Anne Perry - Traitors Gate

The cab progressed slowly, stopping for every tangle of coaches, carriages, drays and omnibuses from the Strand and Wellington Street where Pitt had hired it. They inched past Northampton Street, Bedford Street, King William Street, and Duncannon Street right to Charing Cross. Everyone was in a hurry and determined to have the right-of-way. Drivers were shouting at each other. A brougham and a hearse had apparently got their wheels locked and were causing a major obstruction. Two youths with a dray were calling out advice, and a costermonger was having a quarrel with a pie seller.

It was fifteen minutes before Pitt’s cab finally turned left into Whitehall and made its way towards Downing Street, and when it stopped, the duty constable approached to see what they wanted.

“Superintendent Pitt, going to the Colonial Office,” Pitt told him, producing his card.

The cabdriver opened his eyes with interest.

“Yes sir.” The constable saluted smartly and stood rather more to attention. “Didn’t recognize you, sir.”

Pitt paid the driver and turned to go up the steps, aware that he was a good deal less than smart, and certainly not attired like one of the officials and diplomats. In their cutaway coats, winged collars and striped trousers, they passed him on either side, carrying their furled umbrellas, although it was a fine May Day morning.

“Yes sir?” a young man enquired of him almost as soon as he came inside the building. “May I help you, sir?”

Pitt produced his card again as verification of his rank, which he admitted his appearance lacked. As always his hair was too long and curled untidily over his collar and from under his hat. His jacket was actually quite well cut, but his habit of poking all manner of things into the pockets had pushed it out of shape, and certainly his collar was not stiff, nor was it winged. His tie was something of an afterthought, and looked it.

“Yes, please,” he replied immediately. “I have a confidential matter to discuss with the most senior official available.”

“I’ll make an appointment for you, sir,” the young man replied smoothly. “Would the day after tomorrow be suitable to you? Mr. Aylmer should be available then, and I’m sure he will be happy to see you. He is Mr. Chancellor’s immediate junior, and a very knowledgeable person.”

Pitt knew the name of Linus Chancellor, Secretary of State for Colonial Affairs, as did every other man in London. He was one of the most brilliant of rising politicians, and it was held by many that one day he would lead the government.

“No, it would not,” he said levelly, meeting the young man’s eyes, and seeing a look of startled affront in them. “The matter is extremely urgent and must be attended to at the earliest moment possible. It is also confidential, so I cannot detail it to you. I have come at the request of the Foreign Office. If you wish to check with Lord Salisbury, you may do so. I shall wait for Mr. Chancellor.”

The young man swallowed, uncertain now what he should do. He looked at Pitt with dislike.

“Yes sir, I shall inform Mr. Chancellor’s office, and bring you his reply.” He looked back at Pitt’s card again, then disappeared upstairs.

It was nearly a quarter of an hour before he returned, and Pitt was beginning to find the waiting onerous.

“If you care to come this way, sir,” the young man said coolly. He turned on his heel, leading the way back up again, knocking at the mahogany door and then standing aside to allow Pitt through.

Linus Chancellor was in his early forties, a dynamic man with a high forehead and dark hair which swept off his brow, showing a strong, jutting nose, wide mouth full of humor, volatility and a powerful will. He was a man to whom charm came easily, almost without conscious effort, and his natural fluency enabled him to say what other men struggled for and often missed. He was slender, of a good height and immaculately dressed.

“Good morning, Superintendent Pitt.” He rose from his seat behind a magnificent desk and offered his hand. When Pitt took it, his grip was firm and strong. “I am informed that your errand is both urgent and confidential.” He waved to the chair opposite and resumed his own seat. “You had better explain it to me. I have some ten minutes before I have to be at my next appointment. I’m afraid I can spare you no longer than that. I am due at Number Ten.”

That needed no explanation. If he were to see the Prime Minister, which was his implication, it was not something which could be delayed, whatever Pitt had to say. It was also a very forthright statement of the importance of his own time and position. He did not intend Pitt to underestimate him.

Pitt sat down in the large, carved and leather-padded seat indicated and began immediately.

“I have been informed this morning by Matthew Desmond of the Foreign Office that certain information regarding the Colonial Office’s dealings with our current exploration and trading negotiations in Africa, specifically Zambezia, have fallen into the hands of the German Embassy….”

He did not need to go any further. He had Chancellor’s total attention.

“So far as I know, only Mr. Desmond, his immediate senior, and Lord Salisbury himself are aware of the loss,” Pitt continued. “I require your permission, sir, in order to investigate from this office….”

“Yes, of course. Immediately. This is extremely serious.” The polite affectation of interest was gone, and in its place an earnestness which was unmistakable. “Can you tell me what manner of information you are speaking of? Did Mr. Desmond tell you, or indeed does he know?”

“Not in detail,” Pitt replied. “I gather it is largely to do with mineral rights and treaties with local chieftains.”

Chancellor looked very grave, his mouth pinched at the corners.

“That could be extremely serious. A great deal rests on it for the future settlement of Africa. I assume Mr. Desmond told you as much? Yes, naturally. Will you please keep me informed, Mr. Pitt? Personally. I imagine you have already investigated the possibility that whatever information it is could not simply have reached the Germans through their own people?” There was no real hope in his face; he asked as a matter of form. “They have a great many explorers, adventurers and soldiers in East Africa, particularly along the coast of Zanzibar. I will not bore you with the details of their treaties with the Sultan of Zanzibar, and the settlement uprisings and violence. Accept, for this matter, that they have a considerable presence in the area.”

“I have not looked into it myself, but that was the first question I asked Mr. Desmond,” Pitt replied. “He assured me it could not be so, because of the detail of the information and the fact that it corresponded precisely with our own version of events which are open to many interpretations.”

“Yes-” Chancellor nodded. “You are supposing treason in our midst, Mr. Pitt. Probably of a very high order. Tell me what you propose to do about it.”

“All I can do, sir, is investigate everyone who has access to all the information that has been passed on. I assume that will be a limited number of people?”

“Certainly. Mr. Thorne has charge of our African affairs. Begin with him. Now if you will excuse me, Superintendent, I shall call Fairbrass and have him take you through. I have a short space of time free at quarter past four this afternoon. I will be obliged if you will report to me then whatever progress you have made, impressions you have gained.”

“Yes sir.” Pitt stood up and Chancellor rose also. A young man, presumably Fairbrass, appeared in the doorway and after brief instructions from Chancellor, conducted Pitt through a number of handsome corridors to a further, spacious, well-furnished office not unlike the first. The plate on the door read JEREMIAH THORNE, and Fairbrass was apparently so in awe of Mr. Thorne he considered Pitt would need no information as to who he was. He knocked tentatively, and upon receiving an answer, turned the handle and put his head around.