Anne Perry - Dorchester Terrace

He shifted a little and recrossed his legs before continuing. “The emperor’s son died in one of the ugliest scandals of the century, and God knows, there have been other bad ones. We’ve had the odd few ourselves. Now his nephew, the only heir left, is wanting to marry a woman the old emperor considers beneath the position that will be thrust upon her. The Hungarian situation is bad, and growing worse. Most of Europe recognizes that the poor devils are second-class citizens in their own land. Italy and the Balkans are increasingly restless. And I’m afraid all of that is to say nothing of the chaos in Russia, and the very considerable rising power of Germany, which, united, is now tasting its own strength.”

He bit his lip and stared gravely at Narraway. “We have more than enough to worry about. Let the past lie in whatever peace it can.”

“It wasn’t important,” Narraway lied. “A passing kindness I might have been able to do.” He smiled apologetically. “I’m a trifle bored with listening to their lordships in the House. Perhaps I should find myself a country pursuit, except I am not a countryman, apart from the odd weekend.”

“Perhaps you should remain in London and listen more closely to their lordships. I’m sure you could find something to argue about, concentrate their minds now and then on a useful issue.” Tregarron frowned slightly. “I … I hate to ask this, but are you confident in this fellow Pitt that they’ve put in your place in Special Branch? I know he was a good policeman, but this is not quite the same thing, is it? He’ll need judgment, a keenness of perception that police experience won’t have taught him. He might be brilliant at solving mysteries and be able to unravel criminal activity and tell you exactly who’s involved, but can he see the larger picture, the political ramifications? Has he actually mastered anything beyond the art of solving crime? Does he understand anything deeper than that?”

Narraway knew exactly what Tregarron meant, but he affected a slight confusion to give himself time to think.

Tregarron leaned forward, filling the silence in an abrupt way, as if worried that he had offended Narraway. “I know he’s a good chap, and probably as honest as the day is long, and after that disaster with Gower, we’ll destroy ourselves without honesty. But for God’s sake, Narraway, we need a little sophistication as well! We require a man who can see ten jumps ahead, who can outwit the best against us, not just put a hand on the shoulder of the actual perpetrator of a crime, the fanatic with a stick of dynamite in his pocket.”

“I think one of Pitt’s greatest assets will be that men who think they are clever will always underestimate him,” Narraway replied.

Tregarron’s eyebrows shot up and a faint humor lit his face. “Should I consider myself suitably rebuked?” he inquired.

Narraway smiled, this time with genuine amusement. “Not unless you wish to,” he said smoothly. “I have every confidence in Pitt, and you may also.”

But as he went outside into the rain half an hour later, he was less certain than he had led Tregarron to suppose. Was Pitt’s own innate honesty going to blind him to the degree of deviousness in others?

Pitt had been born a servant, and had spent his boyhood with respect for the master of the estate, Sir Arthur Desmond, a man of unyielding honor and considerable kindness. Might Pitt, at some level below his awareness, expect others of wealth and position to be similar?

How would he cope with the disillusion when he discovered that it was very often not the case?

Then Narraway remembered the affair at Buckingham Palace, and thought that very possibly his anxieties were unnecessary. He lengthened his stride toward Baker Street, where he would assuredly find a hansom to take him home.

Pitt’s office was warm and comfortable. The fire burned well, and every time it sank down, he put more coal on it. Outside the rain beat against the windows, sharp with the occasional hail. Gray clouds chased across the sky, gathering and then shredding apart as the wind tore through them. Down in the street passing vehicles sent sprays of water up from the gutters, drenching careless pedestrians walking too close to the curb.

Pitt looked at the pile of papers on his desk. They were the same routine reports that greeted him every day, but if he did not read them, he might miss one thread that was different, an omission or cross-reference that indicates a change, a connection not made before. There were patterns that anything less than the minutest care would not disclose, and those patterns might be the only warning of a betrayal or an attack to come.

He was disturbed in the rhythm of his reading by a sharp rap on the door. He turned the page down reluctantly.

“Come,” he answered.

The door opened and Stoker came in, closing it silently behind him. His face was difficult to read, as usual. Pitt had learned to interpret his agitation or excitement by studying the way he moved, the ease or stiffness in his body, and the angle of his shoulders. Now he judged Stoker to be alert and a trifle apprehensive.

“What is it?” he asked, gesturing toward the chair opposite his desk.

Stoker sat obediently. “Maybe nothing,” he replied.

“If it was nothing, you wouldn’t be here,” Pitt pointed out. He trusted Stoker’s instincts. He was the only one who had believed in Narraway when Narraway had been accused of treason in the O’Neil case. Everyone else had believed only what the evidence seemed to show them. Stoker had had the courage to risk not only his career but also his life to work secretly with Pitt against those who had corrupted and usurped the power. It was Stoker who had saved Pitt’s life in the desperate struggle at the end.

Stoker’s mastery of small observations was acute. He heard the evasions that skirted around a lie, saw the smile that indicated nervousness, the tiny signs of vanity in a conspicuous watch chain, a folded silk handkerchief a shade too bright, the overly casual manner that concealed a far better acquaintance than that admitted to.

“What is it?” Pitt insisted.

Stoker frowned. “Down Dover way. There have been a few questions about railway signals and points.”

“Railway points?” Pitt was puzzled. “You mean where the tracks join, or branch? What specifically is being asked? Are you sure it’s not just routine maintenance?”

Stoker’s face was grim. “Yes. It’s a stranger, asking about how the signals work, where they’re controlled from, can it be done by hand, that sort of thing. Thought it might just be some fellow wanting to explain it to his son, at first. But there have been questions about timetables, the freight trains and passenger trains from Dover to London, and branch lines as well, as if someone wanted to figure out where they cross.”

Pitt thought for a moment or two. Some of the possibilities were ugly. “And you’re sure it’s the same man asking?”

“That’s a bit hard to tell. Extremely ordinary-looking, except he had very pale, clear eyes. The man who asked about the freight trains had on spectacles. Couldn’t see his eyes.”

“And the man who asked about the signals and points?” Pitt asked, a tiny knot of anxiety beginning to tighten in his stomach.

“Different hair, as much as you could see under his hat. Doesn’t mean anything. Anybody can put a wig on.”

“What’s being moved in and out of Dover on the lines he asked about?” Pitt pressed.

“I looked into that. Heavy industrial stuff, mostly. Some coal. Fish. Nothing worth stealing, not with a rail crash anyway.”

Pitt thought for a moment. “And you said he asked about passenger trains as well?”