Seven Dials

chapter FIVE
CHARLOTTE GAVE A GREAT DEAL of thought to Martin Garvie and what could have happened to him. She was aware of many of the ugly or tragic things that could overtake servants, and of the misfortunes they could bring upon themselves. She also knew that Tilda was his sister, and Tilda's opinion of him was bound to be colored by her affections, and a certain innocence of the world inevitable in any girl of her lack of experience. Charlotte would not have wished it to be otherwise for Tilda's own sake. She must be of a similar age to Gracie, but she had nothing like the same spirit or the curiosity, and perhaps not the bitter experience of the streets either. Perhaps Martin had protected her from that?

They were in the kitchen, and Pitt had not been gone more than an hour.

"Wot are we gonna do?" Gracie asked with an awkward mixture of deference and determination. Nothing would persuade her to stop, and yet she knew she needed Charlotte's help. She was ashamed of having alienated Tellman, and she was confused by it, and for the first time, a little afraid of her own feelings.

Charlotte was busy removing a grease stain from Pitt's jacket. She had already made a fine powder of ground sheep's trotters. It was something she naturally kept in store, along with other ingredients for cleaning agents, such as sorrel juice, chalk, horse hoof parings-clean, of course-candle ends, and lemon or onion juice. She concentrated on what she was doing, dabbing at the stain with a cloth soaked in turpentine, and avoiding looking at Gracie so as not to give any emotional value to what she was saying.

"We should probably begin by speaking with Tilda again," she continued, reaching out and taking the powder from Gracie's hand. She shook a little onto the damp patch and looked at it critically. "A description of Martin might be helpful."

"We gonna look for 'im?" Gracie asked with surprise. "Where'd we start? 'E could be anywhere! 'E could 'a gorn... 'e could be..." She stopped.

Charlotte knew she had been going to say that he could be dead. It was the thought at the edge of her own mind too. "It's difficult to ask people questions about seeing someone if we can't say what he looks like," she replied, using a small, stiff brush to take the powder away. The stain was a lot better. One more time and it would be clean. She smiled very slightly. "It also makes it sound as if we don't know him," she added. "We don't... but the truth doesn't sound very believable."

"I can fetch Tilda ter tell us," Gracie said quickly. "She does 'er errands the same time most days."

"I'll come with you," Charlotte said.

Gracie's eyes widened. It was a mark of Charlotte's seriousness that she would come out into the street to wander around waiting for someone else's housemaid to pass. It was extraordinary friendship. It also made it clear that she believed he could be in very real danger. Gracie looked at Pitt's jacket, then up at Charlotte, the question in her eyes.

"I'll finish it when we get back," Charlotte said. "What time does Tilda go out?"

" 'Bout now," Gracie replied.

"Then you'd better put some more water in the stockpot and pull it to the side of the hob so it doesn't boil dry, and we'll go." Charlotte wiped her hands on her apron, then undid it and took it off. "Fetch your coat."

It was nearly an hour before they saw Tilda coming towards them along the street, but so distracted by her thoughts that Gracie had spoken to her twice before she realized it was she who was being addressed.

"Oh, Gracie!" she said with intense relief, the furrows of anxiety ironing out of her face. "I'm so glad ter see yer. 'Ave yer 'eard anythin'? No-no, o' course yer 'aven't. I'm that stupid or I wouldn't 'ave asked. 'Ow could yer? I 'aven't 'eard a word." Her face puckered again as she said it and tears filled her eyes. It obviously cost her all the will she had to keep any composure at all.

"No," Gracie agreed, taking Tilda by the arm and pulling her a few steps sideways out of the pathway of other pedestrians. "But we're gonna do summink about it. I brought Mrs. Pitt along, an' we can 'ave a cup o' tea an' she wants ter ask yer a few things, like."

Tilda looked at Charlotte, now standing beside them. The maid's eyes were wide with alarm.

"Good morning, Tilda," Charlotte said firmly. "Can you spare half an hour without making your mistress upset with you? I should like to learn a little more about your brother so we can look for him more effectively."

Tilda was momentarily lost for words, then her fear overcame her shyness. "Yes, ma'am, I'm sure she wouldn't mind, if I tell 'er it's ter do wi' Martin. I told 'er already as 'e were missin'."

"Good," Charlotte approved. "In the circumstances I think that was very wise." She glanced up at the gray, misty sky. "Our conversation would be better held inside, over a hot cup of tea." And without waiting for agreement or otherwise, she turned and led the way to the small baker's shop where they also served refreshments, and when they were seated at a table, to Tilda's astonishment, ordered tea and hot buttered muffins.

"How old is Martin?" Charlotte began.

"Twenty-three," Tilda answered immediately.

Charlotte was impressed. That was young for a valet, which was a skilled occupation. At such an age she would have expected him to be no more than a footman. Either he had been in service since he was very young or he was unusually quick to learn.

"How long has he been in the Garrick household?" she continued.

"Since 'e were seventeen," Tilda said. " 'E went there as a footman, but Mr. Stephen took a likin' to 'im. 'E were a bootboy wi' the Furnivals afore that, but they din't need another footman, so 'e moved on, an' up, like." There was a ring of pride in her voice and she sat a little more upright, her shoulders squared as she said it.

A shred of humor flickered into Charlotte's mind. How Tellman would despise a life of such dependence upon the favor of one family, the physical comfort bought at such a price of pride. And yet, as Gracie had pointed out to him in some heat at Charlotte's kitchen table, everyone depended upon the goodwill of others, on their skills or their patronage, their friendship or their protection. It was only that some forms of dependence were more obvious than others, not any more real.

"It sounds as if he is very good at his job," she said aloud, and saw Tilda smile back. "Was he happy there, as far as you know?"

Tilda leaned forward a little. "Yes, 'e were! That's just it, 'e never said a word about not bein' suited, an' I would 'a known. We din't never tell each other lies."

Charlotte believed that was true of Tilda, the younger and far more dependent of the two, but Martin might well have kept his own counsel on some subjects. However, it would serve no purpose now to challenge Tilda's perception of his nature. "What does he look like?" she asked instead.

"Bit like me," Tilda answered very practically. "Taller, o' course, an' bigger, like, but same colored 'air an' eyes, an' same kind o' nose." She indicated her own short, neat features.

"I see. That's very helpful. Is there anything else you can tell us about him which might be of use?" Charlotte asked. "Is there any young lady he admires? Or who admires him, perhaps?"

"Yer thinkin' as someone might 'a set 'er cap at 'im, an' if 'e turned 'er down, got nasty?" Tilda said with a shiver.

The serving girl came with tea and hot buttered muffins and they waited until she was gone. Charlotte indicated that they should eat, and she herself poured the tea. "It is possible," she answered the question. "We need to know a great deal more. And since people are apparently not going to tell us willingly, we shall have to find it out for ourselves, and as soon as possible. Tilda, they already know you, and your interest in the matter. I think it will be wisest if you do not call them again, at least for the time being. I am not acquainted with the family, although I might contrive to change that. Gracie, it seems as if you will have to be the one to begin."

" 'Ow am I gonna do that?" Gracie asked, her muffin halfway to her mouth. Her voice was a mixture of determination and fear. She very carefully avoided looking at Tilda.

Charlotte had racked her brain and still had no idea. "We shall discuss that when we get home," she replied. Gracie might very well read her indecision, but she would not betray it in front of Tilda. "Would you like more tea?" she offered.

They finished the muffins, Charlotte paid for them, and as soon as they were outside on the pavement again Tilda, now acutely aware of the time she had been away on her errands, which no queuing could explain, hastily thanked them both and took her leave.

" 'Ow am I gonna get inter the Garrick 'ouse an' ask 'em questions?" Gracie said as soon as they were alone and walking back towards Keppel Street. Her slightly apologetic air, as if she knew she was causing embarrassment but could not avoid it, showed that she had no idea either.

"Well, we can't tell the truth," Charlotte replied, looking straight ahead of her. "Which is a shame, because the truth is easier to remember. So it will have to be an invention." She avoided using the word lie. What they must say was not really deception because it was a greater truth they were seeking.

"I don' mind bein' a bit free wi' exactness," Gracie said, creating her own euphemism. "But I can't think o' nothin' as'll get me in! An' I bin scratchin' me 'ead ter come up wi' summink. Cor, I wish as Samuel Tellman'd believe me as summink's really wrong 'ere. I knew 'e were stubborn, but 'e's worse 'n tryin' ter back a mule inter the shafts. Me granfer 'ad a mule fer 'is cart wot 'e took the coal in. Yer never saw a more awk'ard beast in all yer life. Yer'd swear as 'is feet was glued ter the floor."

Charlotte smiled at the image, but she was trying to think also. They rounded the corner from Francis Street into Torrington Square, facing the rising wind. A newsboy was grabbing at his placard as it teetered and threatened to knock him over. Gracie ran forward and helped him.

"Thank yer, miss," he said gratefully, righting the board again with difficulty. Charlotte glanced at the newspaper she had saved from being blown away as well.

"In't nuffink good, missus," the boy said, pulling his face into an expression of disgust. "The cholera's got to Vienna now too. The French is fightin' in Mada-summink, an' blamin' our missionaries fer it. Says as it's all our fault."

"Madagascar?" Charlotte suggested.

"Yeah... that's right," he agreed. "Twenty people killed in a train smashup in France, just when someone's gorn an' opened a new railway from Jaffa, wherever that is, ter Jerusalem. An' the Russians 'as arrested the Canadians fer nickin' seals. Or summink. D'yer want one?" he added hopefully.

Charlotte smiled and held out the money. "Thank you," she accepted, taking the top one, which was now considerably crumpled. Then she and Gracie continued on towards Keppel Street.

" 'E's right," Gracie said glumly. "There in't nothin' good in 'em." She indicated the newspaper in Charlotte's hand. "It's all 'bout fightin' an' silliness an' the like."

"It seems to be what we consider news," Charlotte agreed. "If it's good, it can wait." That part of her mind still working on how to get Gracie into the Garrick house began to clear. "Gracie..." she said tentatively. "If Tilda were ill, and you did not know that Martin was not there, wouldn't it be the natural thing for you to go to him and tell him about her? Maybe she is too ill to write-assuming she can?"

Gracie's eyes brightened and a tiny smile of anticipation curved her lips. "Yeah! I reckon as that's what any friend'd do-eh? She's bin took sudden, an' I gotta tell poor Martin, in case she don't get better quick. An' I know where 'e works 'cos Tilda an' I is good friends... which we are. I'd better go soon, 'adn't I? Give 'er time ter get 'ome, an' be took, like, an' fer me ter ask me mistress, an' 'er bein' very good, she tells me ter do it fast!" She grimaced suddenly, lighting her thin, little face with amazing vitality.

"Yes," Charlotte agreed, unconsciously increasing her pace and rounding the corner into the wind again with her skirts swirling and the newspaper flapping in her arms. "There's nothing at home that can't wait. The sooner you go, the better."

HALF AN HOUR LATER, fortified with another cup of tea, Gracie began. She was excited, and so afraid of making a mistake that her stomach was fluttering inside her and she had to breathe in and out deeply and speak her words carefully in order not to stumble. She straightened her coat one more time, swallowed hard, and knocked on the scullery door of the Garrick house in Torrington Square. There was no point in waiting any longer. Time would not improve her task. She must do this for Tilda, and for Martin, of course, unless it was too late.

She had planned what she was going to say as soon as the door opened. Nevertheless, it had stayed shut until she lifted her hand to knock again, harder this time, so that when it did swing wide she nearly fell in. She jerked herself upright, gasping, and found herself less than a foot away from the scullery maid, a fair-skinned girl several inches taller than herself, with hair falling out of its skewed pins. The maid started to speak, shaking her head. "We din't-"

"Good day," Gracie said at the same time, and carrying on when the other girl stopped. She could not afford to be refused. "I come wi' a message. I'm sorry ter disturb yer just before luncheon, like. I know as yer'll be terrible busy, but I need ter tell yer." She did not have to pretend to anxiety, and her emotion must have carried through every part of her aspect, because the girl's face filled with immediate sympathy.

"Yer'd better come in," she invited, backing inside for Gracie to pass. It was a generous gesture.

"Ta," Gracie said with appreciation. It was a good beginning-in fact, the only one that could be a beginning at all. She gave the girl a quick half smile. "Me name's Gracie Phipps. I come from Keppel Street, jus' 'round the corner, but that's not really got nuffin' ter do wif it. Me message is 'cos o' somewhere else." She glanced around the well-stocked scullery hung with ropes of onions, sacks of potatoes on the floor, and several hard, white cabbages and various other root vegetables on wooden slatted shelves. On hooks on the walls were larger cooking vessels, handles looped over the pegs, and on the floor in the corner, jars of what were presumably different kinds of vinegars, oils and perhaps cooking wines.

"I'm Dorothy," the other girl responded. "Me ma called me Dora, but they call me Dottie 'ere, an' I don't mind. 'Oo'd yer come ter see?"

Gracie blinked as if she were fighting tears. She could not afford to begin by mentioning Martin Garvie's name, or the girl might simply tell her he was not there and show her out again, and she would have learned nothing. A bit of dramatic acting might be called for. "It's 'bout me friend Tilda," she replied. "I dunno 'er that close, but she's got no one else, an' she's terrible sick. She's got no family 'cept 'er brother, an' he's gotter know afore-" She stopped. She did not actually want to say that Tilda was dying, unless it was absolutely necessary, but she was happy for it to be understood. Of course if she really had to, then she would invent anything at all that would help.

"Oh, cor!" Dottie said, her face crumpling with sympathy. " 'Ow 'orrible!"

"I gotta tell 'im," Gracie repeated. "They in't got nobody else, either of 'em. 'E'll be that upset..." She allowed imagination to paint the picture.

" 'Course!" Dottie agreed, moving towards the step up to the kitchen, and the warmth and smells of cooking that drifted towards them. "Come in an' 'ave a cup o' tea. Yer look perished."

"Ta," Gracie accepted. "Ta very much." Actually she was not really cold; it was a very pleasant day and she had walked briskly, but fear had welled up inside her just as it did when one was tense with cold, and it must look the same. To be inside and form some opinion of the household was what she wanted. She followed Dottie up the wooden steps into a large kitchen with a high ceiling strung with an airing rail, presently carrying only towels for drying dishes, and several strings of dried herbs. On the walls copper pans gleamed bright and warm.

The cook, a rotund woman who obviously sampled her own skills, was muttering to herself as she beat a creamy mixture in a round bowl, rough brown on the outside, white earthenware within. She looked up as Gracie came in tentatively.

"Oh?" the cook said, fixing her with boot-button eyes. "An' what 'ave we got 'ere, then? We don' need no more maids, an' if we do, we'll get our own. Yer look like a twopenny rabbit anyway. Don' nobody feed yer?"

A thoroughly sharp rejoinder that would have put the cook in her place in a hurry rose to Gracie's lips, but she bit it back. Tilda would owe her for her forbearance.

"I in't lookin' fer work, ma'am," she said respectfully. "I got a position as suits me very well. I'm maid to a lady and gentleman in Keppel Street, wi' me own 'ouse'old, an' two children to care for." That was a bit of an exaggeration-there was only the cleaning woman under her instruction-but it was not an outright lie either. She saw the look of disbelief in the cook's round face. "I came ter give a message," she hurried on.

"A friend of 'ers is dyin', Mrs. Culpepper," Dottie added helpfully. "Gracie's tryin' ter tell 'er family, all there is of 'em."

"Dyin'?" Mrs. Culpepper said with surprise. It was obviously not at all what she had expected, or fully believed. "Wot of?"

Gracie was prepared for that. "Rheumatical fever," she said without hesitation. "Terrible poorly, she is." She allowed her real fears for Martin, which were now gnawing deeply inside her, to invest her expression with pain.

Mrs. Culpepper must have seen it. "I'm sorry to 'ear that," she said with what looked to be a genuine pity. "Wot is it yer want 'ere? Don' stand there, Dottie! Fetch the girl a cup o' tea!" She looked back at Gracie. "Sit down." She pointed to a hard-backed kitchen chair on the other side of the table.

Dottie went to the stove and pushed the kettle over onto the heat. It began to whistle almost immediately.

Mrs. Culpepper did not miss a beat with her wooden spoon. "Now then, missy..." She had already forgotten Gracie's name. "Wot is it yer want 'ere? 'Oo's this message for, then?"

There was no more time for prevarication. Gracie watched Mrs. Culpepper's face intently. Expression might tell her more than words. "Martin Garvie," she replied. " 'E's 'er brother. She's got nob'dy else. Their ma an' pa died years back."

Mrs. Culpepper's face was unreadable, the slight sadness remained exactly the same, and her hand did not hesitate in the beating of the batter.

"Oh..." she said without looking up. "Well, that's a pity, 'cos 'e in't 'ere no more, an' I dunno where 'e's gorn."

Gracie knew there was a lie in that somewhere, or at least less than the truth, but she had the strong feeling that it was unhappiness rather than guilt which prompted it. Suddenly very real, sharp fear gripped her and the warm, sweet-smelling kitchen with its hot ovens and steaming pans swam around her. She closed her eyes to stop it swaying.

When she opened them Mrs. Culpepper was staring at her and Dottie was standing on the other side of the table with a cup of tea in her hand.

" 'Ead between yer knees," the cook said practically.

"I in't gonna faint!" Gracie was defensive, partly because she was not absolutely sure it was true. They were being kind. There was nothing to fight, and she did not know where to direct her emotions. "If 'e in't 'ere, where's 'e gorn?" She could not say that he had told no one, because Tilda was supposed to be too ill to know. She hoped fervently that when Tilda had called here asking for Martin herself, she had looked sufficiently distraught to appear on the edge of serious illness.

"We dunno," Dottie answered before Mrs. Culpepper had weighed her own reply. The cook shot her a sharp glance of warning, but whether it was to guard a secret or to keep from unnecessary hurt, there was no way to tell.

"An' why should yer know, girl!" Mrs. Culpepper found her tongue. "In't nuffink ter do wif yer where the master sends 'is staff, now is it?"

Dottie put the tea down in front of Gracie. "You drink that," she ordered. "O' course it in't, Mrs. Culpepper," she agreed obediently. "But yer'd think as Bella'd know, all the same." She turned to Gracie again. "Bella's our parlor maid, and she kinda liked Martin. Nice, 'e were, too. I liked 'im meself... in a friendly sort o' way," she added quickly.

"Yer got too busy a tongue in yer 'ead!" Mrs. Culpepper said critically. "If Bella knows where 'e's gorn, wot's it she should tell you, eh?"

Dottie shrugged. "I know," she said without resentment. Then her face clouded. "But I wish as I knew wot 'ad 'appened ter Martin meself."

"Don' yer go talkin' like that, you stupid girl!" Mrs. Culpepper snapped in sudden rage, her face pink. She slammed the bowl down on the table. "Anyone'd think as 'e were dead, or summink 'appened to 'im! Nothin's 'appened to 'im! 'E just in't 'ere, that's all. You button yer lip, my girl, an' go an' do summink useful. Go an' grate them ol' potatoes ready ter soak. Yer can't ne'er 'ave too much starch. Don' stand there like yer was a ruddy ornament!"

Dottie pushed her hair back with her hand, shrugged good-naturedly, and wandered off to the scullery to do as she was told.

"I'm glad nuthin' in't 'appened to 'im," Gracie said with suitable humility. "But I still gotter tell 'im about Tilda." She knew she was pressing her good fortune, but she had no choice. So far she had learned no more than Tilda had already told them. "Somebody's gotta know, in't they?"

"O' course somebody 'as," Mrs. Culpepper agreed, reaching for a baking tin and a muslin cloth with a little butter on it. She greased the tin with a single, practiced movement. "But it in't me."

Gracie took a sip of the tea. "Tilda said as 'e were Mr. Stephen's valet. 'As 'e got a new one, then?"

Mrs. Culpepper looked up sharply. "No, 'e 'asn't. Don' yer go..." Then her face softened. "Look, girl, I can see that yer upset, an' it's awful 'ard ter face someone real sick, as yer can't 'elp. Gawd knows, I wouldn't want a dog ter die alone, but so 'elp me, I dunno where Martin's gorn, an' that's the Gawd's truth. 'Ceptin' 'e's a good man, an' I don't believe as 'e'd ne'er give no one any trouble."

Gracie sniffed and blinked, her mind on Tilda and the fear inside her. It had been almost a week already. Why was there no letter, no message? "Wot's 'e like, Mr. Stephen? Would 'e get rid o' someone if they 'adn't done nothin' wrong?"

Mrs. Culpepper wiped her hands on her apron, abandoned the batter and poured herself a cup of tea. "Lord knows, girl," she said, shaking her head. " 'E's a poor mixed-over kind o' man. But even on 'is worst days I don't think as 'e would 'a got rid o' Martin, 'cos Martin's the only one wot can do a thing wit 'im when 'e gets bad."

Gracie tried hard to keep her expression calm, and knew she did not entirely succeed. This was new information, and it alarmed her even though she was not sure if she understood it. She looked up at Mrs. Culpepper, blinking several times to try to disguise her thoughts. "Yer mean when 'e's sick, like?"

Mrs. Culpepper gave a start and did not reply. Her hand stayed frozen on the handle of her cup.

Gracie was afraid she had made her first serious mistake, but she knew enough not to try to mend it. She said nothing, waiting for Mrs. Culpepper to speak first.

"Yer could say that," Mrs. Culpepper conceded at last, raising the cup to her lips and sipping the hot tea. "An' I'm not 'ere ter say diff'rent." That was a warning.

Gracie understood instantly. Sick was a euphemism for something far worse, almost certainly blind drunk. Some men collapsed in a heap, or were thoroughly ill, but there were always the odd few who became belligerent and started fighting people, or took their clothes off, or otherwise were an embarrassment and a nuisance. It sounded as if Stephen Garrick was of the last sort.

" 'Course not," Gracie said demurely. "Nobody says diff'rent. In't our place."

"Not that I'm not tempted, sometimes, mind!" Mrs. Culpepper added with some heat, just as the very handsome parlor maid came into the kitchen and stopped abruptly. "You've not come for luncheon already, 'ave yer?" Mrs. Culpepper said in amazement. "I dunno where the day's gorn ter. I in't nothin' like ready."

"No, no!" Bella assured her. "Loads of time." She looked curiously at Gracie. She must have overheard the last few words of the conversation. "Not that I wouldn't fancy a cup of tea myself, if it's hot," she added.

"This is Gracie," Mrs. Culpepper said, suddenly recalling Gracie's name. "She's come 'cos Martin's sister's a friend of 'ers, an' it seems the poor girl 'as the rheumatical fever, an' she's like ter dyin', so Gracie's lookin' for Martin ter tell 'im, which is terrible 'ard."

Bella shook her head, her face grave. "I wish we could help you, but we don't know where he is," she said candidly. "Usually when Mr. Stephen goes away it's in the middle of the morning, and we all know for days beforehand, but this is different... He just... isn't here."

Gracie was not going to give up without trying every avenue. "Mrs. Culpepper's been very gracious," she said warmly. "An' she says as Mr. Garrick really depended on Martin, so 'e wouldn't a' got rid of 'im on a fancy, like."

Bella's face pinched with anger. "He behaved pretty rotten at times. My ma'd have taken a slipper to me if I'd thrown tantrums the way he does, kicking and shouting and-"

"Bella!" Mrs. Culpepper said warningly, her voice sharp.

"Well, goes on like a three-year-old, he does sometimes!" Bella protested, her cheeks flushed. "And poor Martin put up with it without a word of complaint. Cleaning up behind him, listening to him weeping and wailing about everything you could name, or just sitting there like the misery of the whole world was on his plate. You'd-"

"Yer'd best keep a still tongue in yer 'ead, my girl, or yer'll 'ave the misery o' the world on your plate, an' all!" Mrs. Culpepper warned her. "Yer might be an 'andsome piece, as speaks like a lady, but yer'll be out in the street in 'alf a trice, wi' yer bags in yer 'and an' no character if the master catches yer talkin' about Mr. Stephen ter strangers, an' that's a fact!" There was a note of urgency in her voice, and her black eyes were sharp. Gracie was sure it was not anger or dislike but affection which prompted her.

Bella sat down on the other kitchen chair, her skirts swirling around her, her white lace apron clean and starched stiff. "It's not fair!" she said fiercely. "What that man put up with is more than a soul should take. And if they've put him out..."

" 'Course they haven't put him out, yer daft a'p'orth!" a young footman said as he came in. His hair grew up in a quiff on his forehead; his breeches were still a fraction too large for him. Gracie guessed that he had only just graduated from bootboy within the last few weeks.

Bella rounded on him. "And how come you know so much, Clarence Smith?"

" 'Cos I see things what you don't!" he retorted. "There's nobody but Martin can do anything with him when he gets one of his black miseries. And nobody else even tries, when he flies into one of his rages. I wouldn't try for all the tea in China. Even Mr. Lyman's scared of him... and Mrs. Somerton. And I didn't think as Mrs. Somerton was scared of nothing. I'd have put a shilling on her against the dragon, never mind St. George, an' all."

"You get about your business, Clarence, afore I report you ter Mr. Lyman fer lip!" Mrs. Culpepper said tartly. "Yer'll be eatin' yer supper out in the scullery, an' lucky ter get bread and drippin', if 'e catches yer."

"It's true!" Clarence said indignantly.

"True in't got nothin' ter do with it, yer stupid article!" she retorted. "Sometimes I think yer in't got the wits yer was born with. Get on and carry them coals through fer Bella. On with yer."

"Yes, Mrs. Culpepper," he said obediently, perhaps recognizing in her voice anxiety rather than criticism.

Gracie thought for a moment that perhaps it would be fun to work in a large house, just for a week or two. But of course it was not nearly as important as what she was doing. She watched as Clarence went out to perform his task. She picked up her tea and finished it.

"Sorry, luv, but we can't 'elp yer," Mrs. Culpepper said to her, shaking her head and pouring out the batter into the tin at last. "Gotta get on wit the cakes fer tea. Ne'er know 'oo'll be callin'. Dottie! Dottie... come an' see ter 'em vegetables."

Gracie stood up to leave, carrying her empty cup over to the board beside the sink. "Thank yer," she said sincerely. "I'll just 'ave ter keep tryin', although I dunno where else ter go."

Dottie came back from the scullery, wiping her hands on the corner of her apron. "Well 'e were visitin' a Mr. Sandeman someplace down the east end," she said hopefully. "Mebbe 'e'd know summink?"

Gracie put the cup down carefully, feeling it wobble as her hands shook. "Sandeman?" she repeated. " 'Oo's 'e? D'yer know?"

Dottie looked crestfallen. "Sorry, I in't got no idea."

Gracie swallowed her disappointment. "Never mind, mebbe somebody will. Thank yer, Mrs. Culpepper."

Mrs. Culpepper shook her head. "I'm real sorry. Poor thing. Mebbe she'll get better, yer ne'er know."

"Yeah," Gracie agreed, not feeling she was lying because her thoughts were with Martin, not Tilda. "Keep 'opin', eh!"

Dottie took her to the back door, and a moment later Gracie was out on the pavement hurrying as fast as her feet could carry her towards Keppel Street.

OF COURSE SHE TOLD Charlotte all that she had learned as soon as she was back at Keppel Street, but to repeat it to Tellman was much more difficult. To begin with she had to find him, and there was nowhere to begin except the Bow Street police station, or the lodging house where he lived. It was always possible that he would go straight from whatever task he was on back to his rooms for the night, and that could be at any hour. Added to which, she had no wish to embarrass him by being seen in Bow Street, where they would know who she was, even if she did not actually ask for him at the desk. More important, they might remember that she was Pitt's maid and assume that that was why she was there to see Tellman, which could make things very awkward for him with his new superintendent.

So she ended up standing on the pavement outside his lodging house in the early evening, staring up at the windows of his room on the second floor and seeing only darkness where, were he at home, there would be slits of light between the curtains.

She stood uncertainly for several minutes, then realized that he could be an hour or more yet, or if he was on a serious case, even longer. She knew there was a pleasant tearoom only a few hundred yards away; she could spend a little time there, and return later to see if he was home yet.

She had walked fifty yards when she thought how easy it would be to return half a dozen times before she found him, or on the other hand, wait far too long. She turned and walked back, knocked on the door, and when the landlady came told her very politely that she had important information for Inspector Tellman and she would be waiting for him in the tearoom, if he could come and find her there.

The landlady looked a trifle dubious, but she agreed, and Gracie left feeling satisfied with the arrangement.

Tellman came in tired and cold almost an hour after that. He had had a long and tedious day, and he was more than ready to eat a brief supper and go to bed early. She knew as soon as she saw his face and the stiffness of his body that he remembered their quarrel and was not at all sure how to speak to her now. The fact that she had come to start the whole subject again was only going to make it worse, but she felt no choice at all. Martin Garvie's life might be at stake, and what was anyone's love or comfort worth if, when faced with unpleasantness or difference of opinion, it crumbled and fell away?

"Samuel," she began as soon as he was seated opposite her and had given his order to the waitress.

"Yes?" he said guardedly. He seemed about to add something, then bit it off.

There was nothing to it but to plunge in. The longer she sat there with either silence between them or stilted conversation, saying one thing and thinking and caring about another, the worse it would get. "I bin ter the Garrick 'ouse," she said, looking across the table at him. She saw him stiffen even more, his fingers white where his hands were clenched on the table. "I just went ter the kitchen," she hurried on. "I asked the cook an' the scullery maid, on account o' Tilda bein' ill an' Martin was the only family she got."

"Is she ill?" he said quickly.

"Only wit worry," she answered honestly. "But I said as she 'ad a bad fever." Now she was embarrassed. He would not approve of lying, and she wished she did not have to tell him that she had done so. But not to would mean lying to him, and that was something she was not prepared to do. She went on quickly to cover it. "I jus' asked where Martin were, so's I could tell 'im. They dunno, Samuel, I mean really dunno! They're worried too." She leaned forward, closer to him. "They said as Mr. Stephen drinks far too much an' 'as terrible tempers, and black moods o' misery wot are summink awful. No one can 'elp 'im, 'cept Martin, an' 'e'd never put Martin out, 'cos o' that." She stared at him, seeing the worry and the disbelief struggling in his eyes.

"You sure they told you all these things?" he said with a frown. "If they said that to anyone that came to the door, Mr. Garrick would throw them out without a character. I never met servants who would say anything about their household, unless they'd already been dismissed and were looking to make trouble."

"They didn't say it like that," she explained patiently. "I sat in the kitchen an' they gave me a cup o' tea while I told 'em 'bout Tilda, an' they was tellin' me 'ow good Martin were. It jus' sort o' come out wot sort o' good 'e were, an' why."

A tiny smile flickered over Tellman's mouth. It might have been admiration, or only amusement.

Gracie found herself blushing, something she never did as a rule, and it annoyed her, because it gave away her emotions. She had no wish at all for Samuel Tellman to get ideas that she had feelings for him.

"I'm very good at asking pert'int questions!" she said hotly. "I worked for Mr. Pitt for years and years. Longer 'n you 'ave!"

He took in his breath sharply and half smiled, then let it out again without saying whatever it was he thought. "So they are certain that Garrick wouldn't have let him go? Could he have got tired of catering to Garrick's temper and gone by himself?"

"Without tellin' Tilda, or anyone else?" she said incredulously. " 'Course not! Yer give notice, yer don' walk out." She saw the flicker of contempt in his face, reminding her again of how he viewed the whole concept of living and working in service. "Don' start that again," she warned. "We got someone in danger an' it's real, an' could be serious. We got no time ter be arguin' about the rights an' wrongs o' the way folk live." She looked at him very levelly, feeling a shiver of both excitement and familiarity as she saw the intensity with which he stared back at her. She was aware of the heat in her cheeks, and her eyes wavered. "We gotta do summink ter 'elp." She said "we" very carefully. "I can't do much without yer, Samuel. Please don' make me 'ave ter try." She had placed their relationship in the balance, and was amazed that she had taken such a risk, because it mattered far more than she had realized until this instant. "Summink's 'appened ter 'im," she added very quietly. "Mebbe Mr. Stephen's as mad as they say, an' 'as done 'im in, an' they've 'id it. But it's a crime, an' no one else is gonna 'elp, 'cos they dunno."

The waitress brought his meal and a fresh pot of tea, and Tellman thanked her. He already knew what his decision was; it was in his eyes, in the line of his mouth and the stillness of his hands. He made only a momentary gesture of resistance by hesitating, as if he were still weighing it up. It was a matter of pride to pretend, but they both knew his decision was made.

"I'll take a look," he said at last. "There's been no crime reported, so I'll have to be careful. I'll tell you what I find."

"Thank yer, Samuel," she said with perfectly genuine humility.

Perhaps he recognized that, because he suddenly smiled, and she saw an extraordinary tenderness in it. She would never have said so to anyone else, but at that moment his face held something that she would have called beauty.

PITT LEFT THE PURSUIT of Edwin Lovat's life and the trail of pain he had created behind his various love affairs. He had followed every name, and found nothing but unhappiness and helpless anger.

A wild thought came to him as he tried looking at the case from an entirely different angle. Sometimes it was profitable to abandon even the most obvious assumptions and consider the story as if they were untrue. Lovat had been shot in a garden in the middle of the night. There seemed to be no sense in Ayesha Zakhari's having taken her gun and gone outside to see who it was lurking in the bushes. She had a perfectly capable manservant and a telephone in her home to call for assistance.

He had assumed that she had known it was Lovat, but there seemed no sane reason to have killed him. If she did not wish to see him she had merely to remain inside. If she did not know who it was, the answer was the same.

But what if she had supposed it was someone else? What if she had not recognized Lovat until after he was dead? The garden was dark. They were not in a path of light thrown from the house, even if all the lamps had been lit in the downstairs rooms, which in itself was unlikely at three in the morning.

Who might she have mistaken him for? Was it possible that a perfectly rational answer to the murder lay in the fact she had believed him to be someone else?

He began by going back to Eden Lodge. It looked curiously empty in the sharp autumn morning, the long light golden across the quiet street, and in the absolute stillness not even the leaves of the birch trees stirred. He could hear hooves in the distance, and a bird singing somewhere above him. A small black cat wove in and out through the dead lily stems waiting to be cut back.

Tariq el Abd answered the door.

"Good morning, sir," he said politely, his face expressionless. "How can I help you?"

"Good morning," Pitt replied. "I need to make some further enquiries, and you can help me."

El Abd invited him in and led the way through to the withdrawing room. He did not look entirely comfortable about having the police in this part of the house-they were hardly social acquaintances-but the kitchens and laundry rooms were his domain, and he did not wish them there either. He drew the line at offering refreshment.

"What is it you need to ask me, sir?" he said, remaining standing so Pitt should do so as well.

Pitt had little time to look around the room, but he had a sense of subtle colors and light. The lines were less cluttered than he was accustomed to; everything was simpler. There was an elaborate ornament of a dog with large ears, the whole creature perhaps a foot and a half long, crouching on one of the side tables. It was a thing of great loveliness.

El Abd must have seen his eye caught by it.

"Anubis, sir," he said. "One of the ancient gods of our country. Of course, the people who believed in him are long dead."

"The beauty of their workmanship remains," Pitt answered with feeling.

"Yes, sir. What is it you wish to ask me?" His face was still almost devoid of expression.

"Were the lights on in this room when Mr. Lovat was shot?"

"I beg your pardon, sir? I do not understand. Mr. Lovat was shot in the garden... outside. He never entered the house."

"You were awake?" Pitt asked in surprise.

El Abd's face showed an instant's lack of composure, then it was gone again. "No, sir, not until I heard the shot. Miss Zakhari said he did not come inside. I believe her. There had been no one in here. The lights were not on."

"Anywhere else in the house?"

"There were no lights lit anywhere downstairs, sir, except in the hall. They are never turned completely off."

"I see. And upstairs?"

"I do not understand what it is you seek, sir. The lights were on in Miss Zakhari's bedroom and her sitting room upstairs, and on the landing above the stairs, as always."

"Are there some at the front of the house, or the back?"

"The front, sir." It was natural. Master bedrooms usually faced the front.

"So there was no light from the house on the back garden where Mr. Lovat was shot?" Pitt concluded.

El Abd hesitated, as if he perceived a trap of some sort. "No, sir..."

"Is it possible Miss Zakhari was unaware of Mr. Lovat's identity? Might she have thought he was someone else?"

For the first time el Abd's composure cracked. He looked not merely startled but as if he was in a moment's actual danger. Then it passed, and he stared back at Pitt, blinking a little. "I never thought of that, sir. I can't say. If... if she thought it were a robber, surely she could have called me? She knows I would defend her... it is my duty."

"Of course," Pitt agreed. "I was not thinking of a robber, but of someone else she actually knew, someone who was a threat to her in some way?"

El Abd was sounding confident now, his balance found again. "I know of no such person, sir. Surely if that were so, she would have told the police that it was an accident? A mistake... in self-defense? Are you permitted to shoot in self-defense in England?"

"If there is no other way to protect yourself, yes you are," Pitt answered. "I was thinking of someone she knew and who was an enemy, a danger to her not physically but in another way, to her reputation, or to some interest about which she cared passionately."

"I do not know what you mean, sir." El Abd's face was back to its smooth, polite servant's mask.

"Your loyalty is commendable," Pitt said, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. "But pointless. If she is found guilty of murdering Mr. Lovat, she will be hanged for it. If she mistook him for someone else, who was perhaps a threat to her, then she might be able to plead some justification."

It was marvelous how el Abd changed his expression hardly at all, and yet managed to alter from deference to contempt. "I think, sir, that it is Mr. Ryerson you are interested in seeing. And if he knew Miss Zakhari's reason for killing the man, whoever she believed him to be, then he should tell you the truth, and justify himself, and her also. If he does not know, but found only Mr. Lovat, with no excuse, then he is guilty, whatever Miss Zakhari believed. Is it not so?"

"Yes," Pitt said uneasily. "It is so. But perhaps Miss Zakhari would prefer not to accept that she shot Mr. Lovat, for no sensible reason at all, than tell us the truth of what she believed."

El Abd inclined his head with the shadow of a smile. "Then loyalty to my mistress decrees that I should abide by her decision, sir. Will there be anything else?"

"Yes, there will! I would like you to write me a list of all the people you know who have called here since Miss Zakhari moved in."

"We have a visitors' book, sir. Will that be of assistance?"

"I doubt it. But it will be a start. I require the names of the others as well."

"Very good, sir," el Abd agreed, and withdrew, his feet making no noise at all on the carpets, or on the polished wood of the hall beyond.

He returned a quarter of an hour later with a sheet of paper and a white, leather-bound book, and offered them to Pitt.

Pitt thanked him and took his leave. The book was interesting. There were more names in it than he had expected, and it would take some time to learn who they all were. The additional sheet of paper, he suspected, would be of no use at all.

He spent the rest of the day identifying various men in the city, mostly to do with the cotton trade in one way or another, but there were also others who were artists, poets, musicians and thinkers. He would be interested to know why they had called upon Ayesha Zakhari-and what Saville Ryerson would think of it, and if he knew. No times of the day were noted, simply dates.

THE NEXT MORNING Pitt received a message while he was still at breakfast telling him to report within the hour to Narraway's office. He put his knife and fork down. His kippers had lost their taste.

He still had several names both from the visitors' book and from the additional sheet to identify, and he resented being called to report when there was nothing helpful to say.

Half an hour later he told Narraway of his visit to Eden Lodge and the names he had taken from the visitors' book and from the manservant, el Abd.

Narraway sat deep in thought, his dark face pinched and smudged with weariness, but now there was something like a flicker of hope there as well, though he struggled to mask it.

"And you think she believed Lovat was one of these?" he said skeptically, leaning back in his chair and regarding Pitt through heavy, half-closed eyes, as if he had been up all night.

"It makes more sense than her knowing it was Lovat and shooting him," Pitt replied.

"No, it doesn't," Narraway said bitterly. "If Lovat was blackmailing her and he called for payment, she took the chance to shoot him and put an end to it. That makes perfect sense, and will to any jury."

"Blackmailing her over what?" Pitt asked.

"For God's sake, Pitt! Use your imagination! She's a young and beautiful woman of unknown origin. Ryerson is twenty years older than she is, highly respected, vulnerable..." He drew in his breath silently. "He may know perfectly well that she has had other lovers-in fact, he'd be a fool to imagine otherwise... It doesn't mean he can bear being told about them, perhaps in detail."

Pitt tried to put himself in Ryerson's place. He could not. If you choose a woman for her physical beauty, her exotic culture, and her willingness to be a mistress rather than a wife, surely you also accept it as a fact that you are not the first, nor will you be the last. The arrangement will survive as long as it suits you both.

But looking at Narraway he saw nothing of that understanding in his eyes, only an intense, unreadable emotion which warned Pitt that if he were to challenge Narraway now, the quarrel which resulted might not easily be overcome. He had no idea why the subject should touch a raw nerve in Narraway, only that it did.

"And you think Lovat might have blackmailed her in order to keep him silent about something in Egypt?" he said aloud.

"It is what the prosecution will assume," Narraway replied. "Wouldn't you?"

"If nothing else is suggested," Pitt agreed. "But they have to prove it-"

Narraway jerked forward, his shoulders tense, his body rigid. "No, they damned well don't!" he said between his teeth. "Unless we come up with something better, it will go by default. Use your wits, Pitt! An old lover with no money or position is found dead in her garden at three in the morning. She has the corpse in a wheelbarrow and her gun beside it. What in God's name else is anyone to think?"

Pitt felt the dark weight of the facts settle on him, almost like a physical crushing. "You mean we are merely going through the motions of looking for a defense?" he said very quietly. "Why? So Ryerson thinks he hasn't been abandoned? Does that matter so much?"

Narraway did not meet his eyes. "We are asked by men who know a different set of realities from ours," he answered. "They don't care in the slightest about Ayesha Zakhari, but they need Ryerson rescued. He's served this country long and well. A lot of the prosperity of the Manchester cotton industry, which means tens of thousands of jobs, is his doing. And if someone doesn't find an agreement on the prices they face the strong possibility of a strike. Do you have any idea how much that will cost? It won't only cost the cotton workers in the mills; it will affect all those whose businesses depend on them-shopkeepers, small traders, exporters-in the end, just about anyone from the men who sell houses to the crossing sweeper looking for a few halfpennies."

"It'll be embarrassing for the government if Ryerson is found guilty of abetting her after the fact," he agreed. "But if he is, they'll have to appoint someone else to handle trade with Egypt. And to judge from Ryerson's handling of Lovat's murder, I would rather that no national crisis were in his hands."

Temper flared up Narraway's sallow cheeks and his hand clenched on the desk, but he swallowed any outburst back with an effort so intense it was clearly visible. "You don't know what you're talking about, Pitt!" he said between his teeth.

Pitt leaned forward. "Then tell me!" he demanded. "So far I see a man in love with a highly unsuitable woman and determined to stand by her, even if she proves to be guilty of murder. He can't help her. His evidence makes it worse, not better. But either he's not aware of that and he's so incredibly arrogant he thinks his involvement will save her regardless, or else he simply doesn't care."

Narraway turned away, shifting his body around in his chair. "You're a fool, Pitt! Of course he knows what will happen. He'll be ruined. Unless we can prove some other possibility, he might even hang with her." He looked back, and when he spoke his voice was shaking. "So find out who else was involved with the woman, or hated Lovat enough to have killed him. And bring me the proof, do you understand? Tell no one else anything at all. Be discreet. In fact, be more than that-be secret. Ask your questions carefully. Use that tact you are so famous for possessing... at least according to Cornwallis. Learn everything and give away nothing." He swiveled back and stared levelly at Pitt as if he could read the thoughts in his head, willing or unwilling. "If you let this slip, Pitt, I will have no use for you. Remember that. I want the truth, and I want to be the only one who has it."

Pitt felt cold, but he was also angry, and curious as to why it mattered to Narraway in the fashion that it seemed to. Narraway was concealing as much from him as he was telling, perhaps more, and yet he demanded absolute loyalty in return. Who was he protecting, and why? Was it himself, or even Pitt, from some danger he was too new in the job to understand? Or was it Ryerson, out of some loyalty or other motive that Pitt did not know of? He wanted to ask for trust in return, so that he would have a better chance of succeeding, and also to protect himself if he was uncovering evidence that could endanger powerful enemies. But there was no point in asking; Narraway did not trust anyone more than he had to. Perhaps it was the way he had survived in a business that was riddled with secrets and open to a hundred different kinds of betrayal.

"I can't promise the truth," Pitt said coolly. "And you certainly won't be the only one who has it." He saw Narraway stiffen and it gave him a certain satisfaction, but it was very small, almost lost in the awareness of his own ignorance. "I doubt I'll have more than pieces of it, but whoever killed Lovat will know, and they may know that I do, depending on whether it was a clever plan or an irresponsible crime of a self-indulgent man... or woman."

"That is why I use you, Pitt, and not one of my men who are used to chasing anarchists and saboteurs," Narraway said dryly. "You are supposed to have a little subtlety. God knows, you can't tell a bomb from a fruitcake, but you are supposed to be a competent detective when it comes to a murder, especially if it is a crime of passion and not of politics. Get on with it! Find the rest of the people on your list. And be quick. We haven't much longer before the government is forced into giving up Ryerson."

Pitt was on his feet. "Yes, sir. I suppose there is nothing else you can tell me that would be of help?" He allowed his expression to let Narraway know he was aware of his concealment, even if not what it concerned.

Narraway's face tightened, pulling the muscles in his neck. "Cornwallis trusted you. I may come to, but I do not do so yet, and that is something for which you should be grateful. Much of what I know you are fortunate to be spared. In time you may lose that privilege, and you will wish you had it back." He leaned a little forward over the desk between them. "But believe me, Pitt, I want Ryerson saved if it is possible, and if there were anything I could tell you that would help you in that, then I would, regardless of what it cost. But if he did conspire with that damned woman to kill Lovat, or even to hide the fact that she did, and it was a simple murder, then I'll sacrifice him in a trice. There are bigger issues than you know, and they cannot be lost to save one man... any man."

"A cotton strike in Manchester?" Pitt said slowly.

Narraway did not reply. "Go and do your job," he said instead. "Don't stand here wasting time asking me for help I can't give you."

Pitt went out into the street and had walked only twenty yards when he passed a newspaper seller and saw the headlines, new since he had come from the opposite direction to see Narraway.

The boy noticed his hesitation. "Paper, sir?" he offered eagerly. "They're all sayin' now as Mr. Ryerson oughta be arrested wi' that foreign woman and both of 'em 'anged! Read all about it, sir?" He held out a newspaper hopefully.

Pitt forced himself to be civil. He took the paper and paid the money, walking away quickly to where he could read it without being observed. He realized with surprise at himself that he did not want his emotions seen. It might be too obvious that it mattered to him.

He took an omnibus, newspaper still folded, and got off again near one of the numerous small, leafy squares where he walked to an empty bench and sat down. He opened up the paper. It was what he would have expected. A Member of Parliament in the Opposition had demanded to know why Ayesha Zakhari was in police custody for the murder of Lovat, an honorable soldier with no stain on his character, and Ryerson, whose presence at her house at three in the morning was unexplained, and unexplainable in decent terms, had not even been questioned on the matter. He asked-in fact, he demanded in the name of justice, that the prime minister should give the House of Commons, and the British people, an answer as to why this was, and how much longer it would remain so.

BY LATE AFTERNOON, before dusk had done more than smudge the horizon and rob some of the color from the leaves, the government had been forced to yield. The home secretary informed the House that of course Mr. Ryerson would give full and satisfactory answers to the police.

By the time the first lamplighters were out, Ryerson was to all effect under arrest.

Pitt did not need to be sent for to return to Narraway's office. He had no further news of any worth, and he did not even bother to reveal the little he had, merely a few more acquaintances from the Eden Lodge visitors' book cleared of any involvement. There were only half a dozen or so still unaccounted for.

He stood in front of Narraway's desk, waiting for him to speak.

"Yes... I know," Narraway said, his jaw tight, his eyes focused on the polished desk in front of him, piled with papers, every one facedown. "I don't imagine he'll tell the police anything he hasn't already told you."

"He doesn't know me," Pitt pointed out, although he felt inexplicably as if he did know Ryerson. He could bring back to memory his face precisely, every line and shadow, the urgency and emotion in his voice, and his own sense of involvement as Ryerson had tried to explain his actions, and what he would do if Ayesha Zakhari came to trial. "He had no reason to trust me more than the circumstances forced him to," Pitt went on. "He might say more to you." He did not add that Ryerson and Narraway were of the same social class, the same culture and understanding, because it was implicit.

Narraway ignored it. He opened his desk drawer and took out a small metal box. It appeared to have no key and he simply opened it and withdrew a handful of Treasury notes. There must have been a hundred pounds' worth at least. "I'll attend to pursuing the London evidence," he said, still not looking at Pitt. "Leave me your notes. You are going to Alexandria to find out what you can about the woman, and Lovat when he was there."

Pitt drew in his breath in amazement. It was a moment before he could find his tongue.

Narraway had apparently already counted out the money, because he took no notice of it now but simply laid it on the desk.

"But I know nothing about Egypt!" Pitt protested. "I can't speak whatever language it is they use there! I-"

"You'll get by very well with English," Narraway cut across him. "And I don't have anyone who's an expert in Egyptian affairs. You are a good detective. Find out about Lovat, but mostly learn everything you can about the woman-her background, her life, what she believes, what she wants, who she knows and cares about. See if there is anything Lovat could have blackmailed her over." His expression flickered with distaste. "Why did she come to England anyway? Who is her family? Has she lovers in Egypt, money, loyalties, religious or political ideals?"

Pitt stared at him in slowly dawning comprehension as to the magnitude of what he was being asked to do. It overwhelmed him. He had no idea how even to begin, let alone weigh any conclusion. He knew nothing about Egypt except fragments he had picked up in conversation, newspapers, and a little more recently about the cotton grown there. He did not know the city of Alexandria; he would be utterly lost. The climate would be nothing like London, or the food, the clothes, the customs.

And yet at the same moment as fear gripped him, so did a kind of excitement which grew with each second, and the words of acceptance were on his lips before he had thought clearly of how he could succeed.

"Yes, sir. What is the best way? Thomas Cook?"

The shadow of a smile touched Narraway's lips. "It was an order, Pitt, not a request. Your only alternative would have been your resignation. But I'm pleased I did not have to make that point to you." At last he turned and looked up. His eyes were cautious, softer for a few minutes. "Be careful, Pitt. Egypt is not an easy place at the moment, and you are going there to probe into delicate issues. I want the information, but I would like you back alive. Your death in some back street would not reflect well on my professional reputation." He picked the money up from the top of the desk and with it a plain white envelope. "Here are your tickets, and what I believe will be sufficient funds. If you need more, go to Mr. Trenchard at the British Consulate, but don't trust him more than you have to."

Pitt took the money and tickets. "Thank you."

"You sail from Southampton on the evening tide tomorrow," Narraway added.

Pitt turned to leave. He would have to be on the first train in the morning, and he had to pack. It had not yet even occurred to him to think what clothes he owned would be even remotely suitable.

"Pitt!" Narraway's voice recalled him sharply.

He turned. "Yes?"

"Be careful. This is probably exactly what it looks like-a man with more passion than sense. But just in case it is political, something to do with cotton or... or God knows what... listen more than you talk. Learn to watch without asking questions. You're not police in Alexandria." His face looked suddenly weary, as if he was already anticipating griefs that had not yet happened, or perhaps remembering those that had. "There'll be no one to protect you. Your white skin will be as much against you as for. For God's sake, man, take a little care!" He said it angrily, as if Pitt was in the habit of running wild risks, and it was that which touched Pitt with a coldness of fear, because he had seldom if ever really jeopardized his own life, except perhaps in Whitechapel, on his first assignment for Narraway. He was used to the safety of office, which was not a uniform but as good as one.

He found his mouth dry when he answered. "Yes, sir," he said stiffly, and went out before Narraway could say anything further, or Pitt could betray his feelings.