Traitors Gate

2

PITT WALKED DOWN Bow Street to the Strand, where he found a hansom and gave the driver instructions to take him to the Colonial Office on the corner of Whitehall and Downing Street. The driver looked at him with slight surprise, but after only a moment’s hesitation, urged the horse forward and joined the stream of traffic moving west.

Pitt spent the journey going over in his mind what Matthew had said, and formulating the way in which he would approach the subject when he reached Whitehall. He had read Matthew’s letter of authority, and the brief instructions and details with it, but it gave him little feeling for the nature or degree of difficulty he would face in obtaining cooperation.

The cab progressed slowly, stopping for every tangle of coaches, carriages, drays and omnibuses from the Strand and Wellington Street where Pitt had hired it. They inched past Northampton Street, Bedford Street, King William Street, and Duncannon Street right to Charing Cross. Everyone was in a hurry and determined to have the right-of-way. Drivers were shouting at each other. A brougham and a hearse had apparently got their wheels locked and were causing a major obstruction. Two youths with a dray were calling out advice, and a costermonger was having a quarrel with a pie seller.

It was fifteen minutes before Pitt’s cab finally turned left into Whitehall and made its way towards Downing Street, and when it stopped, the duty constable approached to see what they wanted.

“Superintendent Pitt, going to the Colonial Office,” Pitt told him, producing his card.

The cabdriver opened his eyes with interest.

“Yes sir.” The constable saluted smartly and stood rather more to attention. “Didn’t recognize you, sir.”

Pitt paid the driver and turned to go up the steps, aware that he was a good deal less than smart, and certainly not attired like one of the officials and diplomats. In their cutaway coats, winged collars and striped trousers, they passed him on either side, carrying their furled umbrellas, although it was a fine May Day morning.

“Yes sir?” a young man enquired of him almost as soon as he came inside the building. “May I help you, sir?”

Pitt produced his card again as verification of his rank, which he admitted his appearance lacked. As always his hair was too long and curled untidily over his collar and from under his hat. His jacket was actually quite well cut, but his habit of poking all manner of things into the pockets had pushed it out of shape, and certainly his collar was not stiff, nor was it winged. His tie was something of an afterthought, and looked it.

“Yes, please,” he replied immediately. “I have a confidential matter to discuss with the most senior official available.”

“I’ll make an appointment for you, sir,” the young man replied smoothly. “Would the day after tomorrow be suitable to you? Mr. Aylmer should be available then, and I’m sure he will be happy to see you. He is Mr. Chancellor’s immediate junior, and a very knowledgeable person.”

Pitt knew the name of Linus Chancellor, Secretary of State for Colonial Affairs, as did every other man in London. He was one of the most brilliant of rising politicians, and it was held by many that one day he would lead the government.

“No, it would not,” he said levelly, meeting the young man’s eyes, and seeing a look of startled affront in them. “The matter is extremely urgent and must be attended to at the earliest moment possible. It is also confidential, so I cannot detail it to you. I have come at the request of the Foreign Office. If you wish to check with Lord Salisbury, you may do so. I shall wait for Mr. Chancellor.”

The young man swallowed, uncertain now what he should do. He looked at Pitt with dislike.

“Yes sir, I shall inform Mr. Chancellor’s office, and bring you his reply.” He looked back at Pitt’s card again, then disappeared upstairs.

It was nearly a quarter of an hour before he returned, and Pitt was beginning to find the waiting onerous.

“If you care to come this way, sir,” the young man said coolly. He turned on his heel, leading the way back up again, knocking at the mahogany door and then standing aside to allow Pitt through.

Linus Chancellor was in his early forties, a dynamic man with a high forehead and dark hair which swept off his brow, showing a strong, jutting nose, wide mouth full of humor, volatility and a powerful will. He was a man to whom charm came easily, almost without conscious effort, and his natural fluency enabled him to say what other men struggled for and often missed. He was slender, of a good height and immaculately dressed.

“Good morning, Superintendent Pitt.” He rose from his seat behind a magnificent desk and offered his hand. When Pitt took it, his grip was firm and strong. “I am informed that your errand is both urgent and confidential.” He waved to the chair opposite and resumed his own seat. “You had better explain it to me. I have some ten minutes before I have to be at my next appointment. I’m afraid I can spare you no longer than that. I am due at Number Ten.”

That needed no explanation. If he were to see the Prime Minister, which was his implication, it was not something which could be delayed, whatever Pitt had to say. It was also a very forthright statement of the importance of his own time and position. He did not intend Pitt to underestimate him.

Pitt sat down in the large, carved and leather-padded seat indicated and began immediately.

“I have been informed this morning by Matthew Desmond of the Foreign Office that certain information regarding the Colonial Office’s dealings with our current exploration and trading negotiations in Africa, specifically Zambezia, have fallen into the hands of the German Embassy….”

He did not need to go any further. He had Chancellor’s total attention.

“So far as I know, only Mr. Desmond, his immediate senior, and Lord Salisbury himself are aware of the loss,” Pitt continued. “I require your permission, sir, in order to investigate from this office….”

“Yes, of course. Immediately. This is extremely serious.” The polite affectation of interest was gone, and in its place an earnestness which was unmistakable. “Can you tell me what manner of information you are speaking of? Did Mr. Desmond tell you, or indeed does he know?”

“Not in detail,” Pitt replied. “I gather it is largely to do with mineral rights and treaties with local chieftains.”

Chancellor looked very grave, his mouth pinched at the corners.

“That could be extremely serious. A great deal rests on it for the future settlement of Africa. I assume Mr. Desmond told you as much? Yes, naturally. Will you please keep me informed, Mr. Pitt? Personally. I imagine you have already investigated the possibility that whatever information it is could not simply have reached the Germans through their own people?” There was no real hope in his face; he asked as a matter of form. “They have a great many explorers, adventurers and soldiers in East Africa, particularly along the coast of Zanzibar. I will not bore you with the details of their treaties with the Sultan of Zanzibar, and the settlement uprisings and violence. Accept, for this matter, that they have a considerable presence in the area.”

“I have not looked into it myself, but that was the first question I asked Mr. Desmond,” Pitt replied. “He assured me it could not be so, because of the detail of the information and the fact that it corresponded precisely with our own version of events which are open to many interpretations.”

“Yes—” Chancellor nodded. “You are supposing treason in our midst, Mr. Pitt. Probably of a very high order. Tell me what you propose to do about it.”

“All I can do, sir, is investigate everyone who has access to all the information that has been passed on. I assume that will be a limited number of people?”

“Certainly. Mr. Thorne has charge of our African affairs. Begin with him. Now if you will excuse me, Superintendent, I shall call Fairbrass and have him take you through. I have a short space of time free at quarter past four this afternoon. I will be obliged if you will report to me then whatever progress you have made, impressions you have gained.”

“Yes sir.” Pitt stood up and Chancellor rose also. A young man, presumably Fairbrass, appeared in the doorway and after brief instructions from Chancellor, conducted Pitt through a number of handsome corridors to a further, spacious, well-furnished office not unlike the first. The plate on the door read JEREMIAH THORNE, and Fairbrass was apparently so in awe of Mr. Thorne he considered Pitt would need no information as to who he was. He knocked tentatively, and upon receiving an answer, turned the handle and put his head around.

“Mr. Thorne, sir, I have a Superintendent Pitt here, from Bow Street, I think. Mr. Chancellor asked me to bring him along.” He stopped abruptly, realizing he knew no more. He withdrew and pushed the door wider for Pitt to go in.

Jeremiah Thorne was superficially not unlike his political master. There was a difference in his bearing which was immediate, but equally it was indefinable. He was seated behind his desk but he appeared also to be of a good height. He had widely spaced eyes, dark hair, thick and smooth, and a broad, generous mouth. But he was a civil servant, not a politician. The difference was too subtle to name. The assurance with which he bore himself was based on generations of certainty, of being the unseen power behind those who campaign for office, and whose position depends upon the good opinion of others.

“How do you do, Superintendent,” he said with a lift of interest in his voice. “Come in. What may I do for you? Some colonial crime in which the metropolitan police is interested?” He smiled. “In Africa, I imagine, or you would not have been directed to me.”

“No, Mr. Thorne.” Pitt came into the room and sat down in the chair indicated. He waited until the door was closed and Fairbrass had had time to retrace his steps along the passage. “I am afraid the crime almost certainly began here in the Colonial Office,” he answered the question. “If indeed there is a crime. Mr. Chancellor has given me authority to enquire into it. I need to ask you several questions, sir. I apologize for taking up your time, but it is essential.”

Thorne sat back in his chair and folded his hands.

“Then you had better proceed, Superintendent. Can you tell me what this crime is?”

Pitt did not answer directly. Jeremiah Thorne was privy to most of the information in the Colonial Office. He was almost certainly in a position to be the traitor, however unlikely it was that so senior a person would do such a thing. The other possibility was that he might inadvertently either warn the traitor simply because he did not believe the person capable of such duplicity, or that he might do it through sheer inexperience in suspecting one of his own colleagues.

And yet if the man were naive enough not to understand the purpose of the questions, he was hardly competent to hold the position he did.

“I would prefer not to mention it until I am certain there has been a crime,” Pitt hedged. “Would you tell me something about your principal staff, sir.”

Thorne looked puzzled, but there was considerable humor in his dark eyes, masking any anxiety, if indeed he felt it.

“I report immediately regarding African affairs to Garston Aylmer, Mr. Chancellor’s assistant,” he said quietly. “He is an excellent man, very fine mind. A First at Cambridge, but I imagine it is not his academic qualifications you are interested in.” He lifted one shoulder infinitesimally. “No, I thought not. He came straight to the Colonial Office from university. That would be some fourteen or fifteen years ago.”

“Then he is close to forty?” Pitt interrupted.

“About thirty-six, I believe. He really is outstanding, Superintendent. He obtained his degree at twenty-three.” He appeared about to add something else and then changed his mind. He waited patiently for Pitt to continue.

“What was his subject, sir?”

“Oh—classics.”

“I see.”

“I doubt you do.” The smile was back in Thorne’s eyes, bright like a hidden laughter. “He is an excellent all-round scholar, and a man with a profound knowledge of history. He lives in Newington, in a small house which he owns.”

“Is he married?”

“No, he is not.”

Then Newington was a curious place for him to live. It was south of the river, across the Westminster Bridge to the east of Lambeth. It was not far from Whitehall, but hardly fashionable for a man of such excellent position, and presumable ambition. Pitt would have expected him to have had rooms in Mayfair or Belgravia, or possibly Chelsea.

“What are his future prospects, Mr. Thorne?” he asked. “Can he look forward to further promotion?” Now there was a lift in Thomas’s voice, but it was impossible to read his thoughts.

“I imagine so. He may in time take my position, or equally possibly he could head any of the other departments in the Colonial Office. I believe he has an interest in Indian affairs and the Far East. Superintendent, what has this to do with any possible crime that concerns you? Aylmer is an honorable man, about whom I have never heard the slightest suggestion of impropriety, let alone dishonesty. I don’t believe the man even drinks.”

There were many further questions, either of financial means or personal reputation, which Pitt could ask, but not of Thorne. This was going to be every bit as difficult as he had expected, and he had no liking for it at all. But Matthew Desmond would not have made the charge were he less than certain of it. Someone in the African section of the Colonial Office was passing information to the German Embassy.

“Who else, Mr. Thorne?” he asked aloud.

“Who else? Peter Arundell. He specializes in matters concerning Egypt and the Sudan,” Thorne replied. He went on to describe him in some detail, and Pitt allowed him to finish. He did not yet wish to narrow down the area to Zambezia. He would like to have trusted Thorne, but he could not afford to.

“Yes,” he prompted when Thorne hesitated.

Thorne frowned, but continued describing several other men with responsibility for other areas in the African continent, including Ian Hathaway, who was concerned with Mashonaland and Matabeleland, known together as Zambezia.

“He is one of our most experienced men, although very modest,” Thorne said quietly, still sitting in the same easy position in his chair and regarding Pitt steadily. “He is perhaps fifty. And has been a widower for as long as I have known him. I believe his wife died quite young, and he has never remarried. He has one son who is in the Colonial Service, in the Sudan, and another who works in the missionary field, I am afraid I have forgotten where. Hathaway’s father held quite a senior position in the church … an archdeacon, or something of the sort. He was from the West Country, Somerset or Dorset, I think. Hathaway himself lives in South Lambeth, just over the Vauxhall Bridge. I confess, I know nothing about his means. He is a very private person, very unassuming, but well liked, always a courteous word for everyone.”

“I see. Thank you.” It was not a promising beginning, but something decisive would have been too much to hope for at this stage. He hesitated, uncertain whether to ask Thorne now if he might trace the passage of information within the building, or if he should leave him unaware of the nature of the crime as yet, and pursue the personal lives of Aylmer, Hathaway and Thorne himself first, in hope of finding some weakness or deceit which might lead him eventually to his conclusion.

“That is all, Superintendent,” Thorne cut across the silence. “Other than those I have mentioned, there are only clerks, messengers and assistants of junior rank. If you do not tell me what offense you are investigating, or at least its general nature, I do not know what further I can do to assist you.” It was not a complaint, simply an observation, and there was still the mild, wry humor in Thorne’s face as he made it.

Pitt equivocated. “Some information has found its way into the wrong hands. It is possible it has come from this office.”

“I see.” Thorne did not look horrified, as Chancellor had done. In fact he did not seem particularly surprised at all. “I presume it is financial information you are concerned with, or that which could be turned to financial advantage? I am afraid it is always a risk where great opportunities occur, such as those now in Africa. The Dark Continent”—his mouth curled at the corners at the expression—“has attracted its share of opportunists as well as those who wish to settle, to colonize, to explore, to hunt big game or to save the souls of the natives and spread Christianity over the face of the benighted lands and impose British law and civilization on the heathen races.”

The assumption was wrong, but it suited Pitt very well to allow it to remain.

“Nevertheless, it must be stopped,” he said seriously.

“Of course,” Thorne agreed. “You are welcome to any assistance I can give you, but I am afraid I have no idea where to begin. It would be exceedingly hard to believe that any of the men I have mentioned would stoop to such a level, but they may be able to tell you something which will point to who is at fault. I shall instruct them accordingly.” He sat forward in the chair again. “Thank you for coming to me first, Superintendent, it was most civil of you.”

“Not at all,” Pitt said easily. “I think I shall begin by tracing the course of the information in general, rather than specifically financial, and see exactly who is privy to what.”

“Excellent.” Thorne stood up, an indication that the interview was at an end. “Would you care to have someone conduct you through the convolutions of the system, or would you rather make your own way? I am afraid I have no knowledge of police procedure.”

“If you could spare someone, it might save me a great deal of time.”

“Certainly.” He reached out and pulled the very handsome embroidered bell cord beside his desk and a moment later a young man appeared from the adjoining office. “Oh, Wainwright,” Thorne said almost casually. “This is Superintendent Pitt from the Bow Street police, who has some enquiries to make. The matter is highly confidential at this point. Will you please take him everywhere he requires to go, and show him the passage of information we receive from Africa itself, and regarding Africa from any other source. There appears to have been an irregularity.” He used the word delicately, and without further explanation. “So it would be much better at this point if you did not allow anyone else to be aware of exactly what you are doing, or who Mr. Pitt is.”

“Yes sir.” Wainwright sounded a trifle surprised, but like the good civil servant he aspired to be, he did not even suggest a comment in his expression, much less make a remark. He turned to Pitt. “How do you do, sir. If you care to come with me, I will show you the various types of communications we receive, and precisely what happens to each from its point of arrival onwards.”

Pitt thanked Thorne again and then followed Wainwright. He spent the rest of the day learning precisely how all the information was received from its various sources, by whom, where it was stored, how passed on, and who was privy to it. By half past three he had satisfied himself that the specific details Matthew Desmond had given him could individually have been known to a number of people, but all of them together passed through the hands of only a few: Garston Aylmer, Ian Hathaway, Peter Arundell, a man named Robert Leicester, and Thorne himself.

However he did not report that to Chancellor when he went back to his office at quarter past four, and found him free as he had promised. He merely said that he had been given every assistance and had been able to rule out several possibilities.

“And what is there remaining?” Chancellor said quickly, his eyes keen, his face grave. “You still have no doubt that we have a traitor who is passing information to the Kaiser?”

“That is the Foreign Office’s conclusion,” Pitt replied. “But it does seem the only one to answer the facts.”

“Extremely unpleasant.” Chancellor looked beyond Pitt into the distance, his mouth pinched and his brows drawn down. “I don’t mind what enemy I encounter face-to-face, but to be betrayed by one’s own is the worst experience a man can endure. I hate a traitor more than anything else on earth.” He looked at Pitt quickly, his blue eyes penetrating. “Are you a classicist, Mr. Pitt?”

It was an absurd question, but Pitt took it as a compliment that Chancellor obviously had no idea of his background. He could have been speaking to Micah Drummond, or even Farnsworth. It was a compliment to Arthur Desmond that he had helped his gamekeeper’s son to the degree that such an error was possible.

“No sir. I am acquainted with Shakespeare, and the major poets, but not the Greeks,” Pitt answered with a sober face.

“I was thinking more of Dante,” Chancellor said. “He grades all the sins in his picture of the descent into Hell. He places traitors in the lowest circle of all, far beneath those who are guilty of violence, theft, lust or any other depravity of mind or body. He holds it the worst sin which mankind can conceive, uniquely an abuse of our God-given gifts of reason and conscience. He places the betrayers eternally alone, held fast in everlasting ice. A very terrible punishment, Mr. Pitt, do you not think? But meet for the offense.”

Pitt felt a moment of chill, and then a clarity that was almost uplifting.

“Yes …” he said. “Yes, perhaps it is the worst offense, the breaking of trust, and I suppose the eternal isolation is not so much a punishment as a natural conclusion which would be bound to follow such a nature. It is a self-chosen Hell, if you like.”

“I see we have much in common, Mr. Pitt.” Chancellor’s smile was dazzling, a gesture of both warmth and intense, almost luminous, candor. “Perhaps there is nothing more important than that. We must get this abysmal affair dealt with. It darkens everything until we do.” He bit his lip and shook his head fractionally. “The worst of it is that until it is exposed it poisons every other relationship. One quite unjustifiably suspects those who are perfectly innocent. Many a friendship has been broken for less. I admit, I should not look on a man the same if he had found it possible to suspect me of such treachery.” He gazed at Pitt. “And yet since it is my duty, I cannot place any man beyond my suspicion. I dare not. What a filthy crime!” For a moment there was a bitter smile on his face. “You see what damage it has done already, by the mere fact of its existence?”

He leaned forward across the desk earnestly. “Look, Pitt, we can afford no niceties. I wish it were otherwise, but I know this office well enough to be perfectly aware, tragically, that it must be someone in considerable authority, which means probably Aylmer, Hathaway, Arundell, Leicester, or even, God forbid, Thorne himself. You will not be able to find which by chasing pieces of paper around here.” Unconsciously he was drumming his fingers on the desk, almost without sound. “He will be cleverer than that. You will have to get to know the man himself, see a pattern, a flaw, and however small, a weakness. For that you need to know him in his personal life.” He stopped, regarding Pitt with exasperation. “Come, man, don’t show such surprise. I am not a fool!”

Pitt felt the color burn up his cheeks. He had not perceived Chancellor as a fool, or anything like it, but he had not expected such forthrightness either, nor such perception of what his investigation would entail.

Chancellor smiled quickly. “Forgive me. That was too frank. But nevertheless, what I say is true. You must meet them all socially. Can you come to the reception at the Duchess of Marlborough’s this evening? I can obtain an invitation for you without any trouble at all.”

Pitt hesitated only a moment.

“I realize it is absurdly short notice,” Chancellor went on. “But history waits for no man, and our treaty with Germany is on the doorstep.”

“Of course,” Pitt accepted. What Chancellor had said was true. It would be an ideal situation in which to make some judgment of the men in a more personal capacity. “It is an excellent idea. Thank you for your assistance, sir.”

“Yourself and your wife? You are married, I presume?”

“Yes indeed.”

“Excellent. I shall have my footman deliver them by six. Your address?”

Pitt gave it, with pleasure that it was the new house, and after a moment or two, took his leave. If he were to attend a reception at Marlborough House in a few hours, he had a very great deal to attend to. And Charlotte would have even more. Her sister, Emily, from whom she usually borrowed gowns for the better social occasions, was currently abroad in Italy again. Her husband, Jack, was very newly a member of Parliament, and since Parliament was in recess for the summer, they had taken the opportunity to travel. Borrowing from her would not be possible. She would have to try Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould, Emily’s great-aunt by her first marriage, to Lord Ashworth.

“What?” Charlotte said in disbelief. “Tonight? That’s impossible! It’s nearly five o’clock now!” She was standing in the kitchen with plates in her hand.

“I do realize it is not much time….” Pitt began. It was only now beginning to dawn upon him what an enormity he had committed.

“Not much time!” Her voice rose in something close to a squeal and she put the plates down with a clatter. “To prepare for something like this would take a week. Thomas, you do know who the Duchess of Marlborough is, I suppose? There could be royalty present! There could be everybody who is anyone at all—there almost certainly will be.” Suddenly the outrage vanished from her face and was replaced by an overwhelming curiosity. “How in Heaven’s name did you get an invitation to the Duchess of Marlborough’s reception? There are people in London who would commit crimes to get such a thing.” Amusement tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Don’t tell me someone has?”

He felt laughter at the absurdity of it well up inside him too. It was such a wild contrast with the truth. Perhaps he ought not to mention it to her. It was a highly confidential matter, but he had always trusted her in the past, although of course no previous case had involved matters of state.

She saw his hesitation. “They have!” Her eyes were wide, and she was uncertain whether to laugh or not.

“No—no,” he said hastily. “The matter is very much more serious than that.”

“Are you not working on Sir Arthur’s death?” she said quickly. “That can’t have anything to do with the Duchess of Marlborough. And even if it had, you wouldn’t just get an invitation because you wanted one. I don’t think even Aunt Vespasia could do that.” That was the height of social power.

Vespasia had been the foremost beauty of her day, not only for her classic features and exquisite coloring, but for her grace, wit and extraordinary panache. Now in her eighties, she was still beautiful. Her wit had sharpened because she was assured in her position, and no longer cared in the slightest what anyone thought of her, as long as she rested easily in her own conscience. She espoused causes few others dared to, liked and disliked whom and what she pleased, and enjoyed pastimes of which many a younger and more cautious woman would have been afraid. But she still could not command an invitation to the Duchess of Marlborough’s receptions at short notice, and for someone else.

“Yes, I am working on Sir Arthur’s death,” Pitt answered with some stretching of the truth. He followed her as she whirled into sudden activity, turning to go into the passage and up the stairs.

“But I am also working on another matter Matthew left with me this morning, and it is in connection with that,” Pitt said from behind her, “that we are going to the Duchess of Marlborough’s this evening. The invitations came through Mr. Linus Chancellor, of the Colonial Office.”

She stopped on the landing. “Linus Chancellor. I’ve heard of him. He’s very charming, and extremely clever, so they say. He may even be Prime Minister one day.”

He smiled, and then hid it almost immediately as he followed her into the bedroom. Charlotte no longer moved in the social circles where people discussed serious politicians, as she had done before she had shocked her friends by marrying a policeman, a dramatic reduction of both her financial and social circumstances.

Her face fell. “Is that mistaken? Is he not charming at all?”

“Yes, he is most charming, and I should judge also very clever. Who told you about him?”

“Emily,” she answered, throwing open the wardrobe door. “Jack has met him several times. But also Mama.” She realized what he had meant. “All right, only two people. You actually met him today? Why?”

He was undecided for only a moment.

“It is highly confidential. It is a matter of state. I am not revealing the whole business even to those I question. Certain information is being passed from the Colonial Office to other people who should not know it.”

She swung around to stare at him. “You mean there is a traitor in the Colonial Office? That’s terrible! Why couldn’t you just say that, instead of hemming and hawing? Thomas, you are becoming pompous.”

“Well—I …” He was horrified. He loathed pomposity. He swallowed. “Can you find something to wear and get ready, or not?”

“Yes of course I can,” she said instantly, eyes wide, as if the answer were the only one possible.

“How?”

She shut the wardrobe door. “I don’t know yet. Give me a moment to think. Emily is away, but Aunt Vespasia is not. She has a telephone. Perhaps I can reach her and ask her advice. Yes. I’ll do that immediately.” And without waiting for comment from him, she brushed past him and went across the landing and down the stairs to the hallway where the new telephone was situated. She picked up the receiver. She was extremely unfamiliar with the instrument, and it took her several minutes before she was successful. She was naturally answered by the maid, and was obliged to wait for several moments.

“Aunt Vespasia.” Her voice was unusually breathless when she heard Vespasia at last. “Thomas has just been put onto a most important case, which I cannot discuss, because I know very little about it, except that he has been invited immediately, this evening, to attend the reception at the Duchess of Marlborough’s.”

There was a very slight hesitation of surprise at the other end of the line, but Vespasia was too well bred to allow herself anything more.

“Indeed? It must be of the utmost gravity for Her Grace of Marlborough to allow the slightest alteration to her plans. How may I be of assistance, my dear? I imagine that is why you have called?”

“Yes.” From anyone else such candor would have been disconcerting, but Vespasia had never been anything but frank with Charlotte, nor Charlotte with her. “I am not quite sure what to wear to such a function,” Charlotte confessed. “I have never been to anything quite so—so very formal. And of course I do not own such a thing anyway.”

Vespasia was thinner than Charlotte, but of a similar height, and it would not be the first occasion for which she had lent her a gown. Policemen of Pitt’s previous rank did not earn the kind of salary to afford their wives attire for the London Season, and indeed none of them would have been invited.

“I shall find something suitable and have my footman bring it over,” Vespasia said generously. “And don’t worry about the time. It is not done to arrive early. About half past ten would be excellent. They will serve supper at around midnight. One should be there between thirty and ninety minutes of the hour mentioned on the invitation, which, if I recollect, is eleven o’clock. It is a formal occasion.” She did not add that more intimate receptions might well begin an hour earlier. She expected Charlotte to know that.

“Thank you very much,” Charlotte said with real gratitude. It was only after she had put the receiver back on its hook that she realized if Vespasia knew the time on the invitation, she must have one herself.

The dress, when it arrived, was quite the loveliest she had ever seen. It was of a deep blue-green shade, cut high at the front, and with a sheer sleeve, and decorated with a delicate beading at throat and shoulder. The bustle was narrow and heavily draped, caught up in a bow of gold and a shade of the gown itself, but so dark as to appear almost black. Included with it was a most elegant pair of slippers to match. The whole effect made her think of deep water, exotic seas and wild dawns over the sand. If she looked even half as wonderful as she felt, she would be the envy of every woman in the place.

Actually as she sailed down the stairs, several minutes later than she had said she would (having mislaid a packet of hairpins which were vital to the whole effect), Gracie was awestruck. Her eyes were enormous, and both children crouched, wide-eyed, on the landing. Even Pitt was a little startled. He had been pacing the hall with impatience, and when he had heard her step, he swung around, then saw her.

“Oh,” he said, uncharacteristically lost for words. He had forgotten what a very handsome woman she was with her rich dark auburn hair and warm, honey skin. Tonight the excitement had given her a color and a brilliance to her eyes that made her close to truly beautiful. “That …” Then he became self-conscious, and changed his mind. This was not the time to indulge in compliments, however merited. “It becomes you very well,” he finished. It was immeasurably less than he meant. Actually it awoke in him an awareness of her physical presence, and a strangeness, a frisson of excitement as if she had been someone he had newly met.

She looked at him a trifle uncertainly, and said nothing.

He had hired a carriage for the evening. It was not an event for which one could arrive in a hansom cab. For one thing, its cramped space would have crushed Charlotte’s dress, or more accurately Vespasia’s dress, and for another, and more importantly, it would mark him out as different, and inferior.

There was a considerable jostle of carriages in the driveway, and indeed in the street beyond, as dozens of people arrived at what Vespasia had said would be the optimum time. They were almost swept along up the stairs and into the great foyer and the hall beyond. On all sides they were surrounded by swirling skirts, nervous laughter, just a little loud, and voices high-pitched, too obviously intent upon immediate companions and affecting to ignore everyone else. The lights of the chandeliers were thrown back in tiaras, brooches, necklaces, earrings, bracelets and rings. The men were girded by scarlet and purple sashes of orders of merit, and chests gleamed with medals against the sober black and stark white of formal dress.

Up the great staircase and into the reception rooms they were announced by a majordomo whose face remained entirely expressionless, regardless of the name or rank of the personage he introduced. If he had never heard of Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Pitt, there was nothing in his features to register it, not a flicker of his eyes or intonation of his voice.

Pitt was far more nervous than Charlotte. She was bred to conduct herself at social events of this nature, even if not of this status. Pitt felt suddenly as if his stiff collar were cutting into his chin and he hardly dared turn his head. Charlotte had insisted on cutting his hair, and he was self-consciously aware now that he had not seen a respectable barber in years. His evening boots were excellent, a gift from Jack, but his black suit was of nothing like the quality of those around him, and he was certain they would be as aware of it as he was the first time they looked closely enough at him to conduct any sort of a conversation.

For the first fifteen minutes they drifted from one group to another, making the most superficial remarks, and feeling increasingly ridiculous and as if they were wasting time which could easily be better spent, even if only in bed asleep, ready for the next day and its duties.

Then at last Pitt saw Linus Chancellor, and beside him a uniquely striking woman. She was unusually tall, very nearly of a height with Chancellor himself. She was slender but well proportioned with handsome shoulders and arms, and awareness of her height had not made her stoop or try to hide it. She stood with head high and back straight. Her gown was palest oyster shading to pink and it flattered her dusky coloring and rather long, wide-eyed face.

“Who is she?” Charlotte whispered quickly. “Isn’t she interesting, quite unlike most of the women here. There is nothing predictable about her at all!”

“I don’t know, but perhaps she is Chancellor’s wife,” he replied under his breath, conscious of those close to him and possibly overhearing.

“Oh! Is that Linus Chancellor beside her? He’s rather handsome, isn’t he!”

Pitt looked at her with interest. He had not considered whether Chancellor was handsome or not, or indeed whether his looks might be appealing to women. He had only seen the strength and the imagination in his face, the unusual angle of nose and jaw and the power of will it suggested, the fine eyes and the total confidence of his bearing. He had seen him as a politician, and tried to estimate his skill and his ability to judge men.

“Yes, I suppose he is,” he said with growing conviction.

Charlotte looked at the woman again, and at that moment saw her place her hand on Chancellor’s arm, not obtrusively—it was not a statement of ownership—but discreetly, a gesture of pride and affection. She was moving herself closer to him, not drawing him to her.

“If he is married, then she must be his wife,” Charlotte said with absolute certainty. “She would never do that in public were she not now, or about to become so.”

“Do what?”

Charlotte smiled and did exactly the same, slipping her hand through Pitt’s arm and moving half a step closer.

“She is still in love with him,” she said a little above a whisper.

Pitt knew he had missed something, but also that it had been in some way a compliment.

Further discussion of the subject was circumvented by the approach of one of the most homely men Charlotte had ever seen. The most charitable description of him possible could only have said there was no malice in his face, and no ill temper. He was barely Charlotte’s height, although she was admittedly rather tall for a woman. He was very heavily set, with plump arms and shoulders and a massive series of chins which gave his face a most odd shape, as if it were dominated by the excellent hair and brown eyes under inadequate brows, and then it all faded away into his shoulders. Nevertheless, it was not in the least displeasing, and when he spoke his voice was beautiful and quite individual.

“Good evening, Mr. Pitt. How pleasant to see you at such a gathering.” He waited politely to be introduced to Charlotte.

“Good evening, Mr. Aylmer,” Pitt responded, and turned to Charlotte. “May I present Mr. Garston Aylmer, of the Colonial Office?” He completed the introduction.

“How do you do, Mrs. Pitt.” Aylmer bowed very slightly, an elegant gesture which seemed to come to him quite naturally. He regarded her with interest. “I hope you will enjoy yourself, although these functions can become tedious if one remains too long. Everybody says the same thing each time, and seldom means it anyway.” He smiled suddenly and it illuminated his face. “But since we have not met before, perhaps we shall have something new and quite different to say, and be enthralled.”

“I should love to be enthralled,” Charlotte answered instantly. “I am not in the slightest interested in the weather, or in gossip as to who has dined with whom, or been seen in whose company.”

“Nor I,” Aylmer agreed. “It will all be different next week anyway, and then no doubt back to the same the week after. What shall we discuss?”

Pitt was more than happy to be ignored. He took a step backwards, excusing himself inaudibly, and drifted towards Linus Chancellor and the woman at his side.

Charlotte thought hastily. It was an opportunity too precious to miss.

“Something I know nothing about,” she said with a smile. “Then you can tell me whatever you please, and I shall not find fault with any of it, because I shall have no idea if you are right or wrong.”

“What an original and superb idea,” he agreed, entering the spirit of it with enthusiasm. “What do you know nothing about, Mrs. Pitt?” He offered her his arm.

“Oh, countless things,” she said, taking it. “But many of them are of no interest anyway, which is why I have not bothered with them. But some must be engrossing,” she added as they walked up towards the steps to the terrace. “What about Africa? If you are in the Colonial Office, you must know immeasurably more than I do about it.”

“Oh certainly,” he agreed with a broad smile. “Although I warn you, a great deal of it is either violent or tragic, or of course both.”

“But everything that people fight over is worth something,” she reasoned. “Or they wouldn’t be fighting. I expect it is terribly different from England, isn’t it? I have seen pictures, engravings and so on, of jungles, and endless plains with every kind of animal imaginable. And curious trees that look as if they have all been sawn off at the top, sort of … level.”

“Acacias,” he replied. “Yes, undoubtedly it is different from England. I hate to confess it, Mrs. Pitt, because probably it robs me instantly of all real interest, but I have never been there. I know an enormous amount of facts about it, but I have them all secondhand. Isn’t it a shame?”

She looked at him for only an instant before being perfectly certain he had no sense of loss whatever, and was still enjoying the conversation. It would be an overstatement to say he was flirting, but he was quite at ease with women, and obviously found their company pleasing.

“Perhaps there isn’t any appreciable difference between secondhand and thirdhand,” she responded as they made their way past a group of men in earnest conversation. “And it will be only a matter of description to me, because I shall never know if you are right or not. So please tell me, and make it very vivid, even if you have to invent it. And full of facts, of course,” she plunged on. “Tell me about Zambezia, and gold and diamonds, and Doctor Livingstone and Mr. Stanley, and the Germans.”

“Good heavens,” he said in much alarm. “All of them?”

“As many as you can,” she returned.

A footman offered them a silver tray with glasses of champagne.

“Well to begin with, the diamonds we know about are all in South Africa,” Aylmer answered, taking a glass and giving it to her, then one for himself. “But there is a possibility of enormous amounts of gold in Zambezia. There are massive ruins of a civilization, a city called Zimbabwe, and we are only beginning to estimate the fortune that could be there. Which, quite naturally, is also what the Germans are interested in. And possibly everyone else as well.” He was watching her face with wide brown eyes, and she had no idea how serious he was, or whether it was at least partially invention, to amuse her.

“Does Britain own it now?” she asked, taking a sip from her glass.

“No,” Aylmer replied, moving a step away from the footman. “Not yet.”

“But we will?”

“Ah—that is a very important question, to which I do not have the answer.” He led the way on up the steps.

“And if you did, no doubt it would be highly secret,” she added.

“But of course.” He smiled and went on to tell her about Cecil Rhodes and his adventures and exploits in South Africa, the Rand and Johannesburg, and the discovery of the Kimberley diamond mine, until they were interrupted by a young man with a long nose and a hearty manner who swept Aylmer away with apologies, and obviously to his annoyance. Charlotte was left momentarily alone.

She looked around her to see whom she might recognize from photographs in the London Illustrated News. She saw a most imposing man with lush side-whiskers and curling beard, the light of the chandeliers gleaming on the bald dome of his head, his sad, bloodhound eyes gazing around the room. She thought he might be Lord Salisbury, the Foreign Secretary, but she was not certain. A photograph with only shades of gray was not like a living person.

Linus Chancellor was talking to a man superficially not unlike himself, but without the ambition in his face, or the mercurial temperament. They were deep in conversation, almost as if oblivious of the whirl of silks and glitter of lights, or the buzz of chatter all around them. Beside the second man, but facing the other way, apparently waiting for him, was a most unusual woman. She was of arresting appearance because of her supreme confidence and the intelligence which seemed to radiate from her. But she was also quite unusually plain. Her nose was so high at the bridge, in profile it was almost a continuation of the line of her forehead. Her chin was a little too short, and her eyes were wide set, tilted down at the corners, and too large. It was an extraordinary face, compelling and even a trifle frightening. She was dressed extremely well, but one was so startled by her countenance it was of no importance whatever.

Charlotte exchanged a few polite and meaningless words with a couple who made it their duty to speak to everyone. A man with light auburn hair addressed her with effusive admiration, then once again she found herself alone. She did not mind in the least. She knew Pitt was here to pursue a specific case.

A delicately pale woman of about her own age was standing a few yards away, her fair hair elaborately coiffed, her pastel gown stitched with pearls and beads. She glanced discreetly at Charlotte over her fan and turned to the good-looking young man next to her.

“She must be from the country, poor creature.”

“Must she?” the young man said with surprise. “Do you know her?” He made a move as if to approach Charlotte, his face alight with anticipation.

The woman’s eyes widened dramatically. “Of course not. Really, Gerald! How would I know such a person? I merely remarked that she must have come up from the country because of her unfortunate coloring.” She grasped Gerald’s arm firmly, restraining him.

“I thought it was rather pleasing.” He stopped short. “Sort of like well-polished mahogany.”

“Not her hair. Her complexion. Obviously she cannot be a milkmaid, or she would not be here, but she looks as if she could have been. I daresay it is riding to hounds, or some such thing.” She wrinkled her nose very slightly. “She looks positively robust. Most unbecoming. But I daresay she is unaware of it, poor creature. Just as well.”

Gerald pulled his mouth down at the corner. “How typical of you to feel such compassion for her, my dear. That is one of your most charming traits, your sensitivity to the feelings of others.”

She glanced at him very quickly, some inkling in the back of her mind that there was an element in him she had missed, then chose to ignore it and swept forward to speak to a viscountess she knew.

Gerald shot a look of undisguised admiration at Charlotte, then followed obediently.

Charlotte smiled to herself and went to look for Pitt.

She glimpsed Great-Aunt Vespasia across the room, looking quite magnificent in a gown of steel-gray satin, her heavy-lidded silver eyes brilliant, her white hair a more gracious ornament to her head than many of the tiaras glistening around her.

As Charlotte looked at her, Vespasia quite slowly and deliberately winked, then resumed her conversation.

It took Charlotte several minutes to find Pitt. He had moved from the main reception room with its blazing chandeliers up a shallow flight of steps into a quieter room where he was deep in conversation with the man who resembled Linus Chancellor, and the extraordinary woman who was with him.

Charlotte hesitated, uncertain whether if she approached, she might be interrupting, but the woman glanced up and their eyes met with a jolt of interest that was almost a familiarity.

The man followed her line of sight, and Pitt also turned.

Charlotte went forward and was introduced.

“Mr. Jeremiah Thorne of the Colonial Office,” Pitt said quietly. “And Mrs. Thorne. May I present my wife.”

“How do you do, Mrs. Pitt,” Mrs. Thorne said immediately. “Are you interested in Africa? I do hope not. I am bored to weeping with it. Please come and talk to me about something else. Almost anything would do, except India, which from this distance is much the same.”

“Christabel …” Thorne said with alarm, but Charlotte could see that it was largely assumed, and he was possibly quite used to her manner, and in no way truly disturbed.

“Yes my dear,” she said absently. “I am going to speak with Mrs. Pitt. We shall find something to entertain us, either something profoundly serious and worthy, like saving souls or bodies; or else totally trivial, like criticizing the fashions of everyone else we can see, and speculating on which respectable lady of uncertain years is seeking which wretched young man to marry her daughter.”

Thorne smiled and groaned at the same time, but there was quite obviously profound affection in it; then he turned back to Pitt.

Charlotte followed Christabel Thorne with considerable interest; the conversation promised to be different and lively.

“If you come to these sort of things as often as I do, you must find them desperately tedious by now,” Christabel said with a smile. Her large eyes were very penetrating, and Charlotte could imagine she would paralyze many a timid soul into silence, or stuttering and incoherent sentences.

“I have never been to one before.” Charlotte decided to be just as frank. It was the only defense against pretentiousness, and being caught at it. “Since my marriage I have been out socially only on certain specific occasions that have called for …” She stopped. To have admitted they were when she was involving herself in Pitt’s investigations was perhaps a little too candid even for this occasion.

Christabel’s high eyebrows rose even higher, her face full of interest. “Yes?”

Charlotte still hesitated.

“You were going to say?” Christabel prompted. There was nothing unfriendly in her stare, simply a consuming interest.

Charlotte gave up. She knew already Christabel would not forgive a lie, or even half of one, and naturally since Thorne knew Pitt’s profession, she assumed Christabel did too. “A little meddling in my husband’s cases,” she finished with a slight smile. “There are sometimes places which as a member of the police—”

“How perfectly marvelous!” Christabel interrupted her. “But of course. You have no need to explain, my dear. It is all quite clear, and completely justified. This time you are here because he has been invited on this wretched business of African information going missing.” A look of contempt crossed her face. “Greed can make people do the grubbiest of things … at least some people.” She caught sight of Charlotte’s face. “Don’t look so upset, my dear. I overheard my husband speaking about it just now. One was always aware of the possibility. Wherever there is a fortune to be made, there will be those who cheat to get advantage. It is simply unusual that they have had the courage and openness to bring in the police. I applaud it. But you will still find this evening growing dull, because very few people say anything they really mean.”

A footman stopped by them with another tray of champagne glasses. Christabel declined with a wave of her hand, and Charlotte followed suit.

“If you wish to meet someone interesting,” Christabel went on, “and I cannot think what she is doing here, of all places—come and meet Nobby Gunne.” She turned as if to lead the way, assuming assent. “She’s a marvelous woman. Been up the Congo River in a canoe, or something equally unlikely. Maybe it was the Niger, or the Limpopo. Somewhere in Africa where nobody had ever been before.”

“Did you say Nobby Gunne?” Charlotte asked with surprise.

“Yes—extraordinary name, isn’t it? I believe it is actually short for Zenobia … which is even more odd.”

“I know her!” Charlotte said quickly. “She’s about fifty or so, isn’t she? Dark hair and a most unusual face, not at all conventionally pretty, but full of character, and not in the least displeasing.”

A group of young women passed them, giggling and looking over their fans.

“Yes, that’s right! What a generous description of her.” Christabel’s face was filled with amusement. “You must have liked her.”

“I did.”

“If it is not an impertinent question, how did a policeman’s wife come to meet an African explorer like Nobby Gunne?”

“She is a friend of my sister’s great-aunt by marriage,” Charlotte began, then was obliged to smile at the convolution of it. “I am also very fond indeed of Great-Aunt Vespasia, and see her whenever I am able.”

They were at the foot of the stair and brushed by an urn filled with flowers. Christabel whisked her skirt out of the way absentmindedly.

“Vespasia?” she said with interest. “Now there is another remarkable name. Your aunt could not by any chance be Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould?”

“Yes, she is. You know her also?”

“Only by repute, unfortunately. But that has been sufficient for me to form a great respect for her.” The banter and air of mockery drained out of her face. “She has been concerned in some very fine work to bring about social reform, most particularly the poor laws, and those regarding education.”

“Yes, I remember. My sister did what she could to assist. We tried our hardest.”

“Don’t tell me you gave up!” It was more of a challenge than a question.

“We gave up on that approach.” Charlotte met her gaze squarely. “Now Emily’s husband has just become a member of Parliament. I am concerned with my husband’s cases which fight injustice of various sorts, which I am not at liberty to discuss.” She knew enough not to mention the Inner Circle, no matter how she might be drawn to anyone. “And Aunt Vespasia is still fighting one thing and another, but I do not know precisely what at the moment.”

“I didn’t mean to insult you,” Christabel apologized warmly.

Charlotte smiled. “Yes you did. You thought I might simply have been playing at it, to give myself something to do, and to feel good about, and then given it up at the first failure.”

“You’re right, of course.” Christabel smiled dazzlingly. “Jeremiah tells me I am far too obsessed with causes, and that I lose all sense of proportion. Would you care to meet Zenobia Gunne again? I see her just at the top of the stairs.”

“I should indeed,” Charlotte accepted, and followed Christabel’s glance to where a very dark woman in green stood staring across the room from the balcony, her eyes wandering from one person to another, her face only mildly interested. Charlotte recognized her with a jolt of memory. They had met during the murders on Westminster Bridge, when Florence Ivory was fighting so hard for women to have the right to vote. Of course there was no conceivable chance of her succeeding, but Charlotte could understand the cause well enough, more particularly when she had seen the results of some of the worst inequities under present law. “We were concerned for women’s franchise,” she added as she followed Christabel up the stairs.

“Good heavens!” Christabel stopped and turned; her face was full of curiosity. “How very forward thinking of you!” she said with admiration. “And completely unrealistic.”

“And what are you concerned with?” Charlotte challenged.

Christabel laughed, but there was intense emotion in her face. “Oh, something equally unrealistic,” she answered quickly. “Do you know what an ‘odd woman’ is, in modern parlance?”

“Not ‘peculiar’?” Charlotte had not heard the term.

“Not in the least, and becoming more common all the time …” Christabel ignored the fact that they were on the stairs and people were obliged to brush past them. “She is a woman who is not paired up with some man, and therefore surplus, in a sense, unprovided for, without her accepted role of caring for a man. I would like to see ‘odd women’ able to educate themselves and take up professions, just as men do, provide for themselves, and have a place of honor and fulfillment in society.”

“Good heavens.” Charlotte was genuinely amazed at her courage. But it was a wonderful idea. “You are right.”

A flash of temper darkened Christabel’s face. “The average man is not a whit cleverer or stronger than the average woman, and certainly no braver.” A look of total disgust filled her. “You are not going to quote that belief that women cannot use both their brains and their wombs, are you? That is an idea put about by men who are afraid that we may challenge them in their jobs, and sometimes win. It is a total canard. Rubbish! Nonsense!”

Charlotte was half amused, half awed, and certainly the idea was exciting.

“And how are you going to do it?” she asked, squeezing sideways a trifle to allow a large lady to pass.

“Education,” Christabel replied, and there was a note of defiance underneath the assurance Charlotte felt was paper thin. In that instant she admired her courage intensely, and felt fiercely protective of the vulnerability and the hopeless cause she saw behind it. “For women, so they have the skills and the belief in themselves,” Christabel went on. “And for men, to give them the opportunity to use them. That is the hardest part.”

“That must need a lot of money….” Charlotte said.

She was prevented from replying by the fact that they were almost level with Zenobia Gunne, and she had seen their approach. Her face lit with pleasure as she recognized Christabel Thorne, and then after only a moment’s hesitation, she remembered Charlotte also. Then quite comically she also remembered that Charlotte was not always strictly honest about her identity. In the past, for purposes of assisting Pitt, she had affected to have nothing to do with the police, even assuming her maiden name.

Nobby turned to Christabel.

“How very nice to see you, Mrs. Thorne. I am sure I know your companion, but it is some little while since we met, and I am embarrassed to say I do not recollect her name. I do apologize.”

Charlotte smiled, both with genuine friendship—she had liked Nobby Gunne greatly—and with amusement at her tact.

“Charlotte Pitt,” she replied graciously. “How do you do, Miss Gunne. You seem in excellent health.”

“I am indeed,” Nobby answered, and she looked happier, and not a day older, than when Charlotte had seen her several years earlier.

They chatted for a few moments about various subjects, touching on the political and social events of interest. They were interrupted when a tall, lithe man with a heavily tanned complexion accidentally backed into Nobby in his effort to avoid a giggling young woman. He turned to apologize for his clumsiness. He had an unusual face, far from handsome: his nose was crooked, his mouth a little large and his fair hair was receding very considerably, and yet his presence was commanding, his intelligence apparent.

“I am sorry, ma’am,” he said stiffly, the color spreading up his bony cheeks. “I hope I have not hurt you?”

“Not in the least,” Nobby said with mild amusement. “And considering the encounter you were avoiding, your haste is understandable.”

The color in his cheeks became even deeper. “Oh … was I so obvious?”

“Only to one who would have done the same,” she replied, meeting his eyes squarely.

“Then we have something in common,” he acknowledged, but with no indication in his voice that he wished to continue further or to make her acquaintance.

“I am Zenobia Gunne,” she introduced herself.

His eyes widened; his attention became suddenly real.

“Not Nobby Gunne?”

“My friends call me Nobby.” Her tone of voice made it apparent he was not yet included in that number.

“Peter Kreisler.” He stood very upright, as if it were a military announcement. “I also have spent much time in Africa and learned to love it.”

Now her interest was quickened also. She introduced Charlotte and Christabel only as a matter of form, then continued the conversation. “Have you? In what part of Africa?”

“Zanzibar, Mashonaland, Matabeleland,” he answered.

“I was in the west,” she responded. “Mostly up the Congo and that region. Although I did also travel up the Niger.”

“Then you will have dealt with King Leopold of the Belgians.” His face was expressionless.

Nobby schooled her features just as carefully. “Only in the very slightest,” she replied. “He does not regard me in the same light as he would were I a man; for example, Mr. Stanley.”

Even Charlotte had heard of Henry Mirton Stanley’s triumphant progress through London only a week or so since, when on April 26 he had ridden from Charing Cross Station to Piccadilly Circus. The crowds had cheered him to the echo. He was the most admired explorer of the age, a double gold medalist of the Royal Geographical Society, a friend of the Prince of Wales and a guest of the Queen herself.

“There is some good fortune in that,” Kreisler said with a bitter smile. “At least he will not ask you to lead an army of twenty thousand Congolese cannibals up to defeat the ‘Mad Mahdi’ and conquer the Sudan for Belgium!”

Nobby was incredulous. Her face was comical with disbelief.

Christabel looked shocked. Charlotte for once was speechless.

“You cannot be serious!” Nobby cried, her voice rising to a squeak.

“Oh, I am not.” Kreisler’s mouth was touched with humor. “But apparently Leopold was. He had heard that the Congo cannibals are excellent warriors. He wanted to do something to make the whole world sit up and take notice.”

“Well that would certainly achieve it,” Nobby agreed. “I can scarcely imagine what a war that would be! Twenty thousand cannibals against the hordes of the ‘Mad Mahdi.’ Oh, my God—poor Africa.” Her face was touched with genuine pity beneath the wry amusement and the bantering tone. One could not mistake that she was conscious of the human misery it would involve.

Beyond their introduction, Kreisler had so far practically ignored both Christabel and Charlotte. He glanced at them to avoid rudeness, but all his interest was with Nobby, and the sense of her emotion had quickened it further.

“That is not Africa’s real tragedy,” he said with bitterness. “Leopold is a visionary, and frankly something of a lunatic. He poses very little real danger. For a start he is extremely unlikely to persuade any cannibals at all into leaving their own jungles. And for another, I would not be surprised if Stanley remains here in Europe anyway.”

“Stanley not go back to Africa?” Nobby was amazed. “I know he has been there for the last three years, and then in Cairo for about three weeks, I hear. But surely after a rest he will return? Africa is his life! And I believe King Leopold treated him like a brother when he went back to Brussels this time. Is that not so?”

“Oh yes,” Kreisler said quickly. “It is almost an understatement. Originally the king was lukewarm, and treated Stanley very offhandedly, but now he is the hero of the hour, studded with medals like a porcupine with quills, and feted like visiting royalty. Everyone is buzzing with excitement over news from Central Africa, and Stanley has but to turn up and he is cheered till people are hoarse. The king enjoys the reflected glory.” There was light in Kreisler’s blue eyes, laughter and pain at the same time.

Nobby asked the necessary question.

“Then why would he not return to Africa? He has left Belgium, so it cannot be that which is holding him.”

“Not at all,” Kreisler agreed. “He has fallen in love with Dolly Tennant.”

“Dolly Tennant! Did you say Dolly Tennant?” Nobby could scarcely believe her ears. “The society hostess? The painter?”

“The same.” Kreisler nodded. “And there has been a great change in her. She no longer laughs at him. It even seems she returns at least a good part of his regard. Times and fortunes have altered.”

“My goodness, haven’t they indeed,” she agreed.

That particular speculation continued no further because they were joined by Linus Chancellor and the tall woman Charlotte had remarked upon earlier. Closer to, she was even more unusual. Her face was curiously vulnerable and full of emotion, which did not detract in the slightest from the strength in it. It was not a weakness, but an ability to feel pain with more intensity than was common. It was the face of a person who would launch herself wholeheartedly into whatever she undertook. There was no caution in it, no withholding for the sake of safety.

Introductions were performed for everyone, and she was indeed Chancellor’s wife, as Charlotte had supposed.

Chancellor and Kreisler appeared to know each other, at least by repute.

“Recently back from Africa?” Chancellor asked politely.

“Two months ago,” Kreisler replied. “More recently than that, from Brussels and Antwerp.”

“Oh.” Chancellor’s face relaxed in a smile. “In the wake of the good Mr. Stanley?”

“By accident, yes.”

Chancellor was obviously amused. Probably he had also heard of King Leopold’s plans to conquer the Sudan. No doubt he had his sources of information every bit as immediate as Kreisler’s. Perhaps it was Kreisler himself. It occurred to Charlotte that it was more than likely.

Christabel Thorne took up the subject, looking first at Kreisler, then at Chancellor.

“Mr. Kreisler tells us he is more acquainted with the east of Africa and the new lands of Zambezia. He was about to tell us that the real tragedy of Africa does not lie in the west, nor in the Sudan, but he was prevented from elaborating by some turn of the conversation. I think to do with Mr. Stanley’s personal hopes.”

“For Africa?” Susannah Chancellor asked quickly. “I thought the king of the Belgians was building a railway.”

“I daresay he is,” Christabel returned. “But we were referring to his amorous intentions.”

“Oh! Dolly Tennant!”

“So we hear.”

“Hardly a tragedy for Africa,” Chancellor murmured. “Possibly even a relief.”

Charlotte was now quite sure he knew about Leopold and the cannibals.

But Susannah was genuinely interested. She looked at Kreisler seriously.

“What do you believe is Africa’s tragedy, Mr. Kreisler? You have not told us. If your regard is as deep as Miss Gunne indicates, you must care about it very much.”

“I do, Mrs. Chancellor,” he agreed. “But unfortunately that does not give me any power to affect it. It will happen regardless of anything I can do.”

“What will happen?” she persisted.

“Cecil Rhodes and his wagons of settlers will press further up from the Cape into Zambezia,” he answered, looking at her with intensity. “And one by one the native princes will make treaties they don’t understand and don’t intend to keep. We will settle the land, kill those who rebel, and there will be slaughter and subjection of God knows how many people. Unless, of course, the Germans beat us to it, driving westward from Zanzibar, in which case they will do the same, only worse—if past history is anything to judge from.”

“Rubbish!” Chancellor said with good humor. “If we settle Mashonaland and Matabeleland we can develop the natural resources there for everyone’s good, African and white alike. We can bring them proper medicine, education, trade, civilized laws and a code of society which protects the weak as well as the strong. Far from being Africa’s tragedy, it would be the making of it.”

Kreisler’s eyes were hard and bright, but he looked only momentarily at Chancellor, then turned to Susannah. She had been listening to him with rapt attention, not with agreement, but rather with growing anxiety.

“That’s not what you used to say.” She looked at Chancellor with a crease between her brows.

His smile had only the barest shadow behind the obvious affection. “Perceptions change, my dear. One becomes wiser.” He shrugged very slightly. “I now know a great deal that I did not two or three years ago. The rest of Europe is going to colonize Africa, whether we do or not. France, Belgium, Germany at least. And the Sultan of Turkey is nominally overlord of the Khedive of Egypt, with all that means to the Nile, and thus to the Sudan and Equatoria.”

“It means nothing at all,” Kreisler said abruptly. “The Nile flows northward. I’d be surprised if anyone in Equatoria had even heard of Egypt.”

“I am thinking of the future, Mr. Kreisler, not the past.” Chancellor was not in the least perturbed. “When the great rivers of Africa are among the world’s highways of trade. The time will come when we will ship the gold and diamonds, exotic woods, ivory and skins of Africa along those great waterways as easily as we now ship coal and grain along the Manchester ship canal.”

“Or the Rhine,” Susannah said thoughtfully.

“If you like,” Chancellor agreed. “Or the Danube, or any other great river you can think of.”

“But Europe is so often at war,” Susannah went on. “Over land, or religion, or any of a dozen other things.”

He looked at her, smiling. “My dear, so is Africa. The tribal chieftains are always fighting one another. That is one of the reasons why all our attempts to wipe out slavery kept on failing. Really, the benefits are immense, and the costs relatively minor.”

“To us, possibly,” Kreisler said sourly. “What about to the Africans?”

“To the Africans as well,” Chancellor answered him. “We shall bring them out of the pages of history and into the nineteenth century.”

“That is exactly what I was thinking.” Susannah was not convinced. “Transitions as sudden as that are not made without a terrible wrench. Maybe they don’t want our ways? We are forcing them upon a whole nation without taking their opinions into account at all.”

A spark of intense interest, even excitement, lit for a moment in Kreisler’s eyes, and then as quickly was masked, as if deliberately.

“Since they cannot conceive what we are talking about,” Chancellor said wryly, “they can hardly have an opinion!”

“Then we are deciding for them,” she pointed out.

“Naturally.”

“I am not certain we have the right to do that.”

Chancellor looked surprised, and somewhat derisive, but he held his tongue tactfully. Apparently no matter how eccentric his wife’s opinions, he did not wish to embarrass her publicly.

Beneath the surface argument he seemed to feel a confidence in her that overrode such things.

Nobby Gunne was looking at Kreisler. Christabel Thorne was watching everyone, each in turn.

“I was listening to Sir Arthur Desmond the other day,” Susannah continued with a slight shake of her head.

Charlotte grasped her empty champagne glass so tightly it nearly shot out of her fingers.

“Desmond?” Chancellor frowned.

“From the Foreign Office,” Susannah elaborated. “At least he used to be. I am not sure if he is there anymore. But he was most concerned about the subject of exploitation of Africa. He did not believe we would do it honorably at all….”

Chancellor put his hand over hers very gently.

“My dear, I am grieved to have to tell you, but Sir Arthur Desmond died about two days ago, apparently by his own hand. He is not a source to be quoted with any authority.” He looked suitably sad.

“No he didn’t kill himself!” Charlotte burst out before thinking whether it was in the least wise, or would serve her purposes. All she could think of was Matthew’s weary face and his distress, and Pitt’s love for a man who had befriended him. “It was an accident!” she added in defense.

“I apologize,” Chancellor said quickly. “I meant that he brought about the situation himself, whether by carelessness or design. Unfortunately it seems he was losing the clarity of mind he used to have.” He turned back to his wife. “Thinking of Africans as noble savages, and wishing that they should remain so, is a sentimentality history does not allow. Sir Arthur was a fine man, but naive. Africa is going to be opened up by us or by others. Best for Britain and for Africa that it should be us.”

“Would it not be better for Africa if we made treaties to protect them and keep Africa as it is?” Kreisler asked with apparent innocence which was belied by both his expression and the hard, thin edge to his voice.

“For adventurers and hunters like yourself?” Chancellor asked with raised eyebrows. “A sort of endless playground for explorers, with no civilized law to dictate anything at all.”

“I am not a hunter, Mr. Chancellor, nor am I a scout for others,” Kreisler rejoined. “An explorer, I accept. And I leave both the land and the people as I found them. Mrs. Chancellor has an excellent moral point. Have we the right to make decisions for other people?”

“Not only the right, Mr. Kreisler,” Chancellor replied with absolute conviction. “Also the obligation when the others concerned have neither the knowledge nor the power to do it for themselves.”

Kreisler said nothing. He had already registered his feelings. He looked instead at Susannah, his face thoughtful.

“I don’t know about anyone else, but I am ready for supper,” Christabel said in the momentary silence which followed. She turned to Kreisler. “Mr. Kreisler, since we outnumber you two to one, I am obliged to ask you to offer us an arm each to conduct us down the stairs. Miss Gunne, do you mind sharing Mr. Kreisler with me?”

There was only one possible answer, and Nobby gave it with a charming smile.

“Of course not. I shall be only too pleased. Mr. Kreisler?”

Kreisler offered his arms, and escorted Christabel and Nobby to supper.

Linus Chancellor did the same for Charlotte and Susannah, and together they swept down the great staircase, where at the bottom Charlotte recognized Pitt, who had been speaking to a very quiet, self-possessed man, quite bald, whom she judged to be nearer fifty than forty. He had round, pale blue eyes, a rather long nose, and a sense of calm about him, as if he knew some inner secret which was infinitely satisfying.

Pitt introduced him as Ian Hathaway, also of the Colonial Office, and when he spoke, Hathaway had the kind of voice, and perfect diction, that she felt she must have known him before, or at least met him.

She thanked Linus Chancellor and Susannah, and then found herself accompanied by two men as she approached the supper table, which held every kind of cold delicacy: pies, cold meats, fish, game, preserves in aspic, pastries of all sorts, and a multitude of ices, sherberts, jellies and creams amid crystal, flowers, candles and silver. The conversation at once became more sporadic, and largely meaningless.

Vespasia woke late the following morning, but with a considerable feeling of pleasure. She had enjoyed the reception more than usual. It had been a very grand affair and its splendor had brought back pleasant memories of her prime when she had commanded the admiration of every man who saw her, when she had danced the nights away and still risen early to ride in Rotten Row and return home with the blood pounding in her veins and ready to face a day of involvement in a dozen causes and intrigues.

She was still sitting in bed lazily eating her breakfast, smiling to herself, when her ladies’ maid came to say that Mr. Eustace March had called to see her.

“Good gracious! What time is it?” she asked.

“Quarter past ten, m’lady.”

“Whatever brings Eustace here at this time of the morning? Has he lost his pocket watch?”

Eustace March was her son-in-law, the widower of her late daughter, Olivia, who had borne him a large number of children and died comparatively young. Her marriage had been her own choice, but one Vespasia had never understood; nor had she found it easy to like Eustace. He was in every way her opposite. But it was Olivia who had married him, and as far as it was possible to judge from exteriors, he had made her happy.

“Shall I tell him to wait, m’lady? Or should I say you are unavailable today and he should come back another time?”

“Oh no. If he can wait, tell him I shall be down in half an hour.”

“Yes m’lady.” She withdrew obediently to deliver the message to the parlormaid to give to Eustace.

Vespasia finished her tea and set the tray aside. It would take her half an hour at least to prepare for the day satisfactorily. Her maid had returned and was waiting to assist her, and she rose and began with a wash in hot water and scented soap.

She entered the cool, classically spacious withdrawing room and saw Eustace standing by the window looking into the garden. He was a very solid man, very robust. He believed intensely in good health as a fundamental Christian virtue, to be coupled with sanity of mind, and thus a proper balance in all things. He approved of plenty of long walks in fresh air, open windows regardless of the weather, a fine appetite, cold baths and good sportsmanship as an ideal of manhood.

He turned around with a smile as he heard Vespasia come in. His rather grizzled hair was grayer than last time she had seen him, and definitely receding a little at the front, but as always he had a good color and a clear eye.

“Good morning, Mama-in-law, how are you? Well, I hope?” He seemed in particularly fine spirits, and obviously had something he wished to say to her. His enthusiasm was bursting from him and she was afraid he was going to grip her hand and wring it.

“Good morning, Eustace. Yes, I am very well, thank you.”

“You are quite sure? You are up a little late. Early is best, you know. Good for the circulation. A good walk would make you feel fit for anything.”

“For my bed again,” she said dryly. “I did not get home until three in the morning. I attended the reception at the Duchess of Marlborough’s. It was most enjoyable.” She sat down in her favorite chair. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Eustace? You have not come simply to enquire after my health. You could have done that with a letter. Please do sit down. You look so restless standing there, bristling with energy; as if you were about to leave even as you tell me what is on your mind.”

Eustace obeyed, but perched on the edge of his chair, as if relaxing would put a strain on him more than he could bear.

“I have not been to call on you for some time, Mama-in-law. I came principally to rectify that omission and to see how you are. I am delighted to find you so well.”

“Rubbish,” she said with a smile. “You have something to tell me. It is on the tip of your tongue. What is it?”

“Nothing specific, I assure you,” he reiterated. “Are you still engaged in fighting for social reforms?” He leaned back in the chair at last and crossed his hands over his stomach.

She found his manner irritating, but perhaps that was more due to memory than anything in the present. It had been his intolerable bullying and insensitivity which had at least in part precipitated the tragedy which had overtaken the whole family in Cardington Crescent. Only afterwards had he been even touched with the slightest perception of his own part in it. For a brief period he had been bewildered and ashamed. It had passed rapidly, and now he was fully back to his original ebullience and the total conviction that he was right in all his major beliefs and opinions. Like many people of intense physical energy and good health, he had an ability to forget the past and proceed with the present.

Nevertheless, she found his attitude patronizing, like that of a benevolent schoolmaster.

“Now and then,” she replied coolly. “I have also entertained myself with renewing some old acquaintances.” She did not tell him that the principal among these was Thelonius Quade, a high court judge some twenty years her junior, who had in the past been an ardent admirer, deeply in love with her. The friendship, reawoken, was increasingly precious to her. That was something she did not wish to share with Eustace. “And also there are Thomas Pitt’s cases,” she added truthfully, although she knew Eustace would not like it. Apart from its being socially unacceptable to involve oneself with the police, it would far more piquantly bring back his own memories, griefs, and probably even guilt.

“I think that is rather unsuitable, Mama-in-law,” he said with a frown. “Especially when there is so much that is worthy to be done. I have never minded your eccentricities now and then, but …” He stopped. Vespasia’s eyes froze him and the rest of his sentence died on his lips.

“How generous of you,” she said icily.

“What I mean is—”

“I know what you mean, Eustace. This whole conversation is unnecessary. I know what you wish to say, and you know what my reply will be. You do not approve of my friendship with Thomas and Charlotte, still less of my assisting them now and again. I have every intention of continuing, and do not consider it to be any of your concern.” She smiled at him very slightly. “Shall we proceed from there? Do you have some particular worthy cause in mind in which you think I should be involved?”

“Now that you mention it …” He recovered his composure almost immediately. It was a quality in him she both admired and found intensely irritating. He was like one of those toys with a round, weighted base which one cannot knock over because automatically it rights itself the moment you let go of it.

“Yes?”

His face lit with enthusiasm again. “I have recently been permitted to join a most exclusive organization,” he said eagerly. “I say ‘permitted’ because members are accepted only when proposed by another member and closely examined by a selection committee. It is entirely charitable of course, with the highest possible aims.”

She waited, trying to keep her mind open to hear all he said. There were, after all, a legion of societies in London, most of them excellent in their purposes.

He crossed his legs, his face supremely satisfied. He had rather round, hazel-gray eyes, and they were shining with enthusiasm.

“Because all the members are men of means and in many cases considerable power in the community, in the world of finance or government, a great deal can be accomplished. Even laws changed, if it is desirable.” His voice rose with the vigor of his feelings. “Enormous amounts of money can be raised to aid the poor, the disadvantaged, those suffering from injustices, disease or other misfortune. It is really very exciting, Mama-in-law. I feel highly privileged to be a member.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

“It sounds most praiseworthy. Perhaps I should join? Could you propose me?”

She watched his face with amusement. His mouth fell open, and his eyes reflected utter confusion. He was not even sure whether she was indulging in some distasteful joke. He had never been entirely certain of her sense of humor.

She waited, regarding him without a flicker.

“Mama-in-law, no serious society I know of accepts women! You must surely be aware of that?”

“Why not?” she asked. “I have money, no husband I am obliged to obey, and I am as capable of doing good as anyone else.”

“That is not the point!” he protested.

“Oh. What is the point?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What is the point?” she repeated.

Eustace was saved from justifying what to him was an assumption about the nature of the universe which was as beyond questioning as it was beyond explanation. The parlormaid came in to say that Mrs. Pitt had arrived.

“Oh, good gracious. Thank you, Effie,” Vespasia said, acknowledging her. “I had not realized it was so late. Please ask her to come in.” She turned back to Eustace. “Charlotte will accompany me while we take our cards to the Duchess of Marlborough.”

“Charlotte will?” Eustace was dumbfounded. “To the Duchess of Marlborough? Really, this is preposterous, Mama-in-law! She is utterly unsuitable. Heaven knows what she might say or do. Surely you’re not serious.”

“I am perfectly serious. Thomas has been promoted since you last saw him. He is now a superintendent.”

“I don’t care if he is commissioner of Scotland Yard!” Eustace said. “You still cannot have Charlotte call upon the Duchess of Marlborough!”

“We are not going to call upon her,” Vespasia said patiently. “We are simply going to leave our cards, which, as you know as well as I do, is customary after attending a function. It is the accepted way of expressing our appreciation.”

“‘Our appreciation’! Charlotte was there?” He was still completely nonplussed.

“She was.”

The door opened and Charlotte was shown in. As soon as she saw Eustace March her face registered a conflicting mixture of emotions—surprise, anger, self-consciousness—all overridden by curiosity.

Eustace’s feelings were much plainer. There was nothing in his face but a pure and simple embarrassment. He rose to his feet, his cheeks flaming.

“What a pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Pitt, how are you?”

“Good afternoon, Mr. March.” She swallowed hard and came forward.

Vespasia could guess what manner of event she was remembering, most probably the ridiculous episode under the bed. No doubt, from the scarlet in Eustace’s cheeks, so was he.

“I am in excellent health, thank you,” she added. “I am sure that you are also.” That may have been a memory of his ever open windows in Cardington Crescent, even on cloudy mornings when the wind blew the breakfast room to almost intolerable temperatures, and everyone except Eustace was shivering over the porridge.

“Always, Mrs. Pitt,” Eustace said briskly. “I am blessed in that manner.”

“Eustace has been telling me about an excellent society he has been privileged to join,” Vespasia said, indicating a chair for Charlotte.

“Ah—yes,” Eustace agreed. “Dedicated to works of charity, and to influencing society for good.”

“Congratulations,” Charlotte said wholeheartedly. “You must feel a great sense of achievement. It is certainly sorely needed.”

“Oh indeed.” He resumed his own seat, sounding far more relaxed. He was back to discussing a subject which obviously pleased him enormously. “Indeed, Mrs. Pitt. It is most gratifying to feel that one can join with other men of like mind and dedication to the same purposes, and together we can be a real force in the land.”

“What is the name of this society?” Charlotte asked innocently.

“Ah, you must not ask further, my dear lady.” He shook his head a fraction, smiling as he did so. “Our aims and purposes are public and open to everyone, but our society itself is anonymous.”

“You mean secret?” Charlotte asked boldly.

“Ah well.” He looked taken aback. “I would not have chosen that word; it has a ring about it which gives quite the wrong idea, but it is anonymous. After all, is that not the way Our Lord commanded us we should do good?” His smile returned. “‘Let not your left hand know what your right hand doeth’?”

“Do you think a secret society was what He had in mind?” Charlotte asked with absolute seriousness, staring at him as she awaited his answer.

Eustace stared back at her as if he had been stung. His brain knew she was tactless, but he had almost forgotten the manner and the reality of it. It was ill-mannered to embarrass anyone, and she consistently embarrassed him; he thought, deliberately. No woman could be quite as unintelligent as she sometimes appeared.

“Perhaps ‘discreet’ would be a better word,” he said finally. “I see nothing questionable in men helping each other to meet the needs of the less fortunate. In fact it seems like excellent sense. The Lord never extolled inefficiency, Mrs. Pitt.”

Charlotte smiled suddenly and disarmingly. “I am sure you are right, Mr. March. And to claim public admiration for every act of charity is to rob it of any virtue at all. It is possibly even a fine thing that you yourselves will know only a few other members, simply those of your own ring. Then it is doubly discreet, is it not?”

“Ring?” All color had gone from his face now, leaving it oddly pale under the sun and windburn of his complexion, assiduously earned in good outdoor exercise.

“Is that not an appropriate term?” Charlotte asked, wide-eyed.

“I—well …”

“Never mind.” Charlotte waved it away. She had no need to press it; the answer was obvious. Eustace had joined the Inner Circle, in innocence, even naïveté, as had so many before him—Micah Drummond and Sir Arthur Desmond, to name only two. Micah Drummond had broken from it and survived, at least so far. Arthur Desmond had not been so fortunate.

She turned to look at Vespasia.

Vespasia was very grave. She held out her hand to him.

“I hope you will be a powerful influence for good, Eustace,” she said without pretense. “Thank you for coming to tell us your news. Would you care to stay to luncheon? Charlotte and I will not be long.”

“Thank you, Mama-in-law, but I have other calls to make,” he declined rapidly, rising to his feet and bowing very slightly, then similarly to Charlotte. “Charming to meet with you again, Mrs. Pitt. Good day to you both.” And without waiting for anything further he left the room.

Charlotte looked at Vespasia and neither of them spoke.