Traitors Gate

12

“WHY?” Nobby Gunne stood in Charlotte’s front parlor, her face twisted with anxiety. Of course the newspapers had been full of the tragedy of Linus Chancellor’s death. Whatever discretion or pity may have dictated, it was impossible to conceal the fact that he had taken his life suddenly and violently in the presence of a superintendent of the police. No euphemistic explanation would have satisfied even the most naive person. It had to be because the police had brought him some news which was not only unbearable, but so threatening that his response was immediate.

Were it a normal tragedy, some solution to his wife’s death which destroyed the faith and trust he had had in her, or which implied some further disaster, he might well have felt there was no alternative but to take his own life; but he would have done it later, after contemplation, and in the privacy of his own company, perhaps late at night. He would not have done it in the police superintendent’s presence unless he had not only brought shattering news but also a threat to arrest him and place him under such immediate restraint as to make instant action the only possible way of escape.

There might have been other answers, but no one thought further than the murder of Susannah and that Chancellor himself was guilty.

“Why?” Nobby repeated, staring at Charlotte with urgency and mounting distress. “What did she do that he could not possibly have forgiven her? He did love her, I would have sworn to that. Was it—” she swallowed with great difficulty, as though there were something blocking her throat ”—another man?”

Charlotte knew what she feared, and wished intensely that she could have given an answer which would have been painless. But lies were no use.

“No,” she said quickly. “No, it was not another man. You are quite right, I believe they did love each other, each in their own way. Please …” She indicated the closest chair. “It seems …”

“Yes?”

“I was only going to say that it seems so … formal, so cold, to stand here face-to-face across the carpet discussing something so terribly important.”

“Is it … important?” Nobby asked.

“People’s feelings are always important.”

Reluctantly Nobby sat down, a matter of perching on the edge of one of the chairs. Charlotte sat in another opposite her, but farther back in it, less uncomfortably.

“You do know why, don’t you?” Nobby pressed. “Superintendent Pitt will have told you. I remember you used to be most involved in his cases … at the time of …”

“Yes, he told me.”

“Then please, it is of the utmost importance to me. Why did Mr. Chancellor kill Susannah?”

Looking at Nobby’s earnest face, Charlotte was deeply afraid that the answer she had to give was not the one Nobby most feared, but one that would in a way be every bit as hard.

“Because he felt she betrayed him,” she said gravely. “Not with another man! At least not in the way one would usually take that to mean: with another man’s ideas. And he found that intolerable. It would have become public, because she was intending to withdraw her support, and that of the part of the family banking business which was still in her influence. That could not remain private.” She looked at Nobby’s pale face. “You see, she had been one of his most fervent supporters and admirers all the way along. Everyone would know, and would talk about it.”

“But … if she felt … differently …” Nobby started a train of thought, but it died even as she tried to give it words. It was indefinable, something no one had even bothered to express because it was taken for granted. Women owed their husbands their loyalty, not only of supporting them in all they aspired to do, but more subtly than that, going far deeper into the assumptions of man and woman, of trusting their judgment in all matters that lay in the male domain, matters of thought, philosophy, politics and finance. It was taken for granted married women did not require a vote since they were naturally represented by their husbands. It was not open to question, even in the privacy of the home. To challenge publicly was a betrayal of all unspoken agreements everyone assumed, even in a marriage where there was no love, let alone in one where there was love both long-standing and still intense.

“It was a matter of conscience with her,” Charlotte added. “She was not willingly disloyal. I even remember seeing her try to argue with him once. He simply did not hear her, because the idea that she thought differently was inconceivable to him. Heaven knows how many times she tried.”

Nobby looked almost as if it had been she who was bereaved. She seemed stunned, her eyes focusing far away, her attention inward. She even swayed a little when she stood up.

“Yes … yes, of course. I know she did nothing out of malice, or lightly. Thank you. You have been most generous to me. Now, if you will excuse me … I think I have a further call to make….”

Charlotte hesitated on the brink of asking her if she was all right, but she knew the wound was an emotional one and must be endured. No one else could help. She murmured some sort of farewell and watched Nobby go, very upright and fumbling a little, out of the parlor and to the front door.

Nobby rode home barely aware of where she was going. Half of her wanted to go now to see Kreisler, to speak to him in the shadow-thin hope there was some other answer. A far larger part knew it was not only pointless but also absurd. She would only embarrass them both. One did not call upon a man in his rooms to inform him that you were … What? Disillusioned? Heartbroken? That you loved him, which subject had never been discussed between you, never given such words, but that you could not condone what he had done.

He had not asked her to.

She went home engulfed in misery, and it was late in the afternoon, after the time when social calls of a formal nature were paid, when the maid told her that Mr. Kreisler was there to see her.

She considered receiving him in the withdrawing room. The thought of the garden was too painful, too full of memories of a different mood, a closeness and an hour of intimacy and hope.

And yet the withdrawing room—any room in the house—was too small. They would have to stand too close to each other; turning away would be obvious.

“I shall be in the garden,” she replied, and walked quickly out of the door as if, even before he entered, it could be some kind of escape.

She was standing by the border, the roses now in bloom, when he reached her. He did not bother with preamble. They had never spoken to each other in trivialities.

“I imagine you have heard about Linus Chancellor?” he said quietly. “All London has. I wish I could be sure it would mean some space, some interim of relief for Africa, but the treaty will go ahead, and by now I daresay Rhodes is already in Mashonaland.”

She kept her back towards the lawn and did not turn sideways to face him.

“Is that why you did it?”

“Did what?” He sounded genuinely puzzled. There was no evasion in his voice, no pretense.

She had expected to sound querulous, even tearful, but her question, when it came, was level and surprisingly strong.

“Drove Susannah until she broke.”

He was startled. There was a moment’s silence. She was acutely aware of his physical presence beside her.

“I didn’t!” he said with amazement. “I just … just argued my case!”

“Yes, you did,” she replied. “You pressed her relentlessly, tearing away Chancellor’s reasoning, painting word pictures of greed and ruin in Africa, the ultimate immorality of the destruction of a whole race of people….”

“You know that’s true!” he challenged her. “That is what will happen. You, of all people, know as well as I do what will happen to the Mashona and the Matabele when Rhodes settles there. Nothing can make them obey Lobengula’s laws! It’s laughable … at least it would be if it were not so bloody tragic.”

“Yes I do know that, but that is not the point!”

“Isn’t it? I think it’s precisely the point!”

She turned to face him. “It is not your beliefs I challenged. I wouldn’t even if I didn’t share them. You are entitled to believe as you will….”

His eyebrows rose and his eyes widened, but she ignored him. Sarcasm was beneath the passions and the seriousness of her argument.

“It is the methods you used. You attacked Chancellor where he was vulnerable.”

“Of course,” he retorted with surprise. “What would you have me do, attack him where he is best defended? Give him a sporting chance? This is not a game, with chips to be won or lost at the end. This is life, with misery and destruction the price of losing.”

She was quite sure of what she meant. She faced him without a flicker.

“And the destruction of Susannah, pressing her heart and her loyalties until they broke, and broke her with them, was it a fair price?”

“For God’s sake, Nobby! I didn’t know he was going to kill her!” he protested, his face aghast. “You surely cannot imagine I did. You know me better than that!”

“I don’t imagine you knew it,” she continued, the ache of misery inside her temporarily subsiding under the force of her certainty. “I think you didn’t particularly care.”

“Of course I care!” His face was white to the lips. “I wouldn’t have had it this way. I didn’t have options.”

“You did not have to press her till she had no way out but to choose between her loyalty to the husband she loved or to her own integrity.”

“That’s a luxury. The stakes are too high.”

“Central Africa, against the turmoil and death of one woman?”

“Yes … if you like. Ten million people against one.”

“I don’t like. What about five million against twenty?”

“Yes … of course.” There was no wavering in his eyes.

“One million against a hundred? Half a million against a thousand?”

“Don’t be absurd!”

“When does it even out, Peter? When does it stop being worth it? When the numbers are the same? Who decides? Who counts?”

“Stop it, Nobby! You are being ridiculous!” He was angry now. There was no apology in him, no sense that he had to defend himself. “We are talking about one person and a whole race. There is no counting to be done. Look, you want the same things for Africa that I do. Why are we quarreling?” He put his hands up as if to touch her.

She stepped back.

“You don’t know, do you?” she said with slow understanding, and a sadness that tore at her emotions and left her reason like a shining, solitary light. “It is not what you want I cannot tolerate, it is what you are prepared to do to attain it, and what that doing makes of you. You spoke of the end and the means as if they were separate. They are not.”

“I love you, Nobby….”

“I love you also, Peter….”

Again he made a move towards her, and again she stepped back, only a few inches, but the gesture was unmistakable.

“But there is a gulf between what you believe is acceptable and what I believe, and it is one I cannot cross.”

“But if we love each other,” he argued, his face pinched with urgency and incomprehension, “that is enough.”

“No it isn’t.” There was finality in her voice, even a bitter irony. “You counted on Susannah’s love of honor, her integrity, to be greater than her love for Chancellor … and you were right. Why is it you do not expect mine to be also?”

“I do. It’s just that …”

She laughed, a funny, jerky sound, harshly aware of the irony. “It’s just that, like Linus Chancellor, you never thought I could disagree with you. Well I do. You may never know how much I wish I did not.”

He drew in his breath to speak, to argue one more time, and then saw in her eyes the futility of it, and saved himself the indignity and her the additional pain of refusing him again.

He bit his lip. “This is a price I did not expect to have to pay. It hurts.”

Suddenly she could not look at him. Humility was the last thing she had expected. She turned to the roses, and then right around towards the apple tree, so he would not see the tears on her face.

“Good-bye, Nobby,” he said softly, his voice husky, as if he too were in the grasp of an emotion almost beyond his bearing, and she heard his footsteps as he walked away, no more than a faint whispering over the grass.

Charlotte’s mind was preoccupied with Matthew Desmond and the terrible, consuming loneliness he felt because Harriet could not forgive him for having repeated the telephone conversation she had overheard. She would not even have him received in the house. There was no way he could plead his case or offer any comfort or explanation to her. She had shut herself away with her shame, her anger and her sense of being unforgivably betrayed.

Charlotte turned it over and over in her mind; never for a moment did she doubt that what Matthew had done was right. If he made that choice, he lost Harriet, but had he not done so, had he kept silent against his own conscience, to please her, he could not have kept faith with himself. He would have lost what was best in him, that core of truth which in the end is the key to all decisions, all values, the essence of identity. To deny the knowledge of right is something one does not forgive oneself. Ultimately that would have destroyed their love anyway.

But all the time she was about her own chores, simple or complicated, kneading bread or cutting pastry frills for a pie, watching Gracie peel the vegetables, sorting the linen and mending Pitt’s frayed shirt cuffs, finding buttons to replace the lost ones, every time her mind could wander, she could think of nothing but Matthew’s pain, his loneliness and the sense of utter bereavement he must be feeling. Even watching Archie and Angus careering around the kitchen floor after each other brought only a brief smile to her face.

In the few evenings they had together she watched Pitt’s face in repose, and saw the tension which never left him lately, even after the solution to Susannah’s death, and she knew the pity for that ached within him, and the remnants of guilt which still shadowed his thoughts of Arthur Desmond. She longed to be able to help, but putting her arms around him, telling him she loved him, were only palliative, on the surface, and she knew better than to pretend they reached the hurt.

It was the same day that Nobby had called, when she realized what had really hurt her, and what Charlotte was convinced she was going to do about it, that she determined to go and see Harriet herself. Whatever happened, she could hardly make matters any worse, and Harriet, just as much as Matthew, deserved to be told the truth. Her happiness, however much was possible—and that could be a great deal in time—depended on the decision she must make now. She could choose courage, understanding and forgiveness; or she could retreat behind blame, consume herself with anger and outrage, and become a bitter and lonely woman, unloving and unlovely.

But she had the right to know what her choice was in its reality, not the reassuring words of lying comfort.

Charlotte dressed accordingly in a modest but becoming gown of forest green muslin trimmed with blue. It was unusually dark for the summer, and therefore the more striking. She took a hansom to Matthew’s rooms, whose address she had found in Pitt’s desk, and asked the cabby to wait.

He was startled to see her, but made her welcome. He still looked ill and profoundly unhappy.

Briefly she told him her plan and asked him to accompany her, not into Harriet’s home, but at least as far as the street outside.

“Oh no!” He rejected her plan immediately, pain and defeat filling his face.

“If I cannot persuade her, she will never know you were there,” she pointed out.

“You won’t succeed,” he said flatly. “She’ll never forgive me.”

“Were you wrong?” Charlotte challenged.

“I don’t know….”

“Yes you do! You did the only possible thing that was honorable, and you should never doubt it. Think of the alternative. What would that be? To have lied by silence to cover Soames’s treason, not because you believed it was right but because you were afraid Harriet would reject you. Could you live with that? Could you keep your love for Harriet if you had paid that price for it?”

“No …”

“Then come with me and try. Or are you absolutely sure she is too shallow to understand?”

He smiled thinly and picked up his jacket. There was no need to say anything.

She led the way out and this time gave the cabby Harriet Soames’s address. When they arrived she gave Matthew’s hand a quick squeeze, then alighted, leaving him inside the cab, and climbed the steps. She did not intend to allow herself to be turned away if it was humanly possible, short of creating a scene. She knocked, and when the door was opened, looked the maid very directly in the eye and announced her name, adding that she had something of importance of which she wished to inform Miss Soames, and would be greatly obliged if Miss Soames would consent to receive her.

The maid was gone rather a long time, about five minutes, before returning and saying that she regretted that Miss Soames was unwell and would not be receiving today. If Mrs. Pitt cared to leave a note, she would take it to her mistress.

“No thank you,” Charlotte said briskly, but forcing a rather desperate smile. “The matter is personal and very delicate. I shall call again, and again, until Miss Soames is well enough to receive me. I am not prepared to pass it through a third person, nor to commit it to paper. Would you please inform her of that? I am sure Miss Soames is a lady of courage. She could not have the countenance she does and wish to hide from the world forever. To the best of my knowledge, she has not yet anything whatsoever of which to be ashamed—only shame itself, and the desire to run away.”

The maid blanched. “I—I can’t tell her that, ma’am!”

“Of course you can’t.” Charlotte smiled even more encouragingly. “But you can tell her that I said so. And if you have any regard for her at all, which I am sure you have, then you will wish her to face the world and defy it. Everyone who is worth anything at all will admire her for it. People take you largely at your own estimation, you know. If you think yourself unworthy, they will assume that you know what you are about, that you are indeed unworthy. Carry your head high and look them in the eye, and unless the evidence is overwhelming, they will assume you are as innocent as you seem. Now please go and tell her what I have said.”

“Yes ma’am. Yes, right away, ma’am.” And she retreated hastily to do so, her heels clicking on the polished floor.

Charlotte let her breath out in a sigh of momentary relief. That had been a speech worthy of Great-Aunt Vespasia! What she said she believed to be true, but she had spoken with an incredible arrogance and a confidence in herself she was far from feeling.

She stood just inside the entrance in the sunlight, declining to take a seat in the handsome hall, although there were several provided. It seemed an age until the maid returned, although it was probably no more than ten minutes.

“Yes ma’am,” the maid said, coming back almost at a trot, her face pink, her manner showing considerable respect. “Miss Soames said that she would make the effort to see you. If you will come this way, please.”

Charlotte followed her to a small private sitting room at the back of the house where Harriet was lying on a gold-colored velvet chaise longue, looking dramatically wan, in an afternoon gown of white muslin, her dark hair around her shoulders in undress. It would have been more becoming had there been color in her skin, instead of the rather sallow look it had, indicating a real malady, even if one born of despair.

She looked up at Charlotte and invited her to be seated, dismissing the maid. She made no pretense of offering refreshment.

“Your message was candid to the point of offense, Mrs. Pitt. It is remarkable of you to have felt you had any right to insist upon seeing me. We had the slightest of acquaintance; a few pleasant occasions together do not give you the right to intrude on my grief with threats of harassing me, or calling me a coward. What is it you wish to say that you think warrants such behavior? I cannot imagine what it can be.”

Charlotte had thought long and hard about what she would say, but now that the moment was come, it was far more difficult than her worst thoughts had foreseen.

“You have an extremely important choice to make,” she began, her voice low and gentle. “One which will affect the rest of your life …”

“I have no choice whatsoever,” Harriet said bluntly. “Matthew Desmond has removed them all from me. There is only one path open to me now. But that does not concern you, Mrs. Pitt. I suppose I cannot blame your husband for what has happened. After all, he is a policeman and bound to follow his duty. However, I cannot like him for it, nor you, because you are his wife. If we are to speak so plainly, which seems to be your wish, then I will be plain.”

“The matter is far too important to be anything less than plain,” Charlotte agreed, changing her mind suddenly as to how she would say what she had to. “But if you think I agree with my husband’s actions out of loyalty to him, you are mistaken. There are certain things we must believe for ourselves, regardless of what any others may think, be they fathers, husbands, political leaders or men of the church. There is an inner self, a soul, if you like, which is answerable to God, or if you do not believe in Him, then to history, or to life, or merely to yourself, and loyalty to that must supersede all other loyalties. Whatever light of truth you have glimpsed, that must never be betrayed, whatever or whoever else must fall because of it.”

“Really, Mrs. Pitt, you—”

“That sounds extreme?” Charlotte cut across her. “Of course there are ways of doing things. If you have to let someone down, deny their beliefs, you owe it to them to do it openly and honorably, to their faces and not their backs, but no one has the right to demand of you a loyalty to them above that to your own conscience….”

“No, of course not, I mean … I …” Harriet stopped, unsure where her agreement was leading her.

“I used to know a poem at school, written during the Civil War,” Charlotte went on. “By Richard Lovelace. It was called ‘To Lucasta, Going to the Wars.’ There was a line in it—‘I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honor more.’ I laughed at it then. My sister and I would ask, ‘Who is Honor Moore?” But I am beginning to understand what it means; at least in my better moments I have a glimpse of it.”

Harriet frowned at her, but she was listening.

“The finer a person is,” Charlotte continued, “then the more integrity, compassion, and courage they have, and the finer the love they can give you, and I honestly believe also the deeper the love. A shallow vessel holds less, has less from which to give, and you can reach the bottom a lot sooner than you expect or wish to.”

Harriet’s eyes had not moved from Charlotte’s face.

“What are you trying to tell me, Mrs. Pitt?”

“Do you admire a man who does what he believes to be right, indeed knows to be, only when it does not cost him anything?”

“Of course not,” Harriet replied quickly. “Anyone can do that. Most people do. Indeed it is in one’s own interest to do so. It is only when there is cost involved that there is any nobility, any honor.”

“Then your answer in words is quite different from the answer in your acts,” Charlotte pointed out, but gently, and with a look of sadness that held no criticism.

“I don’t understand you,” Harriet said slowly, but her very hesitation showed that perhaps she was beginning to.

“Don’t you? Would you have had Matthew do something he knew to be wrong in order to please you? Would you have admired that, loved him for it? If he could do something wrong, betray his country’s trust and his colleagues’ honor to please you, what else would he betray, to save himself pain or loneliness, if the occasion arose?”

Harriet’s face pinched with distress and a terrible conflict of decision.

“Would he lie to you,” Charlotte went on, “to save himself from your anger or rejection? Where does he make a stand? What truths or promises are sacred? Or can anything be broken if the pain of keeping it is sharp enough?”

“Stop it!” Harriet said. “You don’t need to go on. I know what you mean.” She drew in a long breath, twisting her fingers in her lap. “You are telling me I am wrong to blame Matthew for doing what he believed was right.”

“Don’t you believe it was right?” Charlotte pressed.

Harriet was silent for a long time.

Charlotte waited.

“Yes …” Harriet said at last, and Charlotte could guess how much it hurt her. She was in a sense turning her back on her father, admitting he was wrong. And yet it was also a kind of release from the effort of trying to maintain a fiction that tore her reason from her emotion in a conflict which would erode her as long as it lasted. “Yes, yes you are right.” She looked at Charlotte through a frown of anxiety. “Do you think he will … forgive me for my hasty judgment … and anger?”

Charlotte smiled with absolute certainty.

“Ask him,” she replied.

“I … I …” Harriet stammered.

“He is outside.” Charlotte smiled in spite of herself. “Shall I ask him to come in?” Even as she said it she moved towards the door. She barely waited to hear Harriet’s husky assent.

Matthew was sitting hunched up in the hansom, peering out, his face haggard. He saw Charlotte’s expression and eagerness and hope fought with reason in his eyes.

Charlotte stopped beside him. “Harriet says will you please come in,” she said gently. “And Matthew … she … she has realized her mistake. I think the less that is said of it, the more easily will it have some chance to heal.”

“Yes. Yes, of course. I …” He gulped. “Thank you!” And then he forgot Charlotte and strode to Harriet’s front door and through it without bothering to knock or wait for any answer.

Charlotte walked back down the pavement and quite unashamedly stared in through the front window, where she could just make out the shadows of two figures face-to-face, and the moment after they moved so close they seemed but one together as if never to let go.

When she had returned after seeing Harriet Soames and Matthew, Charlotte was in a buoyant mood, full of elation that the matter had gone so well; but there were other visions to be dealt with, which she was much less certain even as to how to approach, let alone what their resolution might be. It had all begun with the death of Arthur Desmond. Susannah’s murder was a tragedy she felt keenly, having known her; but Sir Arthur’s death was the one which hurt Pitt, and his grief was interwoven through everything because it was part of his life and could never be set aside or forgotten. And she knew, even through his silences, that there was still guilt in it.

She had the framework of a plan in her mind, but it needed someone to help, someone with access to the Morton Club, who would not in any way be associated with the police but could go there as an innocent and curious member. That person would also, of course, have to be willing to conduct such an enquiry.

The only one she knew who fitted even part of that description was Eustace March, and she was very uncertain if he could ever be persuaded to satisfy the last requirement. Still, there was only one possible way to find out.

Accordingly she sat down and wrote a letter.

“Dear …”

She hesitated, confounded as to whether she should address him as “Uncle Eustace” or “Mr. March.” The first seemed too familiar, the second too stiff. Their relationship was unique, a mixture of distant kinship, acute guilt and embarrassment, and finally antagonism over the tragedies at Cardington Crescent. Now it was a sort of truce, nervous and extremely wary on his part.

She wanted his help, needed it. His own estimation of himself was such that he would always leap to assist a woman in distress; it fitted his conception of the respective roles of male and female, and his vision of a righteous and powerful Christian, as well as a beneficent gentleman.

“Dear Mr. March,” she wrote.

“Forgive my approaching you so forthrightly, and without any preamble, but I need help with a matter of the utmost moral gravity.” She smiled as she continued. “I can think of no one else to whom I could turn with the assurance both of their ability to help, and their willingness to do so with the courage it would require, and the supreme tact. Quick judgment may be called for, great perception of men, and their motives as well as their actual honesty, and possibly even a certain physical presence and authority.”

If that did not appeal to him, nothing would! She hoped she had not overstated her case. Pitt would instantly be suspicious of a letter like that. But then Pitt had a sense of humor, and Eustace had not.

“If I may call upon you this evening,” she continued, “I shall explain precisely what the trouble is, and how I believe we may solve it to the satisfaction of both honor and justice.

“I have a telephone, the number of which is at the top of the page. Perhaps you would be kind enough to let me know whether it would be convenient for me to call … that is, if you are willing to come to my assistance?

“Yours with affection and hope, Charlotte Pitt.”

She sealed it and stamped it and sent Gracie to put it in the post. It would be delivered that afternoon.

She received the answer by telephone. It was an enthusiastic affirmative, delivered with gravitas and considerable self-assurance, not to say satisfaction.

“Well, my dear lady,” he said to her as she was shown into his withdrawing room at Cardington Crescent. “What may I do to be of assistance to you?” He stood in front of the fireplace, even though on such a balmy summer evening there was no fire lit. It was simply a matter of habit and the prerogative of the master of the house to warm himself there all winter, and he did it without thought. “Perhaps if you were to tell me the precise problem?”

She sat in the seat he had offered and tried not to think of the past associations of this place and all the memories of tragedy.

“It is to do with a terrible death,” she said, meeting his gaze frankly and endeavoring to look as appealing as possible without any shred of flirtation. “But it is a matter which the police, by virtue of their social standing, or lack of it, are unable to solve. At least, Thomas knows a great deal about it, but the final answer is beyond him, because he has not access to the place where it happened, except as a policeman. So everyone will be on their guard, and observing them will be no good at all.” She smiled very slightly. “Besides, some people need to see the authority and natural status of a gentleman before they will respond with the truth. Do you understand what I mean, Mr. March?”

“Of course I do, my dear lady,” he said immediately. “It is one of the great drawbacks of being of the social …” Just in time he realized he was about to be offensive. His dilemma was plain in his face. “Occupation,” he finished, with a flourish at his fortunate extrication. “People are forewarned,” he added for good measure. “Where is it that you believe I have entrance?”

“To the Morton Club,” she said sweetly. “I know you are a member, because I recall your saying so. Besides, it is the most distinguished gentleman’s club, and I am sure you would find yourself welcome there, even as a visitor, were that necessary. No one would question your presence or think you out of place, and I know of no one else who could do that, and who would also have the … forgive me, I do not know how to phrase this without sounding fulsome.”

“Please, just be frank with me,” he urged. “I shall not criticize either what you say or the way in which you say it. If this is a matter as serious as you intimate, then it would be an unfortunate time to find fault in so small a subject.”

“Thank you, you are most understanding. It will take a love of justice and a courage which puts that love before comfort and convenience. Such people are not as common as one would wish.”

“Just so,” he said sadly. “It is a grim reflection of our times. What, precisely, is it you wish me to do?”

“To find out what happened to Sir Arthur Desmond the afternoon he died …”

“But surely that was either an accident, or a suicide.” He pulled a very slight face. “To take one’s own life was not the act of a Christian, or of a gentleman, unless he had debts he could not pay or had committed a grave dishonor. Or suicide,” he finished.

“No, no, Mr. March! That is exactly the point, it was most certainly murder … for reasons I shall not go into now.” She leaned forward, facing him with an intense look. “It is not unconnected with the death of Mrs. Chancellor.” She ignored his look of amazement.

“And with members of the Colonial Office I am not free to name. Indeed, I only know the veriest fraction which I have overheard, but matters where England’s interest, and those of the Empire, may have been jeopardized.” Now his face was agog and his round eyes wide.

“Sir Arthur was murdered because he drew attention to matters which exposed certain people to suspicion and eventually ignominy,” she finished.

“Good gracious! You don’t say so!” He drew a deep breath. “Dear lady, are you perfectly sure you have this quite right? It seems …”

“Mrs. Chancellor is dead,” she pointed out. “And now Mr. Chancellor also. Can you doubt the matter is profoundly serious?”

“No. No, of course not. But the connection …?”

“Is to do with Africa. Will you help me?”

He hesitated only a moment. How could he refuse, and deny himself the opportunity for such gallantry, a noble part in such a matter, perhaps a small place in history?

“Of course,” he said enthusiastically. “When shall we begin?”

“Tomorrow, about lunchtime?” she suggested. “Of course, I cannot come into the club….”

“Good gracious no!” he agreed with a look of alarm. Such a thing would be tantamount to sacrilege.

“So I shall be obliged to wait outside in the street,” she said with as little irritation as she could manage, although it called for more self-control than she thought she possessed. It was absurd. Why on earth should they all be so appalled at the idea of a woman coming into the club? Anyone would think that they were all sitting around naked! That idea was so amusing she contained her laughter only with difficulty.

He noticed her expression, and his face filled with alarm.

“I hope you are not considering …”

“No!” she said sharply. “No, of course not. I shall wait in the street, I assure you. If nothing else will convince you, remember that Thomas has been promoted. I have every interest in behaving with the most perfect decorum to see that I do not in any way embarrass him.” That was a major stretching of the truth, but she felt Eustace would believe it.

“Of course, of course.” He nodded sagely. “I apologize for having doubted you. Now tell me what information it is you wish?”

“To begin with, to know precisely who was there that afternoon, and where they were sitting, or standing, or whatever it is gentlemen do in their clubs.”

“That sounds very simple. Surely Thomas would have learned that from the stewards,” he said with satisfaction.

“No, apparently they are so terribly busy waiting on people they don’t notice,” she responded. “Anyway, people tend to avoid speaking to the police if they can, especially if they fear it might compromise their friends unjustly.”

“I quite see the point….” He was dubious.

“But you will not be talking to the police, you will simply be telling me,” she pointed out.

She wondered whether she ought to mention Farnsworth’s opposition to Thomas’s working on the case at all, and decided it was too big a risk to take. Eustace was very impressed by authority. Apart from that, he might conceivably be in the same ring of the Inner Circle, and that would never do.

“Yes, that is certainly true,” he agreed, apparently calmed by the thought. After all, who was she, that anyone should mind? “Right.” He rubbed his hands together. “Then we shall begin tomorrow morning, shall we say outside the Morton Club at eleven o’clock?”

She rose to her feet. “I am enormously grateful to you, Mr. March. Thank you very much. I have taken the liberty of writing a short description of the principal suspects,” she added hastily, passing him a piece of paper. “I am sure it will be helpful. Thank you so much.”

“Not at all, dear lady, not at all,” he assured her. “In fact I am quite looking forward to it!”

He was not nearly so certain that that was how he felt at ten minutes past eleven the following day when he was actually in the main sitting room of the Morton Club, looking for a place to sit down and wondering how on earth he was to begin such an extraordinary undertaking. To start with, in the cold light of a public place, he realized it was in the most appallingly bad taste. One did not question a fellow member about his acts, whatever they were. It simply was not done. The very essence of the purpose of having a club was in order to remain unquestioned, to have both company and privacy, to be among people of one’s own thought, who knew how to behave.

He sat down where Charlotte had told him Sir Arthur had died, feeling a complete fool, and quite sure that his face was scarlet, even though no one took the slightest notice of him. But then people never did in a decent club. He should not have undertaken this, whatever Charlotte Pitt had said! He should have declined politely and kindly, pointing out the impossibility of it, and sent her on her way.

But it was too late now. He had given his word! He was not cut out to be a knight errant. For that matter, Charlotte was not really his choice of a damsel in distress. She was too clever to be satisfactory, much too sharp with her tongue.

“Good morning, sir. May I bring you something?” a discreet voice said at his elbow.

He started in surprise, then saw the steward.

“Oh, yes, er, a small whiskey would be excellent, er …”

“Yes sir?”

“Sorry, I was trying to recall your name. Seems I know you.”

“Guyler, sir.”

“Yes, that’s right. Guyler. I, er …” He felt hopelessly self-conscious, a complete ass, but it had to be done. He could not possibly go back to Charlotte and tell her he had failed, that he had not even had the courage to try! No shame here could be worse than that. To confess such cowardice to any woman would be appalling; to her it would be intolerable.

“Yes sir?” Guyler said patiently.

Eustace took a deep breath. “Last time I was here, very end of April, I was talking to a most interesting chap, been all over the place, especially Africa. Knew the devil of a lot about settlement there, and so on. But can’t remember his name. Don’t think that he ever said. Sometimes one doesn’t, you know?”

“Quite, sir,” Guyler agreed. “And you were wishing to know who it was?”

“Exactly!” Eustace said with intense relief. “See you understand completely.”

“Yes sir. Where were you sitting, sir? That might help. And perhaps if you could describe the gentleman a little. Was he elderly? Dark or fair? A large gentleman, or not, sir?”

“Er …” Eustace racked his brains to think of how Charlotte had described the main suspects. Unfortunately they were quite unalike. Then a brilliant idea occurred to him. “Well, the gentleman in question was quite bald, with a powerful nose and very clear, pale blue eyes,” he said with sudden conviction. “I remember his eyes especially. Most arresting …”

“Africa, you said?” Guyler asked.

“That’s right. You know who I mean?”

“Would you have been in the reading room, sir?”

“Yes, yes, possibly.” Deliberately he looked uncertain.

“Then that was likely Mr. Hathaway, sir.”

“He was here that day?”

“Yes sir. Not for very long though.” Guyler’s face clouded. “He was taken unwell, as I recall. He went to the cloakroom, and then I think he went home without coming back into the reading room, and was never in this room at all. Most unfortunate. So maybe it wasn’t him, sir. Did you speak with him for long, this gentleman who knew so much about Africa?”

“Well, I rather thought it was a while.” Eustace let his imagination loose. He had never lied about anything before. He had been brought up to tell the exact truth about everything, regardless of how unpleasant, or how completely tedious it might be. To invent, with a free conscience, had the sweet taste of forbidden fruit. It could be rather fun! “Actually I think there was another gentleman there with considerable knowledge. In fact he had only lately returned from his travels. Very sunburned, he was. Fair hair, don’t you know, but weathered complexion. Tall, lean fellow, military type of bearing. German name, I think, or possibly Dutch, I suppose. Sounded foreign to me, anyway. But English fellow, naturally!”

“Would that be Mr. Kreisler, sir? It sounds uncommonly like him. He was here. I recall it especially because that was the day poor Sir Arthur Desmond died, right here in this very chair you are sitting in. Very sad, that was.”

“Oh very,” Eustace agreed with alarm. “And yes, you are right, that sounds like the name I recall. Did he know Sir Arthur?”

“Ah, no sir. Sir Arthur was only in this room, and as far as I know, Mr. Kreisler never came out of the reading room. Actually he was there quite a short while anyway. Came to see someone, and then left just after luncheon.”

“Never came in here?” Eustace said. “Are you quite sure?”

“Absolutely, sir,” Guyler replied with conviction. “Nor Mr. Hathaway either, so I suppose it must have been neither of those two gentlemen. It doesn’t seem as if I can be of much assistance, sir. I’m very sorry.”

“Oh, don’t give up yet,” Eustace said urgently. “There were one or two other fellows around who might know him. One was remarkably well read, as I recall, could quote anything, but as plain as you like, short, heavyset, face melted right into his neck.” He was using Charlotte’s words, and felt artificial doing it. It was not a description he would have chosen. “Round eyes, fat hands, excellent hair,” he gabbled, feeling the heat burn up his cheeks. “Good voice.”

Guyler looked at him curiously. “Sounds not unlike Mr. Aylmer, sir. And he certainly knows about Africa. He works in the Colonial Office.”

“That’d be him!” Eustace said eagerly. “Yes, sounds exactly right!”

“Well he was here that day….” Guyler said thoughtfully. “But seems to me he only came in and went right out again….”

“Ah, but at what time?” Eustace demanded.

“About … about noon, sir. Could that not have been him?”

Eustace was warming to this. He was really rather good at it. The evidence was piling up. Come to think of it, it seemed he had something of a talent for it. Pity it was all negative, so far.

“Well, there was another fellow there,” he said, looking at Guyler with wide eyes reflecting absolute candor. “Speaking to you reminds me of him. Tall fellow, dark wavy hair, distinguished looking. Gray a bit.” He touched the sides of his own graying head. “Can’t quite think of his name.”

“I’m sorry, sir, that description fits rather a lot of our gentlemen,” Guyler said regretfully.

“His name was …” Eustace furrowed his brow as if trying to remember. He did not want to lead Guyler too obviously. Lying, of course, was sinful, but invention was rather fun. “Something to do with feet, I think …”

“Feet, sir?” Guyler looked confused.

“Reminded me of feet,” Eustace elaborated. “Not sounded like feet, you understand?”

Guyler looked utterly confounded.

“Understand …” Eustace repeated the word as if it were deeply significant in itself. “Understand … stand … stand …”

“Standish!” Guyler said excitedly, and so loudly that several of the somnolent gentlemen in nearby chairs turned and glared at him. He blushed.

“Astounding!” Eustace said with admiration. “By jove, that’s exactly it. How clever of you.” Flattery was also a sin, but it was a remarkably useful tool, and it was surprising how the ordinary chap responded to it. And women, of course, were slaves to it. Flatter a woman a trifle, and she could swallow it like cake and do anything for you. “That’s absolutely right,” he went on. “Standish was his name. Indubitably.”

“Well, Mr. Standish was in and out that day, sir,” Guyler said with a flush of pleasure at being praised so heartily. “Can’t say that I have seen him since then. But if you would care for me to find him, sir, I am sure Mr. Hathaway is in the club today. He does occasionally come in for luncheon.”

“Ah …” Eustace was momentarily caught. “Well …” His brain raced. “Er, before you trouble Mr. Hathaway, was Mr. Standish in this room on that day, would you know?”

Guyler hesitated.

“Rather a difficult question, I know,” Eustace apologized. “Long time ago now. Hate to press you. Asking rather a lot.”

“Not at all, sir,” Guyler denied it instantly. His memory for gentlemen’s faces was part of his stock in trade. “Difficult day to forget, sir, with poor Sir Arthur being found dead, like. I was the one who found him, sir. Dreadful experience.”

“It must have been,” Eustace sympathized. “Most unnerving for you. Amazing you recovered yourself so rapidly.”

“Thank you, sir.” Guyler squared his shoulders.

“Er … was he? Standish, I mean?” Eustace pressed.

“No sir, I rather think he played a game of billiards with Mr. Rowntree, and then left and went home to dinner,” Guyler said with concentration.

“But he was here in the late afternoon?” Eustace tried to keep the excitement out of his voice, and felt he failed.

“Yes sir, I remember that, because of poor Sir Arthur. Mr. Standish was here at the time. Saw him in the hall as he was leaving, just as the doctor arrived. I recall that plainly now you mention it.”

“But he didn’t come into this room?” Eustace was disappointed. For a moment it had looked as if he had the answer he was seeking.

“No sir,” Guyler replied with increasing certainty. “No sir, he didn’t. It must have been Mr. Hathaway you spoke to, sir, and you must have been mistaken about the place, if you will forgive me saying so. There is a corner of the green room not unlike this, the arrangement of the chairs and so on. Could it have been there that you had your discussion?”

“Well …” Eustace wanted to leave himself open for a rapid redeployment if necessary. “I daresay you could be right. I’ll try to clarify my memory. Thank you so much for your help.” He fished out a crown and offered it to a delighted Guyler.

“And the whiskey, sir? I’ll fetch it immediately,” Guyler said.

“Thank you … yes, thank you.” Eustace had no choice but to wait until the whiskey came, and then drink it without indecent haste. To do anything else would draw attention to himself as a man without taste or breeding, a man who did not belong. And that he could not bear. All the same, he was bursting to go and tell Charlotte what he had learned, and in such a remarkably short time. He felt very pleased with himself. It had been accomplished completely, and without raising the least suspicion.

He finished the whiskey, rose to his feet and sauntered out.

Charlotte was on the steps in the sun and quite a sharp breeze.

“Well?” she demanded as soon as he was out of the door and before he was halfway down to the street. “Did you learn anything?”

“I learned a great deal.” He grasped her arm and linked it to his, then half dragged her to walk side by side with him up the pavement, so to a passerby they would look like a respectable couple taking a stroll. There was no point whatever in making a spectacle of oneself. After all, he was a member of the Morton Club and would wish to return one day.

“What?” Charlotte said urgently, threatening to stop.

“Keep walking, my dear lady,” he insisted out of the corner of his mouth. “We do not wish to be observed as out of the ordinary.”

To his surprise the argument seemed to sway her. She fell into step beside him.

“Well?” she whispered.

Glancing at the expression on her face, he decided to be brief.

“Mr. Standish was present that afternoon, and at the appropriate time, but the steward is positive he did not go into the room where Sir Arthur was seated.”

“Are you sure it was Standish?”

“Beyond doubt. Kreisler was also there, but left too early, as did Aylmer.” They were passed by a man in a pinstripe suit and carrying an umbrella, in spite of the pleasantness of the day.

“However,” Eustace went on, “Hathaway was present, but also not in the same room. He was apparently taken ill, and went to the cloakroom, from where he sent for a cab and was helped into it. He never went anywhere near the room where Sir Arthur was either. I am afraid it appears that none of your suspects can be guilty. I’m sorry.” Actually he was sorry, not for her, but because although it was a far more suitable answer, it was also an anticlimax.

“Well someone must be guilty,” she protested, raising her voice against the noise of the traffic.

“Then it cannot be any of them. Who else might it be?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Anyone.” She stopped, and since she was still clinging to his arm, he was pulled to a sudden halt also. A middle-aged lady on the arm of an elderly man looked at them with suspicion and disapproval. From her expression it was obvious she had supposed some domestic quarrel which no dutiful wife would have allowed to happen in public.

“Stop it!” Eustace hissed. “This is most unseemly. You are causing people to look at us.”

With a great effort Charlotte bit back the response that came to her lips.

“I’m sorry.” She proceeded to walk again. “We shall just have to go back and try harder.”

“Try harder to do what?” he said indignantly. “None of the people you mentioned could possibly have passed by Sir Arthur and put laudanum in his brandy. Not one of them was even in the same room.”

“Well where did the brandy come from?” She did not even think of giving up. “Perhaps they passed it on the way.”

“And poisoned it?” His eyes were round and full of disbelief. “How? Passing by and slipping something into it while it was on the steward’s tray? That would be ridiculous. No steward would permit it, and he would certainly remember it afterwards and testify to it. Besides, how would anyone know it was meant for Arthur Desmond?” He straightened his back and lifted his chin a little. “You are not very logical, my dear. It is a feminine weakness, I know. But your ideas are really not practical at all.”

Charlotte was very pink in the face. It did cross his mind to wonder for a moment if it was suppressed temper. Not very attractive in a woman, but not as uncommon a trait as he would have wished.

“No,” she agreed demurely, looking down at the pavement. “I cannot manage without your assistance. But if there is a flaw in the argument, I know you will find it, or a lie in anyone’s testimony, perhaps? You will go back, won’t you? We cannot allow injustice to triumph.”

“I really cannot think what else I could learn,” he protested.

“Exactly what happened, even more exactly than now. I shall be so very grateful.” There was a slight quaver in her voice, as of some intense emotion.

He was not certain what it was, but she really was a very handsome woman. And it would be immensely satisfying to place her in his debt. Then he would be able to face her without the almost intolerable embarrassment he felt now. It would wash out the hideous memory of the scene under the bed!

“Very well,” he conceded graciously. “If you are convinced it would be of service.”

“Oh I am, I am!” she assured him, stopping and turning around, ready to return the way they had come. “I am so obliged to you.”

“At your service, ma’am,” he said with considerable complacency.

Once inside the Morton Club again he had profound misgivings. There was nothing to find out. He began to feel exceedingly foolish as once more he approached Guyler.

“Yes sir?” Guyler said helpfully.

“Forgive me,” Eustace began, feeling the color flush up his cheeks. Really, this was too bad of Charlotte. And he was a fool to have agreed to it. “I fear I am being extremely tedious….”

“Not at all, sir. What can I do for you?”

“Is it not possible that Mr. Standish could have come through here that afternoon, after all?”

“I can make enquiries for you, sir, if you wish, but I think it most unlikely. Gentlemen don’t usually leave a game of billiards, sir. It is considered bad form to leave one’s opponent standing waiting for one.”

“Yes, yes of course. I know that!” Eustace said hastily. “Please don’t trouble yourself. I should not like Mr. Standish to imagine I thought him discourteous.”

“No sir.”

“And, er …” He could have sworn under his breath and cursed Charlotte, only the steward would have heard him. He could not get out of it now. This was appalling. “Mr., er … Hathaway. You said he was taken ill. That is most unfortunate. When was that? What hour? I don’t think I recall that happening.”

“Oh it did, sir, I remember it quite plainly. Are you sure you have the right day yourself, sir, if you’ll pardon me, sir? Perhaps you were here the day before, or the day after? That would account for a lot.”

“No, no, I have the day right. I recall it because of Sir Arthur’s death, just as you do,” Eustace said hastily. “What was it you said happened to Mr. Hathaway?”

“He was took a bit queer, sir, and went to the cloakroom. Then he must have decided to go home. He’d been there a while, no doubt hoping he’d get to feel better, but seems he didn’t, so he rang for assistance, poor gentleman, and one of the stewards went to him. And when he asked for a cab, the cloakroom attendant called him one, and helped him out into the hall and down the steps into it. He never came back into any of the club rooms at all, sir, that is for certain.”

“I see. Yes, I see. That wasn’t you, by any chance?”

“No sir. Tell you the truth, don’t know who it was. Saw him go, but only out of the corner of my eye, so to speak, and I didn’t recognize him. Might have been Jones; it looked a lot like him, sort of heavyset and with very little hair. Yes, I think it might have been Jones.”

“Thank you, yes I expect it was. Thank you very much.” Eustace wanted to end the pointless conversation. Charlotte would have to unravel the meaning of this, if there was any. There was no more for him to learn. He must escape. This was getting worse by the moment.

“Mr. Hathaway is here this afternoon, sir,” the steward persisted. “If you like I can take you across to him, sir.”

“No … no thank you,” Eustace said vehemently. “I … I think I shall go to the cloakroom myself, if you will excuse me. Yes, yes indeed. Thank you.”

“Not at all, sir.” Guyler shrugged and went about his errands.

Eustace made his escape and fled to the cloakroom. It was really a very agreeable place, suitably masculine, set out with all the comforts: washbasins with plenty of hot water, clean towels, mirrors, spare razors and strops, shaving soap in two or three different brands, lotions, Macassar oil for the hair, fresh cloths for buffing one’s boots, and polish, brushes for its application and removal, and overall a pleasant aroma like sandalwood.

He had no requirement for the water closet, and instead sat down on one of the wooden bench seats that were rather like well-shaped pews. He had had occasion to come here only twice before, but it still seemed pleasantly familiar. Hathaway must have sat here, feeling ill and wondering if he would be able to get home without assistance. Eustace glanced around. There was an ornate bell pull near the door. Nothing was written on it or under it, but its purpose was obvious. Without premeditation he stood up, crossed the couple of steps to it and pulled.

Almost immediately it was answered by an elderly man in a uniform which was less than livery but more than merely a steward.

“Yes sir?” he said quietly. “Is there something I can do for you?” Eustace was taken aback. There really was nothing at all. He thought of Hathaway.

“Are you a steward? You wear a different … uniform.”

“Yes sir,” the man agreed. “I’m the cloakroom attendant. If you wish for a steward I can send for one, but perhaps I can help you, sir. It would be more regular. Stewards attend to gentlemen in the drawing rooms and reading rooms, and so on.”

Eustace was confused.

“Doesn’t this bell ring on the steward’s board in the pantry?”

“No sir, only in my room, which is quite separate, sir. Can’t I be of assistance? Are you not feeling well, sir?”

“What? Oh, yes, yes I am perfectly well, thank you. Always well.” Eustace’s brain raced. Was it possible he was on the brink of discovery? “It is just that a friend of mine, more of an acquaintance, told me that he had been taken unwell here in the cloakroom and had summoned a steward from the drawing room who had called him a hansom.” He waited, almost holding his breath.

“No sir,” the attendant said patiently. “That is not possible, sir. The bell here doesn’t ring in the steward’s pantry. It only leads to my board, sir, nowhere else.”

“Then he was lying!” Eustace said in triumph.

The attendant looked at him with as much amazement as his duty and position allowed, not at the conclusion—which was unavoidable—but at Eustace’s delight in it.

“That seems a harsh judgment, sir. But he was certainly mistaken.”

“It was Hathaway,” Eustace said, plunging in where only moments before he would not have dared to be so blunt. “The day Sir Arthur Desmond died. Didn’t you call him a hansom?”

“Yes sir. One of the temporary stewards told me he was unwell, but I don’t know how he knew that.”

“You mean one of the attendants? Someone junior to yourself,” Eustace said.

“No sir, I mean a temporary steward, from one of the main rooms. Though, come to think of it, I don’t know how he knew, if Mr. Hathaway was in here!” He shook his head in denial of the impossible.

“Thank you, thank you! I am most obliged to you!” Eustace fished in his pocket and brought out a shilling. It was excessive; still, it would look so paltry to put it back and hand over a threepenny bit instead, and he was feeling in a highly generous mood. He gave it unstintingly.

“Thank you, sir.” The attendant masked his surprise and took it before Eustace could change his mind. “If I can be of any further assistance, please let me know.”

“Yes, yes of course.” Eustace only glanced at him, then strode out into the foyer and down the front steps to the street.

Charlotte was a few paces away; apparently she had been walking back and forth, maybe in her impatience, perhaps to make her waiting less obvious. She saw the expression of jubilation on his face and ran towards him.

“Yes? What have you found?” she demanded.

“Something quite extraordinary,” he said, his excitement fighting his normal manner and the condescension he considered appropriate when speaking to women. “The cloakroom bell does not connect with the steward’s pantry or any part of the rest of the club!”

She was confused. “Should it?”

“Don’t you see?” He caught her by the arm and began walking. “Hathaway said he called the steward from the cloakroom to fetch him a cab when he was taken ill. The drawing room steward told me that. He saw the steward go. But he couldn’t have, because the bell doesn’t ring there.” He was still gripping her arm firmly as he paced the pavement. “The cloakroom attendant said a steward from the drawing room told him that Hathaway was ill and wanted a cab. Hathaway lied!” Quite unconsciously he shook her gently. “Don’t you see? He said he did not come back into the main rooms. At least the steward said he didn’t … but he must have, if he called one of the ordinary stewards to get his cab!” He stopped abruptly, the satisfaction fading a little in his eyes. “Although I’m not quite sure what that proves….”

“What if …” Charlotte said, then stopped.

A lady with a parasol passed by, pretending not to look at them, a smile on her face.

“Yes?” Eustace urged.

“I don’t know … let me think. And please don’t grip me quite so hard. You’re hurting my arm.”

“Oh! Oh … I’m sorry.” He blushed and let go of her.

“An extra steward …” she began thoughtfully.

“That’s right. It seems they hire one or two now and then, I suppose if someone is ill or otherwise absent.”

“And there was one that day? Are you sure?”

“Yes. The steward I spoke to said he saw one.”

“What like?” She ignored two women carrying pretty boxes of millinery and chatting to each other.

“What like?” Eustace repeated.

“Yes! What did he look like?” Her voice was rising with urgency.

“Er … elderly, squarish, very little hair … why?”

“Hathaway!” she shouted.

“What?” He ignored the man passing by them who looked at Charlotte in alarm and disapproval, and increased his pace.

“Hathaway!” she said, grasping him in turn. “What if the extra steward was Hathaway? What a perfect way to murder someone. As a steward he would be practically invisible! As himself, he goes to the cloakroom saying he is not feeling well. Once in there he changes into a steward’s jacket, then returns to the pantry, collects a tray and brandy into which he puts the laudanum, serves it to Sir Arthur, saying it is a gift from someone. Then he says that Mr. Hathaway has been taken unwell in the cloakroom and has rung for assistance, so he establishes that Hathaway was in the cloakroom all the time.” Her voice was rising with excitement. “He goes out, changes back into himself, then further to establish that, he leaves directly from the cloakroom. He calls the attendant and has him fetch a hansom and assist him out into it. He has established his own whereabouts, with witnesses, and become invisible long enough to give Sir Arthur a fatal dose of laudanum, virtually unseen. Uncle Eustace, you are brilliant! You have solved it!”

“Thank you.” Eustace blushed scarlet with pleasure and satisfaction. “Thank you, my dear.” For once he was even oblivious of the giggles and words of a group of ladies in an open landau. Then the brilliance of his smile faded a little. “But why? Why should Mr. Hathaway, an eminent official of the Colonial Office, wish to poison Sir Arthur Desmond, an erstwhile eminent official of the Foreign Office?”

“Oh—” She caught her breath. “That is regrettably easy. By a process of deduction, he must be the executioner of the Inner Circle….”

Eustace’s expression froze. “The what? What on earth are you talking about, my dear lady?”

Her face changed. The victory fled out of it, leaving only anger and a terrible sense of loss. It alarmed him to see the fierceness of the emotion in her.

“The executioner of the Inner Circle,” she repeated. “At least one of them. He was detailed to kill Sir Arthur, because—”

“What absolute nonsense!” He was appalled. “The Inner Circle, whose name you should not even know, is a group of gentlemen dedicated to the good of the community, the protection of the values of honor and wise and beneficent rule, and the well-being of everyone.”

“Balderdash!” she retorted vehemently. “The junior new recruits are told that, and no doubt sincerely believe it. You do, Micah Drummond did, until he learned otherwise. But the inner core of it is to gain power and to use it to preserve their own interests.”

“My dear Charlotte …” He attempted to interrupt, but she overrode him.

“Sir Arthur was speaking out against them before he died.”

“But what did he know?” Eustace protested. “Only what he may have imagined.”

“He was a member!”

“Was he? Er …” Eustace was confounded, a worm of doubt creeping into his mind.

“Yes. He found out about their intentions to use the Cecil Rhodes settlement of Africa to gain immense wealth for their own members, and he tried to make it public, but no one would listen to the little he could prove. And before he could say any more, they killed him. That’s what they do to members who betray their covenants. Don’t you know that?”

With a sudden sickening return of memory, Eustace thought of the covenants he had been obliged to make, the oaths of loyalty he had taken. At the time he had thought them rather fun, a great adventure, something like the vigil of Sir Galahad before receiving his spurs, the weaving of good and evil that belongs to high romance, the ordeals of those who dare the great adventures. But what if they had meant them truly? What if they really did mean that the Circle was to come before mother or father, wife or brother or child? What if he had pledged away the right to choose on pain of his life?

She must have seen the fear in his eyes. Suddenly there was gentleness, almost pity, mixed with her anger. Neither of them was even aware of the world around them, the pedestrians who passed within a yard of them on the pavement, or the carriages in the street.

“They count on your secrecy to protect them,” she said more softly. “They count on your not breaking your promises, even when you gave them without being aware what they would lead to, or that you might compromise yourself, and betray what you most believe in, your own honor, in their keeping.” Her expression hardened into contempt and the anger returned. “And of course they also count on fear….”

“Well, I’m not afraid!” he said furiously, turning back towards the steps up into the club. He was too angry to be frightened. They had taken him for a fool, and even worse than that, they had betrayed his belief in them. They had pretended to espouse all the things in which he most dearly believed, honor and openness, candor, high-minded courage, valor to defend the weak, the true spirit of leadership which was the Englishman’s heritage. They had shown him an Arthurian vision, made him believe something of himself, and then they had perverted it into a thing that was soiled, dangerous and ugly. It was an insupportable outrage, and he would not be party to it!

He strode up the steps, hardly aware of Charlotte behind him, swung the doors open and made his way across the foyer without a word to the doorman. He pushed his way through the drawing room doors and accosted the first steward he saw.

“Where is Mr. Hathaway? I know he is here today, so don’t prevaricate with me. Where is he?”

“S-sir, I—I think …”

“Don’t trifle with me, my good man,” Eustace said between his teeth. “Tell me where he is!”

The steward looked at Eustace’s gimlet eyes and rapidly purpling cheeks and decided discretion was definitely the better part of valor.

“In the blue room, sir.”

“Thank you,” Eustace acknowledged him, turning on his heel to march back into the foyer. Only then did he remember he was not sure which way the blue room was. “The blue room?” he demanded of a steward who appeared at the pantry door with a tray held up above his head in one hand.

“To your right, sir,” the steward answered with surprise.

“Good.” Eustace reached the door in half a dozen steps and threw it open. The blue room might once have lived up to its name, but now it was faded to a genteel gray, the heavy curtains blue only in the folds away from the sunlight which streamed in from four long, high windows looking onto the street. Through the decades the brilliance had bleached out of the carpet also, leaving it pink and gray and a green so soft as to be almost no color at all. Portraits of distinguished members from the past decorated the walls in discreet tones of sepia and umber, many of them from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. In some the whiteness of a powdered wig was the only distinguishable feature.

Eustace had not been in here before. It was a room reserved for senior members, one of which he only aspired to be.

Hathaway was sitting in a large leather armchair reading the Times.

Eustace was too enraged even to consider the impropriety of what he was doing. Greater decencies had been blasphemed against. No one was going to be permitted to hide behind the conventions of a gentleman’s club. He stopped in front of Hathaway’s chair, put his hands on the Times and tore it away, dropping it to one side in a heap of crackling paper.

Every head in the room looked up at the noise. A whiskered general snorted with offense. A banker cleared his throat ostentatiously. A member of the House of Lords (who actually attended now and then) put down his glass in amazement. A bishop dropped his cigar.

Hathaway looked up at Eustace with considerable surprise.

“I am making a citizen’s arrest,” Eustace announced grimly.

“I say, old chap …” the banker began.

“Somebody robbed you, old boy?” the bishop asked mildly. “Pickpocket, what? Cutpurse?”

“Bit high-handed, taking a fellow’s newspaper,” the earl said, regarding Eustace with disfavor.

Hathaway was perfectly composed. He sat quite still in the chair, ignoring the wreck of his paper.

“What is it that has disturbed you so much, my dear fellow?” he said very slowly. At another time Eustace might not have noticed the hard, unflinching quality of his eyes, but all his senses were sharpened by his outrage. Now he felt almost as if Hathaway might offer him physical violence, and he was poised, ready to react, even to welcome it.

“Yes I have been robbed,” he said fiercely. “Of trust, of … of …” He did not know how to express the feeling he had of having been used, insulted, then suddenly it came to him in a rush of words fraught with pain. “I have been robbed of my belief in my fellows, of those I admired and honored, even aspired to be like! That’s what you’ve taken. You’ve destroyed it, betrayed it.”

“My dear fellow!” the banker protested, rising to his feet. “You are overemotional. Sit down and calm yourself. You are making a mistake….”

“You are making a damned noise!” the general said angrily, his whiskers bristling. “I know that, sir!” He shook his newspaper with a snap and buried his head in it again.

“Come on, old chap.” The banker took another step towards Eustace and put his hands forward as if to restrain him. “A good douse of cold water and you’ll feel better. I—”

“I am as sober as a judge,” Eustace said between his teeth. “And if you touch me, sir, if you put one hand on me, I swear by God I shall lay you flat. This man”—he was still looking at Hathaway—“has committed murder. I am not speaking figuratively but quite literally. He cold-bloodedly and intentionally took the life of another man by poison.”

This time no one interrupted him. Hathaway sat smiling very slightly, composed, tolerant.

“Poisoned his brandy right here in the club….”

“Really … Come now,” the bishop spluttered. “That’s …”

Eustace glared at him and he faded into silence.

“You are the executioner!” Eustace swung back to Hathaway. “And I know now how you did it! You went to the cloakroom and changed into a steward’s jacket, then came back into the main room, gave poor Sir Arthur his poisoned drink, which you had prepared, then went back to the cloakroom….” He stopped. He could see by the sudden whiteness of Hathaway’s face that he was no longer sure of himself. He was shaken; for the first time he was afraid. The secret he had trusted to protect him was not secret anymore. Eustace saw the fear in his eyes, and now he saw also the violence. The mask was gone.

“I am arresting you for the poisoning to death of Arthur Desmond….”

“Absolute nonsense,” the earl said levelly. “You are drunk, sir. Arthur Desmond took his own life, poor devil. We shall forget this appalling behavior of yours, March, if you withdraw this on the spot and resign your membership.”

Eustace turned to face him, recognizing another member of the Circle, by act if not by feature. “If that is what you wish, sir,” he said without giving an inch, “then it must be that you are equally guilty with Hathaway. You have perverted your power, sir, and betrayed all that is best in England, the people who trusted you and whose labor and belief gave you the very position you now abuse.”

Hathaway had risen to his feet and made to move past Eustace. The earl took Eustace’s arm in a tight grip and pulled him sideways.

Eustace was outraged. He was of a robust physique, and a disciple of good health. He landed a powerful and well-placed punch on the jaw of the earl and sent him crashing backwards into one of the armchairs.

Hathaway lunged past to escape, swinging a hard kick at Eustace which landed on his shin with acute pain. Eustace swung around and dived after him, catching him in a tackle which would have been cheered to the echo in his rugby-playing days. They both went down onto the floor in a crash, kicking over a small table, splintering one of its legs, and sending a tray of cups and saucers flying to break in shards all over the carpet.

The door was thrust open and a horrified steward stared with utter dismay at the earl spread-eagled across the chair, and Eustace and Hathaway locked in desperate combat on the floor, thrashing around grunting and gasping, arms flailing and legs kicking. He had never witnessed a scene like it in all his life and he had no idea what to do. He stood in an agony of indecision.

The general was shouting out commands no one was obeying. The bishop was making noises of disapproval and muttering something about peace and wisdom, and was totally ignored.

Out in the hallway, a judge of the Queen’s Bench demanded to know what was going on, but no one would tell him.

Someone sent for the manager. Someone else sent for a doctor, assuming that one of the members had taken a fit and was being restrained, with difficulty. An advocate of temperance was delivering a monologue, and one of the stewards was praying.

“Police!” Eustace shouted as loudly as his lungs would bear. “Send for the police, you fool! Bow Street … Inspector Pitt.” And with that he hit Hathaway as hard as he could on the point of the jaw, and his left foot caught the table on the other side and sent it hurtling sideways into the trolley. There was a final crash as a decanter of brandy and half a dozen glasses smashed on the wooden floor at the edge of the carpet.

Hathaway subsided into unconsciousness, his body limp, his eyes closed.

Eustace did not entirely trust him. “Get the police,” he ordered again, struggling upright to sit astride Hathaway’s chest.

The steward in the doorway hastened to obey. That at least was an order he both understood and agreed with. Whatever was going on, the police were obviously needed, even if it was only to remove Eustace himself.

Then he was face-to-face with the impossible, the worst offense of all. There was a woman standing in the doorway staring into the blue room and watching the appalling scene, a young woman with chestnut-colored hair and a very handsome figure, and—although her eyes were wide with amazement—she was also on the verge of laughter.

“Madam!” the bishop said in horror. “This is a gentleman’s club! You are not permitted in here. Please, madam, observe the decencies and take your leave.”

Charlotte looked at the debris of broken china and crystal, spilled coffee and brandy, the splintered furniture, the overturned chair, the earl with his collar askew and a bruise fast purpling on his cheek, and Eustace sitting astride the still-senseless form of Hathaway on the floor.

“I always wondered what you did in here,” she said mildly, but there was a lift in her voice, and a slight huskiness that threatened to erupt in giggles. She arched her eyebrows very high. “Extraordinary,” she murmured.

The bishop said something completely unholy.

Eustace was beyond embarrassment. He was flushed with victory both moral and physical. “Has anyone sent for the police?” he asked, looking at each in turn.

“Yes sir,” one of the stewards said immediately. “We have a telephone. Someone is on their way from Bow Street right now.”

Charlotte was bundled out and persuaded to wait in the foyer, and that only on sufferance. The blue room was out of bounds. For goodness’ sake, it was out of bounds even to junior members!

Eustace refused to leave Hathaway, especially when he regained consciousness (albeit with a profound headache), although he remained silent and made no protest or defense.

When Pitt arrived he found Charlotte first of all, who told him that Eustace had solved the case, adding modestly that she had given him some assistance and direction, and that he had the murderer under citizen’s arrest.

“Indeed,” Pitt said dubiously, but when she explained to him precisely how it had come about, he was generous in his praise, both of her and of Eustace.

Some fifteen minutes later Hathaway, under arrest and manacled, was put in a hansom cab to the Bow Street station, and Eustace emerged to receive the praise of his fellows. Charlotte was sent home, under protest, in a hansom.

On the journey towards Bow Street, Pitt sat in the cab beside Hathaway. Hathaway was manacled and unarmed, but still in his quiet face with its long nose and small, round eyes there was a sense of strength. He was afraid—he would be a fool not to be—but there was nothing of weakness in his expression, no suggestion that he would break the covenants by which he too was bound to the Inner Circle.

This was the man who had murdered Arthur Desmond. It was Hathaway who had slipped the laudanum into the brandy and passed it to him, and then discreetly left, knowing what would happen. But it was the whole senior hierarchy who was guilty of his death. Hathaway had carried out the sentence. But who had pronounced judgment, who had given the orders that Hathaway had obeyed?

That was the man Pitt wanted. That was the only justice which would be enough to take to Matthew, and more importantly still, to ease the ache of guilt within himself and allow him to rest with the memory of Sir Arthur.

He believed he knew who it was, but even certainty was futile without proof.

He glanced sideways at the silent, almost motionless figure of Hathaway. The small blue eyes looked back at him with biting intelligence and hard, ironic humor. Pitt knew in that moment that whatever fear Hathaway might have, whatever beliefs of death or what lay beyond it, loyalty to the Inner Circle would supersede them all, and would remain unbroken.

He shivered, cold with a new perception of the power of the oaths that bound the society, far more than a club or an association. It was mystic, almost religious, the vengeance for betrayal more than merely human. Hathaway would hang alone rather than speak even a word that would lead to another.

Or did he imagine that even now some other member, someone as high as a judge, would somehow contrive his escape from the rope?

Was even that possible?

He must not allow it, for Arthur Desmond’s sake, if nothing else. Pitt looked at him again, meeting his eyes and holding them in a long, steady stare. Neither of them spoke. It was not words, arguments, he was seeking, it was emotion and beliefs.

Hathaway did not flinch or look away, and after several seconds the corners of his mouth turned upwards in a very tiny smile.

In that moment Pitt knew what he must do.

When they reached Bow Street they alighted. Pitt paid the cabby and with Hathaway still manacled, led him inside past the openmouthed desk sergeant who leapt to attention.

“Is Mr. Farnsworth there yet?” Pitt demanded.

“Yes sir! I sent the message to ’im like you told me, sir—that you was off to make an arrest for the murder of Sir Arthur Desmond….”

“Yes?”

“And he came straightaway, sir. He’s been here about ten minutes, maybe. And Mr. Tellman is here, sir, as you said, sir.”

“Is Mr. Farnsworth in my office?”

“Yes sir. And Mr. Tellman’s in his room too.”

“Thank you.” Pitt felt a sudden surge of excitement, and at the same time a hardening of fear inside him, as if a hand had closed into a fist in his chest. He turned and strode up the stairs, almost pushing Hathaway ahead of him. At the top he flung his office door open and Farnsworth swung around from where he had been standing at the window. He saw Hathaway and although his expression did not flicker, the blood drained from his skin, leaving it blotched, white around the eyes and mouth.

He parted his lips as if about to speak, then changed his mind.

“Good morning, sir,” Pitt said calmly, as if he had noticed nothing. “We’ve got the man who murdered Sir Arthur Desmond.” He smiled and nodded at Hathaway.

Farnsworth’s eyebrows rose. “He did?” He allowed his surprise to border on incredulity. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely,” Pitt said calmly. “We know precisely how he did it, and have all the witnesses. It is just a matter of piecing it together. Very clever and very efficient.”

“Are you,” Farnsworth said coldly.

“No sir, I meant Hathaway’s means and method.” Pitt allowed himself to smile. “Only a chance observation of stewards’ bells on a board caught him. But it’s enough.” He looked at Farnsworth guilelessly.

Farnsworth came forward and took Pitt by the arm, guiding him towards the door.

“Speak to you privately, Pitt,” he said tersely. “Call a constable to wait in here and keep guard.”

“Of course,” Pitt agreed. “I’ll get Tellman.” It was what he had intended anyway, and would have contrived if Farnsworth had not.

“Yes sir?” he asked as soon as they were in an adjoining office with the door closed, and Tellman with Hathaway.

“Look, Pitt, are you sure you have the right man?” Farnsworth said seriously. “I mean, Hathaway’s a respected official in the Colonial Office, a thoroughly decent man, father in the church … son too. Why on earth would he wish Desmond any harm? He didn’t even know the man, except by sight as a fellow club member. Maybe you have the right means and method, but the wrong man?”

“No sir. It was not a personal motive. Knowing him by sight was all that was needed.”

“What on earth …” He trailed off, staring at Pitt’s face.

“Quite simple.” Pitt met his eyes, keeping all subtlety out of his own. Not a thread of suspicion must enter Farnsworth’s mind. “Sir Arthur was killed because he broke the oath of the Inner Circle and betrayed them.”

Farnsworth’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly.

“And Hathaway was the executioner deputed to deal with the matter,” Pitt went on. “Which he did, with coldness and precision.”

“Murder!” Farnsworth’s voice rose with disbelief, a high, hard note in it. “The Inner Circle doesn’t murder people! If Hathaway did indeed kill him, then there must have been some other reason.”

“No sir, as you just pointed out, he did not even know him in any personal sense. It was an execution, and we can prove it.” He hesitated only an instant. Please God he could trust Tellman. But if there were any man in the police force he would stake his life on as not being a member of the Inner Circle, it was Tellman. He took precisely that chance now, facing Farnsworth squarely. “But it will all come out in the trial.”

“If the society were what you say, Pitt, then Hathaway would die without telling anyone what you charge,” Farnsworth said with certainty and faint derision.

“Oh, I don’t expect Hathaway to admit it,” Pitt replied with the shadow of a smile. “I am sure you are right. He will go to the gallows without betraying his fellow members. We may never know who they are,” he said slowly, meeting Farnsworth’s eyes. “But every man and woman in London who can read a newspaper will know what they are! That we can prove, and we will do, in open court.”

“I see.” Farnsworth took a very deep breath and let it out. He looked at Pitt with something like surprise, as if he had done more than he had foreseen. “I would like to speak to him myself for a few moments, alone, if you don’t mind.” It was delivered with courtesy, but it was an order. “I find all this … distressing … hard to believe.”

“Yes sir, of course. I’ve got to go back to the Morton Club anyway, and make sure of the steward’s evidence, and see what happened to the other witnesses.”

“Yes, by all means do that.” And without waiting any further, Farnsworth went out of Tellman’s room and back along the passage to Pitt’s office. A moment later Tellman came out and looked questioningly at Pitt.

Pitt held his finger to his lips, walked noisily down the stairs half a dozen steps, then crept back up to stand motionless beside Tellman.

They waited for what seemed an endless five minutes, ears straining, hearts thumping so violently Pitt could feel his body shake.

Then the faint murmuring of voices ceased from behind the office door and there was a very soft thud.

Pitt flung the door open, Tellman barely a step behind him.

Farnsworth was on the floor almost astride the prone figure of Hathaway. The paper knife from Pitt’s desk was protruding from Hathaway’s chest and his manacled hands were just below it, but it was Farnsworth’s fingers which were now clenched around it, and his body’s weight behind the blow.

Tellman gasped.

Farnsworth looked up, his face slack with disbelief for an instant, then horror. He started to speak.

“He … he took the paper knife….” he began. “I tried to stop him….”

Pitt stepped a little aside.

“You murdered him!” Tellman said with amazement and fury. “I can see it!”

Farnsworth turned from Pitt to Tellman, and recognized the incorruptible outrage in his eyes. He looked back at Pitt.

“Giles Farnsworth,” Pitt said with satisfaction he had seldom felt in the solution of any case, “I arrest you for the murder of Ian Hathaway. I must warn you that anything you say will be taken down, and may be given in evidence at your trial … which I will make very sure you live long enough to face, for Arthur Desmond’s sake.”