but then anyone with any taste at all likes that. Must be made with Seville oranges, of course, obtainable only in January. But you must know that yourself. I apologize for telling you. Pockets full of string, paper clips, pipe cleaners, penknives, stubs of pencil, mint humbugs, and anything else which might conceivably one day be useful… or not.”

“I begin to like him,” Naylor remarked.

“Good. Although it is irrelevant.”

“A very different kind of man,” he observed.

“Very,” she agreed with a smile, as if she knew much that she would not say.

“That brings me to Charlotte Pitt.” He leaned forward again. “A somewhat unconventional woman, one might even say ‘meddlesome.’”

“Unless one were being unhelpfully tactful, one would definitely say ‘meddlesome,’” she agreed. “Usually to excellent effect.”

He tried to hide a smile, and failed. “Might she be his greatest weakness, Lady Vespasia? His Achilles’ heel?”

“Socially?” The idea appeared to amuse her. “She comes from a good family, Sir Peter. Not top drawer, but perhaps second. Her sister Emily married very well indeed. Her son is Lord Ashworth. She is now, of course, Mrs. Jack Radley.”

“Member of Parliament. Yes, I know. He is definitely a great supporter of Pitt,” he acknowledged. “He did not conceal the relationship. Not that I imagine he could have, or wished to. But Emily Radley is perfectly respectable. That does not mean that her sister is the same. It is a matter not only of blood but of behavior.”

“Of course it is. I have known women who could scarcely name their parents and who were so respectable they could barely speak at all for fear of saying something unconventional, even to an opinion on the suitability of the curtains.” Her eyes widened. “And, thank heaven, I have also known duchesses who could be outrageous, and frequently were. I hope no one has ever said of me that I was respectable?”

Now it was his turn to be amused. “Never, Lady Vespasia, I swear. Beautiful, brave and wise, charming and of devastating wit, always fashionable, because if you wore something it automatically became fashion. I cannot recall anyone even hinting that you could be… tedious.”

“Thank you. I am very relieved. I hope to die before I risk becoming sanctimonious and predictable.”

He leaned forward again. “I have heard that Mrs. Pitt is unpredictable. Is that a fair thing to say?”

“I sincerely hope so.”

“Lady Vespasia… ”

She raised an elegant hand only a few inches.

“Yes, yes, I understand. You need the truth. Charlotte was the second daughter of Edward and Caroline Ellison, well-to-do gentry. Her eldest sister, Sarah, married Dominic Cord, who is now a dynamic and rather outspoken… ”

Naylor was startled. “The Dominic Cord? Really? Some of his views are a trifle unorthodox. And his wife is certainly extraordinarily outspoken. I believe she has offended the archbishop of Canterbury himself!”

Vespasia did not attempt to hide her admiration. “So I heard,” she said enthusiastically. “I hope profoundly that it is true. It is very good for the mind to be upset every now and then, rather as taking a brisk walk is good for the constitution. It sets the blood flowing.”

“You were telling me about Sarah Cord. I assume she died, or Cord himself could not have married again?”

“To be more precise, she was murdered,” Vespasia corrected him.

“Good God!” The color fled from his face.

“It was nothing to do with the family,” she assured him. “A number of very respectable young women were murdered in the area at the time. She happened to be one of them. She was doing nothing amiss whatever. That was the case in which Charlotte met Thomas Pitt. Naturally her mother had intended her for a more socially fortunate marriage, but she had the wisdom to allow Charlotte to follow her heart. And she has been very happy ever since. It cost her her social standing, and of course a great deal of money. However, she learned to live on a policeman’s salary and keep house with the assistance of one all-purpose maid. She had to reduce drastically the size and quality of her wardrobe, which is never easy for a handsome woman, but she managed. I do not believe she has ever regretted her choice, and that is more than most women can say.”

He looked a little startled.

“She is happy, Sir Peter,” Vespasia repeated. “She does not look back with question or regret. She does not envy anyone. And possibly that does not make her the right wife for a man seeking high office. She knows both sides of society. She can dance with a duke, but she never had the art of making trivial conversation or flattering to please. And so far as I know, she never made the attempt to hide her opinions on subjects about which she cared.”

“What subjects might they be?” he asked warily.

“Right and wrong,” she replied. “Justice and injustice, prejudice, intolerance, self-righteousness, cruelty, hypocrisy, and the building and destroying of dreams.”

“Are you sure we are speaking of Charlotte Pitt, my lady, and not perhaps a little of yourself?” His voice was gentle and a trifle wry.

She sighed, her gaze far away. “Maybe I see in her what I wish to, but I think nevertheless that I am accurate. Charlotte was never as beautiful as I, so she had not the confidence in herself, nor perhaps the arrogance. Nor had she the title or the wealth, which both bound and freed her. But she married the man she loved, and she always knew in her heart that he loved her. That gave her a different kind of confidence, and an inner peace which few of us ever know.”

Naylor said nothing, touched by a sort of truth deeper and possibly more painful than anything they had said before.

“She is also capable of rubbing elbows with the washerwoman,” Vespasia went on, “and speaking sensibly to her of home and domestic duties, of poverty and good ways in which to save money. That she learned first from Pitt, then from experience. She does not belong completely to either one world or the other, which leaves her lonely at times. She is impetuous and given to acting before she fully considers the possible outcome. But then, too much thought, too much awareness of the pitfalls and the losses ahead, would rob us all of the courage or the passion to act. We can creep cautiously to death from inertia, and expire safely in our beds of old age and spiritual paralysis. We can look back on an unblemished career of never having said or done anything wrong-or anything right either. We could pass through the world without having left a mark.”

He said nothing, an abyss of emptiness opening up before his mind.

“No one will say that of Charlotte,” Vespasia continued. “She is a person one would remember for her vitality, the strength of her feeling, not always wise, certainly, but always honest. She is lukewarm about nothing.”

“I have not met her,” he admitted. “She sounds rather daunting.”

“I think you would like her,” she told him. “She is very attractive, both to look at and to speak with. She is fairly tall, but Pitt himself is of good height and has a certain artless grace of movement. She, of course, moves excellently, as do all girls brought up by a strict mother who has ambitions towards a good marriage. She practiced the customary walking while balancing books on her head, sitting with a straight back and shoulders, speaking with perfect diction, and knowing how to address everyone correctly, from the archbishop to the cook, and saying something pleasant and innocuous to all of them.”

“That is not what I have heard of her,” he said dubiously.

“She has good features and very beautiful hair,” Vespasia continued, ignoring his interruption. “And perhaps too handsome a figure entirely for her own good. She has drawn much admiration at times, even if her strength of character has alarmed some people.”

He was curious, both interested and now concerned. “Are you trying to say that certain men have been… attracted to her?” he asked.

She gave him a withering look. “I know of three or four who were unquestionably in love with her. What I do not know is if she herself was aware of it. She has my considered respect if she was and managed never to show it. It must have made difficult situations a great deal easier for the men in question.”

“Who were they?”

“How indelicate,” she reproved him. “Since I am quite certain that nothing improper took place, I do not think it is your concern.”

“It does not leave this room,” he promised. “Either in word or deed. But the knowledge may affect my decision. Who were they?”

“General Brandon Ballantyne and Victor Narraway,” she replied. “Among others.”

“Indeed!” He was truly surprised. “I know them both. Neither are men of easy passion. I begin to look at Mrs. Pitt in a new light. She must have more depth of character and more integrity of purpose than I had supposed.”

Vespasia smiled. “You saw her as meddling in Pitt’s cases out of boredom, mistaken idealism, the kind of arrogance that assumes abilities it does not possess and lacks the imagination to see what harm the well-meaning but ignorant can do?”

He blushed. “I had not thought of it quite so cruelly, but I suppose that is more or less what I had supposed. Pretty women sometimes are led to believe that charm can overcome any deficit in intelligence or experience.”

“I can hear Charlotte ’s laughter in my mind as you say that,” Vespasia responded. “She is very observant of small things, as women often are. She notices tone of voice, the way people stand, look at each other, the expressions on faces when they imagine themselves unobserved. But of course she would be far too wise to tell you what she had seen-at least she would now.”

“And earlier?”

“That was a different matter,” Vespasia admitted. “If one’s mistakes are dramatic enough, one does not repeat them.”

“You alarm me, and intrigue me,” he said. “I shall most certainly meet Mrs. Pitt. Tell me, do you think she will wish him to take this position, should it be offered him?”

Vespasia thought for several moments. “Oh yes, she will wish him to accept it. She was never a coward. But she will not be blind to its costs. She will know that the decisions he has to make will at times be dangerous and painful. He will make mistakes, because we all do, and he will grieve over them. He will lie awake wondering how he can spare people, knowing there is no way and yet still laboring to find one. He is a man born poor, who understands the poor, the ordinary, and the fearful. He will speak to the common man as an equal. He will at times be something of a prude and offend the aristocratic, as he has offended the king. He will not always know when to laugh and when to keep silent. But sooner or later he will earn their respect, because they will come to know that they can trust both his judgment and his kindness. That is a lot to say of any man, Sir Peter.”

“And Mrs. Pitt?” he asked.

“Oh, you may trust her to be shocking, charming, disastrously frank, and utterly loyal. You will like her, whether you wish to or not, because you will not be afraid of her. She is impractical only in the things that do not matter at all, except to people who have no sense of proportion.” Her face tightened fractionally. “A sense of proportion is going to matter in the times ahead, I think. We will need to know with great certainty what it is we value, what we are prepared to give our lives to preserve. Yes, Sir Peter, the prime minister should offer this position to Thomas Pitt. He is the essential Englishman, rooted in the soil of his ancestry, willing to live and die for the common decencies of life, the honor and tolerance, the kindness and the absurdities.

“You will be happy to sit at the kitchen table with him and drink tea with a slice of cake at the end of a long case, and know that you have done your best.”

He rose to his feet. “Thank you, Lady Vespasia. I shall recommend to the prime minister that we overrule His Majesty’s misgivings and do exactly that. I appreciate your candor. I believe that I now know more of Thomas and Charlotte Pitt than anyone else could have told me.”

She inclined her head and smiled, with a faraway, dreaming look of long and happy memory.