Anne Perry - Traitors Gate

“When Sir Arthur finally came back I tackled him on the matter.” The umbrage was still apparent in his voice and in the set of his shoulders as he gripped the edge of the box. “I’d set my heart on those pups,” he went on. “But Arthur looked completely confused and told me some cock-and-bull story about having heard from me that I didn’t want them anymore, which was the exact opposite of the case. And then he went on with a lot of nonsense about Africa.” He shook his head and his lips tightened. “The terrible thing was, he obviously believed what he was saying. I’m afraid he had what I can only call an obsession. He imagined he was being persecuted by some secret society. Look, I say, sir … this is all very embarrassing.”

Danforth shifted awkwardly, clearing his throat. Two or three men in the front now nodded sympathetically.

“Arthur Desmond was a damn decent man,” Danforth said loudly. “Do we have to rake up all this unfortunate business? The poor devil accidentally took his sleeping medicine twice over, and I daresay his heart was not as strong as he thought. Can’t we call an end to this?”

The coroner hesitated only a moment, then acquiesced.

“Yes, I believe we can, Mr. Danforth. Thank you for your evidence, sir, in what must have been a painful matter for you. Indeed, for all of us.” He looked around the room as Danforth left the stand. “Are there any more witnesses? Anyone who has anything relevant to say in this matter?”

A short, broad man stood up in the front row.

“Sir, if you please, so this tragedy can be laid to rest, I and my colleagues”-he indicated the men on either side of him-“the full extent of the front row were in the Morton Club on the afternoon of Sir Arthur’s death. We can confirm everything that the steward has said, indeed everything that we have heard here today. We would like to take this opportunity to extend our deepest sympathies to Sir Matthew Desmond.” He glanced around in the general direction of the bench where Matthew sat hunched forward, his face white. “And to everyone else who held Sir Arthur in esteem, as we did ourselves. Thank you, sir.” He sat down amid murmurs of agreement. The man immediately to his right touched him on the shoulder in a gesture of approval. The one on the left nodded vigorously.

“Very well.” The coroner folded his hands. “I have heard sufficient evidence to make my verdict sad, but not in doubt. This court finds that Sir Arthur Desmond died as the result of an overdose of laudanum, administered by himself in a moment of absentmindedness. Possibly he took the laudanum in mistake for a headache powder, or a remedy for indigestion. We shall never know. Death by misadventure.” He looked up at Matthew very steadily, something of a warning in his expression.

The court erupted in excitement. Newspaper reporters made a dash for the doors. People in the public benches turned to one another, bursting with comment and speculation; several rose to their feet as a relief from sitting.

Matthew’s face was ashen, his lips parted as if he were about to speak.

“Be quiet!” Pitt whispered fiercely.

“It is not a misadventure!” Matthew retorted between his teeth. “It was cold-blooded murder! Do you believe those-”

“No I don’t! But on the evidence, we are damned lucky they didn’t bring in a verdict of suicide.”

The last traces of color drained out of Matthew’s face. He turned to look at Pitt. They both knew what suicide meant: it was not merely dishonor, it was a crime against both the church and the state. He would not be given a Christian burial. He would die a criminal.

The coroner adjourned the court. The people rose and filed out into the sunshine, still talking busily, full of doubts, theories, explanations.

Matthew walked beside Pitt in the dusty street, and it was several minutes before he spoke again. When he did his voice was husky, almost paralyzed in the savaging of his pain and confusion.

“I’ve never felt like this in my life. I didn’t think it was possible to hate anyone so much.”

Pitt said nothing. He did not trust his own emotions.

Vespasia spent the afternoon in what had once been a very usual pursuit but was now one she practiced less and less often. She sent for her carriage at five minutes before three o’clock, and dressed in ecru-colored lace and a highly fashionable hat with a turned-up brim and trimmed with a huge white cabbage rose. And then, carrying an ivory-handled parasol, she came down the front steps and was assisted up into her carriage.

She instructed the coachman to take her first to Lady Brabazon’s house in Park Lane, where she stayed for exactly fifteen minutes, which was the appropriate duration for an afternoon call. Less would have been too brief for courtesy, more would risk outstaying one’s welcome. It was even more important to know when to leave than it was to know when to arrive.

Next she drove to Mrs. Kitchener’s in Grosvenor Square, arriving a little before half past three, still well within the hour allotted for ceremonious calls. From four until five was for those less formal. From five until six was for those with whom one was on terms of friendship. Vespasia adhered to the convention. There were rules of society one might disobey, and there were those where it would be pointless and unacceptable. The timing of afternoon calls was among the latter.

What she was hoping to learn was a little more about the various members of the Colonial Office from a social point of view. For this it was necessary she begin to circulate again, in order that she might hear the appropriate gossip.

From Mrs. Kitchener’s she proceeded north to Portman Square, and then to George Street, and Mrs. Dolly Wentworth’s house, where she presented her card and was immediately invited in. It was now just past four o’clock, and an hour when tea might be offered and a call might last a little over the usual fifteen minutes.

“How charming of you to visit, Lady Cumming-Gould,” Dolly Wentworth said with a smile. There were already two other ladies sitting perched on the edges of their chairs, backs ruler straight, parasols propped beside them. One was elderly with a handsome nose and imperious manner, the other at least twenty-five years younger, and from the resemblance in brow and coloring, presumably her daughter. Dolly Wentworth had a son, as yet unmarried. Vespasia drew her own conclusions as to their purpose, and was very soon proved correct. They were introduced as the Honorable Mrs. Reginald Saxby and Miss Violet Saxby.

Mrs. Saxby rose to her feet. It was customary for one party to leave as another arrived, and in no way a discourtesy. Miss Violet Saxby followed suit reluctantly.

“So unfortunate George should have been at his club,” Mrs. Saxby said critically.

“I am sure he will be devastated to have missed you,” Dolly murmured. “I often wonder why men go to their clubs so very often. It seems to me that some of them spend every afternoon there, or else at the races, or cricket, or some such thing.”

“I don’t know why they have clubs at all,” Violet said petulantly. “There are hundreds of clubs for men, and barely half a dozen for women.”

“The reason for that is perfectly obvious,” her mother retorted. “Men have clubs in which to meet each other, talk a lot of nonsense about politics and sport and the like, and occasionally a little gossip, or business. It is where their social life is largely conducted.”

“Then why not for women?” Violet persisted.

“Don’t be absurd, child. Women have withdrawing rooms for such things.”

“Then why do they have clubs for women at all?”

“For those who don’t have their own withdrawing rooms, of course,” Mrs. Saxby said impatiently.