Seven Dials

chapter THIRTEEN
NO TRACE WAS FOUND of Tariq el Abd by the police, or any of the men upon whom Narraway could call. Sunday was a wretched day, cold and windy, almost as if the weather itself fretted with the same sense of impending disaster as Pitt, cooped all day at home because he had nowhere to go and nothing to do that was of use. The trial would resume in the morning, and presumably Tariq el Abd would reappear and drag out the whole violent and dreadful truth of the massacre. It would be the beginning of the end of any kind of peace in Egypt, certainly of British rule and all that Suez meant for the empire.

He had told Charlotte what he knew. There was no point in keeping it from her because the only part that was dangerous she had known before he had.

They ate Sunday dinner together. It was the most formal meal of the week, and Daniel and Jemima found it both daunting and exciting, rather like being grown-up. They very much wanted it, it was part of life, but not necessarily today.

Afterwards Pitt sat by the fire, pretending he was reading, but actually he did not turn the pages of his book. Charlotte sat and stitched, but it was a straight hem on the edge of a sheet, and required no attention at all. Gracie and the children had put on coats and gone for a walk.

"What will he do?" Charlotte asked when the silence had become more than she could bear. "Arrive as a witness for the defense and say that he killed Lovat in revenge for having lost all his family, or something of that sort? And then describe the massacre?"

He looked up at her. "Yes, I should think so," he agreed. He could see the fear in her face, and ached to be able to comfort her with some assurance that it would not be so, even a hope of something they could do to fight against it, but there was nothing. The desire to protect was deep, and yet oddly there was a sweetness for him in being able to share his thoughts with her. She understood. The gratitude inside him was almost overwhelming that she was not a woman who had to be sheltered from truth, or even who wished to be. He did not know how any man bore the loneliness of that. One shielded a child, but a wife was a companion, one who walked beside you-in the easy paths and the hard.

"I suppose Mr. Narraway will warn the defense lawyer," she said, her eyes wide in question. "Or... or is it the defense lawyer who will call him, do you suppose?" The ugliness of that thought was plain in her eyes. It was an alien thought in the comfort of this familiar room, with its slightly worn furniture, the cats asleep by the hearth, the firelight flickering on the walls.

But was she right? Had the lawyer who had been so ardent in defending Ryerson known this from the beginning? Pitt had no idea. The knowledge that it could be so was uniquely chilling. There was a brutality to the entire plan which had nothing of the mitigating passion of a more personal crime. If it was true, there was in it a depth of deliberate betrayal.

It was a little before three o'clock when the doorbell rang. Gracie was still out, so Pitt went to answer it. The moment he saw Narraway's face he knew something extraordinary had happened.

"He's dead," Narraway said even before Pitt could ask him.

Pitt was momentarily confused. "Who's dead?"

"Tariq el Abd!" Narraway said tartly, stepping in past Pitt and shaking himself. Although it was not raining at that moment, the wind was cold and a bank of heavy cloud was racing in from the east. He stared at Pitt, his eyes tense, filled with hard, biting fear. "The river police found his body hanging under London Bridge. It looks as if he did it himself."

Pitt was stunned. In a few words Narraway had shattered the case. Was it the solution, or did it merely make things worse?

"Suicide?" Pitt asked with disbelief. "Why? He was winning. Tomorrow morning he would have achieved everything."

"And the rope as his reward," Narraway said.

"Lost his nerve?" Pitt asked with disbelief.

Narraway looked totally blank. "God knows."

"But it makes no sense," Pitt protested. "He had manipulated everything to the exact point where he could come into court as a surprise witness and tell the world about the massacre."

Narraway frowned. "You spoke to Ayesha Zakhari yesterday. She knew that you now understood el Abd had killed Lovat-"

"Even if she told him that," Pitt interrupted him, "he would hardly have gone off and taken his own life. She couldn't have proved it. All he had to do was get into the witness stand and say that it was she who had lost relatives in the massacre-or friends, a lover, whatever you like-and that was why she shot Lovat. Even if she had denied it and claimed it was he who did, there's no proof. His death looks like an admission, and leaves the massacre a secret."

They were standing in the hall, and both turned as the parlor door opened and Charlotte stood in the entrance looking at them anxiously. She saw Narraway just as he turned, and the gaslight in the passage caught the momentary softening of his face.

"Miss Zakhari's house servant has been found dead," Pitt said to her.

She looked from him to Narraway, to see if she was being protected from some deeper meaning.

"It appears to be suicide," Narraway added. "But we can see no reason why."

She stepped back, tacitly inviting them in, and they followed her into the warmth of the parlor, Pitt closing the door behind them and poking the fire before putting more coal on. It was not that it was cold so much as the desire for the brightness of new flame.

"Then either there is something we do not know," she said, sitting down again on the sofa next to her sewing. "Or he did not take his own life, but someone else did."

Pitt looked at Narraway. "I said nothing to Ayesha about the massacre. If she didn't know about it before, then she still doesn't."

"I beg your pardon," Narraway apologized, sitting in Pitt's chair close to the fire, shivering a little. "I should not have assumed you would be so careless."

"Why would anyone kill the house servant?" Charlotte asked, looking from one to the other of them. "That kind of death couldn't be an accident, nor was it intended to look like one."

"You are right, Mrs. Pitt," Narraway agreed grimly. "Therefore it was someone who knew who he was, in relation to Lovat's murder and the entire plan to set Egypt alight." He faced Pitt. "El Abd was not the prime mover in this. There is someone else behind him, and for some reason we don't yet know, he killed el Abd." His hand clenched unconsciously. "But why? Why now? They were on the brink of victory."

Pitt stood in front of the fire, as if he too were cold.

"Perhaps el Abd lost his courage and was not going to testify?" he suggested. Then the moment the words were out of his mouth, he knew he did not believe them. "But that makes no sense either. Why would he not? He had nothing to lose. It is not as if he intended to take the blame-he was going to make her connection certain by giving her the perfect motive."

Charlotte looked at Narraway. "Will this help Ryerson? Will you be able to show that el Abd killed Lovat, without exposing that massacre? Surely you can? He could have had any number of motives for it, dating back to Lovat's time in Alexandria... couldn't he?"

"Yes," Narraway said thoughtfully. "Yes... one result of it is that we should be able to exonerate Ryerson and Ayesha Zakhari completely... as long as we allow el Abd's death to be taken as suicide."

The tiny germ of an idea stunned Pitt's mind, ugly and painful, and he refused to look at it.

"Is that what you are going to do?" Charlotte asked.

Pitt did not answer.

"It is all we can do, for the meantime," Narraway replied.

They sat a little longer, warming themselves. Charlotte fetched tea. They spoke of the news for half an hour or so, even the very recent death of Lord Tennyson, and wondered who would be the next poet laureate, before Narraway rose and took his leave.

But as soon as he had gone, Pitt, restless and unhappy, also went out. He gave Charlotte no explanation because the fear inside him was too painful to give words to, even to her. It was as if, still unspoken, he could deny it a little longer.

He took an omnibus south to the Thames Embankment and the offices of the river police. There was only a sergeant on duty, but he told Pitt which morgue the hanged man had been taken to, and half an hour later Pitt was standing in the offensively clean tiled room with the familiar smell of carbolic and death filling his throat. He stared down at the swollen, purplish face of Tariq el Abd.

The mark of the rope was burned deep into his neck, crooked, high under one ear, and his head lay at an awkward angle.

Pitt touched the head to move it very slightly, searching for other marks, bruises, anything to indicate beyond doubt whether he had been struck before death.

He heard footsteps behind him and swung around more quickly than he had meant to, as if he felt himself in danger. His heart was knocking in his chest and it was difficult to draw breath into his lungs.

McDade looked at him with wry surprise.

"Jumpy, aren't you, Pitt? What do you want to know? He died sometime during last night. Difficult to say when; the water affected the temperature of the body."

"Tides?" Pitt asked.

"I did think of that." McDade's lips thinned fractionally. "I have been aware for some time that the water in the Thames goes up and down with monotonous and predictable regularity. However, what I cannot say is whether he was caught up in the wash of a passing boat that soaked him higher than the actual water level, or even if he slipped and got wetter than he intended."

"Can you say for certain that he hanged himself?" Pitt asked. Even though it made no sense of anything they knew, he hoped intensely that McDade would tell him it was suicide.

McDade did not hesitate. "No, I can't," he said dryly. "He's been knocked around a bit, bruised under the skin, but it happened either just before death or just after. There's been no time for the blood to gather, no marks to see. Bit of a gash on his head under the hair, but that's not necessarily a blow administered by someone else. It could have happened when he dropped, or any of a dozen ways afterwards-water carried him against the arches, struck by a passing boat, or even by driftwood or flotsam." He shrugged his massive shoulders. "It could be murder, but I can't tell you anything to prove it one way or the other. Sorry."

Pitt pulled back the sheet and looked at the rest of the torso. There were other marks on it as if it had buffeted to and fro, and been caught by rough objects which had torn the skin in several places. He replaced the sheet and turned away.

"Will anyone see he gets a burial according to his faith?" he asked.

McDade's eyebrows rose. "No one to claim the body?"

"Not so far as I know. I think the court will decide by now that he was the one who shot Lieutenant Lovat."

McDade shook his head, his chins quivering. "You say that as if you are not sure it is true," he observed.

"I'm sure it's true," Pitt replied. "I'm just not sure it is all of the truth. Thank you." He closed the conversation and turned to go. McDade made him uncomfortable; he was too observant. And Pitt needed to speak once more to the river police about exactly where el Abd was found, the state of his clothes, and the precise hours of the tides last night. A time of death mattered to him; in fact, just at the moment the importance of it overrode everything else in his mind.

Two hours later, at a quarter to nine, he had the answers. He stood on the Embankment in the gusty wind, his coat flapping around his legs and his scarf whipping out sideways, staring at the racing water of the flood tide returning. Out on the river, boats churned the water, steamers, barges, a lone pleasure boat with only half a dozen people on deck.

Tariq el Abd had died between one and five in the morning. They could not be more accurate than that. It was a time when most people were at home in bed. Pitt could have proved he was there, because Charlotte always woke if he got up. A man who lived alone would have no such safety.

He realized how little he knew of Narraway's private life; he had never even wondered about it. For that matter he knew almost nothing of Narraway's past, his family or his beliefs either. He was private to the point of being secretive. The only thing Pitt was sure of was that Narraway cared passionately about his work, and the causes it served, and that there was a personal relationship between him and Ryerson which caused him deep pain and which he would not discuss, no matter what the circumstances. And it was that which ate at Pitt now with a hard, angry pain that he could no longer ignore. It must be now; there was just time before the court resumed-if Narraway was at home.

Pitt met him on the doorstep, dressed smartly in his usual perfectly tailored dark gray. Narraway stopped abruptly, his eyes wide, his face pale.

"What is it?" He caught his breath, his voice husky.

Pitt had never defied Narraway before, never even challenged him. He knew his own dependence upon Narraway too well, not only for his job in Special Branch, but for the guidance and the protection while he was feeling his way in learning a new skill. But the emotion inside him now had power to override all such careful considerations.

"Inside!" he said abruptly.

The wind was cold and there was a fine rain behind it. Narraway's face hardened. "This had better be important, Pitt," he said, now that his initial shock was controlled and the steel was back in his eyes.

"It is," Pitt answered between his teeth. Perhaps he would have been wiser to say it all out there on the doorstep. He knew it, even as he followed Narraway in and heard the door close. Narraway led the way across the hall into his study and swung around.

"Well?" he demanded. "You have ten minutes. After that I am leaving whether you are finished or not. The trial resumes at ten. I mean to be there." In the morning light through the large window, his face was ashen, the fine lines of strain and too little sleep marked harshly in the skin around his eyes and mouth.

"But the special new witness is dead," Pitt replied. "There'll be no revelations about Ayesha Zakhari's motive now. El Abd's suicide is almost as good as a confession."

"Almost," Narraway agreed tersely. "I still need to see the acquittal. What is it you want, Pitt?"

"Why do you suppose el Abd killed himself?" Pitt asked. He wished he were anywhere but here, doing anything but this. "He was on the brink of success."

"We knew he was guilty," Narraway said, but there was a fractional hesitation in his voice; perhaps no one but Pitt would have heard it.

Pitt stared at him. "And he was afraid? Suddenly? Afraid of what? That we would arrest him on the way into court and stop him from testifying?"

Narraway breathed in and out very slowly. "What are you saying, Pitt? There is no time for games."

If he did not say it now then the moment would be past, and he would live with the doubt forever.

"Convenient for us," he answered. "In fact, it has probably saved Suez." He held Narraway's gaze without blinking.

Narraway was very pale. "Probably," he agreed. Again there was the shadow across his face.

"Why would el Abd do that?" Pitt asked.

"I don't know. It makes no sense," Narraway admitted, still standing motionless in the middle of the floor.

"If I had..." Pitt said. "Or you..."

At last Narraway understood. The last vestige of blood drained from his face, leaving his skin like gray paper. "God Almighty! You think I killed el Abd!"

"Did you?"

"No," Narraway said quickly. "No, I didn't." He did not ask if Pitt had; he already knew the answer. He also knew that Pitt's question was genuine, and that it hurt him to ask. It was the doubt twisting inside him that drove him to speak. "Was he murdered?"

"Are you certain he was murdered?"

"Not beyond doubt. But I believe he was," Pitt replied. "It was done well, with great skill. Impossible to tell if the injuries were just before death or just after... a deliberate blow or accidental as he fell, or even from a passing ship. We'll prove nothing."

The shadow was there in Narraway's face again. "Who would kill him, and why?"

"Someone who knew of the massacre," Pitt replied. "And who would do anything, even commit murder and allow Ryerson to hang for it, rather than see the truth exposed, and face what it will cost."

Narraway was truly astounded. "Is that what you think?" he said, his voice cracking with incredulity. "That I want Ryerson to hang?"

"No, I don't think you do," Pitt said honestly. "I think you hate it. I think the guilt tortures you, but you'll let him hang rather than expose the massacre and lose Egypt."

Narraway did not reply. The silence hung in the air like a gulf of darkness between them.

"Don't use my few minutes left for this," Pitt said, not moving from his position blocking the doorway. He did not intend a physical threat; in fact, he was not even sure if he could provide one. Narraway was lighter and shorter, but he was lean and possibly he was trained in ways that Pitt had not even thought of. He might even be armed.

Nevertheless, Pitt did not intend to move until he received an answer. It was emotion that held him, not reason. He had not thought what he would do if Narraway had confessed to having killed el Abd.

The clouds cleared and for a moment sunlight dappled the floor.

"It has nothing to do with Egypt, or Lovat's murder, or the massacre," Narraway said at last, his voice low and a little husky.

Pitt waited.

"Damn it, Pitt! It's none of your business!" Narraway exploded. "It happened years ago... I... I just..." He stopped again.

Pitt did not move.

"Twenty years ago," Narraway began again, "I was working on the Irish Problem. I knew there was an uprising planned-violence, assassinations..."

Pitt was suddenly cold.

"I needed to know what was going on," Narraway said, his eyes unflinching but hot with misery. "I had an affair with Ryerson's wife." His voice shook. "It was my fault she was shot."

So it was guilt, just not for Lovat or Ayesha or anything that was happening now. Without even thinking about it, Pitt realized that he believed him.

Narraway waited, still watching Pitt's face. He would not ask.

Very slowly Pitt nodded. He understood. More than that, he realized with amazement something that would probably never be said, never even be referred to again-Narraway cared what he thought.

"Are we going to court?" Narraway snapped. He had seen the belief in Pitt's face, and it was enough. Now the agony of tension was gone and he wanted the moment broken. He had a debt to pay and he was burning to be about it.

"Yes," Pitt agreed, turning back to the door and leading the way out again without looking to see Narraway following.

THE OLD BAILEY COURTROOM was less than full. These last few days were something of an anticlimax. The newspapers had reported the death of Tariq el Abd, but only as an unknown foreigner who had apparently committed suicide. No connection was made with the Ryerson case, the verdict of which was now taken for granted, although it was not expected until tomorrow. The defense counsel was obliged to make some attempt at explanation, reasonable doubt, anything to appear to have done his best.

Narraway and Pitt entered the courtroom just as Sir Anthony Markham, counsel for the defense, was rising to his feet to begin.

The judge looked at Narraway with annoyance at the interruption. He had no idea who he was, simply someone with the ill manners to arrive late, and conspicuously.

Pitt hesitated. Markham obviously knew Narraway, but there was no interest in his face, rather the opposite. He shook his head very slightly and turned back to the judge.

Narraway stopped. Did Markham know about el Abd or not? Surely if he did not, he would be desperate for any defense at all. Then he realized with dismay that he was not certain whether el Abd had been a prosecution witness, to seal the case absolutely with a perfect motive, or a defense witness, to offer some mitigation for the crime?

Or was the surprise witness not el Abd, but someone else? It came back to the same question, to which they still had no answer at all-who was the prime mover behind Lovat's murder, the man who wished to bring down Suez and the eastern half of the empire? And was one of the two lawyers here in his pay?

Who had murdered el Abd, and why?

The courtroom was motionless. Pitt looked around. The public gallery was about three-quarters full. He saw Vespasia, the light on her pale face and catching the silver of her hair. She was wearing a very small, discreet hat today, possibly in consideration for those whose view she might block. In the row behind her was Ferdinand Garrick, his face rigid, eyes forward in a wide, fixed stare, almost as if he were mesmerized by what was about to play itself out on the courtroom floor below him.

The jury sat waiting, sad and no longer really interested. They listened and watched because it was their duty.

Narraway continued towards Markham and stopped at his side, Pitt a step behind him.

"The body under the bridge was Tariq el Abd," Narraway said in so low a voice that Pitt caught only every other word. "It was he who killed Lovat. Miss Zakhari admitted it, and it makes perfect sense of the evidence."

Markham stood motionless. "How convenient for Miss Zakhari... and of course for Mr. Ryerson," he replied with a glint of sarcasm. "Why did this Egyptian manservant kill Lieutenant Lovat? Do you know that as well?"

"No, I don't, and it doesn't matter." Narraway's voice was cold. "Perhaps Lovat misused his daughter, or his sister, or even his wife, for all I know. Just get on with it! Call the river police. Then Pitt will identify the dead man for you."

Markham glanced at Pitt.

Pitt nodded.

Markham's face was set hard. He disliked being told what to do, by anyone.

"Do you intend to proceed, Sir Anthony?" the judge enquired with a touch of irritation.

Markham looked up, as if already dismissing Narraway.

"Yes, my lord. I have just learned of some very remarkable events which shed a totally different light on Lieutenant Lovat's death. With your permission, I would like to call Thomas Pitt to the stand."

"This had better be relevant, Sir Anthony," the judge said warily. "I will not have theatrics in my court."

"The evidence will be dramatic, my lord," Markham replied coldly. "But it will not be theatrical."

"Then proceed with it!" the judge snapped.

"I call Thomas Pitt!" Markham said loudly.

Narraway looked very briefly at Pitt, then turned on his heel and walked two paces to the nearest row where there was a vacant seat, and left Pitt to go across the floor and climb up the steps to the witness stand.

Pitt swore to his name and place of residence, and waited for Markham to ask him about el Abd. He was only slightly nervous about answering. This was the first time he had not testified as a police officer. Now he was a person from the shadows, without a rank or an occupation to give him status.

"Were you acquainted with Miss Zakhari's house servant, Tariq el Abd, Mr. Pitt?" Markham enquired.

"Yes."

"In what capacity?"

"As a servant at Eden Lodge," Pitt replied. "I did not know him personally."

"But you spoke with him at some length?" Markham pressed.

"Yes, perhaps an hour altogether."

"So you would know him if you saw him again?"

"Yes."

"Have you seen him since then?"

The jurors were openly fidgeting.

The counsel for the prosecution rose to his feet. "My lord, my learned friend's idea of drama is very different from mine. I have never heard anything so unutterably tedious. Whatever relevance can it have if this... gentleman... has spent time gossiping with Miss Zakhari's house servant... or not?"

"I was establishing that Mr. Pitt was able to identify Tariq el Abd, my lord," Markham said with injured innocence, and without waiting for any ruling he turned back to Pitt. "Where did you see him, Mr. Pitt... and when?"

"In the morgue," Pitt replied steadily. "Yesterday."

There was a gasp of breath indrawn around the room.

The judge leaned forward, his face dark and angry. "Are you saying that he is dead, Mr. Pitt?"

"Yes, my lord."

"From what cause?"

The prosecution stood up. "My lord, Mr. Pitt has no established credentials in medicine. He is not qualified to give evidence as to cause of death."

The judge resented the objection, but he could not argue and he knew it. He glared at the counsel for the prosecution, then swiveled back to Pitt. "Where was this man found?"

"Hanging by his neck on a rope from under London Bridge, I was told by the river police," Pitt replied.

"Suicide?" the judge barked.

"I am not qualified to say," Pitt answered him.

There was a moment's total silence, then a nervous titter washed around the room.

The judge's face was like ice. He looked at Markham. "Can you continue with your case in view of the man's death?" he said with barely concealed anger. His face was pink. He would not forget that Pitt had made the court laugh at his expense.

"Most certainly, my lord," Markham said vigorously. "I cannot prove that Tariq el Abd's death was suicide, but I can think of no conceivable way in which a man could find himself hanging with a rope around his neck under the arches of London Bridge by accident. I believe that any jury of twelve honest men must consider his responsibility for the death of Lieutenant Edwin Lovat a more than reasonable doubt as to whether my client is guilty or not. El Abd had every access to the gun which killed Lieutenant Lovat. It was his job to clean it. And he had every opportunity to have used it at that precise time and in that place. Justice, even reason, demands that you consider his guilt. His death now, almost assuredly by his own hand, makes it absurd not to."

"It was not Tariq el Abd who was trying to dispose of the body!" The counsel for the prosecution was on his feet, his voice harsh with indignation. "If Ayesha Zakhari did not kill Lovat, why was she outside in the garden with the corpse in a wheelbarrow? That is not the action of an innocent woman."

"It is the action of a frightened woman!" Markham said instantly. "If you came upon the body of a murdered man with your gun beside him, might you not attempt to hide it?"

"I would call the police," the counsel for the prosecution retorted.

"In a foreign country?" Markham was close to jeering. "You would have such confidence in their justice, when you are of a different race, a different language, a different culture?" He did not continue. He could see in the faces of the jurors that he had made his point.

The counsel for the prosecution swung around to the judge, his arms spread wide. "Why, my lord? What reason in the world could an Egyptian house servant have for murdering an English diplomat in the middle of London?"

There was a movement in the gallery. A man rose to his feet. He was slender, elegant, beautifully dressed, his thick hair waved back from an aquiline face.

Pitt was astounded. It was Trenchard! He must have come home on leave.

"My lord," Trenchard said with the utmost respect. "My name is Alan Trenchard. I am with the British Consulate in Alexandria. I believe I may be able to answer the court's questions on that subject. I have lived and worked in Egypt for over twenty-five years, and I have been able to find a certain amount of knowledge on the issues concerned here since Mr. Pitt left Alexandria, which I was therefore unable to tell him at the time of his enquiry."

The judge frowned. "If Sir Anthony wishes to call you, then in the interest of justice, we should hear from you."

Markham had no choice. He excused Pitt, and Trenchard climbed the steps up to the witness stand and turned to face the court.

Pitt sat next to Narraway and felt him stiffen as Markham moved forward again and Trenchard swore to his name and his residence.

Markham seemed perfectly relaxed. His clients, who yesterday had faced certain conviction, now suddenly were on the brink of acquittal. It had been none of his doing, it was entirely due to circumstance he could not have foreseen or contrived, but it was still going to be an astonishing victory for him.

"Mr. Trenchard," he began, "were you acquainted with Lieutenant Lovat during his army service in Egypt?"

"Not personally," Trenchard replied. "I am in the diplomatic service; he was in the military. It is possible we may have met, but I am not aware of it."

The judge frowned.

The jury glanced around them, their interest still barely caught.

Pitt found his hands clenched, nails digging into his palms.

Markham deliberately kept his eyes on the witness stand. "Did you know the dead man, Tariq el Abd?"

"I learned a great deal about him," Trenchard replied. He was standing very stiffly with his hands on the rails, knuckles white.

Pitt felt a ripple of fear go through him, wild and unreasonable. He turned to look at the dock. Ryerson was intent, but there was no leap of emotion in him; he dared not yet hope. But Ayesha was leaning forward, her eyes wide in amazement as she gazed at Trenchard, and Pitt realized with horror that unmistakably she knew him, not by repute, as he had said, but personally, face-to-face.

Now, at last, the jury were straining to catch each word, even a look.

The courtroom was warm, but Pitt felt a deep and terrible chill inside himself. He remembered Trenchard's saying that he had loved an Egyptian woman who had died in an accident a short time ago. Suddenly, almost as if he were there sitting on the ground with his bones aching and the soft lapping of the Nile in the darkness outside, he heard Ishaq telling of his father, the imam, and his dying nightmares of slaughter and burning bodies, and the daughter who had nursed him, heard all his words, his passion of grief and guilt, and who also had died shortly afterwards.

A hideous, knife-bright possibility shone in Pitt's mind, which made perfect sense of everything. The imam's daughter and Trenchard's mistress were the same woman. That was all it needed. Trenchard, with his passionate love of Egypt, knew Ayesha's loyalties, knew of the massacre, and had pieced together the rest of it-the four British soldiers that Ferdinand Garrick had shipped out of Alexandria to protect them, and in his soul-deep and absolute devotion to his country, to protect Britain's empire in Africa and the East.

Pitt turned to Narraway. "He's going to tell them about the massacre," he whispered, hearing his own voice tremble. "Maybe he always intended to do it himself to make it complete-with no one to argue, no one to lose nerve and fail. It's not Ayesha's motive he's going to uncover-it's el Abd's. El Abd was not master to anyone-he was the perfect scapegoat. Ayesha to draw in Ryerson-so the world would be looking-el Abd to take the ultimate blame."

The blood drained from Narraway's face. "God Almighty!" he breathed. "You're right..."

Markham was still talking to Trenchard.

"What was it you learned about Tariq el Abd that is relevant to the death of Lieutenant Lovat?" Markham said with a lift of curiosity, his eyes wide, seeing only his own victory, so close he could already taste it.

"I learned why he killed him," Trenchard answered.

Pitt half rose to his feet. He had no clear idea what he was going to do, but he could not let this happen-the bloodshed would drown the whole of Egypt and ruin British India, Burma and beyond.

Trenchard saw him and turned toward him, and smiled.

"Tariq el Abd lost the whole of his family in a hideous-" he began.

There was a loud crack, and immediately another. Trenchard fell backwards and slid down onto the floor of the stand.

Pitt swung around just as the third crack sounded, and he saw Ferdinand Garrick's head seem to explode as he fell, the revolver still in his hand.

The judge was paralyzed.

Markham's legs folded underneath him, and he slipped down awkwardly.

Pitt walked forward, Narraway a pace behind. He went over to the witness stand where Trenchard was lying. Garrick had struck him through the head with both shots, blowing half his brain away. He had finally closed the last chapter of the massacre. Egypt and the East were safe.

Narraway looked at the body for a moment, then turned his back and stared towards the gallery, where everyone was moving away from Garrick, sprawled on the floor-except Vespasia. Oblivious of the blood on her gown, she knelt beside him and gently folded his hands. It was a pointless gesture, but it had a dignity, a peculiar respect, as if suddenly she had seen something of value in him, and a certain pity that was beyond judgments.

In the dock, Ryerson put out his hand and took Ayesha's, it was all he could reach of her, but it was enough.

"I'll see that Stephen Garrick is cared for," Narraway said quietly. "I think we owe his father that."

Pitt nodded, still looking at Vespasia. "It will be done," he said with absolute conviction. "And Martin Garvie will watch over him."

Narraway looked up at Ryerson, and something of the tension in his body softened and a burden inside him seemed to ease.