Anne Perry - The Angel Court Affair

The world was full of uncertainty. They were hurtling toward the end of the century. There was social and religious unrest everywhere. There were too many questions that no longer had answers. There was a seed of disorder in belief, not as to which God was true, but in any God at all. It matched the already growing social anarchy in politics throughout Europe. This year had seen an Anti-Anarchist Conference in Rome, and the founding of an international police force. It was long overdue.

And as he turned the corner into the street and walked toward the main road, he noticed the newsboy selling papers. The headline said something about mounting tensions in South Africa.

He shook his head. He must liaise with the Spanish Embassy to make sure his inquiries did not ruffle diplomatic feathers, and tomorrow he would go to see Barton Hall and find out what he knew of Sofia Delacruz and her real purpose in coming to England.

Early the next morning the hansom drew up to the curb in Eaton Square and Pitt stepped down onto the pavement and paid the driver. He walked past the wrought-iron railings and up the steps to the paneled oak door of Barton Hall’s home. Apart from the lion-headed door knocker, the house was as elegantly Georgian as all the others facing the square. It was formal and perfectly proportioned. There were no flippant fancies to mar its classic exterior.

Pitt raised the knocker and let it fall. It was only moments before the door was opened by a man of immense dignity, gray-haired before his time. His face had an expression of imperturbable calm.

“Good morning, sir. How may I help you?” He was holding a small silver salver, the sort used to take a gentleman’s card.

Pitt dropped his card on it, adding as he did so, “Commander Pitt of Special Branch. I would like to speak with Mr. Barton Hall. It is a matter of the greatest urgency.”

“Yes, sir. If you would like to come in I will see if Mr. Hall is available.” The butler stepped back into the wide, marble-flagged hall.

“Perhaps you would like to wait in the morning room, sir?” It was not an inquiry so much as a direction. He indicated the way with a very slight movement of his hand.

Pitt was happy to accept. Morning rooms were often revealing not only of a man’s character but also of his means, his interests, and the comfort and discipline of his household.

This one was no exception. As the butler closed the door and his footsteps retreated over the marble, Pitt stared around at the dark curtains, the polished wood floor with its very traditional red and blue Turkey carpet and the one wall entirely lined with books, comprising sets uniformly bound in leather. They were arranged according to size and color, rather than by subject matter or by author. They looked expensive, well cared for, infrequently moved from their places.

He walked over and pulled one out. The shelf was sufficiently well dusted that there was no mark. He smiled and pushed the book back into line. It was a history of Schliemann’s excavations in the ruins now believed to be Troy.

He turned and looked more closely at the two paintings on the farther walls. They were rather staid pastoral scenes, undisturbed by any signs of real country life. Everything was artistically proportioned, from the haywain to the slant of the thatched roof.

There was one photograph that caught his eye. It was in a frame on one of the smaller tables. It showed the head and shoulders of a middle-aged woman whose dark hair was pulled back in a fashion of at least ten years ago. At first glance she was ordinary, her features strong but a little heavy for handsomeness. But the longer Pitt looked at her, the more he saw in her not only a frankness, but a humor. She seemed the sort of woman that, when you knew her well, you would miss very much when she was absent. Was she Barton Hall’s wife?

His thoughts were broken by the opening of the door as Barton himself came in and closed it silently behind him. He was a tall man with slightly receding hair, which was graying at the sides. He was very formally dressed, bony wrists showing beneath his white shirt cuffs.

“Good morning, Commander Pitt,” he said quietly. “How may I be of assistance to you?” Hall’s voice was more than pleasing-there was a depth to it, almost a music.

“Good morning, Mr. Hall,” Pitt replied, inclining his head. “I believe you are related to Sofia Delacruz?”

Hall winced very slightly. “I am,” he admitted. “She is a cousin on my late mother’s side of the family.” He remained standing. “But please do not hold me accountable for her eccentric views. Believe me, sir, were I able to dissuade her from speaking of them publicly, I would already have done so.” He cleared his throat. “I apologize for any embarrassment she may cause. I am acutely aware of it, but helpless to prevent her. All the family’s pleading has changed nothing.”

Pitt felt a degree of sympathy with him. There were few people who were not embarrassed by their families at some time in their lives, but usually not to this extent. Hall was also clearly touched by anxiety.

“I am not looking for your help in moderating her speaking,” Pitt replied.

Hall frowned. He was still standing in the middle of the Turkey rug looking vaguely at a loss. “Then what is it you wish of me?”

“Sofia Delacruz was staying at a residence in Angel Court…” he answered. He saw Hall’s bleak smile of humor at the name of the place. “She disappeared from there sometime during the night before last,” he continued. “Her people are anxious because she left no word, and it has meant they have had to cancel a meeting this evening.”

Hall’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “And you thought she might have come here? I’m sorry, I have no idea why she should do something so…irresponsible.” He sighed. “Although I should not be surprised. Her whole life has been a journey of one irresponsibility after another. This is merely the latest.”

“Irresponsibilities that were against her own interests?” Pitt asked quickly.

Hall stared at him, a confusion of thoughts racing across his face.

Pitt waited.

Hall swallowed hard. “Perhaps I spoke in haste. I have known very little of her for the last ten years or so.” He cleared his throat again. “One always hopes that people may change.”

Pitt realized with surprise how angry he was. He had believed that Sofia was sincere, even that she had a vision of a glory in the world that made sense of some of the pain, the waste, and the seeming chaos.

And it seemed now as if she was very probably a charlatan. The taste it left in his mouth was bitter. If Barton Hall had endured a lifetime of this deceit, then Pitt had every sympathy with him now.

Hall was waiting for Pitt to continue. His face was creased with concern and he stood unnaturally still.

“Has she contacted you since she arrived in England?” Pitt asked.

“Oh, yes.” Barton Hall spoke wearily. “She sent a perfectly civil letter from Southampton, and then a note when she reached London. She had asked to meet with me the day after they arrived in the city, but I had other arrangements. She agreed that it should be tomorrow.”

Pitt wondered at Sofia’s keenness to meet with her cousin. Was it simply that she knew it would be unpleasant and thus wished to get it over with as soon as possible, whereas Hall had preferred to delay it, maybe even avoid it altogether?

“She may return before then,” he said.

“And if she doesn’t?” Hall asked. “I presume you are looking for her? Questioning these…people that she has now made her life with?” His shoulders were tight, pulling the fabric of his coat, and there was a thin thread of fear in his voice. “Do you know anything about them?”