Belgrave Square (35 page)

Here at last he found what he had dreaded: lines of inquiry dropped for no accountable reason, prosecutions not proceeded with even though they might well have succeeded, curious omissions of diligence for a man otherwise exacting in his standards. Any individual one might have been explained easily enough as simple misjudgment. Latimer was no more infallible than any other man and it would be unreasonable to expect him to be right every time. He, like anyone else, could guess wrongly, be overtired, miss a connection, a link in the chain of evidence, leap to a wrong conclusion, have his prejudices and his blind sides. But taken all together they formed a very faint pattern, and the more he looked at them the more definite the pattern became. There was no way he could find out; the society was secret and the punishment for betraying a brother was severe. So Urban had said, and if he was right, Weems’s list proved it. But Pitt believed all the unaccountable omissions and strange misjudgments were with cases where the interests of the Inner Circle were concerned, and Latimer had been an instrument to their ends.

Had there been one he had refused to hide, one crime that had offended him more than he could bear, and he had at last refused? And the brotherhood had punished him by putting his name on Weems’s list, so he would eventually be discovered, and ruined? It was a heavy price to pay, and he would then be of no further use to them. Pitt shivered, cold in the stuffy room. But the other brothers would know, the waverers would be brought up sharply against the reality of what it meant to betray the Inner Circle, and every other brother would be strengthened in his loyalty.

What about Micah Drummond? His name had not appeared
on the list. Did that mean he had never defied them, never refused their orders? Certainly he had responded quickly enough to help Sholto Byam, and the case was murder.

The thought was so intensely ugly Pitt found himself feeling sick. He liked Drummond as much as any man he knew, and a week ago he would have staked his own career that Drummond was utterly honest.

Perhaps Latimer’s juniors felt like that about him too.

He tidied up the piles of papers and left the office, locking the door behind him and returning the key to the sergeant who had given it to him.

“You all right, sir?” the man asked tentatively, his face screwed up in concern. “Yer don’t look all that sharp, if yer don’t mind me sayin’ so, sir.”

“Probably need a little air,” Pitt lied automatically. He needed to protect his information; he could trust no one. “Hate all that reading.”

“Find what you wanted, sir?”

“No—no, I didn’t. It seems it was a wrong trail. Have to try somewhere else.”

“S’ppose there’s no shortcut to bein’ a detective, sir,” the sergeant said philosophically. “Used ter think it was what I wanted, now I’m not so sure. Mebbe find out a lot o’ things I’d a bin ’appier not knowin’.”

“Yes,” Pitt agreed, then changed his mind. “Or find out nothing at all.”

“Bad day, sir? Mebbe termorrer’ll be better.”

“Maybe.” Pitt forced a smile at the man, and thanked him again before leaving and going out into the rapidly cooling evening air. It smelled like rain. The faint wind was easterly, off the Channel, and it carried the sounds of the river up from the Pool of London and the docks. It would still be light for several hours yet, and on the Embankment there were carriages clipping along as people took the air. A pleasure boat with bright little flags fluttering made its way upstream, towards Windsor or Richmond. He could hear the laughter drifting across the water. Somewhere out of sight, also towards Westminster Bridge, a hurdy-gurdy played a popular tune and a cart was propped up on the opposite side of the Embankment, selling winkles and eel pies.

It was six o’clock, and he was ready to go home and forget Weems and his list, and all the misery and corruption it had shown him. He would have supper in his own kitchen, with Charlotte, then go outside and do a little work in the garden, perhaps cut the grass and tidy up some of the bigger weeds which Charlotte did not get to.

He would make a decision what to tell Drummond tomorrow. Perhaps in the morning it would seem clearer.

It did not really rain, just a light drizzle, so fine it lay on top of the grass, barely bending the petals of the flowers or the long light stems of leaves. Pitt stayed outside in it because he wanted the cool feel of it on his face and the sight of the slowly dimming light across the sky. He had been inside all day, and hated it. And it was a satisfaction to work manually and see the garden begin to look cared for, manicured and husbanded. Charlotte did the small chores like taking the dead heads off the roses and pansies, lifting the tiny weeds, and Gracie swept the path, but they had too many other chores to attend to it every day, and the grass cutter was too heavy for them anyway.

He came in at last a little after nine o’clock when the overcast was bringing the dusk early. He took off his wet jacket and boots and sat down in his chair in the parlor, ignoring the fact that his trouser legs were damp also.

Charlotte was mending a dress of Jemima’s. She put it down, poking the needle in carefully where she could find it again.

“What is it?” she asked, her face grave, her eyes on his.

He thought for a moment of evading the question and giving some trivial answer, but he wanted to share it. He did not want to make the decision alone, and she at least he could trust absolutely. With brief, painful words he told her.

She sat listening without moving her eyes from his face and her hands in her lap for once were completely motionless. She did not reach again for the needle or to wind wool or skein silks.

“What are you going to tell Mr. Drummond?” she said at last when he was finished.

“I don’t know.” He looked at her, trying to see any certainty
in her face, if she had a vision of judgment he had not. “I don’t know how deep he is in this brotherhood himself.”

She thought for only an instant.

“If you don’t tell him, you are making the judgment that you do not trust him.”

“No,” he said, denying it immediately. “No,” he said again. “I am simply not placing him in a position where he has to defy the Inner Circle if he is to continue with the Weems case as it is at the moment. Latimer may not be guilty of killing Weems.”

“Only of corruption,” she said bluntly, still sitting without moving.

“I don’t even know that,” he argued. “I only believe it from the case notes. They could all be misjudgments, or simply errors. If anyone went through all my cases they would find a lot that is open to criticism, and perhaps worse, if they wished to see it that way.”

Charlotte seldom thought of things like means and opportunity, weapons, forensic evidence, but she understood motive, emotions, lies, all that was concerned purely with people.

“Rubbish,” she said with a smile full of gentleness, her eyes so soft he could not take hurt. “Superintendent Latimer is corrupt, and you are afraid that Micah Drummond is too, or may become so. But you cannot make the choice for him, Thomas, you must give him the chance to do the right thing, whatever the consequences.”

“The consequences may be very ugly.” He shifted a little, sitting lower in his chair. “The Inner Circle is secret, powerful and ruthless. They have no forgiveness.”

“Do you admire them?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I despise them more than almost anything else. They are worse than a simple garroter who kills people in the street; they seduce and corrupt minds and turn ambitious and foolish men into liars and corrupters of others.” He stopped; his voice had become harsh and his hands were clenched on his knees with the violence of his feelings. He stared at Charlotte and saw her face intensely clearly in the lamplight, its high cheekbones and soft mouth, her eyes steady on his.

“Do you not think that Micah Drummond might hate them
too, if he understood what they are?” she asked him. “Perhaps even more strongly than you do, since they have tried to soil him too.”

“Perhaps,” he agreed slowly.

“Then you must give him the opportunity to fight them.” She leaned forward a little. “You cannot protect him from it, and I don’t believe you should try. I should not thank you if you removed from me the chance to redeem myself from a terrible mistake of judgment.”

He took her hand in his and held it gently.

“All right. You don’t need to argue any further. I understand. I shall tell him tomorrow.”

She lifted her other hand and touched his face very softly, smiling, her eyes bright. It was not necessary that she should speak.

However the following morning Pitt’s intention was balked by a furore of excitement when he reached Bow Street. There were newspapers being passed from one person to another and cries of indignation and anger all around the entrance and the desk and the corridors.

“It’s downright dishonest!” the desk sergeant said, his face bright pink.

“It’s monstrous, that’s what it is!” a constable said heatedly, holding the offending newspaper out in front of him. “It’s lies! How do they get away with printing such things?”

“It’s a conspiracy!” another constable agreed with outrage in his voice. “Ever since the Whitechapel murders they’ve been out to get us!”

“I wouldn’t wonder if there’s anarchists behind it,” the desk sergeant added.

“What is it?” Pitt demanded, snatching one of the newspapers from a constable.

“There.” The constable pointed with a rigid forefinger. “Look at that.”

Pitt looked.

“ ‘Police brutality’!” he read. “ ‘Miss Beulah Giles, a victim of police harassment and brutal interrogation, was yesterday taken forcibly from her home to Scotland Yard where she was secretly interrogated by Superintendent Latimer in police attempts to defend themselves against charges
of perjury on the park bench case.’ ” And it went on in the same vein about the shock and dismay to an innocent girl’s feelings as she was removed from her home and family and subjected to insult and degradation in a desperate effort to force her to change her testimony and incriminate her friend.

Pitt pushed the paper back at the constable and reached for one of the others. The words were a trifle different, but the meaning was essentially the same. Beulah Giles had been the victim of police insult and intimidation. Everywhere people would rise to avenge the outrage. What was this new police force coming to when an English maiden was not safe from their assaults and abuse? Their entire existence must be questioned forthwith. Pitt swore, quietly and bitterly—an extraordinary circumstance for him; he very seldom lost his temper, and even more rarely did he use unseemly language.

8

W
HEN
P
ITT
HAD LEFT
the next morning, Charlotte went straight to her escritoire in the parlor and took out her pen, ink and paper. She wrote:

She folded it, put it in an envelope, wrote Emily’s address on it, then she found a postage stamp which she licked and stuck on.

“Gracie,” she called out.

She heard Gracie’s feet scuttling down the passage and her head appeared around the door.