Anne Perry: Seven Dials

Pitt thanked him for the coffee and sipped it. It was so strong as to be almost a syrup, and he did not care for it much, but he kept all expression from his face except polite enquiry.

“What happened here last night?” he asked.

El Abd remained standing, so Pitt was forced to look up at him.

“I do not know, sir,” the manservant replied. “Something awakened me, and I arose to see if Miss Zakhari had called, but I could not find her anywhere in the house.” He hesitated.

“Yes?” Pitt prompted him.

El Abd looked down at the floor. “I went to the window and I saw nothing to the front, so I went to the back, and I saw movement through the bushes, the ones with the flat, shining leaves. I waited a few moments, but there was no more sound, and I knew of no reason to suppose there was anything wrong. I thought then that perhaps it was only the sound of the door that had wakened me.”

“What did you do then?”

He lifted his shoulders slightly. “I was not required, sir. I went back to my bed. I do not know how long it was until I heard the people speaking, and the police called me downstairs.”

“Did they show you a gun?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And ask you whose it was?”

“Yes, sir. I said it was Miss Zakhari’s.” He looked down at the floor. “I did not know then what it had been used for. But I clean it and oil it, so of course I know it well.”

“Why does Miss Zakhari have a gun?”

“It is not my place to ask such questions, sir.”

“And you don’t know?”

“No, sir.”

“I see. But you would know if she had ever fired it before, since you clean it.”

“No, sir, she has not.”

“Thank you. Did you know Lovat… the dead man?”

“I do not think he has been here before.”

That was not precisely what Pitt had asked, and he was aware of the evasion. Was it deliberate, or simply a result of the fact that the man was speaking a language other than his own?

“Have you seen him before?”

El Abd lowered his eyes. “I have not seen him at all, sir. It is my understanding that the policeman knew who he was from his clothes and the things in his pockets.”

So they had not asked el Abd if he had seen Lovat before. That was an omission, but perhaps not one that would make a great deal of difference. He was Miss Zakhari’s servant. Now that he knew she was accused of murdering Lovat, he would probably deny knowledge of him anyway.

Pitt finished his coffee and rose to his feet. “Thank you,” he said, trying to swallow the last of the sweet, sticky liquid and clean his mouth of the taste.

“Sir.” El Abd bowed very slightly, no more than a gesture.

Pitt went out of the back door, thanking Constable Cotter as he passed him. Then he walked along the mews and around the corner into Connaught Square, where he looked for a hansom to take him back to Narraway.

“WELL?” Narraway looked up from the papers he was reading. His face was a little pinched, his eyes anxious.

“The police are holding the woman, Ayesha Zakhari, and completely ignoring Ryerson,” Pitt told him. “They aren’t investigating it too closely because they don’t want to know the answer.” He walked over and sat down in the chair in front of Narraway’s desk.

Narraway breathed in deeply, and then out again. “And what are the answers?” he asked, his voice quiet and very level. There was a stillness about him, as if his attention were so vivid he dared not distract himself by even the slightest action.

Pitt found himself unconsciously copying, refraining from crossing one leg over the other.

“That Ryerson helped her, at least in attempting to dispose of the body,” he replied.

“Indeed…” Narraway breathed out slowly, but none of the tension disappeared from him. “And what evidence told you that?”

“She is a slender woman, at the time wearing a white dress,” Pitt replied. “The dead man was slightly over average height and weight. It took two mortuary attendants to lift him from the barrow into the wagon, although of course they may have been more careful with him than whoever was trying to dispose of him.”

Narraway nodded, his lips tight.

“But her white dress was not stained with mud or blood,” Pitt went on. “Only a little leaf mold from where she had knelt on the ground, possibly beside him where he lay.”

“I see.” Narraway’s voice was tight. “And Ryerson?”

“I didn’t ask,” Pitt said. “The constable was quite aware of why I enquired, and of the obvious conclusions. Do you want me to go back and ask him? I can do so perfectly easily, but it will then-”

“I can work that out for myself, Pitt!” Narraway snapped. “No. I do not want you to do that… at least not yet.” His eyes flickered for a moment, then he looked over at the far wall. “We’ll see what happens.”

Pitt sat still, aware of a curious, unfinished air in the room, as if elusive but powerful things were just beyond the edge of perception. Narraway had left something unsaid. Did it matter? Or was it just an accumulation of knowledge gathered over the years, a feeling of unease rather than a thought?

Narraway hesitated also, then the moment passed and he looked up at Pitt again. “Well, go on,” he said, but with less asperity than before. “You’ve told me what you saw and what the constable reported. We’ll save Ryerson from himself, if we can. The next move is up to the police. Go home and have breakfast. I might want you later.”

Pitt stood up, still looking at Narraway, who stared back at him-his eyes bright, almost blank of emotion, but with deliberate concealment. Pitt was as certain of that as he was of the charge in the room, like electricity in the air on a sultry day.

“Yes, sir,” he said quietly, and with Narraway still looking at him, he went out of the door.

WHEN HE GOT HOME, it was late morning. His children, Jemima and Daniel, were at school, and Charlotte and the maid, Gracie, were in the kitchen. He heard their laughter the moment he opened the front door. He smiled to himself as he bent and took off his boots. The sounds washed around him like a balm: women’s voices, the clatter of pans, a kettle whistling shrilly. The house was warm from the kitchen stove, and there was an odor of freshly laundered cotton, still a little damp, clean wood from the scrubbed floor, and baking bread.

A marmalade-striped cat came out of the kitchen doorway and stretched luxuriously, then trotted towards him, tail up in a question mark.

“Hello, Archie,” Pitt said softly, stroking the animal as it swiveled under his hand, pressing against him and purring. “I suppose you want half my breakfast?” he went on. “Well, come on then.” He stood up and walked silently down to the doorway, the cat following.

In the kitchen, Charlotte was tipping bread out of its tin onto a rack to cool, and Gracie, still small and thin although she was now well over twenty, was putting clean blue-and-white china away on the Welsh dresser.

Sensing his presence rather than seeing him, Charlotte turned around, questions in her face.

“Breakfast,” he replied with a smile.

Gracie did not ask anything. She was outspoken enough once she was involved. She did not regard that as impertinence, rather the role of helping and looking after him, which she had taken upon herself almost from the time she had arrived in the household, at the age of thirteen, half starved, and with all her clothes too big for her. Her hair had been scraped back off her bright little face, and although then she could neither read nor write, she had a wit as sharp as any.

Now she was far more mature, and considered herself to be an invaluable employee of the cleverest detective in England, or anywhere else, a position she would not have exchanged for one in service to the Queen herself.