Anne Perry - Seven Dials

“I see,” Emily acknowledged. “There is apparently something that causes him great pain. I presume from the fact that you do not mention it that you do not know what it is.”

“No.” He shrugged very slightly. “And honestly I don’t know how I could find out. I haven’t seen him for several days, and the last time I did, he was in no condition to answer anything sensibly. I… I’m sorry.” It was not clear if his apology was for his inability, or for having spoken to them of such a distasteful subject.

“But you do know him?” Charlotte pressed. “I mean, you have his acquaintance?”

Jamieson looked doubtful, as if he sensed in advance what she would ask. “Yes,” he admitted guardedly. “Er… not well. I’m not one of his…” He stopped.

“What?” Emily demanded.

Jamieson looked back at her. She sat straight-backed, like Great-Aunt Vespasia, smiling at him expectantly, her head beautifully poised.

“One of his circle,” Jamieson finished unhappily.

“But you can enquire,” Emily stated.

“Yes,” he said reluctantly. “Yes, of course.”

“Good.” Emily was relentless. “There is great danger. Even a short time may be too late. Can you call upon him this evening?”

“Is it really… so…” Jamieson was not sure if he was excited or alarmed.

“Oh, yes,” Emily assured him.

Jamieson swallowed a mouthful of beef and roast potato. “Very well. How shall I tell you what I learn?”

“Telephone,” Emily said immediately. She pulled out a card from the tiny silver engraved case in her reticule. “My number is on it. Please do not speak to anyone but me… not anyone at all. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mrs. Radley, of course.”

CHARLOTTE THANKED EMILY with profound sincerity and accepted the offered ride home in the carriage. At half past eight, when she and Pitt were sitting in the parlor, the telephone rang. Pitt answered it.

“It is Emily, for you,” he said from the doorway.

Charlotte went into the hall and took the instrument. “Yes?”

“Stephen Garrick is not at home.” Emily’s voice was strange and a little tinny over the wires. “No one has seen him for several days, and the butler says he could not inform Mr. Jamieson when he would return. Charlotte… it looks as if he has disappeared as well. What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know.” Charlotte found her hand shaking. “Not yet…”

“But we’ll do something, won’t we?” Emily said after a second. “It looks serious, doesn’t it? I mean… more serious than a valet losing his job?”

“Yes,” Charlotte said a little huskily. “Yes, it does.”

ON THE DAY THAT CHARLOTTE undertook to help Gracie, and thus Tilda, Pitt returned to Narraway’s office and found him pacing the floor, five steps and then turn, another five, and back again. He spun around as Pitt opened the door. His face was pinched and tired, his eyes too bright. He stared at Pitt questioningly.

Pitt closed the door behind himself and remained standing. “Ryerson was there,” he said bluntly. “He doesn’t deny it. He helped her move the body and he didn’t attempt to call the police. She hasn’t said that, but he will if the police ask him. He’ll protect her, at his own cost.”

Narraway said nothing, but his body seemed to become even more rigid, as if Pitt’s words had layers of meaning deeper than the facts they knew.

“Her story doesn’t make sense,” Pitt went on, wishing Narraway would answer, say anything at all to make the talking easier. But Narraway seemed to be so charged with emotion that he was unable to exercise his usual incisive leap of intelligence. He was waiting for Pitt to lead.

“If she had no involvement, why would she try to move the body?” Pitt continued. “Why not call the police, as anyone else would?”

Narraway glared at him, his voice cracking when he spoke. “Because she set up the situation. She wanted to be caught. She might even have been the one who called the police. Have you considered that?”

“To incriminate herself?” Pitt said with total disbelief.

Narraway’s face was twisted with bitterness. “We haven’t come to trial yet. Wait and see what she says then. So far, if Talbot’s telling the truth, she hasn’t said anything at all. What if she turns around and, with desperate reluctance, admits that Ryerson shot Lovat in a jealous rage?” His voice mimicked savagely the tone he imagined she would use. “She tried to conceal it, because she loves him and felt guilty for having provoked him-she knew he had an uncontrollable temper-but she cannot go on protecting him any longer, and will not hang for him.” His look challenged Pitt to prove him wrong.

Pitt was stunned. “What for?” he asked, and as soon as the words were out of his mouth, hideous possibilities danced before him, violent, personal, political.

Narraway’s stare was withering. “She’s Egyptian, Pitt. Cotton comes to mind to begin with. We’ve got riots in Manchester over prices already. We want them down, Egypt wants them up. Ever since the American Civil War cut off our supply from the South and we’ve had to rely on Egypt, the balance has been different. European industry is catching up with us and we need the empire not only to buy from but to sell to.”

Pitt frowned. “Don’t we buy most of Egypt’s cotton anyway?”

“Of course we do!” Narraway said impatiently. “But a bargain that leaves one side unhappy serves neither in the end, because it doesn’t last. Ryerson is one of the few men who can both see further than a couple of years ahead and negotiate an agreement that will leave both the Egyptian growers and the British weavers feeling as if they have gained something.” His face tightened. “Apart from that, there’s Egyptian nationalism, and for God’s sake we don’t want to send the gunboats in again! We’ve bombarded Alexandria once in the last twenty years.” He ignored Pitt’s wince. “And there’s religious fervor,” he went on. “I hardly need to remind you of the uprising in the Sudan?”

Pitt did not reply; everyone remembered the siege of Khartoum and the murder of General Gordon.

“Other than that,” Narraway finished, “personal profit, or common or gender hatred. Do you need more?”

“Then we need to learn the truth before it comes to trial,” Pitt answered. “But I don’t know that it will help.”

“You must make it help!” Narraway said between his teeth, his voice thick with emotion. “If Ryerson is convicted, the government will have to replace him with either Howlett or Maberley. Howlett will give in to the mill workers here and drive the prices down so far it will break the Egyptians. We’ll have a few years of wealth and then disaster-poverty-Egypt will have no cotton to sell and no money to buy anything. Possibly even rebellion. Maberley will give in to the Egyptians and we’ll have riots all over the Midlands here, police forced to suppress them with violence, maybe even the army out.” He drew in breath to add more, then changed his mind and swung around with his back to Pitt.

“So far everything incriminates his woman, with Ryerson as a willing accomplice.” He jabbed the air with his hand. “We need another answer. Find out more about Lovat. Who else might have killed him? Who was he? What was his relationship with the woman? I suppose one might hope there was some justification for her killing him?” There was no lift of hope in him, and yet Pitt had the intense feeling that, beneath the bitterness, Narraway was clinging on to a thread of belief that there could be another, better explanation.

“You know Ryerson, sir,” Pitt began. “If the woman comes to trial, will he really allow himself to be implicated? If he has any kind of guilt, won’t he resign first, so at least he isn’t a government minister at the time?”