Anne Perry - Dorchester Terrace

Pitt was not easily ruffled. Years in the police had taught him the virtue of patience, and also that when people are shocked or frightened, they often react aggressively. However, this faintly patronizing tone from Jack, of all people, was as abrasive as vinegar on a cut.

“You make it sound as if I’m looking for some kind of personal favor to help me out of a predicament,” Pitt said tartly. “It is Special Branch’s duty to prevent any assassination attempts on British soil, and doing so is as much in the interest of the Foreign Office as it is in Special Branch’s.”

Jack paled and the skin across his cheekbones tightened. “An assassination attempt? Is that likely?”

“I don’t know! Because I don’t know who’s visiting, apart from the official government list.”

Jack stiffened. “Exactly what do you know, Thomas? I’ll see how it squares with the information we have. After all the recent problems with Special Branch, you must understand why Lord Tregarron is cautious.” There were spots of color on Jack’s cheeks, but his gaze did not waver.

“That is why I came in person,” Pitt said between his teeth. He was on the verge of adding that if Tregarron didn’t trust him, then he had better ask the prime minister to have Pitt replaced, because nothing would ever get done. Then he realized how childish that would have sounded, and how appallingly vulnerable. Had he heard someone else say such a thing, he would have immediately seen their weakness.

He took a breath and spoke more levelly. “I am aware of the delicacy of the situation, and Special Branch’s one recent near failure,” he said, faintly emphasizing the word “near.” “I would remind Lord Tregarron that in the end we succeeded-rather spectacularly.”

Jack stood motionless. “I will remind him. He will still want to know the details behind your concern. What shall I tell him?”

Pitt was prepared. He had expected to answer to Tregarron personally, but he could see that it was going to have to be through Jack. He outlined what Stoker had told him.

“It doesn’t seem like much,” Jack said gravely.

“By the time it does seem like much, it will be too late to deal with it quickly and discreetly,” Pitt pointed out. “You might mention that also. Special Branch’s job is not to stage dramatic rescues. It is, if possible, to avoid the danger and embarrassment in the first place.”

Jack bit his lip. “I’ll go and tell him. Please wait.”

Again Pitt was too restless to sit in any of the chairs, comfortable as they were. He stood by the window, then paced, then stared out the window again at the busy street below. The blustering wind whipped at coattails, caught umbrellas, and endangered hats. He could imagine the hiss and splash as the wheels of passing carriages sent arcs of muddy water up into the air behind them.

It was a quarter of an hour later when Jack finally reappeared. This time he looked distinctly embarrassed.

“I’m sorry, but we can offer no practical help. Lord Tregarron says that he has considered the information you passed to us, and he does not feel that it refers to any of the private visits of which we are aware, nor does it seem connected to any of the anarchist groups in Europe of which we know. In his opinion, it is no more than careless gossip, and there is no need for you to be anxious.”

He gave a bleak smile. “He asked me to convey to you his thanks for passing on your concern, and for taking the trouble to come personally, especially in view of recent past events.” He seemed about to add something further, then changed his mind. Perhaps a glance at Pitt’s face told him that he was already beyond the point of condescension.

Pitt felt acutely like the policeman he had once been, whom well-trained butlers would send to the servants’ entrance when he had been bold enough to knock on the front door. As if they felt that the gamekeeper’s son was putting on the airs of a gentleman and needed to be put in his place.

What would Narraway have done in this situation? The answer was obvious: He would not have been in this situation. Tregarron would have seen him, regardless of what he thought of the evidence.

Or would Narraway have been confident enough to judge the entire situation more accurately, and thus not needed Tregarron’s opinion? Was that where Pitt had failed?

“Thank you for attempting to help,” Pitt said coolly. “I shall have to acquire the information from some other source. This has been a waste of time, but it seems that neither you nor I have the power to avoid that. Good day.”

Jack started to say something, then changed his mind. He was pale, but his cheeks were flushed. He opened the door for Pitt, who went out and into the long corridor without looking back.

Jack watched Pitt until he was out of sight, then returned to Tregarron’s office, knocking lightly. He was answered immediately.

Tregarron looked up from his desk, the question on his face.

Jack closed the door behind him. He found this embarrassing. Pitt was his brother-in-law, and he both liked and respected him. But he knew something of the circumstances of Pitt’s promotion to Narraway’s position, and how close the whole affair had come to disaster. He knew that Pitt must be nervous now, perhaps leaning too far toward caution, afraid of missing a clue, and consequently overreaching himself, and his authority. If he became officious, he would make enemies.

“I think he was just being careful, sir,” he said to Tregarron.

Tregarron smiled, but it was tight-lipped. “Don’t let him be a nuisance over this, Radley. If people realize he’s jumpy, they may start to imagine that there’s something real behind it. We can’t have Europe thinking we don’t know what we’re doing. Keep a tight rein on him, will you?”

Jack stood very straight. “Yes, sir.” He considered adding something more, then thought better of it. He was new to his position too. Tregarron was one of the most dynamic figures in the Foreign Office. He had clearly taken a liking to Jack, much to Emily’s delight.

He sincerely hoped Emily had had no hand in his promotion. It was extremely important to him to succeed on his own merit.

Early in their marriage, he had been content to live very comfortably on the wealth Emily had inherited from George Ashworth, but as time had gone by he had become less happy with it. Possibly that was due in part to the sense of purpose he saw in Pitt, and Charlotte’s confidence in him because of it. He wanted Emily to look at him with the same regard: a regard born of belief, not duty.

Tregarron cleared his throat impatiently.

Jack smiled. “Yes, sir, I’ll see that he doesn’t embarrass himself, or us.”

“Thank you,” Tregarron said. “You’d better look over those papers from the German ambassador.”

After dinner that evening, Pitt sat in the parlor in the big chair opposite Charlotte. The gaslight was bright, and the heavy velvet curtains were closed. The fire burned well, and the sound of the wind in the trees outside, mixed with the faint spatter of rain on the glass, was oddly comfortable. They were discussing moving house, but seemed to be deciding against it, at least for the time being.

“Are you sure you don’t want to?” he asked, looking at her. She was mending one of Jemima’s dresses. The faint click of the needle against her thimble was the only sound from inside the room, except for the whisper of the flames. “We could afford it,” he added.

“I know.” She smiled. “The job is enough change for the moment.”

“You mean, it might not last?” he interpreted, recalling Jack’s stiff figure standing by the door, relaying Tregarron’s dismissal. Should he tell Charlotte about it? Not being able to discuss his concerns was the highest price of his promotion. It left him alone, in a way he had not been used to in fourteen years of marriage. He tried to put the warmth back into his eyes, to take the sting-and perhaps the fear-out of his words. She was just as sharply aware as he was that if he failed he would not be able to go back into the ranks again, that there was nowhere else for him. He had no private means, unlike Narraway or Radley.