Anne Perry - Traitors Gate

“Yes I am. Now get started will you!”

It was a long ride back across the river and westwards, and in places the traffic was heavy. Pitt had plenty of time to think. If Susannah’s murderer had thought of her as a traitor, and felt it so passionately he had killed her for it, then it could only be someone to whom she could be considered to owe an intense loyalty. That must be either her family, represented by Francis Standish, or her husband.

What betrayal could that be? Had she believed Arthur Desmond and Peter Kreisler, after all? Had she questioned Standish’s investment with Cecil Rhodes, the whole manner in which the Inner Circle was involved? If Standish were a member, possibly a prominent one, could he even be the executioner? And had Susannah known, or guessed that? Was that why she had to be killed, for her knowledge, and because she was bent on sharing it rather than remaining loyal to her family, her class, and its interests?

That made a hideous sense. Standish could have met her in Mount Street. She would have expected a quarrel, a plea, but not violence. She would have been quite unafraid of anything but unpleasantness, and climbed into his carriage without more than a little coercion on his part. It satisfied all the facts he knew.

Except for what had happened to her cloak. Now that he was sure she had not been put in the river at all, simply made to look as if the receding tide had left her there by chance, it was no longer a reasonable explanation that her cloak had become lost as the current took her one way and then another.

Had he dropped it in the river for that purpose? Why? It proved nothing. And if he had, why had it not been washed up somewhere, or tangled in some rudder or oar? It would not have sunk with no body in it to carry it down. Anyway, it was a stupid thing to do; simply one more article for the police to search for, and meaning nothing one way or the other.

Unless, of course, the cloak did mean something! Could it be in some way marked, which would incriminate Standish?

Pitt could think of nothing. No one was pretending it was suicide or accident. The method and means were plain enough, even the motive was plain. He had defiantly and unnecessarily drawn attention to it!

The more he thought about it, the more sense it made. Sitting in the hansom, in spite of the mildness of the day, he shivered as he felt the power of the Inner Circle everywhere around him, not only making threats of financial and political ruin, but when betrayed, ruthlessly murdering its own, even a woman.

“Ebury Street, guv!” the cabby called out. “What number do you want?”

“Twelve,” Pitt replied with a start.

“’ere y’are then, twelve it is. D’yer want me to wait for yer?”

“No thank you,” Pitt replied, climbing out and closing the door. “I could be some time.” He looked in his pocket for the very large sum he now owed for having had the cab out most of the day.

The cabby took it and counted it. “No offense,” he apologized before putting it into his pocket. “That don’t matter,” he said, referring back to the time. “I’d kinda like to see this to the end, if yer don’t mind, like?”

“As you please.” Pitt gave a slight smile, then turned and went up the steps.

The door was opened by a tall footman in livery. “Yes sir?”

“Superintendent Pitt, from Bow Street. Is Mr. Standish at home?”

“Yes sir, but he has a gentleman with him. If you care to wait, I will ask if he is able to see you.” He stood aside to allow Pitt in, and then showed him to the study. Apparently Standish and his visitor were in the withdrawing room.

The study was a small room by the standards of houses in Belgravia, but graciously proportioned and furnished in walnut wood with a red Turkey carpet and red curtains, giving it an air of warmth. It was obviously a room in which work was carried out. The desk was functional as well as handsome; and there were inkwells, pens, knives, blotting powder and seals neatly placed ready for use. And there was paper splayed out, as if only recently left. Perhaps Standish had been interrupted by the arrival of his present visitor. A large red jasper ashtray sat on one corner of the desk, a heavy coil of ash lying in the center, and one cigar stub, burned right down to within half an inch of the end.

Gingerly Pitt picked it up and put it to his nose. It was quite unlike the one from Little Bridge Stairs, both in aroma and texture of tobacco. Even the end was different-cut with a knife-and the faint teeth marks were very even.

He reached for the bell rope and pulled it.

The footman came, looking a little startled at being summoned by a guest whom he knew to be a mere policeman. “Yes sir?”

“Does Mr. Standish have any cigars other than these?” Pitt asked, holding up the butt for the man to see.

The footman hid his distaste for such a display of peculiar manners as well as he was able, but some shadow of it was visible in his eyes.

“Yes sir, I believe he does keep some others for guests. If you care to have one, sir, I shall see if I can find them.”

“Yes please.”

With raised eyebrows the footman went to a drawer in the desk, opened it and produced a box of cigars which he offered to Pitt.

Pitt took one, although he knew before smelling it that it was not like the butt in his pocket. It was narrower, darker in color and of a bland, unremarkable odor.

“Thank you.” He replaced it in its box. “Does Mr. Standish ever drive his own carriage, say a four-in-hand?”

The footman’s eyebrows were so high they furrowed his brow. “No sir. He has a touch of rheumatism in his hands, which makes it most uncomfortable, indeed extremely dangerous, when trying to control horses.”

“I see. What are the symptoms of the rheumatism?”

“I think he is better placed to tell you such things, sir, than I. And I am sure that he will not be above an hour or so with his present business.”

“What are the symptoms?” Pitt persisted, and with such urgency in his voice that the footman looked taken aback. “If you can tell me, I may not need to bother Mr. Standish.”

“I’m sure, sir, it would be much better if you were to consult a physician….”

“I don’t want a general answer,” Pitt snapped. “I want to know precisely how it affects Mr. Standish. Can you tell me or not?”

“Yes sir.” The footman backed away a step. He regarded Pitt with considerable apprehension. “It shows itself with a sudden, sharp pain in the thumbs, and loss of strength.”

“Enough to lose grip upon whatever he is holding, for example, the reins of the carriage?”

“Precisely. That is why Mr. Standish does not drive. I thought I had explained that, sir.”

“You have, indeed you have.” Pitt looked towards the door. “I shall not now have to bother Mr. Standish. If you feel it necessary to say I called, tell him you were able to answer my questions. There is no cause for alarm.”

“Alarm?”

“That’s right. None at all,” Pitt replied, and walked past him to the hallway and the front door.

It was not Standish. He did not believe it was Kreisler-he had no cause for the passion in it-but he had to make certain. He found the cabdriver waiting for him, surprised to see him back so soon. He offered no explanation, but gave him Kreisler’s address and asked him to hurry.

“Mr. Kreisler is out,” the manservant informed him.

“Does he have any cigars?” Pitt asked.

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Does he have any cigars?” Pitt repeated tartly. “Surely the question is plain enough?”

The man’s face stiffened. “No he does not. He does not smoke, sir. He finds the smell of tobacco offensive.”

“You are quite sure?”