Anne Perry: Traitors Gate

For the first time Matthew sat back in his chair, crossing his legs, his eyes still on Pitt’s face. “He criticized their general morality,” he said in a steadier voice. “The way they are sworn to favor each other secretly, and at the expense of those who are outside the Circle, which is most of us. They do it in business, banking, politics and socially if they can, although that is harder.” His smile twisted. “There are still the unwritten laws that govern who is accepted and who is not. Nothing can force that. You may impel a gentleman to be civil to you, if he owes you money, but you can never force him to look on you as one of his own, whatever he owes you, up to and including his life.” He did not find it curious, nor did he seek words for the indefinable quality of assurance which made a gentleman. It had nothing to do with intelligence, achievement, money or title. A man might have all these and yet still fail to meet the invisible criteria. Matthew had been born to it; he understood it as some men know how to ride a horse, or to sing in tune.

“It includes too many gentlemen,” Pitt said sourly, memory returning of past cases and his bitter involvement with the Circle.

“That is more or less what Father said,” Matthew agreed, his eyes on Pitt’s face with a deepening intensity. “Then he went on quite specifically about Africa and the way they are controlling banking, whose interests control the funds for exploration and settlement. They are hand-and-hand with the politicians who will decide whether we try for a Cape-to-Cairo domination or concede to the Germans and concentrate on the south.” He shrugged with a quick, angry gesture. “As always the Foreign Secretary is hovering around, saying one thing, and meaning another. I work in the Foreign Office, and I don’t know myself what he really wants. There are missionaries, doctors, explorers, profiteers, big game hunters and Germans swarming all over the place.” He bit his lip ruefully. “Not to mention the native kings and warrior princes whose land it is anyway … until we wring treaties out of them for it. Or the Germans do.”

“And the Inner Circle?” Pitt prompted.

“Manipulating behind the scenes,” Matthew replied. “Calling in old loyalties secretly, investing quietly and reaping the reward. That’s what Father was saying.” He slid a little farther back in the seat and began to relax fractionally; or perhaps he was just so tired he could no longer sit upright. “What he objected to most intensely was the way the whole thing is secret. To give charity anonymously is fine and a perfectly honorable thing to do.”

They were both oblivious of the sounds of movement in the passage beyond.

“That’s what he originally thought the society was for,” he went on. “A group of men banded together to have a better knowledge of where help was needed, and not to do it piecemeal, but with sufficient means to make a real difference. Orphanages, hospitals for the needy, and for research into specific illnesses, almshouses for old soldiers … that sort of thing. Then just recently he discovered the other side to it.” He bit his lip, almost apologetically. “Father was a trifle naive, I think. You or I would have realized there was more to it a lot sooner. He thought the best of many people I would not have.”

Pitt recalled what he knew of the Inner Circle.

“Didn’t they warn him very quickly that they do not take criticism kindly, in fact they don’t take it at all?”

“Yes! Yes they did. They warned him in gentlemanly and discreet terms, which he misread completely. It never occurred to him that they really meant it.” Matthew’s eyebrows rose and his hazel eyes looked at once amused and bitterly hurt. Pitt had a curious sensation of respect for him, and realized the depth of his resolve, not only to clear his father of any suggestion of weakness, but perhaps also to avenge him.

“Matthew,” he began, leaning forward spontaneously.

“If you are going to warn me to leave it alone, you are wasting your time,” Matthew said stubbornly.

“I …” That was precisely what Pitt had been going to do. It was disconcerting to be read so easily. “You don’t even know who they are,” he pointed out. “At least stop and think very hard before you do anything.” It sounded feeble, desperately predictable.

Matthew smiled. “Poor Thomas, so much the elder brother. We are not children now, and one year doesn’t make your seniority worth anything. It hasn’t since we were ten! Of course I shall think carefully. That’s why I’ve come to you. I know perfectly well I can’t wound the Circle. It’s a Hydra. Cut off one head and two more will grow.” His face hardened again and all the light vanished out of it. “But I’m going to prove Father was not senile, or get killed in the attempt myself.” He looked at Pitt very levelly, meeting his eyes without a flicker. “If we allow them to say such things about a man like Father, to silence him with murder, and then discredit him by saying he had lost his wits, then apart from anything else, what have we left? What have we made of ourselves? What honor can we claim?”

“None,” Pitt said sadly. “But we need more than honor to win that battle; we need a great deal of tactical skill as well, and some sharp weapons.” Pitt grimaced. “Or perhaps a long spoon will be more appropriate.”

Matthew’s eyebrows rose. “To sup with the devil? Yes, well put. Have you a long spoon, Thomas? Are you willing to join me in the battle?”

“Yes of course I am.” He spoke without even thinking about it. Only the moment after did all the dangers and the responsibilities come closing in on his mind, but it was too late. And even if he had thought about it and weighed every one, he would still have made the same decision. The only difference would have been the sense of anguishing over it, the fear and the understanding of risk, and the margin of success that could be hoped for. Perhaps that would have been only so much time wasted anyway.

Matthew relaxed at last, allowing his head to rest against the antimacassar behind him. He smiled. Something of the tiredness and the look of defeat had been ironed out of his features. At a glance he almost resembled the youth Pitt had known so long ago, with whom he had shared adventures and dreams. They seemed both immensely wild, full of impossibilities-journeys up the Amazon, discoveries of the tombs of Pharaohs-and at the same time boyishly tame, still with the gentle, domestic ideas of right and wrong, children’s notions of wickedness: theft of goods and simple violence the worst they knew. They had not imagined corruption, disillusion, manipulation and betrayal. It all seemed very innocent now, the boys they had been long ago.

“There were warnings,” Matthew said suddenly. “I can see that now, although at the time I didn’t. I was up here in London when they happened, and he made light of it each time.”

“What were they?” Pitt asked.

Matthew screwed up his face. “Well, the first I cannot be sure about. As Father told it to me, he was traveling on the underground railway, at least he was intending to. He went down the steps to the platform and was waiting for the train-” He stopped abruptly and looked at Pitt. “Have you ever been on one of those things?”

“Yes, frequently.” Pitt pictured the cavernous passages, the long stations where the tunnel widened to allow a platform alongside the train, the dark curved roof, the glaring gaslights, the incredible noise as the engine rattled and roared out of the black hole into the light and came to a halt. Doors flew open and people poured out. Others waiting took their opportunity and pressed in before the doors should close and the wormlike contraption be on its way back into the darkness again.