Anne Perry - Traitors Gate

Matthew looked up sharply. The coroner glanced at him. Matthew’s face tightened but he said nothing.

General Anstruther cleared his throat loudly and began.

“Decent chap, Arthur Desmond. Always thought so. Getting older, of course, like the rest of us. Forgetting things. Happens.”

“That afternoon, General,” the coroner prompted. “How was his demeanor? Was he …” He hesitated. “Distrait?”

“Ah …” Anstruther hesitated, looking deeply uncomfortable.

Matthew sat rigid, his eyes unwaveringly on Anstruther’s face.

“Is this really necessary?” Anstruther demanded, glaring at the coroner. “The fellow’s dead, damn it! What more do we need? Bury him and remember him kindly. He was a good man.”

“No doubt, sir,” the coroner said quietly. “That is not in any sense in question. But we do need to ascertain exactly how he died. The law requires that of us. The circumstances are unusual. The Morton Club wishes to clear its name of any question of carelessness or impropriety.”

“Good God!” Anstruther blew through his nose. “Who’s suggesting such a thing? Absolute nonsense. Poor Desmond was not well and a trifle confused. He took too much laudanum along with brandy. Simple accident. No more to be said.”

Matthew jerked up. “He was not confused!” he said aloud.

Everyone in the room turned towards him, surprised and more than a little embarrassed. One did not show emotion of such a sort, especially not here. It was not done.

“We sympathize with you, Sir Matthew,” the coroner said clearly. “But please contain yourself, sir. I shall not allow any statements to pass without requiring they be substantiated.” He turned back to the witness stand. “Now, General Anstruther, what causes you to say that Sir Arthur was confused? Please be specific.”

Anstruther pursed his lips and looked annoyed. He was obviously very loath to accede. He glanced once at the front bench. “He … er … he forgot what he had said,” he replied. “Repeated himself, don’t you know? Got his facts muddled now and then. Talked a lot of nonsense about Africa. Didn’t seem to understand.”

Matthew rose to his feet before Pitt could restrain him.

“You mean he disagreed with you?” he challenged.

“Sir Matthew!” the coroner warned. “I will not tolerate repeated interruption, sir. We are aware of your very natural grief, but there are limits to our patience. This inquest will be conducted in proper order and decorum, with respect both for the truth and for the dignity of the occasion. I am sure you would wish that as much as anyone.”

Matthew drew in his breath, possibly to apologize, but the coroner held up his hand to silence him.

Matthew sat back down again, to Pitt’s relief.

“General, please be good enough to elaborate upon what you mean.” The coroner turned to General Anstruther. “Did Sir Arthur merely disagree with you upon some matters? What precisely causes you to believe his reasoning was confused?”

The dark color washed up Anstruther’s cheeks, making his white whiskers seem even more pronounced.

“Talked a lot of nonsense about secret combinations of people plotting together to conquer Equatoria, or some such thing.” He glanced again at the front row, and then away. “Made a lot of wild accusations. Absolute nonsense of course. Contradicted himself half the time, poor devil. Terrible thing, to start losing your sense of … of … God knows, all your old loyalties, where your trust and decency lie, who your own people are, and what the values are you believed all your life.”

“You mean Sir Arthur had substantially changed from the man he had been in the recent past?”

“I wish you wouldn’t force me to say this!” Anstruther persisted angrily. “Let us bury him in peace, and his latter misfortunes with him. Let us forget this nonsense and remember him as he was a year or so ago.”

Matthew groaned so audibly that not only did Pitt hear him, the man on the far side of him heard as well. He looked around sharply, then flushed with discomfort at Matthew’s obvious emotion, and looked away again.

“Thank you, General,” the coroner said quietly. “I think you have told us enough for us to have some idea. You are excused.”

Anstruther took out a white handkerchief and blew his nose savagely, then left, looking to neither side of him.

The Honorable William Osborne was called next, who said much the same as Anstruther had, adding one or two instances of Arthur Desmond’s strange and irrational opinions, but he did not mention Africa. He was altogether a smoother and more assured man, and while he expressed regret in words, his manner did not suggest any emotion at all, except a slight impatience.

Matthew stared at him with implacable dislike, a growing bewilderment in his pain. It was more than possible that both Anstruther and Osborne were members of the Inner Circle. Pitt loathed to admit it, but it was also possible that Arthur Desmond had been somewhat irrational in his opinions, and that they were born more of emotion than a knowledge of fact. He had always been highly individual, even eccentric. It was possible that in old age he had become detached from reality.

Another regular club member was called, a thin man with a sallow face and a gold watch with which his fingers were constantly fiddling as if it gave him some kind of comfort. He repeated what Osborne had said, occasionally using the same phrases to describe what he apparently viewed as the disintegration of Arthur Desmond’s faculties of reason and judgment.

The coroner listened without interruption, and then adjourned the sitting until after luncheon. They had not begun until ten o’clock, and it was already well past midday.

Pitt and Matthew walked out into the brilliant sunlight side by side. Matthew was silent for several yards along the pavement, sunk in gloom. A passerby jostled him, and he seemed almost unaware of it.

“I suppose I should have expected this,” he said at last as they turned the corner. He was about to walk on and Pitt caught him by the arm. “What?” he asked.

“Opposite.” Pitt indicated a public house sign for the Bull Inn.

“I’m not hungry,” Matthew said impatiently.

“Eat anyway,” Pitt instructed, stepping off the curb and avoiding a pile of horse droppings. Matthew trod in it and swore.

At another time Pitt might have laughed at the sight of Matthew’s face, but he knew this was not the occasion. They hurried to the far side, and Matthew scraped his feet angrily against the curb. “Don’t they have any crossing sweepers anymore?” he demanded. “I can’t go inside like this.”

“Yes you can. They’ll have a proper boot scraper at the door. Come on.”

Reluctantly Matthew followed Pitt to the entrance, used the iron scraper meticulously, as if the state of his boots were of the utmost importance, and then they went in side by side. Pitt ordered for both of them and they sat down in the crowded, noisy room. Tankards gleamed on pegs above the bar, polished wood shone darkly, there was sawdust on the floor and the smell of ale, heat and bodies.

“What can we do?” Matthew said finally when their meal was served: thick bread with sharp crusts, butter, crumbling cheese, dark aromatic pickles and fresh cider.

Pitt made his sandwich and bit into it.

“Did you ever mean that we could achieve anything?” Matthew went on, his plate untouched. “Or were you just trying to comfort me?”

“Of course I meant it,” Pitt replied with his mouth full. He was also angry and distressed, but he knew the importance of keeping up their strength if they were to fight. “But we cannot prove them liars until we know what they’ve said.”

“And then?” Matthew asked with disbelief in his voice.