Traitors Gate tp-15 Read online

  “Unfortunately I did not know Sir Arthur,” she went on. “But I have heard he was one of the kindest and most honorable of men. Perhaps he had pain, and that was what caused him to be wakeful? Or anxieties? If one is responsible for others, it can cause a great deal of worry.”

  “Yes-yes, of course,” Eustace said unhappily. She knew memory was awakening in him, with all its discomforts. If he slept well every night, she felt he had no right to.

  “Did you know him?” she pressed.

  “Uh-Desmond? Oh … well … yes, I met him a few times. Not to say I knew him, you understand?” He did not look at her.

  She wondered if he and Sir Arthur could conceivably have been in the same ring of the Inner Circle, but she had no idea even how many people were in a ring. She thought she recalled from something Pitt had said that it was no more than half a dozen or so, but she was unclear. For it to be effective, the groups would surely have to be larger than that in some way? Perhaps each ring had a leader, and they knew the others, and so on.

  “You mean socially?” she asked with as much naivete as she could manage. She found it was not very much. “At hunt balls and so on? Or to do with his work?”

  Eustace looked somewhere over his left shoulder, his cheeks pink. “His work?” he said with alarm. “I … I am not sure what you mean. Certainly not.”

  It was sufficient. He had taken her to be referring to the Inner Circle. Had it been a social acquaintance he would have admitted it without embarrassment, but she had been almost sure Eustace March did not move in the higher regions of old society, landed gentry, the true aristocracy where Arthur Desmond lived because he was born to it.

  “I meant the Foreign Office.” She smiled sweetly. “But of course I knew it was unlikely.”

  “Quite. Quite so.” His answering smile was sickly. “Now, my dear lady, if you will excuse me, I must be about my duty. There is so much to do. One must show one’s presence, you know? Buy a little here and there, give encouragement and set the example.” And without allowing her a chance to argue he hastened away, nodding to either side as he saw acquaintances present or wished for.

  Charlotte stood thoughtfully for a few moments, then turned and went back the way Vespasia had gone. Within a few moments she was near Cleopatra’s pincushions again, and found herself interested to observe the interplay of an elderly matron, torn between envy and disapproval, and a young lady fast approaching an unmarriageable age, unless she were an heiress. With them was a gentleman Charlotte’s practiced eye recognized as having had his collars and cuffs turned, to make them wear another six months or so. She had turned enough of Pitt’s to know them when she saw them.

  It was after a few moments she realized she had heard Cleopatra addressed as Miss Soames. Could she be Harriet Soames, to whom Matthew Desmond was betrothed?

  When the purchase was made and the three people moved away, Charlotte went up to the counter of the stall.

  “Excuse me?”

  Cleopatra looked at her helpfully, but without interest. Closer to she was even more unusual. Her dark eyes were very level, her mouth not voluptuous, her upper lip unfashionably straight, and yet her face was full of deep inner emotion.

  “May I show you something?” she asked. “Is it for yourself, or a gift?”

  “Actually I overheard the previous purchaser address you as Miss Soames. Are you by any chance Miss Harriet Soames?”

  She looked puzzled. “Yes. I am. But I am afraid I cannot recall our having met.”

  It was a polite and predictable reply from a well-bred young woman who did not wish to be rushed into an acquaintance with a person she knew nothing about, and to whom she had not been introduced.

  “My name is Charlotte Pitt.” Charlotte smiled. “My husband has been a lifelong friend of Sir Matthew Desmond. May I offer you my felicitations on your betrothal, and my sympathies for the death of Sir Arthur. My husband feels his loss so deeply, I know he must have been a most unusual man.”

  “Oh-” Having received a satisfactory explanation, Harriet Soames was perfectly prepared to be friendly. Her face softened into a charming smile. “How kind of you, Mrs. Pitt. Yes indeed, Sir Arthur was one of the nicest people I ever knew. I expected to be in awe of him, as one usually is of a prospective father-in-law, but from the moment I met him, I felt completely at ease.” Memory in her face was touched at once with pleasure and pain.

  Charlotte wished even more sharply that she had met Sir Arthur. She would have felt his death more keenly herself, but she would have been better able to share Pitt’s emotion. She knew that his grief bit very deep and was mixed with guilt, and at the moment she was outside it. It was beyond either of them to alter that.

  “Sir Matthew came to visit us the other evening,” Charlotte continued, largely for something to say. “I had not met him before, but I found I liked him immediately. I do wish you every happiness.”

  “Thank you, that is most kind.” Harriet seemed about to add something further, but was prevented by the arrival of a young woman whose face grew more and more appealing the longer one looked at it. At a glance one would have said she was ordinarily pretty with regular features and typically pleasing English fair coloring, not flaxen, but the warm deep tone of honey, and her complexion was unfashionably glowing with natural color. But with further regard there was an intelligence and humor in her face which made her anything but ordinary.

  Not realizing Charlotte and Harriet were speaking as friends, rather than vendor and purchaser, she did not hesitate to interrupt, and then hastily apologized when Harriet introduced them. The newcomer’s name was Miss Amanda Pennecuick.

  “Oh, I am so sorry,” Amanda said quickly. “How appallingly rude of me. Forgive me, Mrs. Pitt. I have nothing of the least importance to say.”

  “Nor I,” Charlotte confessed. “I was merely introducing myself, since my husband is a very old friend of Sir Matthew Desmond’s.” She assumed Amanda knew of Harriet’s betrothal, and her face made it immediately plain that she did.

  “I am so cross,” Amanda confided. “Gwendoline Otway is doing those fearful astrology readings again, and she promised she wouldn’t. You know there are times when I feel I could slap her! And she has dressed herself as Anne Boleyn.”

  “With or without her head?” Harriet asked with a sudden giggle.

  “With it … for the moment,” Amanda replied grimly.

  “I didn’t know Anne Boleyn was Shakespearean.” Harriet screwed up her brow.

  “Farewell…. ‘A long farewell to all my greatness,’” a beautifully modulated masculine voice said from just behind Amanda’s shoulder, and they turned to see the bright, homely face of Garston Aylmer. “Cardinal Wolsey,” he said cheerfully, looking at Amanda. “Henry the Eighth,” he added.

  “Oh, yes of course. Good afternoon, Mr. Aylmer,” she replied, regarding him levelly, and almost without expression in her face, which was difficult because it was a countenance naturally given to emotion.

  “Why does it displease you so much that she should pretend a little astrology?” Charlotte asked. “Is it not a fairly harmless way of entertaining people and raising money for the bazaar?”

  “Amanda disapproves of astrology,” Harriet said with a smile. “Even as a game.”

  “The stars are not in the least magical,” Amanda said quickly. “At least not in that sense. The truth of them is far more wonderful than a lot of silly names and ideas about classical heroes and imaginary beasts. If you had any idea of the real magnitude …” She stopped, aware that Garston Aylmer was staring at her with intensity, and an admiration in his face so plain no one watching him could have been unaware of it.

  “Forgive me,” she said to Charlotte. “I really should not allow myself to get so upset over something so silly. No doubt she is amusing people who would never look through a telescope even if you placed one into their hands.” She laughed self-consciously. “Perhaps I had better buy a pincushion. Please let me see that one with the white lace on it.�
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  Harriet passed it across.

  “Perhaps you would allow me to escort you to tea, Miss Pennecuick? And you, Mrs. Pitt?” Aylmer offered.

  Charlotte knew well enough when not to intrude. She had no idea what Amanda felt, but Aylmer’s feelings were apparent, and she rather liked him.

  “Thank you, but I have come with my great-aunt, and I should find her again before too long,” she declined.

  Amanda hesitated, apparently considering the matter, then coolly accepted, excusing herself to both Charlotte and Harriet. She made her purchase and left, walking beside Aylmer, but not taking his proffered arm. They looked unsuited together; she was so slender and elegant, and he was quite unusually plain, short legged, and definitely too plump.

  “You should have gone,” Harriet said under her breath. “Poor Amanda.”

  “I really did come with my great-aunt,” Charlotte replied with a wide smile. “Honestly.”

  “Oh!” Harriet blushed. “I’m so sorry! I thought you were …” She started to laugh, and a moment later Charlotte joined in.

  Fifteen minutes later she found Vespasia and together they went to the tent where afternoon tea was being served. They saw Aylmer and Amanda Pennecuick just leaving, apparently still in conversation.

  “An unexpected couple,” Vespasia observed.

  “His design, not hers,” Charlotte replied.

  “Indeed.” Vespasia looked at the young girl who had come to offer them sandwiches and little cakes decorated and iced in a variety of designs. They made their choice, and Vespasia poured the tea. It was still too hot to sip when Charlotte noticed Susannah Chancellor at the next table, which was rather more behind them so it was half hidden by a samovar on a stand and a large potted plant with a price ticket poking out of it. However, when for a moment neither she nor Vespasia were speaking, Susannah’s voice was just audible. It sounded polite and curious, but there were the beginnings of anxiety in it.

  “I think you are leaping to conclusions without knowing all the facts, Mr. Kreisler. The plans have been very thoroughly thought through, and a great many people consulted who have traveled in Africa and know the natives.”

  “Such as Mr. Rhodes?” Kreisler’s voice was still on the borders of courtesy, but he was not concealing his disbelief, nor the dislike he felt for Cecil Rhodes and his works.

  “Of course he is one of them,” Susannah agreed. “But certainly not the only one. Mr. MacKinnon-”

  “Is an honorable man,” he finished for her. His voice was still light, almost bantering in tone, but there was an intensity beneath which was unmistakable to the ear. Charlotte could not see him, but she could imagine the unwavering look in his eyes, even if he were pretending to smile. “But he has to make a profit. That is his business, and his honor depends upon it, even his survival.”

  “Mr. Rhodes has a great deal of his own money invested in this venture,” Susannah went on. “Neither my husband nor my brother-in-law would have backed him as they have were he simply an adventurer with no stake in it himself.”

  “He is an adventurer with a very great stake in it himself,” Kreisler said with a slight laugh. “He is an empire builder of the highest order!”

  “You sound as if you disapprove of that, Mr. Kreisler. Why? If we do not, then others will, and we shall have lost Africa, perhaps to Germany. You can’t approve of that, can you? Or of the slavery that goes on now?”

  “No, of course not, Mrs. Chancellor. But the evil there now is centuries old, and part of their way of life. The changes we will bring about will not necessarily get rid of them, only produce war with the Arabs, who are the largest slavers, with the ivory traders and with the Portuguese, and undoubtedly with the Germans and the Sultan of Zanzibar. And most of all, it will set up our own empire in Equatoria, which will eventually overtake Emin Pasha, Lobengula, and the Kabaka of Buganda and everyone else. White settlers with guns will drive out the old ways, and in half a century the Africans will be a subject people in their own land….”

  “You’re exaggerating!” There was laughter and disbelief on the surface of her voice, but underneath a beginning of worry, a sharp note of doubt. “There are millions of Africans, and only a handful of us … a few hundred.”

  “Today,” he said harshly. “And tomorrow, when there’s gold-and land? When the wars have been fought and there is adventure and profit to offer all the younger sons with no lands here? For those who’ve made a mess in Europe, or whose families won’t support them or protect them anymore?”

  “It won’t be like that,” she said urgently. “It will be like India. There will be a proper standing army, and a civil service to administer it and keep the law and …” She stopped.

  “Is that what you believe?” he said so softly Charlotte had to strain to catch his words.

  “Well …” Susannah hesitated. “Not exactly, of course. It will take time. But yes, eventually it will.”

  “India is a culture and a civilization thousands of years older than ours. They were reading and writing, building cities and painting great art, dreaming philosophy, when we were running around painting ourselves blue and wearing animal skins!” he said with his contempt barely hidden.

  “We still brought them the benefits of our laws,” she said. “We settled their internal quarrels and united them as a great country. We may be upstarts in some ways, but we brought them peace. We’ll do it in Africa too.”

  Kreisler said nothing. It was impossible to imagine what expression was in his face. Neither Charlotte nor Vespasia had said a word since they had both recognized Susannah Chancellor’s voice. Their eyes had met a dozen times with thoughts that needed no speech.

  “Did you know Sir Arthur Desmond?” Susannah said after a moment or two.

  “No. Why?”

  “No reason, except that he would have agreed with you. He seemed to be worried about Africa too.”

  “Then I should like to know him.”

  “I am afraid that is not possible. He died last week.”

  Kreisler said nothing, and a moment later they were apparently joined by Christabel Thorne, and the conversation became quite general, and to do with the bazaar.

  “A man of great passions, Mr. Kreisler,” Vespasia said, sipping the last of her tea. “An interesting man, but I fear a dangerous one.”

  “Do you think he is right … about Africa?” Charlotte asked.

  “I have no idea. Perhaps, at least in part, he is. But I am quite sure he has no doubts at all. I wish Nobby were not so fond of him. Come, my dear, we have done our duty now. We may feel free to leave.”

  4

  Charlotte and Pitt arrived early at the village of Brackley for the funeral of Arthur Desmond. They alighted from the train into brilliant sunshine; the small station had only a single platform stretching a hundred yards or so with the building in the center containing the waiting room, ticket office and stationmaster’s house. The rest bordered on fields already deep in com, and the heavy trees beyond were towering vivid green with new leaf. Wild roses in bud were hanging sprays out of the hedgerows and the may blossom, with its sweet perfume, was starting to open.

  Pitt had not been back to Brackley for fifteen years, and now suddenly it enveloped him in familiarity as if he had left only last night. Everything was exactly the same, the angle of the station roof against the sky, the curve of the lines as the track swerved away towards Tolworth, the huge coal bunkers for refueling. He even found he stepped automatically to avoid the bad patch of platform where it had become worn immediately before the doorway. Only it all looked just a little smaller than he had recalled, and perhaps a little shabbier.

  The stationmaster’s hair had turned gray. Last time he had seen him it had been brown. And he wore a black band of mourning on his arm.

  He was about to speak some automatic word of greeting, then he stopped and looked again. “Young Thomas? It is young Thomas, isn’t it? ‘Course it is! I told old Abe as you’d come. A sad day for Brackley, an’ no
mistake.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Wilkie,” Pitt replied. He added the “Mr.” intentionally. He was a superintendent of police in London, but this was his home; here he was the gamekeeper’s son from the Hall. The stationmaster was his equal. “Yes, very sad.” He wanted to add something else about why he had not been back in so long, but excuses were empty, and today no one would care. Their hearts were full; they had no room left for anything but the sense of loss which united them. He introduced Charlotte and Wilkie’s face lit up. Clearly it was a courtesy he had not fully expected, but one that pleased him greatly.

  They were no farther than the door onto the road when another three people came in from the platform. Apparently they had been farther along in the train. They were all gentlemen of middle or later years and, to judge from their dress, of substantial means. With a cold jolt of memory Pitt recognized at least one of them from the inquest, and felt a rush of hatred so powerful he stood motionless on the step in the sunlight and Charlotte went on without him. Had it not been so ridiculous, he would have liked to have gone back and accused the man. There was nothing remotely useful he could say, simply relieve himself of some of the anger and pain he felt, and the outrage that the man could say such things publicly, regardless of what he may have suspected in private. It was a kind of betrayal of whatever friendship he and Arthur Desmond had shared.

  Perhaps it was the sheer indignity of it which stopped him, and the knowledge that it would embarrass Charlotte-although she would understand-and even more, Wilkie, the stationmaster. But it was also his own sense of guilt. Had he been back here more often he would have been in a position to deny the slanders from knowledge, not merely memory and love.

  “Thomas?”

  Charlotte’s voice cut across his thoughts and he turned and followed her out onto the bright road, and they set out the half mile or so to the village street, and the church beyond.

  “Who were they?” she asked.

  “They came to the inquest.” He did not add in what capacity and she did not ask. Almost certainly his tone of voice had told her.