Seven Dials

chapter TWO
THE EVENING NEWSPAPERS had carried a brief account of the finding of Edwin Lovat's body at Eden Lodge; however, the following morning they were full of the murder in detail.

"There you are!" Gracie said, presenting the Times and the London Illustrated News to Pitt at the breakfast table. "All over the place, it is. Says the foreign woman did it, an' the man wot's dead was real respectable, like, an' all." Charlotte had taught her to read, and it was an accomplishment of which the maid was extremely proud. A door had been opened into new worlds previously beyond even her imagination, but more important than that, she felt she could face anyone at all on an intellectually, even if not socially, equal footing. What she did not know, she would find out. She could read, therefore she could learn. "Doesn't say nothin' 'bout the gov'ment man at all!" she added.

Pitt took both papers from her and looked at them for himself, spreading the pages wide over half the table. Charlotte was still upstairs. Jemima came in looking very grown up with her hair in pigtails and her school pinafore on over her dress. She was ten years old, and very self-possessed, at least on the surface. She was growing tall, and the slight heels on her buttoned-up boots added to her height.

"Morning, Papa," she said demurely, standing in front of him and waiting for his reply.

He looked up, ignoring the newspaper, aware that she required his attention, more especially lately, since their adventure in Dartmoor, when their lives had been in danger and for the first time he had been unable to protect them himself. His sergeant, Tellman, had done an excellent job, at considerable risk to his own career. He was still at the Bow Street station, now under a new superintendent, a man named Wetron. Wetron was cold and ambitious, and with good cause; they believed him to be a senior member of the Inner Circle, possibly even with eyes on the leadership.

"Good morning," he replied gravely, looking up at her.

"Is there something important in there?" she asked, glancing for a moment at the paper spread across the table.

He hesitated only a moment. His instinct was always to protect both his children, but especially Jemima, perhaps because she was a girl. But Charlotte had told him that evasion and mystery were far more frightening than all but the very worst facts, and being excluded, even for the best of reasons, hurt. And Jemima especially nearly always understood if she were being shut out. Daniel was two years younger, and far more self-contained, happier to go about his own affairs, less reflective of Pitt's mood. He watched and listened, but not as she did.

"I don't think it will be," he said frankly.

"Is it your case?" she pressed, watching him solemnly.

"It's not a dangerous one," he assured her, smiling as he said it. "A lady seems to have shot someone, and an important man might have been there at the time. We have to do what we can to see that he doesn't get into trouble."

"Why?" she asked.

"That is a good question," he agreed. "Because he is in the government, and it would be embarrassing."

"Should he have been somewhere else?" she said, seeing the point immediately.

"Yes. He should have been at home in bed. It happened in the middle of the night."

"Why did she shoot him? Was she afraid of him?" It was the obvious thought to her. A few months ago she had known what it was like to get up in the middle of the night, pack all your belongings and run away in a pony cart along the edge of the moor in the dark.

"I don't know, sweetheart," he said, putting out his hand and touching her smooth, blemishless cheek. "She hasn't said anything yet. We still have to find out. It's just like police work, the way I used to do it a year ago, before I went to Whitechapel. There's nothing dangerous in it at all."

She looked at him steadily, deciding if he was telling her the truth or not. She concluded he was, and her face lit with satisfaction. "Good." Without waiting any longer she sat down in her own place at the table. Gracie put her porridge in front of her, with milk and sugar, and she began to eat.

Pitt returned his attention to the newspaper. The Times article was unequivocal. It gave a glowing obituary to Edwin Lovat, lauding him as a distinguished soldier before illness had obliged him to return to civilian life, where he had used his skills and experience in the Near East to great effect in the diplomatic service. A bright future had lain ahead of him until he was cruelly cut down by an ambitious and ruthless woman who had grown tired of his attentions and desired to seek richer and more influential patronage.

Saville Ryerson's name was not mentioned, even by implication. Exactly what patronage the murderess had sought was left to the imagination of the reader. What was spelled out very clearly was her unquestionable guilt of the crime, and the fact that she should be tried for it, and hanged without argument or delay.

Pitt found the ease of assumption behind the paper's account disquieting, even though he knew far more than the writer of the article. There was an essential absurdity in denying the story, given that the murder weapon was Ayesha Zakhari's gun and she was discovered actually trying to dispose of the body. She knew the man, and had offered no excuse at all, reasonable or otherwise, for anything that had occurred.

Perhaps it was the failure to mention Ryerson which galled him, and the fact that the writer had not even enquired into the case, but had leapt to his conclusions rather than simply reporting the evidence.

Jemima looked at Pitt solemnly, and he smiled at her. He saw the tension ease in her shoulders, and she smiled back.

He finished his breakfast and stood up as Charlotte and Daniel came into the kitchen. The conversation turned to other things-the school day, what there would be for dinner, and the question of whether they would go to watch the cricket match on Saturday afternoon, as long as it was not rained off, or to the local outdoor theater, also if the weather permitted. An argument ensued as to what one could do in the rain, and ended only when both children left for school and Pitt set out to go to Narraway's office.

HE FOUND THE ROOMS empty and closed, but Jesmond, waiting on the curb, told him that Narraway would be back within an hour and would be angry if Pitt were not there waiting for him.

Pitt masked his impatience at the time wasted. He could have been closing the case he had been working on before this tragedy happened, which as far as he could see was irrelevant to Special Branch. He paced up and down the small room at the bottom of the stairs, turning the matter over and over in his mind, to no effect at all.

Narraway arrived forty-five minutes later, looking grim. He was wearing a beautifully cut light gray suit in the latest fashion, with high lapels, and a gray silk waistcoat underneath.

"Come in," he said briskly, unlocking the door of his room and leaving Pitt to follow. He sat down behind the desk without glancing at any of the papers on it, and Pitt realized he had already read them. He had been in early, and left to go somewhere important, which he had foreseen and dressed for accordingly. It had to be to see someone high in government. Did they really care about the murder of Edwin Lovat, or that Ayesha Zakhari should be blamed? Or had something else happened?

Pitt sat down in the opposite chair.

Narraway's face was tight, his eyes wide and wary, as if even here in his own room there were something to be guarded against.

"The Egyptian ambassador went to the Foreign Office late last night," he said in carefully measured words. "They, in turn, have spoken by telephone to Mr. Gladstone, and I was sent for this morning."

Pitt waited without interrupting, the chill growing inside him.

"They were aware of the murder in Eden Lodge by yesterday afternoon," Narraway continued. "But it was in the afternoon papers, so half of London knew of it." He stopped again. Pitt noticed that Narraway's hands were stiff on the desk, his slender fingers rigid.

"And the embassy knew that Ayesha Zakhari was arrested," Pitt concluded. "Since she is an Egyptian citizen, I suppose it is natural for them to enquire after her well-being, and ensure that she was properly represented. I would expect as much of the British embassy were I arrested in a foreign country."

Narraway's mouth twisted a little. "You would expect the British ambassador to call the first minister of that country on your behalf? You overrate yourself, Pitt. A junior consul might see that you were appointed a lawyer, but not more than that."

There was no time to be embarrassed or annoyed. Obviously something had happened that worried Narraway profoundly.

"Does Miss Zakhari have some importance that we were unaware of?" Pitt asked.

"Not so far as I know," Narraway replied. "Although it does raise the question." His expression of anxiety deepened. His fingers curled and uncurled, as if he were making sure he could still feel them. "The question raised was one of justice." He took a deep breath, as though it was difficult for him to say this, even to Pitt. "The ambassador was aware that Saville Ryerson was at Eden Lodge when the police found Miss Zakhari with the body, and they want to know why he was not arrested also."

It was a perfectly reasonable question, but that was not the thought that rippled through Pitt like fire in the bones. "How did they know that?" he asked. "Surely no one allowed her to contact her embassy and say such a thing? Anyway, didn't she tell the police at the time that she was alone? Who told the ambassador?"

Narraway's mouth twisted in a bitter smile and his eyes were hard. "An excellent question, Pitt. In fact, it is the principal question, and I don't know the answer. Except that it was not the police, nor was it any lawyer of Miss Zakhari's, because she has not yet asked for one. And Inspector Talbot assures me that she has not answered any further questions or mentioned Ryerson's name to anyone."

"What about the constable who was first on the scene... Cotter?"

"Believe me, Talbot has had him over the coals at least twice, and Cotter swears he spoke to no one outside the station, except you." There was no accusation in his voice, not even doubt.

"Which leaves us with our anonymous informer who heard the shots and called the police," Pitt concluded. "Apparently he-or she-remained around to see what happened, and presumably saw Ryerson and recognized him."

"It was hardly the first time he'd been there," Narraway pointed out. "They may have seen him on several occasions before." He frowned, his fingers still stiff on the tabletop. "But it raises further questions, beginning with why tell the Egyptian embassy and not the newspapers, who would almost certainly pay them?"

Pitt said nothing.

Narraway stared at him. "Or Ryerson, himself," Narraway went on. "Blackmail might net them a nice profit, and on a continuing basis."

"Would Ryerson pay?" Pitt asked.

A curious expression crossed Narraway's face: uncertainty, sadness, but something which was unquestionably painful. With an effort he wiped it away, concentrating on the practicalities of the answer. "Actually I doubt it, particularly since, if Miss Zakhari has chosen to deny he was there, he would be seen to be a liar when it came to court, because the police know he was there. He is a very recognizable figure."

"Is he? I don't think I've ever seen him." Pitt tried to bring him to mind, and could not.

"He's a big man," Narraway said very quietly, his voice a little raw. "Over six feet tall, broad-shouldered, powerful. He has thick, graying hair, and strong features. He was a fine athlete as a young man." His words were full of praise, and yet he said them as if he had to make himself do it, a matter of justice rather than desire. For some inner reason of his own he was compelled to be fair.

"Do you know him, sir?" Pitt asked, then instantly wished he had not, although it was a necessary question. There was something in Narraway's face which told him he had intruded.

"I know everyone," Narraway replied. "It is my job to know them. It is your job too. I am told that Mr. Gladstone desires us to keep Mr. Ryerson's name out of the case, if it is humanly possible. He has not specified how it is to be done, and I assume he does not wish to know."

Pitt could not conceal his anger at the injustice of it, and he resented the implication that he should try to. "Good!" he retorted. "Then if we are obliged to tell him that it was impossible, he will not have the information to argue with us."

There was not even a flicker of humor in Narraway's face; even the usual dry irony in his eyes was absent. In some way this touched a wound in him not yet healed enough to be safe. "It is I who will answer to Mr. Gladstone, Pitt, not you. And I am not prepared to tell him that we failed, unless I can prove that it was already impossible before we began. Go and see Ryerson himself. If we are to save him, then we cannot work blindly. I need the truth, and immediately, not as it is unearthed a piece at a time by the police. Or, God help us, by the Egyptian ambassador."

Pitt was confused. "You said you knew him. Would it not be far better for you to see him? Your seniority would impress on..."

Narraway looked up, his eyes angry, his slim hand white-knuckled on top of the desk. "My seniority doesn't seem to impress you. At least not sufficiently for you to obey me without putting up an argument. I am not making suggestions, Pitt, I am telling you what to do. And I do not propose to explain myself. I am accountable to Mr. Gladstone for my success, as I will answer to him for my failure. You are accountable to me." His voice rasped. "Go and see Ryerson. I want to know everything about his relationship with Miss Zakhari in general, and that night in particular. Come back here when you can tell me, preferably tomorrow."

"Yes, sir. Do you know where I will find Mr. Ryerson at this time of day? Or should I simply make enquiries?"

"No, you will not make enquiries!" Narraway snapped, a flush in his cheeks. "You will tell no one but Ryerson himself who you are or what you want. Begin at his home in Paulton Square. I believe it is number seven."

"Yes, sir. Thank you." Pitt kept his own emotions out of his voice. He turned on his heel and went out of the room, disliking his errand but not surprised by it. The thing that confused him was that concerning a matter so important, with Gladstone involved, why Narraway did not go to see Ryerson himself. The question of being recognized by anyone did not arise. No newspaper reporters would be in Paulton Square at this hour, but even if they were, Narraway was not a public figure to be known on sight.

There must be a factor, perhaps a major one, which Narraway was not telling him, and the knowledge made him uncomfortable.

He hailed a hansom and directed it to Danvers Street, just beyond Paulton Square. He would walk the rest of the way. Since being with Special Branch he had learned a kind of carefulness in being observed. It was a precaution, no more. He disliked the secrecy of it, but he understood its worth.

By the time he had reached the first steps of number seven he had decided how to approach whoever answered Ryerson's door.

"Good morning, sir," a fair-haired footman in full livery said without interest. "How may I help you?"

"Good morning," Pitt replied, standing upright and meeting the man's eyes. "Would you be good enough to tell Mr. Ryerson that Mr. Victor Narraway sends his regards, and regrets that he is unable to call himself, but has sent me in his place? My name is Thomas Pitt." He produced his card, the plain one that stated his name only, and dropped it on the silver tray in the footman's hand.

"Certainly, sir," the footman replied, without looking at the card. "Would you care to wait in the morning room while I enquire if Mr. Ryerson is able to see you?"

Pitt smiled and accepted. That was very direct, not the usual euphemism of pretending that he did not know whether his master was at home.

The footman led the way through a magnificent hall of an opulent Italianate design, terra-cotta-colored walls and handsome marble and bronze busts displayed on plinths, paintings of canal scenes on the walls, one of which looked like a genuine Canaletto.

The morning room was also in warm colors, with an exquisite tapestry on one wall that depicted a hunting scene in the minutest detail, the grass in the foreground starred with tiny flowers. This home belonged to a man of wealth and individual taste.

Pitt had ten minutes to wait in nervous tension, trying to rehearse the scene in his mind. He was about to question a cabinet minister regarding a possibly criminal, certainly embarrassing, part of his personal life. He had come to learn the truth and he could not afford to fail.

But he had questioned important people about their lives before, probing for the wounds that had led to murder. It was his skill. He was good at it, even brilliant. He had had far more successes than failures. He should not doubt himself now.

He glanced at the books in one of the cases. He saw Shakespeare, Browning, Marlowe, and a little farther along, Henry Rider Haggard and Charles Kingsley and two volumes of Thackeray.

Then he heard the door open and he swung around.

As Narraway had said, Ryerson was a large man, probably in his late fifties, but he moved with the grace of someone trained to physical activity and who took joy in it. There was no extra flesh on him, no signs of indulgence or ease. He had the innate confidence of one whose body does as he wishes it to. Now he looked anxious, a little tired, but still very much in command of his outward emotions.

"My footman tells me you have come on behalf of Victor Narraway." He pronounced the name with a lack of emotion so complete Pitt instantly wondered if it was the result of deliberate effort. "May I ask why?"

"Yes, sir," Pitt said gravely. He had already decided that candor was the only way to achieve his goal, if it was possible at all. One trick or attempt at deviousness which failed would destroy all trust. "The Egyptian embassy is aware that you were present at Eden Lodge when Mr. Edwin Lovat was shot, and they are demanding that you also are called to be accountable for your part in those events."

Pitt expected smooth denial at first, and then perhaps bluster, anger as fear took hold. The ugliest possibility would be self-pity, and the plea to some kind of loyalty to extricate him from the embarrassment of a love affair which had turned sour. He dreaded the shame and the revulsion of it. His skin felt cold even at the thought of it. Was that why Narraway had refused to come himself? In case an old friend should become contemptible in front of him, and he would find it better for both of them if that did not happen? Then he would still be able to feign ignorance of that much at least.

But Ryerson's reaction was none of these things. There was confusion in his face-fear, but not anger, and no bluster at all.

"I was there just after," he corrected Pitt. "Although I have no idea how the Egyptian embassy would know that, unless Miss Zakhari told them."

Pitt stared at him. There was no sense of injustice in his voice or his face. He did not seem to think of it as any kind of betrayal if she had done so. And yet, according to Narraway, she had not mentioned his name at all. In fact, she had had no opportunity of speaking to anyone except the police officers who had questioned her.

"No, sir, it was not Miss Zakhari," Pitt replied. "She has spoken to no one since her arrest."

"She should have someone to represent her," Ryerson said immediately. "The embassy should do that-it would be more discreet than my doing so-but I will if necessary."

"I think it would be much better if you did not," Pitt responded, caught off balance that Ryerson should even make such a suggestion. "It might do more harm than good," he added. "Would you please tell me what happened that night, sir, as far as you know?"

Ryerson invited Pitt to sit down in one of the large, smooth, leather-covered chairs, then sat in one opposite, but not at ease, instead leaning a little forward, his face a mask of concentration. He offered no hospitality, not out of discourtesy, but it obviously had not occurred to him. His mind was consumed in the present problem. He made no attempt at dissimulation.

"I was at very late meetings that night. I had intended to be at Miss Zakhari's house by two in the morning, but I was late. It was closer to three."

"How did you come, sir?" Pitt interrupted.

"By hansom. I stopped on the Edgware Road and walked a couple of streets."

"Did you see anyone leaving Connaught Square, either on foot or in a coach or carriage?" Pitt asked.

"I don't recall seeing anyone. But I wasn't thinking of it. They could have gone in any direction."

"You arrived at Eden Lodge," Pitt prompted. "At which entrance?"

Ryerson flushed very faintly. "The mews. I have a key to the scullery door."

Pitt tried to keep his expression from reflecting any of his thoughts. Moral judgments would be unhelpful, and perhaps he had little right to make them. Curiously enough, he did not wish to. Ryerson did not fit any of the assumptions Pitt had made before meeting him, and he was obliged to start again, feeling his way through his own conflicting emotions.

"Did you go in through the scullery?" he asked.

"Yes." Ryerson's eyes were troubled by the memory. "But I was standing in the kitchen, just up the step, when I heard a noise in the garden, and I went out again. Almost immediately I ran into Miss Zakhari, who was in a state of extreme distress." He breathed in and out slowly. "She told me a man had been shot and was lying dead in the garden. I asked her who he was and if she knew what had happened. She told me he was a Lieutenant Lovat whom she had known briefly in Alexandria several years ago. He had admired her then..." He hesitated briefly over the choice of words, then went on, trusting Pitt to put his own interpretation on it. "And now wished to rekindle the friendship. She had refused, but he was reluctant to accept that answer."

"I see. What did you do?" Pitt kept his voice neutral.

"I asked her to show me, and followed her to where he was lying on the ground, half under the laurel bushes. I had thought perhaps he was not actually dead. I hoped she had found him knocked senseless, and perhaps leaped to a hasty conclusion. However, when I knelt down to look at him, it was quite apparent that she was correct. He had been shot at fairly close range, through the chest, and was unquestionably dead."

"Did you see the gun?"

Ryerson's eyes did not waver, but it obviously cost him an effort.

"Yes. It was lying on the ground beside him. It was Ayesha's gun. I knew it immediately, because I had seen it before. I knew she owned it, for protection."

"Against whom?"

"I don't know. I had asked her, but she would not tell me."

"Could it have been this Lieutenant Lovat?" Pitt suggested. "Had he threatened her?"

Ryerson's face was tight, his eyes miserable. He hesitated before answering. "I believe not," he said at last.

"Did you ask her what had happened?"

"Of course! She said she did not know. She had heard the shot, and realized it was very close by. She had been in her upstairs sitting room, waiting for me, awake and fully dressed. She went downstairs to see what had happened, if anyone were hurt, and found Lovat lying on the ground and the gun beside him."

It was a strange story, and one Pitt found almost impossible to believe, and yet as he looked at Ryerson, he was sure that either he himself believed it or he was the most superb actor Pitt had ever seen. He was clear, calm and without any histrionics. There was a candor to him that, if it was art, then it was also genius. It confused Pitt, and he felt wrong-footed, off balance because of it.

"So you saw the dead man," he said. "And you knew from Miss Zakhari who he was. Did she have any idea what he was doing there or who had shot him?"

"No," Ryerson answered immediately. "She assumed he had come to see her, but that much was obvious. There could be no other reason for his being there at that hour. I asked her if she knew what had happened, and she said she did not." There was finality in his voice, and belief that defied sense.

"She had not invited him there, or given him reason to believe he would be welcome?" Pitt pressed, uncertain what tone to adopt. It annoyed him to be deferential, the situation was absurd, and yet his instinct was to believe him, even to feel some sympathy.

Ryerson's lips tightened. "She would hardly invite him at the same time she was expecting me, Mr. Pitt. She is a woman of high intelligence."

There was no time to afford niceties. "Women have been known to contrive that lovers should be made jealous, Mr. Ryerson," Pitt responded, and saw Ryerson wince. "It is a very old strategy, and can work well," he continued. "She would naturally deny it to you."

"Possibly," Ryerson said dryly, but there was no anger in his voice, rather a kind of patience. "But if you knew her you would not bother with such a suggestion. It is absurd, not only because of her character, but were she to have done such a thing, why in heaven's name would she then shoot him?"

Pitt had to agree that there was no sense in it, even allowing for temper, passion, or accident. If Ayesha Zakhari was convincing enough to have planned such a thing in advance, then she was far too clever to have behaved so idiotically afterwards.

"Could Lovat in some way have threatened her?" he asked aloud.

"She did not let him in, Mr. Pitt," Ryerson answered. "I don't know if there is any way of proving it, but he was never in the house."

"But she was outside," Pitt remarked. "In the garden she would have had little defense."

"You are suggesting she took her gun with her." Ryerson's lips were touched briefly with the tiniest smile. "That would seem to be excellent defense. And if she shot him because he threatened her, or even attacked her, then that is self-defense and not murder." Then the light vanished from his eyes. "But that is not what happened. She went outside only after she heard the shot, and she found him already dead."

"How do you know that?" Pitt said simply.

Ryerson sighed and his face pinched so minutely not a single feature altered, simply the vitality died inside him. "I don't know it," he said quietly. "That is what she told me, and I know her infinitely better than you do, Mr. Pitt." The words were invested with sadness and an intensity of emotion so raw Pitt was embarrassed by it. He felt intrusive, and yet he had no choice but to be there. "There is an inner kind of honesty in her like a clear light," Ryerson went on. "She would not stoop to deceive, for her own sake, for the violence it would do to her nature, not for the sake of anyone else."

Pitt stared at him. Ryerson was worried; there was even a flicker of real fear, tightly controlled, at the back of his eyes, but it was not for himself. Pitt had never seen the Egyptian woman. He had imagined someone beautiful, lush, a woman to satisfy a jaded appetite, to flatter and yield, to tease but only for her own ends. She would be the ultimate mistress for a man with both money and power, but who would marry only to suit his political or dynastic ambitions, and seek the answer to his physical needs elsewhere. Such a man would not look for love or honor; he would not even think of it. And he would expect to pay for his pleasures.

Now it occurred to Pitt with startling force that perhaps he was wrong. Was it conceivable that Ryerson loved his mistress, not merely desired her? It was a new thought, and it altered his entire perception. It made Ryerson a better man, but also perhaps a more dangerous one. Pitt's charge from Narraway, and therefore from the prime minister, was to protect Ryerson from involvement in the case. If Ryerson was behaving from love, and not self-interest, then he would be far more difficult to predict, and impossible to control. A whole ocean of danger opened up in front of Pitt's imagination.

"Yes..." he said quietly. It was not an agreement, he was merely acknowledging that he understood. "Miss Zakhari told you that she had heard the shots... Did she say how many?"

"A single shot," Ryerson corrected him.

Pitt nodded. "You went to see, and found Lovat dead on the ground near the laurel bushes. What then?"

"I asked her if she had any idea what had happened," Ryerson replied. "She told me she had no idea at all, but that Lovat had sent her letters, pressing her to rekindle an old love affair, and she had refused, fairly bluntly. He was not willing to accept that, which was presumably why he had come."

"At three in the morning?" Pitt said with disbelief. He did not add reasons for the absurdity of that.

For the first time Ryerson showed some trace of anger. "I have no idea, Mr. Pitt! I agree it is ludicrous-but he was unarguably there! And since he is dead, and no one we know spoke to him, I cannot think of any way to learn what he hoped to achieve."

Pitt had a sudden awareness of the power of the man, the inner intellectual strength and the will which had taken him to the peak of his profession and kept him there for nearly two decades. His vulnerability with regard to Ayesha Zakhari, and the fact that he was involved, in whatever way, with a murder and therefore in personal danger, had made him temporarily forget it. When Pitt spoke again it was with a new respect, even though it was unintentional. "What did you do then, sir?"

Ryerson colored. "I said that we must move the body. That was when I knew that it was her gun."

"It was your idea to move Mr. Lovat's body?"

Ryerson's face set a fraction harder, altering the planes of his cheek and jaw. "Yes, it was."

Pitt wondered if he was trying to protect the woman, but he had no doubt whatever that if it was a lie, it was one Ryerson was not going to retract. He had committed himself, and it was not in his nature to go back, whether it was pride or honor that held him, or simply the truth.

"I see. Did you fetch the wheelbarrow or did she?"

Ryerson hesitated. "She did. She knew where it was."

"And she brought it back to where the body was?"

"Yes, and the gun. I helped her lift him in. He was heavy, and extremely awkward. His body was limp. He kept sliding out of our grasp."

"Did you take the head or the feet?" Pitt already knew the answer, but he was interested to see if Ryerson would tell the exact truth.

"The head, of course," Ryerson said a trifle tartly. "It was heavier, and the wounds were in his chest, so that was where he bled. Surely you know that?"

Pitt was annoyed to find himself embarrassed, and wished he had not asked the question. "You put him in the barrow, then what did you intend to do with him?" he continued.

"Take him to Hyde Park," Ryerson answered. "It's less than a hundred yards away."

"In the barrow?" Pitt said in surprise.

Temper flashed across Ryerson's face. "No, of course not! We could hardly wheel a corpse around the streets in a garden barrow, even at three in the morning! I had gone to harness up the gig and Ayesha was going to bring him to the mews. That was when the police arrived. As soon as I heard the voices I came back. Lovat's blood didn't show on my dark suit; the constable assumed I had only just come. Ayesha immediately confirmed him in that assumption, to protect me. I was about to argue, then I saw the sense in remaining free to do whatever I could to help her."

Again, Pitt was surprised. From any other man he would have doubted that, but from Ryerson he accepted it. He had not once attempted to cover over either his presence or his involvement, and he had to know that attempting to move a body from the scene of a crime was itself an offense.

"And what are you doing to help her?" Pitt asked unblinkingly.

Suddenly desperation filled Ryerson's eyes and terror flooded up inside him for a moment beyond control. "Trying to think what the devil really happened!" he said hoarsely. "Who did kill him, and why? Why at Eden Lodge, and why in the middle of the night?" He spread his hands slightly, strong but finely sculpted for so large a man. "What was he doing there at all? Did someone follow him? Did someone meet him there? For what? That makes no sense either. You don't arrange a quarrel in someone else's back garden in the middle of the night!" He was staring at Pitt, willing him to believe. "Ayesha wouldn't have opened the door to him. Was he planning to break in? Or create a scene and waken the neighbors?" His face was now ashen pale. "I know she would not have killed him, but for the life of me I can't imagine any credible answer as to what did happen." He did not even pretend to mask his feelings.

Narraway had told Pitt to keep Ryerson out of it if it were humanly possible. Given Ryerson's emotions, perhaps the only way to do that would be to learn the truth, in the hope that it proved Ayesha Zakhari less guilty than she looked now.

"I'll try to find the answers," Pitt said aloud. "But it will require a certain cooperation from you, sir."

"As far as I am able," Ryerson replied. He was not so desperate he would play into anyone's hands with an open promise. Pitt found that faintly comforting. At least the man had some balance and judgment left. "But I will not see her blamed for my acts, nor will I swear falsely to protect my reputation. It would serve me ill anyway, and Mr. Gladstone knows it. A man who would lie to serve his own ends will eventually lie for anything."

"Yes, sir," Pitt agreed. "I had no intention of asking you to lie, rather that you tell me all the truth you know, and keep silent as to your being at Eden Lodge unless it is inescapable that you answer the police. But I think they will refrain from asking you for as long as they can."

Ryerson's smile was bittersweet. "I imagine they will," he agreed. "What will Victor Narraway ask you to do, Mr. Pitt?" There was a change in his expression so minute Pitt could not have described it, but he knew without question it reflected a darkness inside.

"Find the truth," he answered with a slight grimace, knowing both that he had set himself a huge task, perhaps an impossible one, and that even if he succeeded the truth he found would very probably be one he would hate-and might not be able to conceal without even worse pain.

Ryerson did not answer him, but rose to his feet to show him to the front door himself, ignoring the services of the waiting footman.

IT TOOK PITT the rest of the morning and into the early afternoon to find the police surgeon and obtain his attention. He was a large man with heavy shoulders and quivering chins that settled into his neck without noticeable distinction. He had an apron tied around his vast girth, and his hands were scrubbed pink, presumably to get rid of the evidence of his day's work, if not the smell of carbolic and vinegar. He greeted Pitt with indignant good humor.

"Thought I'd got rid of you when you left Bow Street," he observed in a remarkably attractive voice. It was the only physically pleasing quality about him, apart from his hair, which was thick and curling and so clean as to shine in the gaslight from the lamps above him as they stood in his office. His eyebrows rose. "What do you want now? I don't know any bombers or anarchists. My ignorance of such things is precious to me, and I intend to keep it until I die peacefully of old age, sitting in the sun on some park bench. I can't help you-but I suppose I can try, if you insist."

"Lieutenant Edwin Lovat," Pitt replied. He liked McDade and he had nothing pleasanter or more useful to do than extract information from him a piece at a time.

"Dead," McDade said simply. "Shot through the chest-heart, actually. Small handgun, close range. Very neat."

"Great skill required?" Pitt asked.

"Only for a blind man with a moving target!" McDade looked at Pitt sideways. "Haven't seen the body, have you." That was a statement, not a question.

"Not yet," Pitt agreed. "Should I?"

McDade shrugged his massive shoulders, setting his chins quivering. "Not unless you need to know what he looked like, which is much the same as any other well-built young English soldier with a comfortable style of living, plenty of good food, and not much exercise lately. He'd have run to fat in another ten years, when the muscle went soft." His expression became rueful. "Handsome, I should think, when he was alive. Good features, good head of hair, all his teeth, which in his early forties isn't bad. Mind, it's intelligence and humor that make you like a man, and it's hard to tell that when you've only seen him dead." He looked away from Pitt as he spoke those words, and there was the very faintest shred of self-consciousness in him. Was he excusing his own massive size, defending himself from critical thought even though nothing had been said?

"Exactly," Pitt agreed. He had never considered himself handsome either. He smiled suddenly.

McDade colored. "Well, what else do you want?" he demanded, swinging around. "He was shot! Through the heart. I've no idea whether that was luck or skill. Killed him on the spot-it would do!"

"Thank you. I suppose there's nothing else you can tell me?"

"Like what?" McDade's voice rose incredulously. "That he was shot by a left-handed man with a walleye and a limp? No, I can't! Shot by somebody a couple of yards away who could hold a gun steady and see what they were doing. Is that any help?"

"None at all. Thank you for your time. May I see him?"

McDade waved a short, fat arm indicating the general area beyond the door. "Help yourself. He's on the third table along. But you shouldn't have any trouble finding him. The other two are women."

Pitt forbore from remark and went out as directed.

He looked at the body of Edwin Lovat, hoping it would give him a sense of the man's reality. He stared at the waxen features, a little sunken now, and tried to imagine him alive, laughing and talking, filled with feeling. Without movement, sound, anything of the thoughts or passions that had made Lovat unique, his body told Pitt nothing more than McDade had already said. A slender woman could not possibly have lifted him. Had he suspected any violence he would presumably not have stood so close to whoever it was who shot him, which meant that either the murderer was known to him as a friend or he had not seen his assailant until the moment before the shot was fired. Either possibility answered the facts, and there was no way to tell which was the case. It was probably irrelevant anyway. The woman had killed him. Pitt's only hope to save Ryerson was to find some mitigating reason why.

He spent the remainder of the afternoon learning what he could about Ryerson: his present responsibilities, which were largely to do with trade both within the empire and beyond; and the constituency he represented, which was in Manchester, the heart of the cotton-spinning industry in England. It was the second largest city in Britain, and also the home of the prime minister, Mr. Gladstone.

He was back in Keppel Street in time for dinner.

"Can you do anything to help?" Charlotte asked, looking up from her sewing as they sat together in the parlor afterwards.

"Help whom?" Pitt asked. "Ryerson?"

"Of course." She kept on weaving the needle in and out, the light flashing on it like a streak of silver, the head of it clicking very softly against her thimble. He found it a uniquely pleasing sound; it seemed to represent everything that was gentle and domestic, and there was an infinite safety in it. He had no idea what she was mending, but it was clean cotton and the faint aroma of it drifted across the short space between them.

"Can you?" she pressed.

"I don't know," he admitted, feeling the weight of it sink on him as if the room were suddenly darker. "I'm not sure he's prepared to help himself."

She stared at him, her needle motionless in her hand, her face puzzled. "What do you mean? Are you saying he's guilty?"

"He says he's not," Pitt replied. "And I'm inclined to believe him." He pictured Ryerson's face in his mind as he had defended Ayesha Zakhari, and heard again the emotion in Ryerson's voice. "At least I think so," he added. "He's willing to admit he was there, and that he actually helped her lift Lovat's body into the barrow, intending to take it to Hyde Park."

"Then he is an accessory!" she said in amazement. "After the murder, even if not before."

"Yes, I know that," he agreed.

"And the prime minister wants you to protect him?" she asked, struggling with the idea.

He stared at her. Her expression contained too many emotions for him to be certain which was the most powerful: incredulity, anger, dismay, anxiety.

"I'm not sure," he said honestly. "I don't know which is the greatest ill."

She was confused. "What do you mean? It wouldn't bring the government down, not so soon after the election. Ryerson would have to go, that's all. And if he helped his mistress to murder a past lover, then so he should."

"The Manchester cotton workers are threatening to strike," he pointed out. "That's Ryerson's department, his constituency. He's possibly the only man who has a chance of settling the problem without ruining heaven knows how many people, workers and mill owners alike, and the shopkeepers, businesses and artisans of the nearby towns as well."

"I see," she said soberly. "What can you do? You can't conceal his involvement, can you? Would you?" She had put her sewing down now and her attention was undivided, her eyes dark and troubled.

"I don't suppose the question will arise," he answered, hoping profoundly that that was true. "The Egyptian embassy knows he was there."

Her eyebrows rose in amazement. "How do they know that? She told them?"

"Apparently not, she hasn't had the opportunity. But it's a most interesting question. She seemed to be willing to protect him when she was arrested. She behaved as if she was surprised to see him, and he'd only just arrived, although he says he had been there several minutes at least, and was the one who actually lifted the heavier part of the body into the barrow. Somebody certainly helped her. Lovat was far too heavy for her to have done it alone, and there was no blood on her dress."

"You need to know a lot more about him," she said with concern shadowing her eyes. "I mean not what everybody knows, but something personal. You need to know what to believe. Have you thought of asking Aunt Vespasia? If she doesn't know him herself, she'll know someone who does." She was referring to Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould, actually her sister Emily's great-aunt by marriage, but both Charlotte and Pitt had grown to care for her deeply, and treated her as their own.

"I'll see her as soon as I can," Pitt agreed immediately. He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. "Do you think it's too late to telephone and ask her if tomorrow morning is convenient?" He was halfway to his feet already.

Charlotte smiled. "If you tell her it is to do with a crime you are investigating, with the possibility of government scandal, I imagine she will see you at dawn, if that is when you need her to," she replied.

SHE WAS ALMOST RIGHT. However, Pitt had breakfast first, and glanced at the newspapers before leaving in the morning. It was September 16, and the news headlines were taken up with Mr. Gladstone's visit to Wales, where he had apparently reached some level of agreement on the disestablishment of the Church in that country. Also written about extensively were the outbreaks of cholera in Paris and Hamburg, and on a lighter note, the fact that the recently completed bust of Queen Victoria, sculpted by Princess Louise, was to remain in Osborne House until its shipment to Chicago for exhibition there.

By nine o'clock Pitt was in Vespasia's bright, airy withdrawing room with its windows overlooking the garden. The simplicity of the furnishings, with none of the fashionable clutter of the last sixty years' taste, reminded him that she was born in another age and her memories stretched back to the time before Victoria was queen. As a child she had known the fear of invasion by the Emperor Napoleon.

Now she sat in her favorite chair and regarded him with interest. She was still a woman of remarkable beauty, and she had lost none of the wit and style that had dazzled society for three generations. She was dressed in dove gray this morning, with her favorite long rows of pearls around her neck and gleaming softly over her bosom.

"Well, Thomas," she said with slightly raised silver eyebrows. "If you wish for my assistance you had better tell me what it is you require to know. I am not acquainted with the unfortunate young Egyptian woman who appears to have shot Lieutenant Lovat. It seems an uncivilized and inefficient way to discard an unwanted lover. A firm rebuff is usually adequate, but if it is not, there are still less hysterical ways of achieving the same end. A clever woman can organize her lovers to dispose of each other, without breaking the law." She regarded him very soberly, but there was a wry humor in her silver-gray eyes, and for an instant he dared to imagine that she spoke from experience and not merely opinion.

"And how do you guarantee that your lover will remain within the law?" he asked politely.

"Ah!" she said with instant understanding. "Is that the story? Who is the lover who has behaved with such ungoverned stupidity? I assume there is no question of self-defense?" A flicker of concern crossed her face. "Is that why you are here to see me, Thomas, on the lover's behalf?"

"Yes, I am afraid it is. At least not his behalf, but in his interest."

"I see. So she was not alone, and he is a person in whom Victor Narraway has some concern. Of whom are we speaking?"

"Saville Ryerson."

She sat perfectly still, facing him with a steady, curiously sad gaze.

"Do you know him?" he asked gently.

"Of course I do," she replied. "I have known him since before his wife was killed... twenty years, at least. In fact, I fear it is more... perhaps twenty-two or twenty-three, by now."

He felt a tightening inside him. He studied her face and tried to read how much it was going to hurt her if Ryerson was guilty. Which would matter most to her-his political disgrace or the fact that he was ill-judged enough to allow what should have been a casual affair, with a woman of a different race, religion, and national loyalties, to rule his passions to the point where he colluded in murder? Sometimes one knows a person for years but sees only a surface the person wishes to show. There are vast tides underneath which are not even guessed at.

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely. He had come to her for help without thinking for a moment that perhaps the truth could be painful for her. Now he was ashamed of taking it for granted. "I need to know more of him than public opinion can tell me," he explained.

"Of course you do," she agreed with asperity. "May I ask what it is you suspect him of? Not actually murder, surely?"

"You think he would not kill, even to protect his reputation?"

"You are being evasive, Thomas!" she replied, but there was a slight tremor in her voice. "Is that your way of allowing me to understand that you do?"

"No," he said quickly, guilt biting a little deeper. "I spoke with him, and he confuses me. I want a clearer impression of him, without unintentionally placing the thoughts in your mind by telling you too much."

"I am not a servant girl to be so easily led," she said with undisguised disparagement. Then, when she saw him blush, she smiled with the charm she had used to devastate men, and occasionally women as well, all her life. "I do not believe for a moment that Saville Ryerson would kill to protect his reputation," she said with conviction. "But I do not find it impossible to accept that he would do so to defend his life, or someone else's, or for a cause that he held sufficiently important. Which I profoundly doubt would be anything to do with cotton strikes in Manchester. What other issues are there at stake?"

"None that I know of," he replied, the tightness easing out of him again at her warmth. "And I don't know of any real reason why Lovat should be a threat to Miss Zakhari."

"Might he have attacked her, or attempted an assault which she rejected?" Vespasia asked with a frown.

"At three o'clock in the morning, in her back garden?" he said dryly.

Her expression was momentarily comical.

"Oh-hardly," she agreed. "One does not meet in such circumstances unless one has some nature of assignation." Then total seriousness returned. "And one does not innocently take a gun. It was her gun, I assume?" Hope of denial was born and died in the same instant. "I admit, I read only the headlines. It seemed of no concern to me then."

"Yes," he agreed. "It was her gun, but she said she found it there. She heard the shot and that is why she went outside. He was already dead when she reached him."

"And what does Saville Ryerson say?" she asked.

"That Lovat was dead when he got there," he replied. "And he helped her lift the body into a wheelbarrow in order to take it to Hyde Park and leave it there. The police were called by someone, we don't know who, and arrived in time to find her with the body. Ryerson had gone to the mews to harness a horse to the gig."

Vespasia sighed, her eyes troubled. "Oh, dear. I presume the evidence bears all this out." It was hardly a question.

"Yes, so far. Certainly someone lifted the body for her." He watched her face. "You don't find that hard to believe?"

She looked away. "No. Perhaps I had better tell you from the beginning."

"Please." He sat back a little in his chair, still watching her.

"The Ryersons were landed gentry," she began quietly, her voice remote in memory. "They had only the occasional link with aristocracy, but plenty of money. There were two or three sisters, I believe, but Saville was the only son. He was well educated at Eton, and then Cambridge, then the army for a spell. He served with distinction, but did not wish to make a career of it. He stood for Parliament around about 1860, and won easily." Regret touched so softly he barely saw it. "He married well," she continued. "I don't believe it was a love match, but it was certainly amiable enough, which is as much as most people expect."

Beyond the windows in the garden a bird was hopping over the grass and the late roses glowed in vivid ambers and reds.

"Then she was killed," Vespasia went on, startling Pitt so he gasped and coughed.

She glanced at him with a very slight, wry smile. "Not murdered, Thomas. It was an accident. I suppose if it happened now, you might be sent to investigate it, although I doubt you would find any more than they did then." She sat very still as she went on. "She was on holiday in Ireland. It was one of their periodic unpleasantnesses, and she was caught in the crossfire. It was criminal, of course, in that they were shooting each other. It was an ambush intended for political victims, and it was accidental that Libby Ryerson moved into the path at exactly that moment."

Pitt felt a stark sadness for Ryerson. It was a harsh way to lose someone. Had he blamed himself that he had not prevented it, somehow foreseen and guarded against it?

"Where was he?"

"In London."

"Why was she in Ireland?"

"She had many Anglo-Irish friends. She was a beautiful woman, restless for experience-adventure."

He was not sure what she meant, and hesitant to ask. It seemed intrusive not only to the dead woman but to Vespasia's implicit understanding of her as well. "Had they children?" he asked instead.

"No," she replied with a touch of sadness. "They had only been married two or three years."

"And he never married again?"

"No." Now her eyes met his candidly. "And before you ask me why, I do not know. He certainly had mistresses enough, and many women who would have accepted him." A thread of humor touched her mouth. "If you are looking for some dark secret in his personal life, I do not believe you will find it... not in that area, anyway. And I know of no other scandal, financial or political."

He thought carefully before asking the next question, but he realized as he formed the words in his mind that it was the one which had driven all the others and weighed most heavily on him.

"Do you know anything that connects him to Victor Narraway, professionally or personally?"

Vespasia's eyes widened very slightly. "No. Do you believe there is something?"

"I don't know." That was not strictly true. He did not know in a rational sense, but he was perfectly sure that Narraway was gripped by a hard and profound emotion when he thought of Ryerson. He had sent Pitt to see him instead of going himself for a reason so powerful it overrode judgment. He had rationalized it afterwards, not before. "I had that impression," he added aloud.

Vespasia leaned a little towards him, only the slightest yielding of the stiffness of her back. "Be careful, Thomas. Saville Ryerson is a man of intelligence and deep political judgment, but above all he is a man of feeling. He has worked hard for his beliefs and for the people he represents. He has not spared his time or his means to benefit Manchester, and much of the north of England, and he has done it alone, and quite often with too little thanks." She lifted her thin shoulders very slightly. "The Lancashire people are loyal, but they are quick-tempered and not overfond of London-made decisions. They have not always understood him. Because he is clever he has made enemies in Westminster: ambitious young men who want to topple him and take his place. Be very sure you are right before you accuse him of anything. It will ruin him, and you cannot undo that by withdrawing the charge afterwards."

"I'm trying to save him, Aunt Vespasia!" Pitt responded fervently. "I simply don't know how to!"

She turned away, staring at the gilt-edged mirror on the far wall, its beveled glass reflecting the leaves of the birch trees twisting and flickering in the slight wind outside.

"Perhaps you can't," she replied so softly he barely heard her. "He may love this Egyptian woman enough to have been complicit in her crime. Do what you have to, Thomas, but please do it as gently as you can."

"I will," he promised, wondering how on earth he would.