Anne Perry - The Angel Court Affair

Charlotte started reading over Pitt’s shoulder.

“Some of them are pretty vicious,” she said.

He folded the newspaper and put it facedown on the table.

“You have to be very ugly inside to write the sort of things they say,” she went on, moving around the table to face him.

“They’re angry because she’s disturbed them,” Pitt pointed out reasonably. “They’re frightened.”

“I know that.” There was an effort at patience in her voice, and it showed through. “But frightened people are dangerous. You taught me that, and I haven’t forgotten. Can you stop any of it?”

“No,” he said more gently. “She has the right to say whatever she believes. And they have the right to deny it, ridicule it or put forward any alternatives. We can’t pick and choose whose opinions we allow to be heard.”

“But they could become violent,” Charlotte protested.

He stood up, ready to leave. “As I said, my darling, they’re only words. The threats are implied, no more.” He got no farther than the hall, when the telephone rang, and he went to answer it.

“Brundage.” The person on the other end identified himself immediately. He sounded hoarse and a little shaky. “She’s not here, sir. We’ve searched the whole of Angel Court, where they’re staying, and it seems she went sometime during the night.”

Pitt felt a chill ripple through him, leaving him cold. “Señora Delacruz? Where on earth would she go?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Brundage said with a thread of desperation in his voice. Pitt could hear it over the wire.

“Did anyone come, either in the night, or earlier?” Pitt asked. “Any letters, messages?”

“No, sir,” Brundage answered a little more sharply. “And nothing seems to be damaged, or missing…”

“Except Señora Delacruz,” Pitt snapped.

“Not just her, sir.” Brundage swallowed hard. “Two other women are gone too. Cleo Robles and Elfrida Fonsecca.”

“For God’s sake, Brundage, what happened? Nobody could forcibly kidnap three adult women without there being some signs of a struggle!”

“I know that, sir! But there are no signs of a struggle or a fight. Nothing’s broken. Nobody heard anything, not even a cry or a thump.”

“Or nobody’s admitting to hearing anything,” Pitt corrected.

“Yes, sir, I thought of that.” Suddenly Brundage’s anger was gone and he sounded crushed.

It was not his fault, and Pitt knew it. None of them had taken the threats very seriously. They had thought no further than of a little unpleasantness at one of the public appearances: perhaps at worst a loss of temper, a few stones or pieces of rotten fruit thrown. Now, suddenly, she was gone. Voluntary or not, it was disturbing.

“What’s your impression, Brundage?” he asked.

There was a moment’s silence, and then Brundage answered. “She was persuaded to go, sir. Or else she planned to all along. But I think that’s less likely, in the circumstances…”

“What circumstances?” Pitt asked.

“She has a meeting tomorrow evening. Melville Smith has canceled it now.” Brundage’s voice grew harsher. “He seems certain she isn’t going to be back for it.”

A dark thought entered Pitt’s mind. “What did he say about the meeting, as clearly as you can remember?”

“I know exactly what he said,” Brundage replied sharply. “ ‘Due to unforeseen events, which we cannot at the moment explain, Señora Delacruz will not be able to speak at St. Mary’s Hall tomorrow evening. We deeply regret the disappointment and inconvenience this will cause, and hope that she will be able to take up her mission again soon.’ ”

“I’m coming to Angel Court,” Pitt said. There could be any number of reasons why Sofia had gone, willingly or unwillingly: illness, an accident, a quarrel during which someone lost control, possibly something to do with one of the members of her family in London. That last seemed the most likely. But why on earth had she not informed Melville Smith of the reason for leaving, and the date when she would return? It was discourteous, to say the least. Could it be carelessness? A message gone astray?

He was back in the kitchen again and its warmth wrapped around him, the comfortable smell of bread toasting in front of the open grating, a breath of air from the window over the sink.

“What is it?” Charlotte asked quietly.

“Sofia Delacruz has gone from Angel Court, without explanation,” he replied.

Charlotte rose to her feet. “What on earth do you mean ‘gone’? Has someone kidnapped her? How could that happen with all those people around her, and your men watching?”

“It doesn’t seem that she was kidnapped-at least not forcibly,” he said bluntly. “She may have had some urgent call from a member of her family.”

“Went out alone, leaving no word?” Charlotte said with disbelief.

“We don’t know what happened,” he replied. “I’m going to Angel Court now. And she wasn’t alone. Two of her women went with her.”

Charlotte grasped his wrist, holding it with surprising strength. “Is that what you believe, Thomas? That she received a message from her family? It’s not, is it? She isn’t a foolish woman. If she were in the habit of treating her staff like this, it would become known, and defeat her whole purpose.”

“Many so-called saints are tyrants at home,” he said gently. He knew Charlotte had liked the woman, as had many others. If this disappearance was intentional then Sofia was letting them down, and he resented it.

“Thomas, she hasn’t gone willingly!” Charlotte said with a burst of desperation. “You know that as well as I do! You must find her.” She did not add that she feared Sofia had been hurt, perhaps killed, but it was there in her eyes.

Pitt’s touched Charlotte’s hand gently, loosening her hold, but not letting go of her. “Of course I’ll find her,” he said gently. “But you have to prepare for the possibility that this is a deliberate piece of melodrama to gain more attention. It’s possible none of the threats to her life are real. The fact that two of her women went with her suggests it was planned. And it would be extremely difficult to kidnap a visiting Spanish saint undetected.” He leaned forward and kissed her gently.

But Pitt was far less certain of the truth when he paid the cabby and crossed the pavement to the entrance into Angel Court. It was an ancient courtyard, its surrounding buildings three stories high and with mullioned windows. At the entrance to the courtyard stood a stone angel, life-size, its wings gigantic, its arms raised as if in benediction. It was imposing and strangely sinister. There was an old stable half door to the left. The ground was paved with rough cobbles, which were rounded on the surface, green moss thick between them. An old woman moved rhythmically over them with a broom, back and forth.

Melville Smith had clearly been waiting for Pitt. He strode across the open space toward him, tension in every line of his body.

“Thank heaven you’ve come,” he said breathlessly. “This is a disaster. It makes us look like…incompetents! It’s absurd!” His voice cracked with the effort to control it.

Pitt felt the sting of the word “incompetent.” It applied to him far more than Smith.

Smith clasped Pitt’s hand, then let go of it. He led the way across the court to the open door of their lodgings, and inside.

Brundage was in the oak-paneled hallway speaking with a dark, gentle-faced man whom Smith introduced briefly as Ramon Aguilar. They were both pale and clearly distressed. Brundage swung round when he saw Pitt.

“Morning, sir,” he said grimly.

“Morning,” Pitt replied. He might be less civil later, but not now. They needed clear thinking, a logical appreciation of the facts. Whatever was written in the newspapers yesterday, to Frank Laurence, and any other skeptical observer, this would look very much like a stunt to obtain publicity. They had to tread carefully to keep the situation from spinning out of control.