Seven Dials

chapter ELEVEN
PITT LEFT KEPPEL STREET with his mind whirling. Bedlam! If Ferdinand Garrick had committed his son to an asylum whose very name was a byword for horror, then he must have had a powerful reason to do so. Was Stephen Garrick insane? There had been no mention of any kind of mental weakness in his military record; in fact, it had been excellent. He had shown courage and initiative, physical prowess and mental agility. He was perhaps the most promising of the four.

Pitt strode down towards the Tottenham Court Road and hailed a cab, climbing in and shouting Narraway's address.

If Garrick was indeed mad now, what had driven him to it? Was it overuse of opium? Why had he taken to drinking excessively and smoking a substance that distorted the emotions and perceptions?

Or had he seen something in Egypt which had driven Yeats to the recklessness which had ended in his death, Sandeman into a kind of exile in Seven Dials, and Lovat to be the victim of murder? Had Ferdinand Garrick consigned his only son to Bedlam to protect his life?

From whom? Ayesha Zakhari? In God's name-why?

That thought was still repellent to him, but he could no longer ignore it. The evidence had to be faced.

He reached the street where Narraway lived, alighted, paid the driver, and strode across the wet footpath in the mist. There was no echo to his footsteps; everything was muffled. On the step of Narraway's house he pulled the lion-headed doorbell.

It was answered by a discreet, gray-haired manservant who recognized him immediately.

"Good evening, Mr. Pitt," he said, stepping back to allow him in. He had no need to question what Pitt was there for, or if it were urgent. He saw the answer to both in Pitt's face before he preceded him across the hall and knocked briefly on the door of the study before opening it.

"Mr. Pitt, to see you, sir," he announced.

Narraway was sitting in an armchair with his stocking feet on a stool, and a plate of sandwiches on a small table at his elbow. A cut-glass goblet of red wine sat next to the plate.

"This had better be worth it," he said with his mouth full.

The manservant retreated and closed the door behind him.

Pitt sat down in the other chair, after pulling it around a couple of feet to face Narraway.

Narraway sighed. "Pour yourself some claret." He gestured towards the bottle on the sideboard. "Glasses in the cupboard."

Pitt stood up again and obeyed, watching the dark liquid reflecting facets of silvery light as it filled the bowl. "Charlotte found Martin Garvie and Stephen Garrick," he announced.

Narraway gasped and then coughed as his sandwich went down the wrong way. He jerked forward in his chair and reached for his wine.

Pitt smiled to himself. It was exactly what he had intended.

Narraway swallowed hard, cleared his throat and sat back. "Indeed?" he said, not quite as gratingly as he would have done had he not choked. "It seems you do not have your wife under control after all. Are you going to tell me where he is, or do I have to guess?"

Pitt turned around with the claret and came back to sit down before replying.

"Actually she went to see Sandeman again." He made no comment on her lack of obedience to instructions. He crossed his legs comfortably and sipped. The claret was extraordinarily good, but he would have expected no less from Narraway. "She persuaded him to tell her the truth, or at least some of it. Garvie confided in Sandeman that Garrick was in a very bad way indeed with nightmares and delirium. Sandeman is almost certain that both he and Garvie have been taken to Bedlam." He ignored the horror in Narraway's face and continued. "Garvie perhaps unwillingly, since he apparently has had no opportunity to tell his family. It fits with all the facts we know. The question is, do Garrick's nightmares stem from his use of opium, some madness inherent in or, far more seriously, from something that happened during his service in Egypt? And-"

"All right, Pitt!" Narraway said abruptly. "You don't need to spell it out for me!" He rose to his feet in a single, smooth movement, the last of his sandwich still in his hand. "Yeats is dead, Lovat murdered, Sandeman has lost himself in Seven Dials, and now it seems Garrick is in a lunatic asylum with nightmares that have driven him mad." He picked up his glass and drained the claret. "We had better go and fetch him. See if we can get any sense out of him." He looked meaningfully at the glass in Pitt's hand.

Pitt was not going to leave a claret of that quality behind. It was a pity not to savor it, but there was no time. He drank it quickly and put the glass on Narraway's table.

Narraway ate the rest of his sandwich as they reached the door and he took his coat from the stand.

Outside, he walked briskly to the end of the street and hailed a hansom, Pitt only a stride behind him. He gave the driver a one-word command: "Bedlam!"

The hansom lurched forward and Pitt was thrown against the back of his seat. He said nothing; he would find the answers to all his questions as to how they would accomplish their task when they reached Bedlam.

It was quite a long journey, and it was not until they were rattling over Westminster Bridge, the lamps along the Embankment reflecting patchily through the mist onto the river, that Narraway at last spoke.

"Agree with anything I say, and be prepared to move quickly if necessary," he commanded. "Stay close by me; on no account allow us to be separated. Do not act arbitrarily, no matter what happens. And do not allow your emotions to distract you, however humane or commendable."

"I have been to Bedlam before," Pitt said dryly, refusing to permit the memory of it into his imagination.

Narraway glanced at him as they reached the end of the bridge and started climbing the rise on the other side, past the railway line running into Waterloo Station. At Christ's Church, they swung right into Kennington Road, where the huge mass of the Bethlehem Lunatic Hospital loomed against the night sky.

The hansom stopped, and Narraway gave the driver a sovereign and told him to wait. "There'll be four more for you if you are here when I need you," he said grimly. "And your licence canceled if you are not. Wait as long as you need to. I may be a short time, or I may be hours. If I have not come out by midnight, take this card and go to the nearest police station and fetch half a dozen uniformed constables." He passed a card over to the man, who was sitting wide-eyed and by now seriously alarmed.

Narraway strode over the path and up the steps to the front entrance of the hospital, Pitt half a pace behind him. They were met immediately by an attendant who barred the way firmly and politely. Narraway informed him that he was on a government matter to do with the security of the nation, and he had a royal warrant to pursue his business wherever it took him. One of the inmates had information urgently needed, and he must speak with him without any delay whatsoever.

Pitt's stomach sank as he realized just what a risk they were taking. He had accepted without question that Charlotte was right, and Garrick was here. If she was mistaken and he was in some other asylum, Spitalfields, or even a private institution, then Narraway was not going to forgive him for it. He was startled when he realized just how completely Narraway had trusted him, even more when he remembered that it was actually Charlotte's word he was taking.

"Yes, sir. And who would that be?" the man asked.

"He came here in the early morning in the second week of September," Narraway replied. "A young man who brought a servant with him. He could be suffering delirium, nightmares and the effects of opium. You cannot have had more than one like him that week."

"You don't know his name, sir?" The man scowled.

"Of course I know his name!" Narraway snapped. "I do not know by what name he was admitted here. Don't pretend to be a fool. I have already informed you that I am on Her Majesty's business of state. Do I need to spell out more for you?"

"No, no, sir, I..." The man did not know how to finish the sentence. He swiveled around and scuttled off across the hallway and then turned right, along the first wide corridor, Narraway on his heels.

Pitt's mouth was dry and he was gulping air as he followed them through empty passages with blind walls and locked doors on either side. He heard muffled moaning, laughter rising higher and higher and ending in a shriek. He wanted to drive it from his head, but he could not.

Finally they arrived at the end of the wing and the attendant hesitated, fishing for the keys on his belt, glancing nervously at Narraway.

Narraway gave him an icy stare, and the man fumbled, poking the key blindly, stabbing at the hole until Pitt could sense Narraway on the edge of snatching it from him.

The key slid in and turned the lock at last. Pitt half expected to hear screaming and braced himself for the attempted escape of a lunatic. Instead the door swung wide open to show two straw mattresses on the floor, one occupied by a figure crouched over, head half buried in a gray blanket, hair wild, and what they could see of his face unshaven.

On the other mattress a man sat up slowly and blinked at them, his eyes full of fear and a kind of despair, as if he no longer even hoped for anything except more pain. But there was still reason in him, at least at the moment.

"What is your name?" Narraway said, immediately stepping half in front of the attendant and preventing him from moving forward. He was addressing the sitting man. His voice was firm, but there was no harshness in it, only a tone that demanded answer.

"Martin Garvie," the man replied huskily. His eyes pleaded for belief, and the fear in him cut Pitt like a knife.

Narraway took a long, slow breath. When he spoke again his voice shook a little in spite of the masklike control in his face. "And I presume that is your master, Stephen Garrick?" He gestured towards the wretched creature still huddled on the other mattress.

Garvie nodded warily. "Please don't hurt him," he begged. "He doesn't mean any harm, sir. He can't help his manner. He's ill. Please..."

"I have no intention of harming him," Narraway said, then gulped as if he could barely catch his breath. "I've come to take you somewhere better than this... safer."

"You can't do that, sir!" the attendant protested. "It's more than my job's worth to let you-"

Narraway swung around on him, his eyes blazing. "It's more than your neck is worth to stand in my way!" he threatened. "I can wait for the police, if you insist, but I can promise you that you will regret it if you force me to go that way. Don't stand there like an idiot or they'll lock you up in here too!"

Perhaps it was the last suggestion, but the man dissolved in terror. "No, sir! I swear, I'm an honest citizen! I-"

"Good," Narraway cut him off. He turned to Pitt. "Lift that fellow up and assist him out." He indicated Garrick, who had not moved, as if the entire intrusion had barely penetrated his consciousness.

Pitt remembered the stricture to obey absolutely, and walked over to the recumbent man. "Let me help you to your feet, sir," he said gently, trying to sound like a servant, a familiar and unthreatening figure. "You need to stand up," he encouraged, sliding his hands under the man's shoulders and easing up what was almost deadweight. "Come on, sir," he repeated, straining his back to lift.

The man moaned as if in intense pain, and Pitt stopped abruptly.

The next moment Garvie was beside him, bending over. "He's here to help you, sir!" he said urgently. "He's taking us to a better place. Come on, now! You've got to help! We're going to be safe."

Garrick gave a choking cry, and then his body arched and he flung his arms up, covering his face as if to defend himself. Pitt was caught by surprise and lost his balance, lurching backwards into Garvie. He could feel Narraway's impatience smoldering in the air.

"Come on, Mr. Stephen!" Garvie said sharply. "We've got to get out of here. Quickly, sir!"

That seemed to have the desired effect. Whimpering with fear, Garrick rose unsteadily to his feet, lurching one way, then the other, but with Garvie and Pitt supporting him, he stumbled through the door, past Narraway and the attendant, and started off down the passage.

Pitt looked backwards once, to make sure Narraway was following them, and saw him write something on a card and give it to the attendant, then a moment later he heard his rapid footsteps behind him.

Half carrying, half dragging Garrick, who gave them only minimal assistance, Pitt and Garvie made their way back towards the entrance. More than once Pitt hesitated, uncertain whether the turn was left or right, and heard Narraway's voice directing him with a peremptory hiss. Pitt's ears were straining for every sound, and once when he heard a door close he whirled around and almost sent Garrick flying.

Narraway snarled at him, and increased his pace. Pitt grasped Garrick again, and they turned the last corner into the entrance hall. He saw two attendants standing there, and would have stopped instantly, but Garrick was oblivious to them and kept shambling on, and Garvie had no choice but to go with him or let him fall.

Pitt recovered his step and caught up with them.

The attendants jerked to attention. "Ey! Where you goin', then?" one of them called out.

"Go on!" Narraway growled behind Pitt, then turned to face the men.

Pitt grasped Garrick more firmly and, holding him hard, half pushed him at a greater pace out of the door, down the steps, and smartly right towards the waiting hansom. Please heaven Narraway managed to extricate himself from the men and get away too, because Pitt had no idea where he was to take them.

They reached the cab and Garrick stopped abruptly, his body shaking, his hands out in front of him as if to ward off an attack. Garvie put his arms around him gently, but with considerable strength, and with Pitt's assistance, they lifted him into the hansom. The driver sat facing forward, ignoring everything as though his life depended on seeing and hearing nothing.

Pitt swiveled around to see if Narraway was coming yet.

Inside the cab, Garrick began to thrash around, wailing and sobbing with terror.

Pitt swung up beside him to try to keep him from escaping, or in his delirium injuring Garvie. "It's all right, sir!" he said urgently. "You're quite safe. No one's going to harm you." He might as well have been speaking in a foreign language.

Garvie was losing control. He was white-faced in the gaslight, and there was panic and helplessness in his eyes. If Narraway did not come soon they were going to have to leave without him.

The seconds ticked by.

"Go around the hospital and back!" Pitt shouted at the driver. "Now!"

The hansom lurched forward, throwing all three of them against the back of the seat. For a few moments Garrick was too surprised to react. Please God, Narraway would be there when they reached the front again. Pitt's mind raced as to where on earth he could take Garrick if he were not? The only place he was certain of any kind of help at all, and secrecy, was his own home. And what could he and Charlotte do with a madman in delirium? For that matter, how much better was Garvie?

Narraway had spoken of the local police station, but Pitt believed that was almost certainly a bluff. And either way, Pitt had no authority he could prove to them. The very most they might do would be return them all to Bedlam and extricate Narraway, which would put them in an even worse position than that in which they had begun, because now the authorities in Bedlam would be warned.

He would have to go home, and leave Narraway to his own devices.

They were at the front of the hospital again. The footpath was deserted. Pitt's heart sank, and he could feel his stomach tighten and his whole body go cold.

"Keppel Street!" he shouted at the driver. "Slowly! Don't hurry." He felt the lurch and swing as they turned onto Brook Street, then almost immediately afterwards into Kennington Road, and back down towards the Westminster Bridge.

It was a nightmare journey. The mist had thickened and a slower speed was forced upon them. They held up no one by slackening to a walk. Stephen Garrick slumped forward, alternately weeping and groaning like a man on the way to his own death-and whatever hell he believed lay beyond. Garvie attempted now and then to comfort him, but it was a wasted effort, and the despair in his voice betrayed that he knew it.

Pitt tried desperately to think what on earth he would do if Narraway did not show up soon, and ever worse images crowded his mind as to what had happened to him. Had he been arrested for abducting an inmate? Or simply imprisoned in Bedlam as if he too were mad? Had they locked him in one of their padded rooms? Or administered some powerful sedative so he might not even be conscious to protest his sanity?

They were over the river and heading north and east. Part of Pitt wished they would hurry, so he would be home in the warmth and light of familiar surroundings, and at least Charlotte could help him. Another part wanted to spin out the journey as long as possible, to give Narraway a chance to catch up with them and take charge.

They were in a busy thoroughfare. There was plenty of other traffic, sounds of horns in the swirling mist, harness clinking, light from other coach lamps, movement reflected in bright gleams off brass.

Garrick sat up suddenly and screamed as if in terror for his life. Pitt's flesh froze. In a moment he was paralyzed, then he lunged sideways and grasped Garrick's arm and threw him back in the seat. The hansom swayed wildly and slithered around on the wet cobbles, then shot forward at increased speed. Pitt could hear the cabbie shouting as they careered along the street, but within twenty yards the ride was steadier, and within a hundred they were back to a normal trot.

Pitt tried to control his racing heart and keep hold of Garrick, who was now gibbering nonsensically, in spite of everything Garvie could say or do.

Then they pulled up and the cabbie told them loudly and with a voice trembling with fear that they were at Keppel Street and should get out immediately.

There was no alternative but to obey. With difficulty, and stiff from having sat for so long with locked muscles, Pitt alighted. He almost fell onto the pavement, and then reached to help Garrick.

Garrick stumbled after him, collapsed onto the stones, then, without any warning at all, managed to get up onto his feet and started to run, a loose, shambling gait, but covering the wet pavement with startling speed.

Garvie stared at him in silent, beaten desperation.

Pitt lurched after him, but Garrick was at the end of the block and starting across the roadway before he floundered for a moment, arms flailing, and for no reason Pitt could see, fell face forward onto the cobbles.

Pitt flung himself on top of him. Garrick whimpered like a wounded animal, but he had no strength or will to fight. Pitt hauled him up, more than a little roughly, and straightened himself, only to see a man a couple of yards away from him. He was about to try some desperate explanation when with drenching relief he recognized the neat, slender silhouette against the light-it was Narraway. For an instant Pitt was too choked with emotion to speak. He stood still, gulping air, his body shaking, his hands clinging onto Garrick-clammy with sweat.

"Good," Narraway said succinctly. "Since we are in Keppel Street, perhaps it would be more convenient to go inside and talk. I daresay Mrs. Pitt would make us a cup of tea? Garvie, at least, looks as if he could do with it."

Pitt did not even attempt to reply, but followed Narraway's elegant figure back along the footpath to the door, where Garvie was waiting for them, and led the way inside.

Charlotte and Gracie were stunned with surprise for the first moment, then pity replaced horror.

"Yer starvin' cold!" Gracie said furiously. "Wotever 'appened to yer?" She looked from Garrick to Martin Garvie, and back again. "I got blankets in the airin' cupboard. You sit there!" And whisking around, she disappeared out of the door.

Pitt eased Garrick onto one of the chairs and Martin found another for himself, sitting down hard, as if his legs had given way.

Charlotte pushed the kettle onto the hob to come to the boil, ordering Pitt to stoke up the fire. They all ignored Narraway entirely.

Gracie returned with her arms full of blankets and, after only an instant's hesitation, proceeded to wrap one around Garrick's shuddering body, then she turned to Martin with the other.

"I'll tell Tilda yer all right," she said dubiously. "Leastways, yer not actual 'urt, like."

Suddenly Garvie's eyes filled with tears. He started to speak, and changed his mind.

"S' all right!" Gracie said quickly. "I'll tell 'er. She'll be that glad! It's all 'cos of 'er we found yer." She included herself because although she assumed Narraway had no idea of her part in the search, and she was happy to leave it so, she had been the one to prompt Tellman into discovering as much as he had. She regarded Narraway discreetly, and with the same wariness one does a nameless insect which might prove to be poisonous-very interesting, but best to know precisely where it is, and stay as far away as possible.

It amused him, and Charlotte, busy making the tea, saw the flicker of it in his eyes, and was pleased to realize that he had a respect for Gracie's spirit that she would not have expected of him. She also caught his eyes on her, and absurdly, found something in them that made her self-conscious. She looked quickly back to her task, and poured out six mugs of steaming tea, sugar stirred in. One was only half full. She picked it up, tested it to see that there was sufficient milk in it that it was cool enough to sip, then went over to Garrick where he sat staring vacantly into space.

Gently she lifted the mug and tilted it to reach his lips. She waited patiently until he swallowed, and then again.

After watching her for a moment, Gracie did the same for Martin, but he was far more able to help himself.

This went on for several minutes in silence before Narraway finally spoke. He could see that learning anything from Garrick could take all night, but Martin was already burning to respond.

"How did you get to the Bethlehem Lunatic Hospital, Mr. Garvie?" he said abruptly. "Who put you there?"

Martin hesitated. His face was very white and there were dark smudges of privation and sleeplessness around his eyes. "Mr. Garrick's ill, sir. I went to look after him. Couldn't leave him on his own, sir."

Narraway's face did not change at all. "And why did you not have the kindness to tell your sister where you were going? She has been desperate with fear for you."

Martin gasped, a sheen of sweat on his face. He half turned as if to look at Garrick, then changed his mind. He stared back at Narraway, misery in his eyes. "I didn't know where I was going when they took me," he said in little more than a whisper. "I thought it were just to the country, an' I'd be able to write her. I never guessed it were... Bedlam." He said the word as if it were a curse that hell itself might overhear and make real again.

Narraway sat down at last, pulling the chair around to face the table. Pitt remained standing, and silent.

"Was Mr. Garrick insane when you first went to work for him?" Narraway asked Martin.

Martin winced, perhaps at the thought that Garrick would hear them.

"No, sir," he said indignantly.

Narraway smiled patiently, and Martin blushed, but he would not argue.

"What happened to him? I need to know, possibly to save his life."

Martin did not protest, and that in itself did not go unnoticed. Charlotte saw something-doubt, caution-iron out of Narraway's face. She glared at Pitt, and recognized understanding in him also.

Martin hesitated.

Pitt stepped forward. "I'll take Mr. Garrick to where he can lie down for a while."

"Stay with him!" Narraway ordered with a hard warning in his eyes.

Pitt did not bother to reply, but with considerable effort eased Garrick to his feet and, with Gracie's assistance, guided him out of the door.

"What happened to him, Mr. Garvie?" Narraway repeated.

Martin shook his head. "I don't know, sir. He always drank quite a bit, but it got worse as time passed, like something was boiling up inside him."

"Worse in what way?"

"Terrible dreams." Martin winced. "Lot of gentlemen who drink get bad dreams, but not like his-he'd lie in his bed with his eyes wide open, screaming about blood... and fire... catching at his throat like he was choking and couldn't breathe." Martin himself was trembling. "An' I'd have to shake him and shout at him to waken him up... Then he'd cry like a baby... I never heard anything like it." He stopped, his face white, his eyes imploring Narraway to let him be silent.

Charlotte sat by, hating it, knowing it had to be.

Narraway looked at her, hesitation in his face. She stared back with refusal in her eyes. She was not going to leave.

He accepted it and turned back to Martin Garvie.

"Do you know of any event that occasioned these dreams?"

"No, sir..."

Narraway saw the slight uncertainty. "But you know there was something." That was a statement.

Martin's voice was almost inaudible. "I think so, sir."

"Did you know Lieutenant Lovat, who was murdered at Eden Lodge? Or Miss Zakhari?"

"I didn't know the lady, sir, but I knew Mr. Garrick knew Mr. Lovat. When news came of his murder Mr. Garrick was the worst upset I've ever seen him. I... I think that's when he went quite mad..." He was embarrassed, and ashamed of putting into words what they all knew, but to say so still seemed a disloyalty.

There was a flash of pity in Narraway's face, but he conceded again almost as soon as it was there.

"Then I think it is time we spoke to Mr. Garrick and found out exactly what it is that tortures his mind-"

"No, sir!" Martin started to his feet. "Please... he's..."

The look in Narraway's eyes stopped him.

Charlotte took Martin's arm gently. "We have to know," she said. "Someone's life depends on it. You can help us."

"Thank you, Mrs. Pitt," Narraway cut across her. "But it will be distressing, and we shall not need you to endure it."

Charlotte looked back at him without moving, a faint, polite smile on her lips. "Your consideration for my feelings does you credit." She was only barely sarcastic. "But since it was I who heard the original story, it will hold no more surprises for me than for you. I shall remain."

Surprisingly, he did not argue. Together with Martin, they went through to the parlor, where Pitt and Gracie were sitting and Stephen Garrick lay half conscious on the sofa.

It took them all night to draw from the wreck of a man the terrible story. Sometimes they would prop him up and he spoke almost coherently, whole sentences at a time. At others he lay curled over like a child in the womb-silent, shivering, withdrawn into himself and beyond even Martin's reach.

It was Charlotte who took him in her arms when he wept and cradled him while the sobs racked his body.

Pitt watched her with a fierce pride, remembering the stiff, protected young woman she had been when he first fell in love with her. Now her compassion made her more beautiful than he could have dreamed she would ever be.

It seemed that the four young men had been friends almost from their initial meeting. They had much in common, both in background and interests, and had spent most of their free time together.

The tragedy was born when they learned that a shrine beside the river, sacred to Christians, was also sacred to Muslims, men who in their view denied Christ.

One night, influenced with drink, they decided to desecrate it in such a fashion that no Muslim would ever again use it. Whipped up in a frenzy of religious indignation, they stole a pig, an animal unclean to Muslims, and slaughtered it in the very heart of the shrine, scattering its blood around to make the place obscene forever after.

At this point Garrick became so hysterical even Narraway's endless patience could draw nothing further from him which made any sense. He sat slumped forward, leaning a little against Charlotte, who was beside him on the sofa. Only his open eyes, staring vacantly at some hideous sight within his own brain, indicated that he was alive.

She could remember the screams torn from him long after she had hoped to forget them.

She smiled at Narraway very slightly. "Surely you will need to know more exactly what happened?"

His eyes widened a fraction. "Sandeman?"

"You will have to, won't you?"

"Yes. I'm sorry." That apology was real; she knew it without question.

For a moment he seemed about to say more, then changed his mind, and she bent her attention on Garrick, not to speak to him, because he was obviously not hearing anything, but simply to rest her hand on his shoulder and very tentatively touch his hair. Whatever he had done, it was tormenting him beyond his ability to bear. She had no need to judge him, and nothing she or anyone else could do would inflict on him a punishment as terrible as that he put upon himself.

Narraway turned to Pitt. It was nearly four o'clock in the morning. "There is nothing more we can do for him here. There is a house where he will be safe until we can find something permanent."

"Will he be helped?" Charlotte asked when they reached the door and she held it open for them as Martin helped them pull and drag Garrick through it, talking to him softly all the time. It was rendingly clear that Garrick did not want to leave, for all Narraway's assurances that this was not a return trip to Bedlam and Martin's promises to remain with him. It was only on the footpath as Garrick turned desperately for one last look that Pitt realized it was Charlotte he clung to, not the house, and a shadow of searing pity crossed his face for an instant, and then was controlled and vanished the moment after.

She turned back and closed the door, leaning against it, almost choked for breath. She felt as if she had betrayed Garrick by allowing him to be taken, and the fact that there was no other possible answer did not take from her the memory of the anguish in his eyes, the despair as he realized she was not going with him.

"Are you gonna go an' see the priest again later?" Gracie asked very quietly when they returned to the kitchen. "Yer gotta know what's the truth of it."

"Yes," Charlotte said with hesitation. "There's a whole lot more to it, there has to be." She rubbed her hand across her eyes, exhaustion making them gritty. "You can tell Tilda that Martin's safe."

Pitt and Narraway returned to Keppel Street by half past nine, weary and aching. They stopped only long enough for breakfast, then Charlotte took them to Seven Dials, sending them through the alley and into the courtyard. This time she had no trouble remembering which door it was, and moments later they were in front of the smoldering fire while Sandeman, white-faced, stared beyond them with misery bleak and terrible in his eyes.

Charlotte felt as if she had betrayed him too, and yet surely he must have known when he told her of Garrick's nightmares that she would have to come back to him, and when she did it would be with Pitt at least. She looked across at Pitt now, and caught the pity in his face. There was no blame in him as he met her gaze. He understood the pain inside her, and exactly why.

Tears prickled her eyes and she turned away. This was not a time to allow her own emotions to govern anything; they had no place in this.

"I need to know what happened, Mr. Sandeman," Narraway said without any leniency in his voice. "Whatever I may feel or wish, there is no room for anything but the truth."

"I know that," Sandeman replied. "I suppose I always knew that one day it would be uncovered. You can bury the dead, but you can't bury guilt."

Narraway nodded. "We know about the sacrifice of the pig and the desecration of the sanctuary. What happened after that?" he asked.

Sandeman spoke as if the pain were still with him, physically eating into his gut. "A woman returning from caring for the sick saw the torchlight and came to see what it was. She screamed." Without being aware of it, he moved his hands as if to put them over his ears and keep out the sound. "Lovat caught hold of her. She struggled." His voice was barely audible. "She went on and on screaming. It was a terrible sound... thick with terror. He broke her neck. I don't think he meant to."

No one interrupted him.

"But she had been heard," he whispered. "Others came... all sorts of people... They saw the dead woman lying there... and Lovat..."

The fire was burning and yet the room seemed to freeze.

"They came at us," Sandeman went on. "I don't know what they wanted... but we panicked. We... we shot them." His voice broke. He tried to add something, but the scene inside his head suffocated everything else.

Charlotte felt as if she could not breathe.

"They weren't found," Narraway stated.

"No... we set fire to the building." Sandeman's voice was hoarse. "We burnt them all... like so much rubbish. It wasn't difficult... with the torches. It was taken to be an accident."

Narraway hesitated only a moment.

"How many were there?" he asked.

Sandeman shivered.

"About thirty-five," he whispered. "Nobody counted, unless it was the imam who buried them."

The room was engulfed in a hideous silence. Narraway was about as ashen as Sandeman. "Imam?" he repeated huskily.

Sandeman looked up at him. "Yes. They were given a decent Muslim burial."

"God in heaven!" Narraway let out his breath in a sigh of anguish.

Charlotte felt a needle of fear inside herself, far down in the pit of her stomach. She was not even certain yet why, but something vast and unseen was terribly wrong. It was there in Narraway's face, in the stiffness of his body in its elegant suit.

"By whom?" Narraway said, his voice shaking. "Who arranged it? Who found this imam?"

"The commanding officer," Sandeman answered. "General Garrick. The place burned like an inferno, but there must have been something left." He swallowed. His face was sheened with sweat. "Anyone looking at them would know they died of gunshots, and it couldn't have been an accident."

"Who else knows about it?" Narraway asked, his voice wavering.

"No one," Sandeman replied. "General Garrick covered it up, and the imam buried the bodies. They were all wrapped up in shrouds, and he conducted all the appropriate prayers and rites."

"And that is what drove Stephen Garrick mad?" Narraway continued. "Guilt? Or fear somebody one day would come after him for vengeance?"

"Guilt," Sandeman replied without hesitation. "In his nightmares he relived it. It was the men and women we murdered who came after him."

Narraway stared back at him, unblinking. "And you, do the dead pursue you as well?"

"No," Sandeman replied, meeting his eyes, hollow and haunted by pain, but unflinching. "I let them catch me. I admitted my guilt. I can't ever undo what I did, but I shall spend whatever is left of my life trying to give back something. And if whoever killed Lovat comes after me, they will find me here. If they kill me, then so be it. If you want to arrest me, I shan't resist you. I think I am of more use here than at the end of a rope, but I shan't argue the case."

Charlotte could feel the ache in her chest tighten so hard it almost stopped her breathing.

"God is your judge, not I," Narraway said simply. "But if I need you again, you would be wise to be here."

"I shall be," Sandeman answered.

"And repeat this to no one else," Narraway added, his voice suddenly harsher than before, a note of threat in it. "I make a very bad enemy, Mr. Sandeman. And if you whisper even a word of this story to any man alive, I shall find you, and the end of the noose would seem very attractive to you in comparison with what I will do."

Sandeman's eyes widened. "Good God! Do you think it is something I repeat willingly?"

"I've known men who tell their crimes over and over, seeking absolution for them," Narraway replied. "If you repeat this, it may cost a thousand times as many lives as you have already taken. If you feel tempted to seek some kind of release by confession, remember that."

A look of irony as deep cutting as a knife to the heart covered Sandeman's face. "I believe you," he said. "I imagine that is why you do not arrest me."

An answering flash softened in Narraway, but only for a moment. "Oh... and mercy also," he responded. "Or perhaps it is justice? What could anyone else do to you that will equal the honesty with which you punish yourself?" He turned and walked very slowly back across the hallway towards the outside door, and Pitt took Charlotte by the arm. She tugged away from him long enough to look at Sandeman, to smile at him and know that he had seen her and understood, then she allowed herself to be led outside as well.

None of them spoke until they reached Seven Dials itself, and turned along Little Earl Street towards Shaftesbury Avenue.

It was Charlotte who broke the silence. "Surely the murder of Lovat has to be connected with this?" she said, looking at one then the other of them.

Narraway's face was blank. "For it to be otherwise would be a coincidence to beggar belief," he answered. "But that does not take away our difficulty. In fact, it adds a dimension so appalling it would be better to allow Ryerson to hang than to-" He stopped because Pitt had grasped hold of him and swung him around so sharply Charlotte almost collided with them both.

Narraway took Pitt's hand off his arm with a strength that amazed Pitt and made him wince.

"The alternative," Narraway said between his teeth, "is to allow the truth to be brought out-and see the whole of Egypt go up in revolt. After the Orabi rising, the bombardment of Alexandria, then Khartoum and the Mahdi, the place is like tinder. One spark and it could all ignite. We would lose the Suez Canal, and with it not only trade in Egypt but in the whole eastern half of the empire. Everything would have to go 'round the tip of Africa, not only tea, spice, timber and silk imports, but all our exports as well. Everything would cost half as much again. Not to mention the military and colonial traffic."

Charlotte saw the tight fear in his face, and she turned to Pitt. It was there in him also as the enormity of it hit him, as if he had seen it before but clung to the hope that it was not real, just his own personal nightmare.

"Four drunken British soldiers massacring thirty-five peaceful Muslims in their own shrine," Narraway said, barely above a whisper. Only by watching his lips could they be certain of the words. "Can you think what that will do in Egypt, Sudan, even India, if it's known?"

"You mean Ayesha killed Lovat in revenge for her own people?" Pitt said slowly. His face betrayed how deeply the thought wounded him.

Charlotte wished she could think of anything at all to comfort him, but there was nothing. Who could blame Ayesha for it? The law would do nothing to answer the massacre, but it would hang her, without doubt... and probably Ryerson with her. But perhaps she did not care about that. "Has Ryerson anything to do with it?" she said aloud. "Or is he just unfortunate? He fell in love with the wrong woman at the wrong time..."

She was startled at the pain that for a moment was naked in Narraway's face, acute and so obviously personal. Then he masked it, as if aware that she had seen. "Probably," he agreed, starting to walk again.

They turned the corner and crossed the street into Shaftesbury Avenue. Charlotte had no idea where they were going, and she had a strong belief that neither Pitt nor Narraway did either. The dread that filled their minds drowned out everything else, as it did with her. She was aware of the noise of traffic passing, but it was all a blur of meaningless movement. Alexandria was another world which she had seen only in paintings and through Pitt's descriptions he had shared with her. But it was linked with everything here as really as if it lay across some immediate border. It would be British soldiers who would be sent to fight and die there if there was an armed revolt, just as there had been in the Sudan. She could remember the newspaper accounts of that well enough. She had known and liked a woman whose only son had been killed at Khartoum.

And if Suez fell, the repercussions of it would touch every life in Britain.

But it was still wrong to sacrifice an innocent man to the rope. If he was innocent? Aunt Vespasia wanted to believe he was, but that did not make it so. Even she could be mistaken. People did things that seemed unimaginable to others when they were in love.

Narraway stopped on the footpath, facing Pitt. "Garrick is safe enough for the foreseeable future, whatever that is. I'm less happy about Sandeman, but I think if he understands the dangers he will keep silent. If he wanted to be a martyr to soothe his own conscience, he would have done it before now. Staying in Seven Dials matters to him. It is his way of answering for his soul. I believe he will die before he will sacrifice that. And Yeats and Lovat are dead."

"Is it Ayesha?" Pitt said almost hesitantly. "For vengeance?"

"Probably," Narraway replied. "And God help me, I can't blame her... except for drawing Ryerson in. And perhaps she couldn't help that. It was chance that brought him there that night, exactly as she was disposing of the body. She couldn't have been sure he would help rather than calling the police-as, if he had an ounce of self-preservation, he would have."

"Why did she wait for fifteen years?" Charlotte interrupted. "If some of my family had been killed like that, I wouldn't."

Narraway looked at her with curiosity turning to interest. "Neither would I," he said with feeling. "Something must have made it impossible before-a lack of knowledge? Of help? Power? Assistance from someone, their belief, money?" He looked from one to the other of them for an answer. "What would make you wait, Mrs. Pitt?"

She thought only for a moment. A brewer's dray with six gray horses rumbled past, their huge feet heavy on the cobbles, manes tossing, brasses bright. "Not knowing about it," she said first. "Either not knowing it happened, or that my family was involved, or not knowing who did it or where to find them. Some situation that I couldn't leave-"

"What situation?" Narraway interrupted.

"Illness," she said. "Someone I had to nurse, a child or a parent? Or someone I had to protect, who might be hurt if I acted? Somebody implicated, maybe? A hostage to fortune of some kind."

He nodded slowly, and turned to Pitt, his eyebrows raised.

"Only not knowing," Pitt replied, and as he said it something tingled in his memory. "I knew of the fire, but the people I spoke to believed it was an accident, at least that is what they said. How did Ayesha learn that it wasn't?"

Narraway's face set hard. "That's a very good question, Pitt, and one to which I would like the answer, but unfortunately I have no idea where to begin looking. There is a great deal about this I would like to know. For example, is Ayesha Zakhari the prime mover, or is she acting with or for someone else? Who else knows about the massacre, and why did they not expose it in Egypt? Why wait, and why in London?" His voice dropped a little and became tight and hard with emotion he barely kept in control. "And above all, is personal revenge all they want, or is this just the beginning?"

Neither Pitt nor Charlotte answered him. The question was too big, the answer too terrible.

Pitt put his arm around Charlotte's shoulders, almost without thinking, and drew her closer to him, but there was nothing to say.