Anne Perry - Traitors Gate

“An unexpected couple,” Vespasia observed.

“His design, not hers,” Charlotte replied.

“Indeed.” Vespasia looked at the young girl who had come to offer them sandwiches and little cakes decorated and iced in a variety of designs. They made their choice, and Vespasia poured the tea. It was still too hot to sip when Charlotte noticed Susannah Chancellor at the next table, which was rather more behind them so it was half hidden by a samovar on a stand and a large potted plant with a price ticket poking out of it. However, when for a moment neither she nor Vespasia were speaking, Susannah’s voice was just audible. It sounded polite and curious, but there were the beginnings of anxiety in it.

“I think you are leaping to conclusions without knowing all the facts, Mr. Kreisler. The plans have been very thoroughly thought through, and a great many people consulted who have traveled in Africa and know the natives.”

“Such as Mr. Rhodes?” Kreisler’s voice was still on the borders of courtesy, but he was not concealing his disbelief, nor the dislike he felt for Cecil Rhodes and his works.

“Of course he is one of them,” Susannah agreed. “But certainly not the only one. Mr. MacKinnon-”

“Is an honorable man,” he finished for her. His voice was still light, almost bantering in tone, but there was an intensity beneath which was unmistakable to the ear. Charlotte could not see him, but she could imagine the unwavering look in his eyes, even if he were pretending to smile. “But he has to make a profit. That is his business, and his honor depends upon it, even his survival.”

“Mr. Rhodes has a great deal of his own money invested in this venture,” Susannah went on. “Neither my husband nor my brother-in-law would have backed him as they have were he simply an adventurer with no stake in it himself.”

“He is an adventurer with a very great stake in it himself,” Kreisler said with a slight laugh. “He is an empire builder of the highest order!”

“You sound as if you disapprove of that, Mr. Kreisler. Why? If we do not, then others will, and we shall have lost Africa, perhaps to Germany. You can’t approve of that, can you? Or of the slavery that goes on now?”

“No, of course not, Mrs. Chancellor. But the evil there now is centuries old, and part of their way of life. The changes we will bring about will not necessarily get rid of them, only produce war with the Arabs, who are the largest slavers, with the ivory traders and with the Portuguese, and undoubtedly with the Germans and the Sultan of Zanzibar. And most of all, it will set up our own empire in Equatoria, which will eventually overtake Emin Pasha, Lobengula, and the Kabaka of Buganda and everyone else. White settlers with guns will drive out the old ways, and in half a century the Africans will be a subject people in their own land….”

“You’re exaggerating!” There was laughter and disbelief on the surface of her voice, but underneath a beginning of worry, a sharp note of doubt. “There are millions of Africans, and only a handful of us … a few hundred.”

“Today,” he said harshly. “And tomorrow, when there’s gold-and land? When the wars have been fought and there is adventure and profit to offer all the younger sons with no lands here? For those who’ve made a mess in Europe, or whose families won’t support them or protect them anymore?”

“It won’t be like that,” she said urgently. “It will be like India. There will be a proper standing army, and a civil service to administer it and keep the law and …” She stopped.

“Is that what you believe?” he said so softly Charlotte had to strain to catch his words.

“Well …” Susannah hesitated. “Not exactly, of course. It will take time. But yes, eventually it will.”

“India is a culture and a civilization thousands of years older than ours. They were reading and writing, building cities and painting great art, dreaming philosophy, when we were running around painting ourselves blue and wearing animal skins!” he said with his contempt barely hidden.

“We still brought them the benefits of our laws,” she said. “We settled their internal quarrels and united them as a great country. We may be upstarts in some ways, but we brought them peace. We’ll do it in Africa too.”

Kreisler said nothing. It was impossible to imagine what expression was in his face. Neither Charlotte nor Vespasia had said a word since they had both recognized Susannah Chancellor’s voice. Their eyes had met a dozen times with thoughts that needed no speech.

“Did you know Sir Arthur Desmond?” Susannah said after a moment or two.

“No. Why?”

“No reason, except that he would have agreed with you. He seemed to be worried about Africa too.”

“Then I should like to know him.”

“I am afraid that is not possible. He died last week.”

Kreisler said nothing, and a moment later they were apparently joined by Christabel Thorne, and the conversation became quite general, and to do with the bazaar.

“A man of great passions, Mr. Kreisler,” Vespasia said, sipping the last of her tea. “An interesting man, but I fear a dangerous one.”

“Do you think he is right … about Africa?” Charlotte asked.

“I have no idea. Perhaps, at least in part, he is. But I am quite sure he has no doubts at all. I wish Nobby were not so fond of him. Come, my dear, we have done our duty now. We may feel free to leave.”

Charlotte and Pitt arrived early at the village of Brackley for the funeral of Arthur Desmond. They alighted from the train into brilliant sunshine; the small station had only a single platform stretching a hundred yards or so with the building in the center containing the waiting room, ticket office and stationmaster’s house. The rest bordered on fields already deep in com, and the heavy trees beyond were towering vivid green with new leaf. Wild roses in bud were hanging sprays out of the hedgerows and the may blossom, with its sweet perfume, was starting to open.

Pitt had not been back to Brackley for fifteen years, and now suddenly it enveloped him in familiarity as if he had left only last night. Everything was exactly the same, the angle of the station roof against the sky, the curve of the lines as the track swerved away towards Tolworth, the huge coal bunkers for refueling. He even found he stepped automatically to avoid the bad patch of platform where it had become worn immediately before the doorway. Only it all looked just a little smaller than he had recalled, and perhaps a little shabbier.

The stationmaster’s hair had turned gray. Last time he had seen him it had been brown. And he wore a black band of mourning on his arm.

He was about to speak some automatic word of greeting, then he stopped and looked again. “Young Thomas? It is young Thomas, isn’t it? ‘Course it is! I told old Abe as you’d come. A sad day for Brackley, an’ no mistake.”

“Good morning, Mr. Wilkie,” Pitt replied. He added the “Mr.” intentionally. He was a superintendent of police in London, but this was his home; here he was the gamekeeper’s son from the Hall. The stationmaster was his equal. “Yes, very sad.” He wanted to add something else about why he had not been back in so long, but excuses were empty, and today no one would care. Their hearts were full; they had no room left for anything but the sense of loss which united them. He introduced Charlotte and Wilkie’s face lit up. Clearly it was a courtesy he had not fully expected, but one that pleased him greatly.

They were no farther than the door onto the road when another three people came in from the platform. Apparently they had been farther along in the train. They were all gentlemen of middle or later years and, to judge from their dress, of substantial means. With a cold jolt of memory Pitt recognized at least one of them from the inquest, and felt a rush of hatred so powerful he stood motionless on the step in the sunlight and Charlotte went on without him. Had it not been so ridiculous, he would have liked to have gone back and accused the man. There was nothing remotely useful he could say, simply relieve himself of some of the anger and pain he felt, and the outrage that the man could say such things publicly, regardless of what he may have suspected in private. It was a kind of betrayal of whatever friendship he and Arthur Desmond had shared.