Traitors Gate tp-15 Page 10

  “Did you find any other signs of illness or deterioration?” the coroner asked.

  The medical examiner pulled a long face. “Of course there was deterioration. The man was seventy! But that taken into account, he was in excellent health. I’ll be happy to be as fit if I reach that age. And no, there was no other sign of illness whatever.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. That is all.”

  The medical examiner gave a little grunt and left the stand.

  Pitt would have wagered that he was not a member of the Inner Circle. Not that he could think how that fact would be of any use.

  The next witness was also a doctor, but an utterly different man. He was serious, attentive, polite, but he knew himself to be of great importance. He acknowledged his name and his qualifications and addressed himself to the matter in hand.

  “Dr. Murray,” the coroner began, “I believe you were Sir Arthur’s physician; is that correct?”

  “I was indeed.”

  “For some time.”

  “The last fourteen years, sir.”

  “Then you were very familiar with the state of his health, both in mind and body?”

  Beside Pitt, Matthew was sitting forward, his hands clenched, his face tense. Pitt found himself also straining to hear.

  “Naturally,” Murray agreed. “Although I must confess I had no idea the deterioration had gone so far, or I should not have prescribed laudanum for him. I am speaking of the deterioration in his mood, his frame of mind.”

  “Perhaps you would explain further, Dr. Murray. What precisely are you referring to? Was Sir Arthur depressed, worried over some matter, or anxious?”

  Now there was a breathless silence in the room. Journalists sat with pencils poised.

  “Not in the sense you mean, sir,” Murray replied with confidence. “He had bad dreams, nightmares, if you will. At least that is what he told me when he came to see me. Quite appalling dreams, you understand? I do not mean simply the usual unpleasant imaginings we all suffer from after a heavy meal, or some disagreeable experience.” He shifted his position slightly. “He seemed to be increasingly disoriented in his manner, and had developed suspicions of people he had trusted all his life. I admit, I assume that he was suffering some senile decay of his faculties. Regrettably, it can happen to even the most worthy people.”

  “Very sad indeed,” the coroner said gravely.

  Matthew could bear it no longer. He shot to his feet.

  “That’s absolute nonsense! He was as lucid and in command of his mind as any man I know!”

  A flash of anger crossed Murray’s face. He was not accustomed to being contradicted.

  The coroner spoke quite quietly, but his voice carried across the entire room, and everyone turned to stare.

  “Sir Matthew, we all understand your grief and the very natural distress you feel at the loss of your father, and especially at the manner of it, but I will not tolerate your interruptions. I will question Dr. Murray as to his evidence.” He turned to look at Murray again. “Can you give any instance of this behavior, Doctor? Were it as strange as you suggest, I am surprised you gave him laudanum in sufficient quantities to allow the event which brings us here.”

  Murray did not seem in the least contrite, and certainly not guilty. His words, like Osborne’s, were full of apology, but his face remained perfectly composed. There were the marks of neither pain nor humor in it.

  “I regret this profoundly, sir,” he said smoothly, and without looking towards Matthew. “It is a sad thing to have to make public the frailties of a good man, especially when we are met to ascertain the causes of his death. But I understand the necessity, and the reason for your pressing the point. Actually I was not aware of all these things myself at the time I prescribed the laudanum, otherwise, as you say, it would have been a questionable act.”

  He smiled very faintly. One of the men in the front now nodded.

  “Sir Arthur told me of his nightmares and his difficulty in sleeping,” Murray resumed. “The dreams concerned wild animals, jungles, cannibals and similar frightening images. He seemed to have an inner fear of being overwhelmed by such things. I was quite unaware of his obsession with Africa at that time.” He shook his head. “I prescribed laudanum for him, believing that if he would sleep more easily, and deeply, these thoughts would trouble him less. I only learned afterwards from some of his friends how far his rational thoughts and memory had left him.”

  “He’s lying!” Matthew hissed, not looking at Pitt, but the words were directed to him. “The swine is lying to protect himself! The coroner caught him out so he twisted immediately to excuse himself.”

  “Yes, I think he is,” Pitt said under his breath. “But keep your counsel. You’ll never prove it here.”

  “They murdered him! Look at them! Sitting together, come to blacken his name and try to make everyone believe he was a senile old man who had so lost his wits he accidentally killed himself.” Matthew’s voice was cracking with the bitterness which overwhelmed him.

  The man on the far side of him looked uncomfortable. Pitt had the distinct impression he would have moved away were it not that it would have drawn such attention to him.

  “You won’t succeed by attacking him face-to-face,” Pitt said harshly between his teeth, aware-with a chill in his stomach-of a new fear: that they had no way of knowing who was involved, who was friend and who enemy. “Keep your powder dry!”

  “What?” Matthew swung around, incomprehension in his eyes. Then he understood the words, if not the weight of all that was behind them. “Oh. Yes, I’m sorry. I suppose that’s exactly what they’d expect, isn’t it? Me to get so angry I lose my sense of tactics.”

  “Yes,” Pitt said bluntly.

  Matthew lapsed into silence.

  Dr. Murray had been excused and the coroner had called a man named Danforth who was a neighbor of Arthur Desmond’s in the country, and he was saying, with some sadness, that indeed Sir Arthur had been extraordinarily absentminded lately, quite unlike his old self. Yes, unfortunately, he seemed to have lost his grasp on matters.

  “Could you be more specific, sir?” the coroner suggested.

  Danforth looked straight ahead of him, studiously avoiding the public benches where he might have met Matthew’s eyes. “Well sir, an instance that comes to mind was approximately three months ago,” he replied quietly. “Sir Arthur’s best bitch had whelped, and he had promised me the pick of the litter. I had been over to look at them, and fine animals they were, excellent. I chose the two I wanted and he agreed, approved of it in fact.” He bit his lip doubtfully for a moment before continuing, his eyes downcast. “We shook hands on it. Then when they were weaned I went over to collect them, only to find Arthur had gone up to London on some errand. I said I’d come back in a week, which I did, and he was off somewhere else, and all the pups had been sold to Major Bridges over in Highfield. I was very put out.” He looked at the coroner, frowning. There was a slight movement in the room, a shifting of position.

  “When Sir Arthur finally came back I tackled him on the matter.” The umbrage was still apparent in his voice and in the set of his shoulders as he gripped the edge of the box. “I’d set my heart on those pups,” he went on. “But Arthur looked completely confused and told me some cock-and-bull story about having heard from me that I didn’t want them anymore, which was the exact opposite of the case. And then he went on with a lot of nonsense about Africa.” He shook his head and his lips tightened. “The terrible thing was, he obviously believed what he was saying. I’m afraid he had what I can only call an obsession. He imagined he was being persecuted by some secret society. Look, I say, sir … this is all very embarrassing.”

  Danforth shifted awkwardly, clearing his throat. Two or three men in the front now nodded sympathetically.

  “Arthur Desmond was a damn decent man,” Danforth said loudly. “Do we have to rake up all this unfortunate business? The poor devil accidentally took his sleeping medicine twice over, and I dares
ay his heart was not as strong as he thought. Can’t we call an end to this?”

  The coroner hesitated only a moment, then acquiesced.

  “Yes, I believe we can, Mr. Danforth. Thank you for your evidence, sir, in what must have been a painful matter for you. Indeed, for all of us.” He looked around the room as Danforth left the stand. “Are there any more witnesses? Anyone who has anything relevant to say in this matter?”

  A short, broad man stood up in the front row.

  “Sir, if you please, so this tragedy can be laid to rest, I and my colleagues”-he indicated the men on either side of him-“the full extent of the front row were in the Morton Club on the afternoon of Sir Arthur’s death. We can confirm everything that the steward has said, indeed everything that we have heard here today. We would like to take this opportunity to extend our deepest sympathies to Sir Matthew Desmond.” He glanced around in the general direction of the bench where Matthew sat hunched forward, his face white. “And to everyone else who held Sir Arthur in esteem, as we did ourselves. Thank you, sir.” He sat down amid murmurs of agreement. The man immediately to his right touched him on the shoulder in a gesture of approval. The one on the left nodded vigorously.

  “Very well.” The coroner folded his hands. “I have heard sufficient evidence to make my verdict sad, but not in doubt. This court finds that Sir Arthur Desmond died as the result of an overdose of laudanum, administered by himself in a moment of absentmindedness. Possibly he took the laudanum in mistake for a headache powder, or a remedy for indigestion. We shall never know. Death by misadventure.” He looked up at Matthew very steadily, something of a warning in his expression.

  The court erupted in excitement. Newspaper reporters made a dash for the doors. People in the public benches turned to one another, bursting with comment and speculation; several rose to their feet as a relief from sitting.

  Matthew’s face was ashen, his lips parted as if he were about to speak.

  “Be quiet!” Pitt whispered fiercely.

  “It is not a misadventure!” Matthew retorted between his teeth. “It was cold-blooded murder! Do you believe those-”

  “No I don’t! But on the evidence, we are damned lucky they didn’t bring in a verdict of suicide.”

  The last traces of color drained out of Matthew’s face. He turned to look at Pitt. They both knew what suicide meant: it was not merely dishonor, it was a crime against both the church and the state. He would not be given a Christian burial. He would die a criminal.

  The coroner adjourned the court. The people rose and filed out into the sunshine, still talking busily, full of doubts, theories, explanations.

  Matthew walked beside Pitt in the dusty street, and it was several minutes before he spoke again. When he did his voice was husky, almost paralyzed in the savaging of his pain and confusion.

  “I’ve never felt like this in my life. I didn’t think it was possible to hate anyone so much.”

  Pitt said nothing. He did not trust his own emotions.

  Vespasia spent the afternoon in what had once been a very usual pursuit but was now one she practiced less and less often. She sent for her carriage at five minutes before three o’clock, and dressed in ecru-colored lace and a highly fashionable hat with a turned-up brim and trimmed with a huge white cabbage rose. And then, carrying an ivory-handled parasol, she came down the front steps and was assisted up into her carriage.

  She instructed the coachman to take her first to Lady Brabazon’s house in Park Lane, where she stayed for exactly fifteen minutes, which was the appropriate duration for an afternoon call. Less would have been too brief for courtesy, more would risk outstaying one’s welcome. It was even more important to know when to leave than it was to know when to arrive.

  Next she drove to Mrs. Kitchener’s in Grosvenor Square, arriving a little before half past three, still well within the hour allotted for ceremonious calls. From four until five was for those less formal. From five until six was for those with whom one was on terms of friendship. Vespasia adhered to the convention. There were rules of society one might disobey, and there were those where it would be pointless and unacceptable. The timing of afternoon calls was among the latter.

  What she was hoping to learn was a little more about the various members of the Colonial Office from a social point of view. For this it was necessary she begin to circulate again, in order that she might hear the appropriate gossip.

  From Mrs. Kitchener’s she proceeded north to Portman Square, and then to George Street, and Mrs. Dolly Wentworth’s house, where she presented her card and was immediately invited in. It was now just past four o’clock, and an hour when tea might be offered and a call might last a little over the usual fifteen minutes.

  “How charming of you to visit, Lady Cumming-Gould,” Dolly Wentworth said with a smile. There were already two other ladies sitting perched on the edges of their chairs, backs ruler straight, parasols propped beside them. One was elderly with a handsome nose and imperious manner, the other at least twenty-five years younger, and from the resemblance in brow and coloring, presumably her daughter. Dolly Wentworth had a son, as yet unmarried. Vespasia drew her own conclusions as to their purpose, and was very soon proved correct. They were introduced as the Honorable Mrs. Reginald Saxby and Miss Violet Saxby.

  Mrs. Saxby rose to her feet. It was customary for one party to leave as another arrived, and in no way a discourtesy. Miss Violet Saxby followed suit reluctantly.

  “So unfortunate George should have been at his club,” Mrs. Saxby said critically.

  “I am sure he will be devastated to have missed you,” Dolly murmured. “I often wonder why men go to their clubs so very often. It seems to me that some of them spend every afternoon there, or else at the races, or cricket, or some such thing.”

  “I don’t know why they have clubs at all,” Violet said petulantly. “There are hundreds of clubs for men, and barely half a dozen for women.”

  “The reason for that is perfectly obvious,” her mother retorted. “Men have clubs in which to meet each other, talk a lot of nonsense about politics and sport and the like, and occasionally a little gossip, or business. It is where their social life is largely conducted.”

  “Then why not for women?” Violet persisted.

  “Don’t be absurd, child. Women have withdrawing rooms for such things.”

  “Then why do they have clubs for women at all?”

  “For those who don’t have their own withdrawing rooms, of course,” Mrs. Saxby said impatiently.

  “I don’t know any ladies who don’t have their own withdrawing rooms.”

  “Of course you don’t. Any lady who does not have her own withdrawing room is not fit to be in Society, and consequently, she is not,” Mrs. Saxby rejoined.

  And with that Miss Saxby had to be content.

  “Oh dear,” Dolly said when they were gone. “Poor George is finding being single something of a trial.” Further explanation was unnecessary.

  “I think it is being so very eligible that is the trial,” Vespasia said with a smile.

  “Of course you are perfectly right. Please do sit down.” Dolly waved vaguely at one of the pale blue chairs. “It seems like simply ages since I have seen you anywhere where it was possible to have a sensible conversation.”

  “That is because I have been to far too few such places.” Vespasia accepted the invitation. “Although I did enjoy the Duchess of Marlborough’s reception this week. I saw you in the distance, but of course one can never reach people at these affairs, except by accident. I did meet Susannah Chancellor. What an interesting creature. She reminded me of Beatrice Darnay. She isn’t one of the Worcestershire Darnays, is she?”

  “No! Not at all. I don’t know where her family comes from originally, but her father was William Dowling, of Coutts Bank.”

  “Indeed. I don’t think I know him.”

  “Oh, you wouldn’t, my dear. He’s been gone several years now. Left a very considerable fortune. Susannah and Maude
inherited it all, equally, I believe. No sons. Now Maude is dead, poor child, and her husband inherited it, along with the principal interest in the family banking business. Francis Standish. Do you know him?”

  “I believe I have met him,” Vespasia replied. “A distinguished-looking man, if I recall correctly. Very fine hair.”

  “That’s right. Merchant banker. That sort of power always gives men an air of confidence, which has its own attractions.” She settled a little more comfortably in her seat. “Of course his mother was related to the Salisburys, but I don’t know how, precisely.”

  “And a woman of the most unusual appearance, named Christabel Thorne …” Vespasia continued.

  “Ah, my dear!” Dolly laughed. “I think she is what is known as a ‘new woman’! Quite outrageous, of course, but most entertaining. I don’t approve. How could I? How could anyone with the least sense? It is really rather frightening.”

  “A new woman?” Vespasia said with interest. “Do you think so?”

  Dolly’s eyebrows rose. “Don’t you? If women start wanting to leave their homes and families, and carve out a totally new role for themselves, whatever is going to happen to society in general? No one can simply please themselves all the time. It is completely irresponsible. Did you see that fearful play of Mr. Ibsen’s? A Doll’s House, or some such thing. The woman simply walked out, leaving her husband and children, for no reason at all.”

  “I think she felt she had reason.” Vespasia was too old to care about being contentious. “He was excessively patronizing and treated her as a child, with no power or right to make her own decisions.”

  Dolly laughed.

  “For heaven’s sake, my dear, most men are like that. One simply finds one’s own way ’round it. A little flattery, a little charm, and a great deal of tact to his face, and disobedience once his attention is elsewhere and most things can be achieved.”

  “She did not want to have to work for what she felt was every woman’s right.”

  “You are sounding like a ‘new woman’ yourself!”