Anne Perry: Seven Dials

There was a constable on duty in the mews, and Pitt identified himself before being permitted to go through the gate beside the stables and into the leafy, damp garden. He kept to the path, although there was little to mask or spoil in the way of evidence. The wooden wheelbarrow was still there, smears of blood down the right side, from where the person pushing it would have stood, and a dark pool, almost congealed, in the bottom. The dead man must have been laid across it with his head on that side and his legs over the other.

Pitt bent and looked more closely at the ground. The wheel was sunk almost an inch deep in the loam, witnessing the weight of the load. The rut it had caused was deep for about three yards, and from that point there were tracks from where it had come, empty, been turned around and loaded. He straightened up and walked the few yards. Faint scuff marks, indistinct, showed where feet had stood and swiveled, but it was impossible even to tell how many, let alone whether they were a man’s or woman’s, or both. The earth was scattered with fallen leaves and twigs and occasional small pebbles, leaving only rough traces of passage.

However, when Pitt looked more closely the rusty mark of blood was clear enough. This was where Lovat had been when he fell.

He stared around him. He was about five yards into the garden, between laurel and rhododendron bushes, and in the dappled shade of birches towering a great deal higher. He was completely concealed from the mews, and obviously from the street, by the bulk of the house itself. He was a good five yards from the stone wall which concealed the back entrance to the scullery and areaway, and ahead of him across a strip of open lawn edged by flowers was a French door to the main part of the house.

What on earth had Edwin Lovat been doing here? It seemed unlikely he had arrived through the mews and was intending to enter this way, unless by prior arrangement, and she had been waiting for him inside the French doors. If she had not wished to see him, it would have been simple enough not to have answered. Servants could have dismissed him, and thrown him out if necessary.

If he were indeed arriving, it looked unpleasantly as if she had lured him here deliberately, with the intent of killing him, since she was in the garden with a loaded gun.

Or else he had been leaving, they had quarreled, and she had followed him out, again with the gun.

When had Ryerson really arrived? Before the shooting or after? Had she lifted the dead man into the wheelbarrow by herself? It would be interesting to find out his size and weight, and hers. If she had lifted him, then there would be blood, and perhaps earth, on her white dress. These were questions he needed to ask Talbot, or perhaps the constable who had actually been first on the scene.

He turned and walked back through the gate to the mews and found the constable standing fidgeting from one foot to the other in boredom. He turned as he heard the gate catch.

“Were you on duty here last night?” Pitt asked. The man looked tired enough to have been up many hours.

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you see the arrest of Miss Zakhari?”

“Yes, sir.” His voice lifted a little with the beginning of interest.

“Can you describe her for me?”

He looked startled for a moment, then his face puckered in concentration. “She was quite tall, sir, but very slender, like. And foreign, o’ course, very foreign, like. She was… well, she moved very graceful, more than most ladies-not that they aren’t-”

“It’s all right, Constable,” Pitt answered him. “I need honesty, not tact. What about the dead man? How large was he?”

“Oh, bit bigger than most, sir, broad in the chest, like. Difficult ter say ’ow tall ’cos I never saw ’im standin’ up, but I reckon a bit taller ’n me, but not as tall as you.”

“Did the mortuary wagon take him away?”

“Yessir.”

“How many men to carry him?”

“Two, sir.” His face filled with understanding. “You thinkin’ as she couldn’t ’ave put ’im in that barrer by ’erself?”

“Yes, I was.” Pitt tightened his lips. “But it might be wiser not to express that opinion to others, at least for the time being. She was wearing white, so I’m told. Is that correct?”

“Yessir. Very sort o’ close-fittin’ dress it were, not exactly like most ladies wear, least wot I’ve seen. Very beautiful…” He colored faintly, considering the propriety of saying that a murderess was beautiful, and a foreign one at that. But he refused to be cowed. “Sort o’ more natural, like,” he went on. “No…” He put one hand on his other shoulder. “No puffs up ’ere. More wot a woman’s really shaped like.”

Pitt hid a smile. “I see. And was it stained with mud, or blood, this white dress?”

“Bit o’ mud, or more like leaf dirt,” the constable agreed.

“Where?”

“Around the knees, sir. Like she knelt on the ground.”

“But no blood?”

“No, sir. Not that I saw.” His eyes widened. “You’re sayin’ as she didn’t put ’im in that barrer ’erself!”

“No, Constable, I think you are. But I’d be very obliged if you did not repeat that, unless you are asked to do so in a situation where not doing so would require you to lie. Don’t lie to anyone.”

“No, sir! I’ll ’ope as I’m not asked.”

“Yes, that would definitely be the best,” Pitt agreed fervently. “Thank you, Constable. What is your name?”

“Cotter, sir.”

“Is the manservant still in the house?”

“Yessir. No one’s come out since they took ’er away.”

“Then I shall go and speak to him. Do you know his name?”

“No, sir. Foreign-looking person.”

Pitt thanked him again and walked across the short distance to the back door. He knocked firmly and waited several minutes before it was opened by a dark-skinned man dressed in pale, stone-colored robes. Most of his head was covered with a turban, but his beard was turning gray. His eyes were almost black.

“Yes, sir?” he said guardedly.

“Good morning,” Pitt replied. “Are you Miss Zakhari’s manservant?”

“Yes, sir. But Miss Zakhari is not at home.” It was said with finality, as if that were the end of any possible discussion. He was obviously preparing to close the door.

“I am aware of that!” Pitt said sharply. “What is your name?”

“Tariq el Abd, sir,” the man replied.

Pitt produced his card again and held it out, assuming that el Abd could read English. “I am from Special Branch. I believe the police have already spoken to you, but I need to ask you a few further questions.”

“Oh, I see.” He pulled the door wider open and reluctantly permitted Pitt to go through the scullery and up a step into a warm and exotically fragrant kitchen. There was no one else there. Presumably, el Abd did such cooking as was required, and other household staff who did the laundry and cleaning came in daily.

“Would you like coffee, sir?” el Abd enquired graciously, as if the kitchen were his. His voice was low and he spoke almost without accent.

“Thank you,” Pitt accepted, more out of curiosity than a desire for more coffee. There was a smell of spices in the air, and of strange-shaped loaves of bread cooling on a rack near the farther window. Unfamiliar fruit lay rich and burnished in a bowl on the table.

El Abd took only a few moments to heat the coffee to the desired temperature again and bring a tiny cup of it over to present to Pitt, offering him a seat and enquiring after his comfort. He was a lean man who moved with a silent grace that made his age difficult to estimate, but the weathered skin of his hands made Pitt guess him to be well over forty, perhaps closer to fifty.