Anne Perry - Seven Dials

“What situation?” Narraway interrupted.

“Illness,” she said. “Someone I had to nurse, a child or a parent? Or someone I had to protect, who might be hurt if I acted? Somebody implicated, maybe? A hostage to fortune of some kind.”

He nodded slowly, and turned to Pitt, his eyebrows raised.

“Only not knowing,” Pitt replied, and as he said it something tingled in his memory. “I knew of the fire, but the people I spoke to believed it was an accident, at least that is what they said. How did Ayesha learn that it wasn’t?”

Narraway’s face set hard. “That’s a very good question, Pitt, and one to which I would like the answer, but unfortunately I have no idea where to begin looking. There is a great deal about this I would like to know. For example, is Ayesha Zakhari the prime mover, or is she acting with or for someone else? Who else knows about the massacre, and why did they not expose it in Egypt? Why wait, and why in London?” His voice dropped a little and became tight and hard with emotion he barely kept in control. “And above all, is personal revenge all they want, or is this just the beginning?”

Neither Pitt nor Charlotte answered him. The question was too big, the answer too terrible.

Pitt put his arm around Charlotte’s shoulders, almost without thinking, and drew her closer to him, but there was nothing to say.

VESPASIA WAS IN the withdrawing room, arranging white chrysanthemums and copper beech leaves floating in a flat Lalique dish, when she heard angry voices raised in the hall. She turned in surprise just as the door flew open and Ferdinand Garrick pushed past the maid and stood on the edge of the Aubusson carpet, his face suffused with anger and something close to despair.

“Good morning, Ferdinand,” she said coolly, indicating with a slight nod that the maid might leave. She would have put an edge of ice to it sufficient to stop the Prince of Wales in his tracks but for the reality of the emotion she recognized in him. It overrode all consideration of personal manners, even the deepening dislike she felt for him. “I gather that something is seriously wrong, and you believe that I may assist you.”

He was taken aback. He was quite aware of his almost unpardonable rudeness, and now that he thought of it, he had expected to meet with outraged dignity rather than any form of understanding. It robbed him momentarily of his assurance. He stood still, breathing hard. Even from across the space of the room she could see his chest rise and fall.

She broke off the last two flower stalks and floated the heads in the fan of leaves, then set the bowl on the low table. It was exquisite, as beautiful as when she did it with bloodred peonies in the summer.

“Tell me what it is that has happened,” she directed. “If you would care for tea I shall send for it, but perhaps it would only be an encumbrance now?”

He jerked his hand, dismissing the idea. “My son is in desperate danger from the same people who murdered young Lovat, and now your idiot policeman has kidnapped him and removed him from the only place where he was safe!” he accused, his eyes burning. His voice shook when he went on, and he was struggling to get his breath. “For God’s sake, tell them to leave it alone! They have no idea what they’re meddling with! The disaster will be…” The enormity of it defied his ability to describe, and he stared at her in helpless fury.

She could see that there was little purpose in attempting to reason with him; he felt too much panic rising towards a breaking point to listen to anything that seemed like argument.

“If it was indeed Pitt who removed your son, then we had better inform him of the danger,” she replied calmly. “At this hour in the morning I doubt if Pitt will be at home, but I may be able to find him. If I do, I shall have to tell him specifically what the danger is in order for him to guard Stephen against it.”

“The man’s a fool!” Garrick’s voice rose, quivering near to breaking. “He’s gone blundering in where he doesn’t understand a damn thing, and he could set a whole continent ablaze!”

Vespasia was startled. Garrick’s words were wild, but in spite of her dislike of his self-righteous, rigid beliefs, he had been an excellent soldier. He had not the imagination to be hysterical.

“Ferdinand, please calm yourself sufficiently to inform me what I must say to him,” she said firmly. “I cannot give him orders, I must persuade him. Where was Stephen, and when did you learn that he had been taken, and by Pitt?”

Garrick made a tremendous effort to master the panic inside himself, but still his voice cracked with emotion.

“The people who killed Lovat will stop at nothing whatever to kill Stephen also, and Sandeman if they can find him. Stephen knew it!” His face was pink, the embarrassment painful to see, nevertheless he continued with some semblance of control. “He was… not well…”

She allowed the euphemism to pass. She knew what outward form his son’s illness had taken, but it was the cause of it that mattered now, so she did not interrupt.

“He had episodes of delirium,” he continued more steadily. “I had him put in a hospital…” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “The Bethlehem Lunatic Hospital.”

Vespasia was well aware of the reputation of Bedlam; it needed no words of his to expand the horror of it. That he would place his son in such a man-made hell said more than anything else could have to show her his fear.

“And Pitt found him there and removed him?” she said with only the very slightest lift of question. “Do you not think that perhaps it was Martin Garvie he went seeking? You did send the valet as well, did you not?”

His face was slack for a moment with surprise, then the look vanished. “It seems you know even more about it than I had supposed. Yes, I imagine Garvie might be more within his circle of-” He stopped, aware suddenly that he was running a great risk of antagonizing her, and he could not afford it. “Find him!” he said desperately. “Please?”

She looked at his anguished face. “And what is it I should tell Pitt, or whoever is concerned?” she asked. “What is the danger that you fear, Ferdinand?” She moved across to the sofa as she spoke, and gestured for him to be seated, but he remained unyielding on his feet.

“Give him back to me, and I’ll take care of it,” he said between his teeth.

She sat down. “I think if they wanted him so little that they would be prepared to give him back simply because I asked it, then they would not have gone to the trouble of taking him in the first place,” she said reasonably. “Is it not time to deal with rather more reality?”

He started to speak, and then stopped.

She waited. She would not ask again. He knew the facts. Stephen was his son.

He lowered his eyes. “He has knowledge which I believe certain people will kill him to obtain,” he said.

It was an oblique answer, less than the truth. However, it served the purpose, and she knew he would not give her more unless forced to. She would leave that to Victor Narraway, and she had already made up her mind that it was he to whom she would go.

“I shall inform them of that,” she promised.

Something in him eased a fraction, but now that victory was achieved, he moved from foot to foot in impatience for her to proceed.

She regarded him coldly. “I have no intention of permitting you to accompany me, Ferdinand. You have told me all I require. As you have made clear, time is of importance. Good morning.”

“Thank you,” he said stiffly. His expression was one of relief, gratitude, and almost disappointment, now that there was nothing more for him to do in his own cause. He hated dependence of any sort whatever, and upon a woman most of all. “Yes… I am obliged. Good day to you. I…”