Traitors Gate

7

“NTHING,” TELLMAN SAID, pushing out his lip. “At least nothing that helps.” He was talking about his investigation into Ian Hathaway of the Colonial Office. “Just a quiet, sober, rather bookish sort of man of middle years. Doesn’t do anything much out of the ordinary.” He sat down in the chair opposite Pitt without being asked. “Not so ordinary as to be without character,” he went on. “He has his oddities, his tastes. He has a fancy for expensive cheeses, for example. Spends as much on a cheese as I would on a joint of beef. He hates fish. Won’t eat it at any price.”

Pitt frowned, sitting at his desk with the sun on his back.

“Buys plain shirts,” Tellman went on. “Won’t spend a farthing extra on them. Argues the toss with his shirtmaker, always very politely. But he can insist!” Tellman’s face showed some surprise. “At first I thought he was a bit of a mouse, one of the quiet little men with nothing to say for themselves.” His eyes widened. “But I discovered that Mr. Hathaway is a person of enough resolve when he wants to be. Always very quiet, very polite, never raises his voice to anyone. But there must be something inside him, something in his look, because the tailor didn’t argue with him above a minute or two, then took a good stare at him, and all of a sudden backed down sharply, and it was all ‘yes sir, Mr. Hathaway; no sir, of course not; whatever you wish, sir.’”

“He does hold a fairly senior position in the Colonial Office,” Pitt pointed out.

Tellman gave a little snort, fully expressive of his derision. “I’ve seen more important men than him pushed around by their tailors! No sir, there’s a bit more steel to our Mr. Hathaway than first looks show.”

Pitt did not reply. It was more Tellman’s impression than any evidence. It depended how ineffectual Tellman had originally thought him.

“Buys very nice socks and nightshirts,” Tellman went on. “Very nice indeed. And more than one silk cravat.”

“Extravagant?” Pitt asked.

Tellman shook his head regretfully. “Not the way you mean. Certainly doesn’t live beyond his income; beneath it if anything. Takes his pleasures quietly, just the occasional dinner at his club or with friends. A stroll on the green of an evening.”

“Any lady friends?”

Tellman’s expression conveyed the answer without the need for words.

“What about his sons? Has he any other family, brothers or sisters?”

“Sons are just as respectable as he is, from all I can tell. Anyway, they both live abroad, but nobody says a word against them. No other family as far as I know. Certainly he doesn’t call on them or write.”

Pitt leaned backwards farther into the sun. “These friends with whom he dines once a week or so, who are they? Have they any connection with Africa or Germany? Or with finance?”

“Not that I can find.” Tellman looked both triumphant and disgusted. It gave him some satisfaction to present Pitt with a further problem, and yet he resented his own failure. His dilemma amused Pitt.

“And your own opinion of him?” Pitt asked with the shadow of a smile.

Tellman looked surprised. It was a question he apparently had not foreseen. He was obliged to think hastily.

“I’d like to say he’s a deep one with a lot hidden under the surface.” His face was sour. “But I think he’s just a very ordinary, bald little man with an ordinary, open and very tedious life; just like ten thousand others in London. I couldn’t find any reason to think he’s a spy, or anything else but what he looks.”

Pitt respected Tellman’s opinion. He was bigoted, full of resentments both personal and rooted in his general social status, but his judgment of crime, and a man’s potential for it, was acute, and seldom mistaken.

“Thank you,” he said with a sincerity that caught Tellman off guard. “I expect you are right.”

Nevertheless he contrived an occasion to go to the Colonial Office and meet Hathaway for himself, simply to form an impression because he did not have one. Not to have spoken with him again would have been an omission, and with as little certainty in the case as he had, he could not afford omissions, however slight.

Hathaway’s office was smaller than Chancellor’s or Jeremiah Thorne’s, but nevertheless it had dignity and considerable comfort. At a glance it looked as if nothing in it were new; everything had a gentle patina of age and quality. The wood shone from generations of polishing, the leather gleamed, the carpet was gently worn in a track from door to desk. The books on the single shelf were morocco bound and gold lettered.

Hathaway sat behind the desk looking benign and courteous. He was almost completely bald, with merely a fringe of short, white hair above his ears, and he was clean-shaven. His nose was pronounced and his eyes a clear, round blue. Only when one had looked at him more closely did their clarity and intelligence become apparent.

“Good morning, Superintendent,” he said quietly. His voice was excellent and his diction perfect. “How may I be of assistance to you? Please, do sit down.”

“Good morning, Mr. Hathaway.” Pitt accepted the offer and sat in the chair opposite the desk. It was remarkably comfortable; it seemed to envelop him as soon as he relaxed into it, and yet it was firm in all the right places. But for all the apparent ease, Hathaway was a government servant of considerable seniority. He would have no time to waste. “It is regarding this miserable business of information going astray,” Pitt continued. There was no point in being evasive. Hathaway was far too clever not to have understood the import of the investigations.

There was no change whatever in Hathaway’s face.

“I have given it some thought, Superintendent, but unfortunately to no avail.” The shadow of a smile touched his mouth. “It is not the sort of news one can ever forget. You made fairly light of it when you spoke to me before, but I am aware that it is anything but a light matter. I do not know precisely what the material is, nor to whom it has been passed, but the principle is the same. Next time it could be something vital to British interests or well-being. And of course we do not always know who our enemies are. We may believe them friends today … and yet tomorrow …”

It was a chilling thought. The bright, comfortable room only seemed to add to the reality of it. Pitt did not know whether Hathaway was speaking in the narrow sense of Britain’s enemies, or in the more general breadth of enemies in general. Arthur Desmond’s face came sharply to his mind. How many of his enemies had he guessed at? How surprised would he have been had he heard the evidence at his own inquest? What faces there would have startled him, what testimony?

It was the worst of a secret society, the everyday masks behind which were hidden such different faces. There were executioners in the Inner Circle, although murderers would be a more honest word. They were men set apart to exact the punishment the society had deemed in its best interests. Sometimes it was merely personal or financial ruin, but on rare occasions, like that of Arthur Desmond, it was death.

But who were the executioners? Even the members of his own ring almost certainly did not know. That would be necessary, both for the executioner’s protection and for the efficiency of his work. He could face the victim with a smile and a handshake, and at the same time deal him a death blow. And the rest of the Inner Circle would be sworn on covenant of blood to assist him, protect him, keep silence as commanded.

Hathaway was staring at him, waiting patiently. Pitt forced his mind back to the African information.

“Of course, you are quite right,” he said hastily. “It is one of the bitterest of realities. We have traced a great deal from its arrival in the Colonial Office until it is stored permanently. I believe I know everyone who has access to it….”

Hathaway smiled sourly. “But of course it is more than one person. I presume I am suspect?”

“You are one of those who is privy to the information,” Pitt conceded guardedly. “I have no more cause to consider you than that. I believe you have a son in Central Africa?”

“Yes, my son Robert is in the mission field.” There was very little expression in Hathaway’s face. It was impossible to tell if he were proud of his son’s vocation or not. The light in his eyes might have been pleasure, or love, or indulgence, or merely a reflection of the sunlight streaming through the window to his left. There was nothing in his gentle voice but good manners, and the slight anxiety the subject of Pitt’s call required.

“Where?” Pitt asked.

This time a flicker crossed Hathaway’s face. “The shores of Lake Nyasa.”

Pitt had been studying the atlas. The coast of Africa was fairly well charted, with some few exceptions, but there were vast areas inland which were crossed by only a few tracks. Features were put in tentatively: tracks from east to west, the trails of the great explorers, a lake here, a range of mountains there. But most of it was borderless, regions no cartographer had seen or measured, perhaps no white man had trodden. He knew Lake Nyasa was close to the area which Cecil Rhodes would claim, and where Zimbabwe, the city of black gold, was fabled to be.

Hathaway was watching him closely, his round, pale eyes seeing everything.

“That is the area with which you are concerned.” He made it a statement rather than a question. He did not move, nor did his face change appreciably, but there was a sudden deepening of his concentration. “Superintendent, let us stop playing games of words with each other. Unless you correct me, I shall assume that it is the German interest in Mashonaland and Matabeleland which concerns you. I am aware we are negotiating a new treaty on the zones of influence, that Heligoland is involved, that the fall of Chancellor Bismarck has affected matters substantially, and that Carl Peterson and the German presence in Zanzibar, the rebellion there and its swift and bloody repression, are features of great importance. So also must be Mr. Rhodes’s expedition from the Cape, and his negotiations with Mr. Kruger and the Boers. We should be considerably disadvantaged in our position if all we know were also to be known to the Kaiser.”

Pitt said nothing. There was no sound from beyond the windows, which overlooked not the street or the park but a more enclosed courtyard.

Hathaway smiled a little and settled farther back in his seat. “This is not merely a matter of someone seeking a dishonest personal advantage in gold or diamond investments,” he said gravely. “This is treason. All private considerations must be forgotten in an effort to find the man who would do this.” His voice was no louder, no higher, yet there was a subtle change in its timbre, a passionate sincerity. He had not moved, but his physical presence was charged with energy.

It would have been pointless to deny the truth. Pitt would not have been believed; he would simply have insulted the man opposite him and driven a wedge of evasion between them.

“One of the problems with treason,” Pitt replied slowly, choosing his words with care, “is that once we know it is there, it makes us distrust everyone. Sometimes the suspicion will do almost as much damage as the act itself. Our fears may cripple us as effectively as the truth.”

Hathaway’s eyes widened. “How perceptive of you, Superintendent. Indeed, that is so. But are you saying that you consider it possible there is no treason, simply a clever semblance of it, in order that we should so maim ourselves?” There was surprise in his voice, but also a slow realization that it could be the truth. “Then who has planted it?”

Footsteps passed by in the corridor, hesitated, then continued.

Pitt shook his head fractionally. “I meant only that we must not make it worse than it is, not do his work for him by causing suspicion where there are no grounds. Those with access to the information are few.”

“But they are highly placed,” Hathaway deduced immediately. “Thorne, myself, or Chancellor! Dear heaven, if it is Chancellor, we are in a desperate pass.” There was humor in his face. “And I know it was not I.”

“There are other possibilities,” Pitt said quickly. “But few. Aylmer, for example. Or Arundell. Or Leicester.”

“Aylmer. Ah yes, I had forgotten him. A young man, relatively speaking, and ambitious. He has not yet fulfilled all his family expects of him. That can be a powerful spur to a man.” His eyes did not move from Pitt’s face. “I am increasingly grateful as I grow older that my mother was a mild creature whose only dream for her sons was that they marry agreeable women, and I was fortunate to oblige her in that while still in my twenties.” He smiled for a moment with recollection, but his unusual eyes met Pitt’s again with total directness. “I don’t doubt that you are here to speak to me in an effort to make some assessment of my character, but beyond that elementary exercise, is there some practical way in which I can assist you?”

Pitt had already made up his mind.

“Yes, Mr. Hathaway, if you would. I have ascertained that much of this information comes first to you, even before it reaches Mr. Chancellor.”

“It does. I think I perceive what you have in mind: to change it in some way that will not cause great damage, and disseminate different versions of it to Chancellor, Aylmer, Thorne, Arundell and Leicester, and yet keep the original for Lord Salisbury, to prevent the possibility of a serious error.” He pushed out his lip. “It will need some thought, I shall have to find just the right piece of information, but I can see it has to be done.” He looked eager as he said it, almost relieved to have some part to play.

Pitt could not help smiling. “If it would be possible? And the sooner it is done, the sooner we may achieve a result.”

“Indeed! Yes, it must be done with care, or it will be obvious.” He sat forward in his chair again. “It must tally with all the information we already possess, or at least it must not contradict it. I shall keep you informed, Superintendent.” He smiled with frankness and a kind of intense, energetic happiness brimming inside him.

Pitt thanked him again and rose to take his leave, still uncertain if he had been wise, but knowing of nothing better to precipitate matters. He had not yet told Matthew or Assistant Commissioner Farnsworth of his intention.

“You did what?” Farnsworth said, his face aghast. “Good God, man, do you realize what could happen as a result of this … this …”

“No,” Pitt said brazenly. “What could happen?”

Farnsworth stared at him. “Well the very least of it is that misinformation could be passed to ministers of Her Majesty’s government! In fact it most certainly will be!”

“Only to Chancellor …”

“Only? Only Chancellor!” Farnsworth’s face was deep pink. “Do you realize he is the senior minister responsible for colonial affairs? The British Empire covers a quarter of the face of the earth! Have you no sense of what that means? If Chancellor is misinformed, heaven knows what damage could follow.”

“None at all,” Pitt replied. “The information being changed is trivial. Hathaway knows the truth, and so will the Foreign Secretary. No decisions will be implemented without reference to one or the other of them, probably to both.”

“Possibly,” Farnsworth said reluctantly. “All the same, it was damned high-handed of you, Pitt. You should have consulted me before you did this. I doubt the Prime Minister will approve of it at all.”

“If we don’t provoke something of the sort,” Pitt replied, “we are unlikely to find out who is passing information before the treaty has to be concluded.”

“Not very satisfactory.” Farnsworth bit his lip. “I had hoped you would have learned something definite by ordinary investigation.” They were in Farnsworth’s office. He had sent for Pitt to report on his progress so far. The weather had changed and sharp spring rain was beating against the windows. Pitt’s trouser bottoms were damp from the splashing of passing carriages and cabs. He sat with his legs crossed, deliberately relaxed.

Farnsworth leaned over his desk, his brows drawn down. “You know, Pitt, you’ve made one or two foolish mistakes, but it is not too late to amend them.”

“Too late?” For a moment Pitt did not understand him.

“You have had to do this alone, against a largely hostile and suspicious background,” Farnsworth went on, watching Pitt’s face earnestly. “You have gone in as an intruder, a policeman among diplomats and politicians, civil servants.”

Pitt stared at him, not sure if he were leaping to absurd conclusions, a familiar darkness now at the edge of his mind.

“There are those who would have helped you!” Farnsworth’s voice dropped, a more urgent note in it, deeper, wavering between harshness and hope. “Men who know more than you or I could expect to learn in a year of investigation with questions and deductions. I offered it to you before, Pitt. I’m offering it again.”

The Inner Circle. Farnsworth was pressing him to join the Inner Circle, as he had almost as soon as Pitt had succeeded Micah Drummond. Pitt had refused then, and hoped the offer would not be repeated or referred to. Perhaps he should have known that was a willful blindness, a foolishness in which he should not have indulged. It was always there to be faced now or later.

“No,” Pitt said quietly. “My reasons are still the same. The help would be at too high a price.”

Farnsworth’s face hardened. “You are very unwise, Pitt. Nothing would be asked of you that a decent, patriotic man would not willingly give. You are denying yourself success, and promotion when the time comes.” He leaned forward a fraction farther. “With the right help, you know, there is no limit to where you could go. All manner of doors would eventually be opened to you! You would be able to succeed on merit. And you have merit! Otherwise the rules of Society will make it impossible for you. You must be aware of that! How can you not see the good in such a thing?” It was a demand for an answer, and his blue-gray eyes met Pitt’s unflinchingly.

Pitt was aware not only of the strength of will behind the calm, almost bland countenance, but suddenly of an intelligence he had not previously suspected. He realized that until that moment he had had a certain contempt for Farnsworth, an unconscious assumption that he held office because of birth, not ability. Farnsworth’s lack of understanding of certain issues, certain characteristics or turns of phrase, he had taken for slowness of mind. It came to him with a jolt that it was far more probably a narrowness of experience. He was one of the vast numbers of people who cannot imagine themselves into the class or gender, least of all the emotions, of a different person. That is lack of vision or sensitivity, even compassion, but it is not stupidity.

“You are favoring one closed group which favors its own, over another doing just the same,” he replied with a candor he had not shown Farnsworth before, and even as he said it he was aware he was treading on the edge of danger.

Farnsworth’s impatience was weary and only peripherally annoyed. Perhaps he had expected little more. “I’m all for idealism, Pitt, but only to a point. When it becomes divorced from reality it ceases to be any use and becomes an encumbrance.” He shook his head. “This is how the world works. If you don’t know that, I confess I don’t understand how you have succeeded as far as you have. You deal with crime every day of your life. You see the worst in humanity, the weakest and the ugliest. How is it you are so blind to higher motives, men who cooperate together to bring about a greater good, from which in the end we shall all benefit?”

Pitt would like to have said that he did not believe the motives of the leaders of the Inner Circle were anything of the sort. Originally, perhaps, they had had a vision of good, but it was now so interwoven with their own power to bring it about, and their own glory in its achievement, that too much of it was lost on the way. But he knew that saying as much would not sway Farnsworth, who had too much invested in believing as he did. It would only produce denial and conflict.

And yet for an instant there was understanding on the edge of his mind, a moment when some sympathy between them was possible. He should grasp it. There was a moral and a human imperative to try.

“It is not a question of the justice or honor of those goals,” he replied slowly. “Either for themselves or for others. And I don’t doubt that many people would benefit from much of what they bring about….”

Farnsworth’s face lit with eagerness. He almost interrupted, then disciplined himself to wait for Pitt to finish.

“It is that they decide what is good, without telling the rest of us,” Pitt continued, choosing his words with great care. “And they bring it about by secret means. If it is good, we benefit, but if it is not, if it is not what we wanted, by the time we know, it is too late.” He leaned forward unconsciously. “There is no stopping it, no redress, because we don’t know who to blame or to whom we can appeal. It denies the majority of us, all of us outside the Circle, the right or the chance to choose for ourselves.”

Farnsworth looked puzzled, a crease between his brows.

“But you can be in the Circle, man. That is what I’m offering you.”

“And everyone else?” Pitt said. “What about their choices?”

Farnsworth’s eyes widened. “Are you really suggesting that everyone else, the majority”—he raised his hand to indicate the mass of population beyond the office walls—“are able to understand the issues, let alone make a decision as to what is right, wise, profitable … or even possible?” He saw Pitt’s face. “No, of course you aren’t. What you’re suggesting is anarchy. Every man for himself. And God knows, perhaps every woman and every child too?”

Until now Pitt had acted on a passionate instinct, not needing to rationalize what he thought; no one had required it of him.

“There is a difference between the open power of government and the secret power of a society whose members no one knows,” he said with commitment. He saw the derision in Farnsworth’s face. “Of course there can be oppression, corruption, incompetence, but if we know who holds the power, then they are to some degree accountable. We can at least fight against what we can see.”

“Rebellion,” Farnsworth said succinctly. “Or if we fight against it secretly, then treason! Is that really what you prefer?”

“I don’t want the overthrow of a government.” Pitt would not be goaded into taking a more extreme position than he meant. “But I have no objection to its downfall, if that is what it merits.”

Farnsworth’s eyebrows rose.

“In whose judgment? Yours?”

“The majority of the people who are governed.”

“And you think the majority is right?” Farnsworth’s eyes were wide. “That it is informed, wise, benevolent and self-disciplined or, God damn it, even literate—”

“No, I don’t,” Pitt interrupted. “But it can’t ever be if it is governed in secret by those who never ask and never explain. I think the majority have always been decent people, and have the right, as much right as you or anyone else, to know their own destiny and have as much control over it as is possible.”

“Consistent with order”—Farnsworth sat back, his smile sardonic—“and the rights and privileges of others. Quite. We have no difference in aim, Pitt, only in how to achieve it. And you are hopelessly naive. You are an idealist, quite out of touch with the reality both of human nature and of economics and business. You would make a good politician on the hustings, telling the people all the things they want to hear, but you’d be hopeless in office.” He crossed his hands, interlacing his fingers, and gazing at Pitt with something close to resignation. “Perhaps you are right not to accept the offer of membership in the Inner Circle. You haven’t the stomach for it, or the vision. You’ll always be a gamekeeper’s son at heart.”

Pitt was not certain whether that was intended as an insult or not; the words were, judging from Farnsworth’s voice, and yet the tone was disappointed rather than deliberately offensive.

He stood up. “I expect you’re right,” he conceded, surprised that he minded so little. “But gamekeepers protect and preserve what is good.” He smiled. “Is that not what you have been talking about?”

Farnsworth looked startled. He opened his mouth to dismiss the idea, then realized its truth and changed his mind.

“Good day, sir,” Pitt said from the doorway.

There was only one thing Pitt could profitably do regarding the Colonial Office. The routine investigation of associates, personal habits, the search for weakness, could be accomplished as well by Tellman and his men as by Pitt himself. Not that he expected any of it to yield much of value. But quite apart from that, Arthur Desmond’s death still filled his thoughts in every quiet moment and the underlying sadness was with him all the time. It grew gradually more compelling that he should resolve what he could, for Matthew’s sake and for his own.

Charlotte had said little to him on the subject, but her unusual silence was more eloquent than speech. She had been gentle with him, more patient than was characteristic, as if she were sensitive not only to his loss but to his awareness of guilt. He was grateful for it. He would have found her criticism painful, because it would have been fair, and when one is most vulnerable, one is also the least able to bear the wound.

But he also longed to return to the frankness that was more natural to both of them.

He began with General Anstruther, and was obliged to pursue him from one of his clubs to a second, and ultimately find him in a quiet reading room of a third. Or it would be more accurate to say he was informed by the steward that General Anstruther was there. Pitt, not being a member, was not permitted into that very private and privileged sanctuary.

“Would you please ask General Anstruther if he can spare me a few moments of his time?” Pitt said politely, hating having to beg. He had no authority in this case, and could not use his office to insist. It galled him far more than he should have allowed it to.

“I will ask him, sir,” the steward replied expressionlessly. “Who may I say is asking?”

“Superintendent Pitt, of Bow Street.” Pitt handed him his card.

“Very well, sir. I shall enquire.” And leaving Pitt standing in the large and extremely opulent hall, he retreated upstairs, carrying the card on a silver tray.

Pitt gazed around the walls at the marble busts of long-dead soldiers and saw Marlborough, Wellington, Moore, Wolfe, Hastings, Clive, Gordon, and two he did not recognize. It crossed his mind with amusement, but no surprise, that Cromwell was not there. Above the doors were the arms of Richard Coeur de Lion, and Henry V. On the farther wall was a somber and very fine painting of the burial of Moore after Corunna, and opposite, another of the charge of the Scots Greys at Waterloo. More recent battle honors hung from the high ceiling, from Inkermann, the Alma and Balaclava.

General Anstruther came down the stairs, white whiskers bristling, his face pink, his back stiff as a ramrod.

“Good day to you, sir. What can I do for you?” He made it almost a demand. “Must be damned urgent to seek a fellow out at his club, what?”

“It is not urgent, General Anstruther, but I think it is important,” Pitt replied respectfully. “And I can get the information accurately from no one else, or I should not have troubled you.”

“Indeed! Indeed. And what is it, Mr…. Superintendent? Unless it is very brief, we can hardly stand around here like a couple of butlers, what. Come into the guests’ room.” He waved a heavy, florid hand towards one of the many oak doors off the hallway, and Pitt followed him obediently.

The room was filled with extremely comfortable armchairs, but the pictures and general decor were forbidding, perhaps to remind visitors of the military grandeur of the club’s members and the utter inferiority of civilians permitted in on sufferance.

General Anstruther indicated one of the chairs, and as Pitt sat down, took the one opposite him and leaned back, crossing his legs.

“Well then, Superintendent, what is it that troubles you?”

Pitt had thought carefully what he should say.

“The matter of the death of the late Sir Arthur Desmond,” he replied candidly. He saw Anstruther’s face tighten, but continued speaking. “There have been certain questions asked, and I wish to be in possession of all the facts so that I can refute any unpleasant or unwarranted suggestions that may be made.”

“By whom, sir? Suggestions of what?” Anstruther demanded. “Explain yourself, sir. This is most unfortunate.”

“Indeed it is,” Pitt agreed. “The suggestions are concerning his sanity, and the possibility of either suicide or—just as bad—murder.”

“Good God!” Anstruther was genuinely shocked; there was nothing assumed in the horror in his face, the slackness of initial disbelief, and then the growing darkness in his eyes as all the implications came to him. “That’s scandalous! Who has dared to say such a thing? I demand to know, sir!”

“At the moment it is no more than suggestion, General Anstruther,” Pitt replied, somewhat mendaciously. “I wish to be in a position to refute it decisively if it should ever become more.”

“That’s preposterous! Why should anyone murder Desmond? Never knew a more decent chap in my life.”

“I don’t doubt that is true, until the last few months,” Pitt said with more confidence than he felt. He had a growing fear in his mind that Anstruther’s outrage might be so deep as to prompt him to complain in a manner which would reach Farnsworth’s ears, and then Pitt would be in serious trouble. Perhaps he had overstated his case and brought about more harm than good?

It was too late to go back.

“Well …” Anstruther said guardedly. “Ah—yes.” He was obviously remembering what he had said at the inquest. “That is true—up to a point.”

“That is what I am worried about.” Pitt felt he had regained a little ground. “Just how erratic was his behavior, sir? You were naturally very discreet at the inquest, as becomes a friend speaking in a public place. But this is private, and for quite a different purpose.”

“Well … I hardly know what to say, sir.” Anstruther looked confounded.

“You said earlier that Sir Arthur was forgetful and confused,” Pitt prompted him. “Can you give me instances?”

“I … er. One doesn’t choose to remember such things, man! For heaven’s sake, one overlooks the failings of one’s friends. One does not commit them to memory!”

“You don’t remember any instance?” Pitt felt a stirring of hope, too thin to rely on, too bright to ignore.

“Well … er … it is more of an impression than a catalog of events, don’t you know, what?” Anstruther was now thoroughly unhappy.

Pitt had the sudden sharp impression that he was lying. He did not actually know anything at all. He had been repeating what he had been told by fellow members of the Inner Circle.

“When did you last see Sir Arthur?” he asked quite gently. Anstruther was embarrassed. There was no point in making an enemy of him; then he would learn nothing.

“Ah …” Anstruther was pink-faced now. “Not certain. Events put it rather out of my mind. I do recall quite plainly dining with him about three weeks before he died, poor fellow.” His voice gained in confidence. He was on firm ground now. “Seemed to me to have changed a lot. Rambling on about Africa.”

“Rambling?” Pitt interrupted. “You mean he was incoherent, disconnected in his ideas?”

“Ah—that’s a little steep, sir. Not at all. I mean simply that he kept returning to the subject, even when the rest of us had clearly passed on to something else.”

“He was a bore?”

Anstruther’s eyes widened. “If you like, sir, yes. He didn’t know when to leave the matter alone. Made a lot of accusations that were most unfortunate. Quite unfounded, of course.”

“Were they?”

“Good heavens, of course they were.” Anstruther was appalled. “Talked about secret plots to conquer Africa, and God knows what else. Quite mad—delusory.”

“You are profoundly familiar with Africa, sir?” Pitt did his best to keep every shred of sarcasm out of his voice and thought he succeeded.

“What?” Anstruther was startled. “Africa? What makes you say that, Superintendent?”

“That you know that there are no conspiracies regarding the financial backing of settlement there. There is a great deal of money involved, and presumably fortunes to be made by those who obtain mineral rights.”

“Ah … well …” Anstruther had been about to dismiss the idea in anger, then just in time realized that he had no grounds for it at all, however repugnant the idea was to him. Pitt watched the changing emotions in his face, and knew that his reactions to Sir Arthur’s charges were from the heart rather than the head, a plain man’s disbelief and horror of intrigue, complexities he did not understand and corruption he despised.

“I hope it is not true,” Pitt said gently. “But the belief in it does not seem so farfetched to me that one might consider it madness. Boundless wealth usually draws adventurers and thieves as well as honest men. And the prospect of such power has corrupted people before. Sir Arthur, as a politician, would be familiar with some of the scandals of the past, and not unnaturally fear for the future.”

Anstruther drew in his breath. His face was even pinker and he was obviously struggling between loyalties. Pitt did not know whether one of them was to the Inner Circle, but he believed it was. In all probability he saw it as Farnsworth had described it to Pitt: an organization of intelligent, enlightened men banded together to bring about the best good of the country, including the majority of blind and foolish men and women who could not decide for themselves, having neither the knowledge nor the wisdom. Honor and duty required that those who had these qualities should protect them for their own good. Anstruther would have given oaths of loyalty, and he was a man born and bred to unquestioning loyalties. A lifetime in the army had ingrained in his being obedience without question. Desertion was a capital offense, the last and most terrible sin of which a man was capable.

And yet now he was faced with truth he could not deny, and both his innate sense of honor and his general decency were at war with his sworn allegiances and his lifetime habit.

Pitt waited for him to find his resolution.

Outside in the street a hansom drew up and a short man in military uniform stepped out, paid the driver, and came up the stairs to the club. A four-in-hand drove by at a brisk trot.

“What you say, sir, is probably true,” Anstruther conceded with great difficulty, the words forced out of him. “Perhaps it was not so much that poor Desmond was convinced of conspiracy that was ridiculous, as it was the men whom he charged. That, sir, was undoubtedly beyond the bounds of reason. Decent men, fine and honorable men I have known all my life.” His face was suffused with color, and his voice rang with the absolute conviction that he was right. “Men who have served their fellows, their country, their queen, without recognition or gain, sir.”

Only secret and unquestioned power, Pitt thought to himself, perhaps the headiest reward of all. But he did not say so.

“I can imagine that that was extremely offensive to you, General,” he said instead.

“Extremely, sir,” Anstruther agreed vehemently. “Most distressing. Liked Desmond for years. Most agreeable chap. Decent, what. Tragedy he should come to such an end. Damned tragedy.” He was at last satisfied with his own resolution to the dilemma, and he faced Pitt squarely, allowing his emotion to fire his words. That at least was unquestioned and presented no problems at all. “Very sorry,” he went on. “Sorry for the family, dammit. I hope you manage to keep this thing quiet, sir. Use your discretion. Nobody needs to know. Let it be buried. Best thing. Best thing altogether, for everyone. Nobody believed the nonsense he spoke in the end. No harm done, what!”

Pitt rose. “Thank you for your time, General Anstruther. You have been most frank, and I appreciate it, sir.”

“Least I can do. Painful matter.” Anstruther rose also and accompanied Pitt to the door and into the hallway. “Best set to rest. Good day to you, Superintendent.”

“Good day, General Anstruther.”

Outside in the street in the broad May sunshine Pitt had a strange feeling of light-headedness. He barely noticed the carriages and horses passing by, or the fashionable woman who brushed his elbow as he strode along the footpath. He was just off Piccadilly, and there was a faint sound of music coming from Green Park.

He walked rapidly without realizing it, a spring in his step. Anstruther had said what he had most hoped. Sir Arthur was not irrational; simply startling, disturbing and profoundly unwelcome. Anstruther was a decent man caught in a situation he could not handle. He was not used to complex loyalties which vied with each other. He was incapable of rethinking his values, his friendships and his trust without a wrench to his mind he would do everything in his power to avoid.

There was no proof in what he had learned, except in his own mind, and perhaps his emotions would be more at rest. Sir Arthur was vindicated … at least so far.

Next he found the Honorable William Osborne. He was an entirely different manner of man. It was late afternoon before he would receive Pitt, and then it was at his own house in Chelsea. It was opulent, close to the banks of the Thames and in a lushly shaded garden along a quiet tree-lined street. He greeted Pitt with impatience. Obviously he had an engagement for the evening and resented the interruption.

“I have no idea what I can do for you, Mr. Pitt.” He was standing in his oak-paneled library, into which Pitt had been shown, and he did not sit down himself nor offer a seat. There was no mistaking that he did not intend the interview to be long enough to require one. “I said all I know about this unfortunate affair at the inquest, which is a matter of public record. I know nothing else, nor would I be inclined to discuss it if I did.”

“You testified that Sir Arthur had recently expressed some irrational opinions,” Pitt said with an effort to keep his temper.

“As I have just said, Mr. Pitt, that is a matter of public record.” He was standing in the middle of the blue Turkish carpet, rocking very slightly on the balls of his feet. He reminded Pitt vaguely of a more ill-tempered Eustace March.

“Can you tell me what these opinions were, sir?” Pitt asked, looking directly at him but keeping his voice light and his tone courteous.

“I don’t wish to repeat them,” Osborne replied. “They were ludicrous, and to no one’s credit.”

“It is important that I know,” Pitt insisted.

“Why?” Osborne’s rather thin eyebrows rose. “The man is dead. How could it matter now what nonsense he said in his last few months?”

“Since he is dead,” Pitt said quietly and very firmly, “he cannot now withdraw them.” He made a rash decision. He smiled very slightly. “There are men of goodwill, honorable men who prefer to remain anonymous, whose names he has slandered, by implication if not directly. I know that you understand what I am saying, sir. Mr. Farnsworth …”—he pronounced the name carefully—“is concerned that no taint should linger….” He let the suggestion speak for itself.

Osborne stared at him, his dark gray eyes hard and level.

“Then why the devil didn’t you say so, sir? There’s no need to be so coy.”

Pitt felt his stomach lurch. Osborne had understood him and believed the lie. He thought he was speaking to a fellow member of the Inner Circle.

“I am used to being careful,” Pitt replied with a modicum of truth. “It is a habit hard to forget.”

“Has its uses,” Osborne conceded. “Very bad business. Of course the wretched fellow was making all sorts of rash accusations. Had hold of the wrong end of the stick altogether.” His face was tight, his lips a thin line. “No vision. No vision at all. Decent enough chap, but bourgeois at heart. Totally impractical. A well-intentioned fool can do more real harm than a wagonload of villains who know what they are about!” He looked at Pitt dourly. There was still a suspicion in him. In his judgment Pitt was not Inner Circle material. He was neither a gentleman nor a loyal servant.

On both points he had made, he was correct. Pitt had no desire to argue the first. The second was another matter.

“I agree with you, sir,” he said honestly. “A well-intentioned fool can be extremely dangerous, if given power, and frequently brings about the downfall of many others, although it may be the last of his intentions.”

Osborne looked surprised. Apparently he had not expected Pitt to agree with him. He grunted. “Then you will take my point, sir.” He stopped abruptly. “Precisely what is it you wish to know, and who is in danger of being slandered by all this wretched nonsense?”

“I should prefer not to give names,” Pitt answered. “And in truth, I do not know them all. In the interest of discretion, much of it was kept from me.”

“Rightly so.” Osborne nodded. After all, Pitt might be a member, but he was merely a person of use. “The charges Sir Arthur made were that certain gentlemen, our friends, were secretly organized together to fund a settlement expedition in Central Africa,” he explained, “which would at once exploit both the native African tribal leaders and the British government’s financial and moral backing in the venture. The suggestion was that when the settlement proved successful, and vast wealth was found, both real and potential, then they would profit unfairly, in terms of money and of political power in the new country to be established, nominally under British suzerainty, but in fact a law unto itself. And then they would prevent others from sharing in this fortune by excluding them, by means of these secret dealings and agreements.” Osborne’s face was bleak and angry, and he stared at Pitt, waiting for his response.

“That was a very foolish thing to have said,” Pitt replied with honesty, even though he believed it was almost certainly true. “He had undoubtedly lost a grip upon reality.”

“Absolutely,” Osborne agreed fervently. “Totally absurd! And irresponsible, dammit. He might have been believed.”

“I doubt it,” Pitt said with a sudden rush of bitterness. “It is a truly appalling thought, and very few people believe what they do not wish to, particularly if it is nothing they have feared before, even in nightmare, and there is no evidence of it to prove it true.”

Osborne looked at him narrowly, as if he suspected sarcasm, but Pitt’s eyes were guileless. He felt no compunction at all in being as devious as he could, or in quite plainly lying.

Osborne cleared his throat.

“That is all I have to tell you, Pitt. I know of nothing else. Africa is not my field of expertise.”

“That has been most helpful, thank you, sir,” Pitt conceded. “I think it possible I may be able to establish the truth with a little more assistance from others. Thank you for your time, sir. Good day.”

“Good day to you.” Osborne drew breath as if to add something further, then changed his mind.

By the time Pitt had found Calvert, the third man who had given evidence at the inquest, it was late, and in spite of being mid-May, nearly dark. He heard a similar story from him, full of hearsay, confusion, accusations repeated with outrage, ignorance of Africa except that somehow it should be British by right, moral if not political.

Pitt was so weary his feet were sore and he found he had unconsciously clenched his shoulders and his jaw till his throat ached. It was all nebulous, a matter of impressions, assumptions springing from anger, and a sense of having been betrayed by someone they should have been able to trust. For all the words of pity, the blame was there all the time. Arthur Desmond had made public suggestions, true or false, that they were corrupt. Men who should have given them respect would now not do so. People who should not even have guessed at the existence of the Inner Circle would wonder and speculate about it. That had been the greatest sin in the man’s view, the spreading before the general gaze of that which should have been private. No matter what the sin or the crime, one did not wash one’s linen in public. It was not the act of a gentleman. If you could not rely upon a gentleman to behave like one, what was there left of worth?

Pitt did not know if the man was a member of the Inner Circle or not. What he had said could simply have been a class loyalty. So could what Osborne had said, for that matter, but he was almost certain of Osborne.

Who else? Hathaway, Chancellor, Thorne, Aylmer? Of Farnsworth there was no doubt, and he loathed Farnsworth. But he had loved Arthur Desmond all his life, and he had been a member. So had Micah Drummond, whom he had grown to like immensely and to trust without question. He should talk to him. He was probably the only person who could help. Even as he lengthened his stride along the footpath, his decision was made. He would go now!

Membership had now been offered to Pitt. It was not exclusive to gentlemen. Anyone might be a member, might even be the executioner. It could have been the steward of the club, or the manager. Or the doctor who was called.

He was walking briskly and the night was balmy. He should have been warm, but he was not. He was chilled inside, and his legs were so tired every step required an effort of will, but he was determined to see Drummond, and the sense of purpose lent him strength.

A hansom came around the corner too quickly and he was obliged to move sharply out of its way, knocking into a stout man who had not been looking where he was going.

“Have a care, sir!” he said furiously, facing Pitt with bulging eyes. He held a heavy carved walking stick in one hand, and he gripped it tightly as if he would have raised it to defend himself if necessary.

“Look where you are going, and I won’t need to!” Pitt said.

“Why you raffian!” The man lifted the end of the stick a foot off the ground in a threatening gesture. “How dare you speak to me like that. I’ll call the police, sir! And I’ll warn you, I know how to use this, if you force me.”

“I am the police! And if you touch me with that thing, I’ll arrest you and charge you with assault. As it is, keep a civil tongue in your head or I’ll charge you with being a public nuisance.”

The man was too startled to retaliate, but he kept his hand hard on his stick.

Had Pitt gone too far with Osborne? Perhaps Osborne was high enough in the Inner Circle to know perfectly well who were members and who were not. Pitt had damaged the Inner Circle before. It was naive to imagine they would not know him. They had killed Arthur Desmond—why not Pitt? An attack in the street, a quick push under the wheels of a vehicle. A most regrettable street accident. It had already happened once, with Matthew—hadn’t it?

He turned on his heel and strode away, leaving the man gibbering with outrage.

This was absurd. He must control his imagination. He was seeing enemies everywhere, and there were above three million people in London. There were probably no more than three thousand of them members of the Inner Circle. But he could never know which three thousand.

Around the corner he took a cab, giving Micah Drummond’s address, and sat back, trying to compose himself and master his flying thoughts. He would ask him if he had any idea how large the Circle was. He was frightened of the answer, yet it could be helpful to know. On thinking of it now, he was foolish not to have gone to him for help as soon as he knew of Sir Arthur’s death. Drummond had been naive to begin with, and perhaps he still only half understood the evil even now, but he had been a member for many years. He might recall incidents, rituals, and see them in a different light with the wisdom of hindsight.

Even if he had no new insights, no concrete suggestions, Pitt would feel less alone simply to talk to him.

The cab pulled up and he alighted and paid the driver with something close to a sense of elation.

Then he saw that there were no lights in the house, at least not at the front. Drummond and Eleanor might be out for the evening, but the servants would have left on the outside lamps if that were so. They could not have retired this early. The only answer was that they must be away. Disappointment overwhelmed him, engulfing him like a cold tide.

“Was they expectin’ you, sir?” the cabby said from behind him. He must have seen the darkness and reached his own conclusion. Possibly it was compassion which kept him, equally possibly the hope of another immediate fare. “Shall I take you somewhere else, then?”

Pitt gave him his home address, then climbed in and shut the door.

“Thomas, you look terrible,” Charlotte said as soon as she saw him. She had heard his key in the lock and came into the hall to meet him. She was dressed in deep pink, and looked warm, almost glowing, and when he took her in his arms there was an air of may blossom about her. He could hear one of the children upstairs calling out to Gracie, and a moment later Jemima appeared on the landing in her nightgown.

“Papa!”

“What are you doing out of bed?” he called up.

“I want a drink of water,” she answered with assurance.

“No you don’t.” Charlotte disengaged herself and turned around. “You had a drink before you went to bed. Go back to sleep.”

Jemima tried another avenue. “My bed’s all untidy. Will you come and make it straight for me, please, Mama?”

“You’re big enough to make it straight for yourself,” Charlotte said firmly. “I’m going to get some supper for Papa. Good night.”

“But Mama …”

“Good night, Jemima!”

“Can I say good night to Papa?”

Pitt did not wait for Charlotte’s answer to this, but strode up the stairs two at a time and picked up his daughter in his arms. She was so slight, so delicately boned she felt fragile as he held her, even though she clung to him with surprising strength. She smelled of clean cotton and soap, and the hair around her brow was still damp. Why on earth did he challenge the Inner Circle? Life was too precious, too sweet to endanger anything. He could not destroy them, only bruise himself trying. Africa was half the earth away.

“Good night, Papa.” Jemima made no move to be put down.

“Good night, sweetheart.” He let her go gently, turned her around and gave her a little push on her way.

This time she knew she was beaten, and disappeared without further argument.

Pitt came downstairs too full of emotion to speak. Charlotte looked at his face, and was content to bide her time.

In the morning he slept in, then ignored Bow Street entirely and went directly to the Morton Club to look for Horace Guyler, the steward who had given evidence at the inquest. He was too early. The club was not yet open. Presumably there were maids and footmen cleaning the carpets, dusting and polishing. He should have thought of that. He was obliged to kick his heels for an hour, and then he was allowed in, and had to wait a further thirty minutes before Guyler was given the freedom to see him.

“Yes sir?” Guyler said with some apprehension. They were standing in the small steward’s room, at present empty but for the two of them.

“Good morning, Mr. Guyler,” Pitt replied casually. “I wonder if you would tell me a little more about the day Sir Arthur Desmond died here.”

Guyler looked uncomfortable, but Pitt had a strong feeling it was not guilt so much as a deep-seated fear of death and everything to do with it.

“I don’t know what else I can say, sir.” He shifted from one foot to the other. “I already said all I know at the inquest.”

If he were an Inner Circle member, he was a consummate actor. Or perhaps he was a cat’s paw? Perhaps the executioner simply used him?

“You answered all you were asked.” Pitt smiled, although no smile was going to put him at his ease. “I have a few questions the coroner did not think to ask you.”

“Why, sir? Is something wrong?”

“I want to make sure that nothing becomes wrong,” Pitt said ambiguously. “You were serving gentlemen in the drawing room that day?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Alone?”

“Beg pardon, sir?”

“Were you the only steward on duty?”

“Oh no, sir. There’s always two or three of us at least.”

“Always? What if someone is ill?”

“Then we hire in extra staff, sir. Happens quite often. Fact, I saw one that day.”

“I see.”

“But I was looking after that part o’ the room, sir. I was the one what served Sir Arthur, at least most o’ the time.”

“But someone else did for part of it?” Pitt kept the rising urgency out of his voice as much as possible, but he still heard it there, as Guyler did. “One of these extra staff, perhaps?”

“I don’t know for sure, sir.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well … I can’t really see what other stewards are doing if I’m pouring drinks for someone, taking an order or an instruction, sir. People is every so often coming and going. Gentlemen go to the cloakroom, or to the billiard room, or to the library, or the writing room or the like.”

“Did Sir Arthur move around?”

“Not as I recall, sir. But I don’t rightly know. I wouldn’t swear to nothing.”

“I certainly wouldn’t press you,” Pitt tried to reassure him.

Guyler’s anxious expression did not change in the slightest.

“You said that Sir Arthur drank a great deal of brandy that day,” Pitt pursued.

“Yes, sir. At my judgment, I would say five or six glasses at any rate,” Guyler replied with conviction.

“How many of those did you serve him?”

“About four, sir, clear as I can remember.”

“So someone else served him one, perhaps two?”

Guyler heard the lift of hope, even excitement in Pitt’s voice.

“I don’t know that, sir. I’m just supposing,” he said quickly, biting his lip, his hands clenched.

“I don’t understand….” Pitt was genuinely confused; he had no need to pretend.

“Well, sir, you see … I’m saying Sir Arthur had about five or six glasses o’ brandy because that’s what I counted from what people said—”

“From what people said?” Pitt broke in sharply. “What people? How many glasses did you serve him yourself, Guyler?”

“One, sir. One glass o’ brandy a little before dinner. The last one …” He gulped. “I suppose. But I swear before God, sir, that I never put nothing in it but brandy out o’ the best decanter, exactly as I’m supposed to!”

“I don’t doubt that,” Pitt said steadily, looking at Guyler’s frightened face. “Now explain to me these other four or five brandies you say Sir Arthur had. If you did not serve them, and you don’t know whether any of the other stewards did, what makes you assume they existed at all?”

“Well, sir …” Guyler’s eyes met Pitt’s with fear, but no evasion. “I remember Sir James Duncansby saying as Sir Arthur wanted another drink, and I poured one and gave it to him to take to Sir Arthur. Seeing as Sir James had one at the same time, and said as he’d take it back to Sir Arthur. It isn’t done to argue with gentlemen, sir.”

“No, of course it isn’t. That accounts for one. What about the others?”

“Well, er … Mr. William Rodway came and ordered a second one from me, saying as the first, which he’d had from one of the other stewards, he’d given to Sir Arthur.”

“That’s two. Go on.”

“Mr. Jenkinson said as he’d treat Sir Arthur, and ’e took two, one for himself like.”

“Three. You want one or two more.”

“I’m not really sure, sir.” Guyler looked unhappy. “I just overheard Brigadier Allsop saying as he’d seen Sir Arthur ordering one from one of the other stewards. At least I think it was one, I’m not sure. It could have been two.”

Pitt felt a curious sense of lightness. The steward had served Sir Arthur only one drink! All the rest were hearsay. They might never have reached him at all. Suddenly the confusion and nightmare were sorting into some kind of sense. Sanity was returning.

And with sanity were the darker, uglier, but so much less painful conclusions that if this were not the truth but a conspiracy, then Sir Arthur had been murdered, just as Matthew believed.

And perhaps if Pitt had been there, if he had been home to Brackley and Sir Arthur had been able to turn to him in the first place with his terrible suspicion of the Inner Circle, then maybe Pitt could have warned him, have advised him, and he would not now be dead.

He thanked Guyler and left him, anxious and more puzzled than when he had come in.

Dr. Murray was not a man to be so easily led or persuaded. Pitt had been obliged to make an appointment to see him in Wimpole Street and to pay for the privilege, and Murray was not amused when he discovered that the purpose for Pitt’s presence in his surgery was to ask questions, rather than to seek aid for some complaint. The rooms were imposing, soberly furnished, exuding an air of well-being and confidence. It crossed Pitt’s mind to wonder what had drawn Arthur Desmond to such a man, and how long he had consulted him.

“Your request was somewhat misleading, Mr. Pitt, at the outset, and that is the kindest I can say for it.” Murray leaned back from his huge walnut desk and looked at Pitt with disfavor. “What authority have you for enquiring into the unfortunate death of Sir Arthur Desmond? The coroner has already given his judgment on the causes and closed the case. I fail to see what good can be done by further discussion of the matter.”

Pitt had expected some difficulty, and even if Murray were a member of the Circle, as he suspected, he knew his trick with Osborne would not work a second time. Murray was far too confident to be duped. And he thought it likely he was also much more senior in the hierarchy which governed it, and might well know who Pitt was, his past enmity to the Circle and his very recent refusal to join. He forced from his mind the further possibilities that Murray himself was the executioner, though as he sat in the consulting room with the door closed behind him, and the windows with their thick, velvet curtains, he could see the bright street beyond and carriages passing to and fro in the sunlight. But the glass was so thick and so well fitted he could hear nothing of the rattle and bustle of life. He felt suddenly claustrophobic, almost imprisoned.

He thought of lying about the coroner’s being dissatisfied, but then he dared not. The coroner might be an Inner Circle member as well. In fact almost anyone might be, even among his own men. He had always felt Tellman was too angry, too full of resentment to lend himself to anything so dedicated to the power of governing. But perhaps that was blind of him.

“I am a personal friend of Sir Matthew’s,” he said aloud. That at least was perfectly true. “He asked me to make a few further enquiries on his behalf. He is not well at the moment. He met with an accident in the street a few days ago, and was injured.” He watched Murray’s face intently, but saw not even a flicker in his eyes.

“I am so sorry,” Murray sympathized. “How very unfortunate. I hope it was not serious?”

“It seems not, but it was very unpleasant. He could have been killed.”

“I am afraid it happens all too often.”

Was that a veiled threat? Or only an innocent and truthful observation?

“What is it you wish to know, Mr. Pitt?” Murray continued, folding his hands across his stomach and looking at Pitt gravely. “If you are indeed a friend of Sir Matthew’s, you would do him the greatest service by persuading him that his father’s death was in many ways a mercy, before he became sufficiently ill to damage his reputation beyond recall, and possibly to have suffered greatly in his more lucid moments. It is most unpleasant to face, but less damaging in time than to go on fighting against the truth, and possibly causing a great deal of unpleasantness along the way.” A smile flickered across his face and disappeared. “Men of goodwill, of whom there are many, wish to remember Arthur as he was, but to rake the matter up over and over will not allow that to happen.” His eyes did not waver from Pitt’s.

One moment Pitt was sure it was a warning; the men of goodwill he referred to were members of the Circle, large in number, but immeasurably more powerful than number alone would suggest. They would retaliate if Matthew pressed them.

Then the next moment he knew there was no proof of that. Murray was simply a doctor stating the obvious. Pitt was developing a delusion about being persecuted himself, seeing plots everywhere, accusing innocent people.

“I shall be better able to convince him if I have some facts and details to tell him,” he replied, not moving his gaze either. “For example, had you ever prescribed laudanum for Sir Arthur before? Or was this his first experience with it, as far as you were aware?”

“It was his first experience,” Murray replied. “He told me that himself. But I did explain to him most carefully both its properties and its dangers, Mr. Pitt. I showed him precisely how and when to take it, and how much would produce a sleep of reasonably natural depth and duration.”

“Of course,” Pitt agreed. “But in his confused state … he was confused, was he not? Irrational and contradictory at times?”

“Not with me.” Murray said what he had to, to protect himself, as Pitt had expected. “But I have subsequently learned from others that he had some strange obsessions, not altogether rational. I take your point, Mr. Pitt. He may have forgotten what I told him and taken a lethal dose, thinking it would merely give him an afternoon nap. We can’t know what was in his mind at the time, poor man.”

“How was the laudanum made up?”

“In powders, which is the usual way.” He smiled very slightly. “Each dose separated and in a folded paper. It would be difficult to take more than one dose, Mr. Pitt, unless one had forgotten and taken a second in absentmindedness. I regret it could not more satisfactorily fill your theory. It is a precaution I usually take.”

“I see.” It did not affect Pitt’s real belief. It would still have been perfectly possible for Murray to make up a dose that was lethal and put it in with the others. He kept the look of agreeable enquiry on his face. “When did Sir Arthur come to you, Dr. Murray?”

“He first consulted me in the autumn of 1887, over a congestion of the lungs. I was able to help him and he effected a complete cure. If you are referring to this last visit, that was … let me see.” He looked through a calendar of appointments on his desk. “April twenty-seventh.” He smiled. “At four-forty in the afternoon, to be precise. He was here some half hour or more. He was very troubled indeed, I regret to say. I did all I could to reassure him, but I am afraid he was beyond my ability to help this time. I don’t think I flatter myself if I say he was past the help of any man of medicine.”

“Did you make up the laudanum yourself, Dr. Murray?”

“No, no. I don’t keep supplies of all the drugs I prescribe for my patients, Mr. Pitt. I gave him a prescription which I presume he took to an apothecary. I recommended Mr. Porteous of Jermyn Street. He is an excellent man, both knowledgeable and extremely careful. I am most particular, for the very cause you mention, that the laudanum should be precisely measured and each dose separately wrapped. Sir Arthur had been to him on several previous occasions, and said that he would indeed use him.”

“I see. Thank you very much, Dr. Murray. You have been most patient.” Pitt rose to his feet. He had learned only little that was of use, but he could think of no more to ask without raising suspicion, if not actual certainty, that he was pursuing the Inner Circle again, and that he was convinced of murder. That would achieve nothing, and he was acutely aware of his own danger.

As it was, he was absurdly relieved to be outside in the bright air amid the rattle of hooves and hiss of carriage wheels and the vitality and movement of the street.

He went straight to Jermyn Street and found the apothecary’s shop.

“Sir Arthur Desmond?” The old man behind the counter nodded benignly. “Such a nice gentleman. Sorry to hear about his death. Very sad. So unfortunate. What may I do for you, sir? I have just about everything a body can need to repair or ease whatever troubles you. Have you seen a physician, or may I advise you?”

“I don’t need to purchase anything. I’m sorry for misleading you. It is your memory I need to consult.” Pitt did feel guilty for offering no business, but there was nothing he needed. “When was Sir Arthur last in here?”

“Sir Arthur? Why do you wish to know that, young man?” He squinted at Pitt curiously but not unkindly.

“I—I am concerned about his death … the manner of it,” Pitt answered a little awkwardly. The old man looked not unlike Sir Arthur, and it brought an odd twist of memory back, seeing him behind the counter of the dark shop.

“Oh. Well, so am I, and that’s the pity of it. If he’d come here with his writ from the doctor, as he usually did, I’d have given him the laudanum all wrapped separately, as I always do for all my customers, and then this dreadful accident would never have happened.” The old man shook his head sorrowfully.

“He didn’t come here?” Pitt said sharply. “You are sure?”

The old gentleman’s eyebrows rose. “Of course I am sure, young man. Nobody serves behind this counter but myself, and I did not serve him. I haven’t seen Sir Arthur since last winter. About January, it would be. He had a cold. I gave him some infusion of herbs to put in hot water, to clear his head. We talked about dogs. I recall it very well.”

“Thank you. Thank you, Mr. Porteous. I am greatly obliged to you, sir. Good day.”

“Good day, young man. I shouldn’t run like that, sir, if I were you. No good for the digestion. You’ll get overexcited….”

But Pitt was out of the door and off down Jermyn Street at a flying pace.

He was halfway along Regent Street before he realized he did not know where he was going. Where had Sir Arthur obtained the laudanum? If not in Jermyn Street, then from some other apothecary. Or had Murray given it to him after all? Was there any way whatever of proving it?

Perhaps Matthew would know? Apothecary’s papers frequently had their names on them. It was both a safeguard and a means of advertising. He retraced his steps and called a cab to take him to Matthew’s apartments.

“What is it?” Matthew asked quickly. He was sitting up at his desk in the small room which served him as dining room and study. He was wearing a dressing robe, and still looked very pale. There were shadows around his eyes as if latent bruises were at last beginning to show.

“You look ill,” Pitt said anxiously. “Should you be up?”

“I have nothing worse than a headache,” Matthew dismissed it quickly. “What is it? What have you found?”

Pitt sat on one of the other chairs. “I’ve been to see several people. It seems all of Sir Arthur’s irrational behavior is either hearsay or based on the fact he upset people’s prejudices and desires….”

“I told you!” Matthew said triumphantly, light and eagerness in his face for the first time since he had come to Pitt’s house with the news of Sir Arthur’s death. “He wasn’t the least confused or senile. He knew only too well what he was saying. What else? What about the brandy, and the laudanum? Have you proved that wrong yet?” He smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry, I’m expecting miracles. You’ve done brilliantly, Thomas. I am grateful.”

“The brandy is hearsay too. The steward only served him one glass; the rest were ordered by other people on his behalf … perhaps.”

Matthew frowned. “Perhaps? What do you mean?”

Pitt recited what Guyler had told him.

“I see,” Matthew said quietly, leaning back. “God, isn’t it frightening. The Inner Circle is all over the place. But surely not everyone you’ve spoken to can be members, can they? Or can they?” His face looked pale again at the thought.

“I don’t know,” Pitt confessed. “I presume members can be summoned if they are needed. And this was something of an emergency for them. After all, Sir Arthur was breaking the covenant of secrecy and accusing them of conspiracy to commit fraud, and in some senses even treason.”

Matthew sat silent, deep in thought.

“Matthew …”

He looked up.

“I went to see Dr. Murray as well. He says he recommended Sir Arthur to get the laudanum he prescribed at the usual apothecary in Jermyn Street, but Porteous is quite certain that Sir Arthur did not go to him. Have you any idea where else he might have got it?”

“Does it matter? Do you think it was wrong dosages or something? An apothecary who was the executioner of the Circle?” His face was pinched with revulsion. “What an appalling thought … but it makes excellent sense.”

“Or the doctor himself,” Pitt added. “Do you know?”

“No. But if we could find one of the papers it would probably tell us.” He stood up. “There may be some left among his effects. I’ll look. Come, we’ll both go.”

Pitt rose. “He only had them two or three days. It was April twenty-seventh he went to see Murray for the consultation.”

Matthew stood and turned to face Pitt.

“The twenty-seventh. Are you sure?”

“Yes. Why?”

“He said nothing about it to me. He can’t have got them that day, because we went to Brighton in the afternoon.”

“What time?”

“To Brighton? About half past two. Why?”

“And what time did you get back?”

“We didn’t. We dined with friends and came back the following morning.”

“Murray said that was the day he saw Sir Arthur—at four-forty in the afternoon. Are you sure it was the twenty-seventh you went to Brighton, not the day before, or after?”

“Absolutely certain. It was Aunt Mary’s birthday and we had a party. We always do on the twenty-seventh of April, every year.”

“Then Murray lied. He never saw Sir Arthur!”

Matthew frowned. “Could he have misunderstood the date?”

“No. He looked it up in his book. I saw him.”

“Then the whole consultation was a lie,” Matthew said, curiously melancholy. “And if that is so, then where did the laudanum come from?”

“God knows!” Pitt whispered huskily. “Someone in that club room … someone who took him a brandy he didn’t order.”

Matthew swallowed hard and said nothing.

Pitt sat down again, feeling curiously weak and frightened, and looking across at Matthew’s white face, he knew he felt just the same.