Murder on the Serpentine Read online

  “He left you for me!” Felicia spat out. “Don’t forget that!”

  Delia winced. “I was with child,” she said between her teeth. “Or had you chosen to forget that?”

  Felicia turned on her heel and strode off.

  Emily sighed. “What a shame. I thought we might discuss the battle for women’s suffrage. I’m sure she has views on that.”

  “I should be most interested,” Charlotte replied, surprised that while her mind whirled with all that she had heard, she still meant it quite honestly.

  “Indeed,” one of the other women said, regaining her composure with an effort, and grateful for the change of topic. “Let us tell you what we have done so far, and what we plan to do.”

  Charlotte smiled and listened.

  CHARLOTTE STOOD IN THE middle of the sitting room. She had changed back from Emily’s borrowed clothes into her own, and she had told Pitt most of what was important about the afternoon at the ladies’ club.

  Pitt was stunned, not that Delia Kendrick and Felicia Whyte had quarreled so openly—although that was surprising—but at Felicia’s certainty that Victor Narraway had helped hide something for Delia twenty or so years ago. And apparently the secret was still dark enough and important enough to cause violent feelings now. Could he possibly have done it to gain money for himself, as they supposed? And more important, was it a secret with which to manipulate others?

  Charlotte looked bewildered, hurt, as if something had bruised her when she least expected it. She cared deeply, perhaps because she had seen the vulnerability in Narraway, when to the rest of the world he seemed so effortlessly clever, elegant, always on the winning side, unscathed by the wounds that affected other people. But that had been how she was. She could lose her temper with a perpetual winner, but the moment she sensed real pain, she stayed her hand. She could not help it. She would never wound someone who was already hurt, even with a harsh word, never mind with an act. And she deplored duplicity and manipulation. Her righteous anger and passionate mercy were what had first made Pitt fall in love with her.

  In the summer dusk with the lamp lit and the curtains still open, the light was slanted, full of gold, and she could have been the same young woman she had been when they first met, only six years older than Jemima was now! How fluid time was, as deceptive as a change in the light falling here or there.

  “Did you ask Felicia Whyte what she meant?” he said.

  “No, of course I didn’t. I would have given myself away,” she retorted hotly. “And I hated her for gossiping. I said something more or less to that effect. I don’t think I’ll be invited back.”

  “Is that all it was—gossip?” He wished as intently as she did that it was true, but his rational mind would not accept it.

  “No.” She shook her head. “Actually they spoke about all sorts of serious things. Votes for women—someday. And the likelihood of another war in South Africa. Do you think there will be one?”

  He hesitated. She was only asking for his opinion, not facts.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. Milner has a high reputation. The colonial secretary thinks very well of him, and so does the prime minister, I believe. But he seems to be handling Kruger pretty badly. It’s to do with empire, and what he perceives to be our duty toward the peoples in our charge all over the world.”

  She frowned, unsure of his meaning. “Haven’t we a duty?”

  “Not if we enforce it through violence. But whatever I think doesn’t matter. We have to deal with reality, and it is very likely that Milner will put an ultimatum to Kruger, which Kruger will reject.” He was thinking aloud, needing to share his anxiety with her. “A good negotiator never puts the other person in a position where they do not have an escape from fighting that leaves them with any dignity. Kruger will lose his own followers if he is seen to give in.”

  Charlotte stared at him gravely. “Doesn’t the colonial secretary know that? Or does he want another war?”

  “I don’t know,” Pitt admitted. “It may be he really thinks he has a duty to the integrity of the empire, our charge to protect all the citizens, of whatever race. And, of course, to build railways, harbors, all profitable industry, more work for Britain. And to enforce what we think is the law. Or it could be as ordinary as ensuring possession of the unimaginable wealth in gold and diamonds in the mines around Johannesburg. He may even think that if we don’t hold on to them, someone else will come in—Germany, perhaps.” For an instant Pitt thought of the kaiser’s Weltpolitik, nine years ago. Perhaps they had not taken it seriously enough. Maybe it wasn’t merely posturing?

  Charlotte was silent for a moment. “Oh, and Victor? I wish I knew what he had done for Delia—and more than that, why he did it.”

  “So do I,” Pitt admitted. Perhaps it was none of his business. Everyone, even Narraway, made mistakes; it was part of human nature. Pitt was painfully aware of his own errors, but they had sprung from his character; his wish to be a man who was not haunted by arrogance and hasty judgments that had caused him to hesitate when he shouldn’t have, to give people latitude that others had to pay for. He was afraid of being considered cruel, a traitor to his own roots in poverty and necessary obedience. And of reaching beyond his abilities, and not being good enough in a position he was not heir to, or trained for from childhood.

  Were those qualities the very opposite of what drove Narraway? Were his mistakes born of arrogance, the belief that his decisions were above question or weakness? He had always looked certain of himself. But then, he was a natural leader, and a leader must never be seen to doubt his own judgment, or how could anyone else believe in him? Surely, part of the very essence of leadership was that you took the burden of decision from others?

  He moved toward Charlotte and gently put his hands on her shoulders. “I know you are afraid for him, and for Vespasia. But people do make mistakes, even people we love. This was a long time ago. I’ll find out what I can, but it may be after I have found out who killed Halberd. That could be a good deal more urgent.”

  “Halberd knew something,” she said, smiling ruefully now. “Please be careful, Thomas. Knowledge is very dangerous. I know you can’t do anything without it, and you wouldn’t be any use at your job, but just be careful! Halberd wasn’t a foolish man, and yet someone managed to kill him, so he can’t have seen it coming until it was too late.”

  “I promise I won’t make any assignations on the Serpentine, or anywhere else, alone.” He tightened his arms around her and held her very close, knowing that he would not necessarily keep his word.

  —

  THE FEAR OF WHAT Narraway might have done was still with Pitt the next day. It was not so much the loss of faith in a man he admired as his mentor, someone who had given him protection when he had needed it and taught him a whole range of new skills; more so, he feared that the streak of ruthlessness Narraway had exercised might be a necessary part of the job he had passed on to Pitt.

  Pitt was a detective, trained to get information, fill in the missing pieces, deduce the secrets, and, step by step, eventually understand the truth. He was, on occasion, diplomatic, but he despised the deceit of manipulation, the use of fear to make people do what they did not wish to. It was easier to accept if it was used to conceal guilt, but a lot harder if it caused pain to innocent people, and perhaps injury to someone they loved.

  He sat at his desk at Lisson Grove and went through old records and papers of Narraway’s. He was not looking for the work of twenty years past, but for records of information Narraway had gained, in order to calculate the pressures he had used to keep or break secrets. He had only spoken of generalities to Pitt, so Pitt had to study it all.

  He had assumed in the past that Narraway’s secrecy was to protect those who had revealed sensitive information. But it occurred to him now that it might have been less altruistic, maybe concealing the methods Narraway had used to persuade—or force—a revelation.

  Were these tactics necessary? Was Pitt really too squeamish, to
o sensitive to his own conscience, to do this job well? And he could never afford to do it less than well. The price of failure was incalculable, and it was not only he who would pay it. The successes would never be known; they were the disasters that did not happen.

  Looking through these files now, he memorized names, situations, relationships, movement from lower to higher positions. He noted particularly the scandals that never broke, the tragedies averted—or at least half-concealed, lied about for decency’s sake.

  Certain names stood out. He needed to learn as much as he could of what John Halberd had known, before he could deduce what had provoked his death. Which among all the secrets and weaknesses had moved someone to kill him?

  The files were difficult reading. He found reference to several people within Kendrick’s circle of friends. Algernon Naismith-Jones had several times taken the easy way around a potentially difficult issue, with a talent he never boasted about: an ability to create very clever forgeries, impossible for the average person to detect. He had been caught by Special Branch, but on Narraway’s instructions not prosecuted. Was that out of mercy—a one-time assistance—or had the possibility of prosecution become a constant threat held over his head? Maybe even the occasional use of his talent by Narraway himself, as the need arose?

  What about Felicia Whyte, the spoiled beauty now so clearly fading? There were very old notes on her mother, another fair beauty who had been dazzling in her youth, then dimmed so rapidly. By the time she was fifty, she was afflicted with dementia. She had died relatively young, alone, confused, and tormented by irrational fears.

  Pitt sat with the page open in front of him on the desk. These were things he did not want to know, and yet even as he stared beyond the paper, he understood how easily the words could be true. Intrusive as they were, they were the means by which he could find the answers he needed. They were the path to preventing further tragedy.

  He would far rather have at least given weakness the dignity of being private, but he knew why Narraway had kept the information. He was there to protect the safety of the state from those who would attack it, for any reason: anarchists, revolutionaries, industrial saboteurs, agents of foreign nations, including traitors with other loyalties or none at all.

  What if Pitt’s own home and family were the victims, and the man entrusted with the task of protecting them claimed his conscience was too delicate to take a difficult or uncertain step? His answer was a wave of fury. Never! Like any other soldier, you take the wounds, whatever they are, rather than betray those you are there to guard.

  He heard footsteps along the corridor outside his office, but nobody interrupted him. His men all had their own tasks to do and would not disturb him. He was the commander.

  When Pitt had been the junior, he had trusted Narraway, not wanting to know what he was doing or why. He had been happy to leave the difficult decisions to someone else. It had been difficult enough taking sudden, violent actions on the spur of the moment. He still remembered the decision to shoot a man when there was no other way to stop him. He had not hesitated, but he’d had nightmares about it afterward, wondering if he had been right, how big a part fear or anger had played, pointlessly second-guessing himself. He dreaded the day he found such actions sufficiently commonplace that they caused him no doubt or pain.

  Now Pitt was deciding which information contained in these papers he would use to force people to tell him what Halberd had known. Pitt’s was a deliberate decision, made in cold blood, or at least with a cool head. He was angry that Halberd had been left unconscious to drown in the Serpentine, and that people who had disliked him were free to make malicious speculation as to what he had been doing there, alone in the dark. It should not be so personal, yet if it did not anger him, where was his own humanity?

  Had this something to do with another war in South Africa? He had no idea. Was the Queen right, and Kendrick was exercising a malign influence over the Prince of Wales?

  He had given his word to the Queen that he would find out, and it was time to pick up the weapons that he needed to do the job, or else resign and leave it to someone who would not be forever looking at his own hands to judge their cleanliness.

  Narraway had believed Pitt was the man for the task. Was he so wrong? If his conscience suffered along the way, what of it? Grown people, men or women, accept that there will be mistakes, pain, regret, but the shame lay in doing nothing, for your own comfort’s sake, and letting evil happen because you were too squeamish to fight it, too afraid of the cost. Was that not the ultimate selfishness?

  Was it not better that the leadership of Special Branch fall to a man whose conscience troubled him now and then, rather than one whose conscience was always at ease?

  He picked up the next file and read it, and the next, and so on until he realized with a start that it was dark outside, and well after nine o’clock in the evening. But by then he knew what he was going to do the next day.

  —

  PITT WAS IN THE office by eight and began immediately to search through the files, cross-referencing anything from the ones on Halberd that he had already read with anything known about all the other people Halberd had associated with in the last year. He began with those in Kendrick’s circle: Naismith-Jones, Walter and Felicia Whyte, Ferdie Warburton, and, of course, Delia Kendrick.

  Would Narraway have committed to paper anything to do with the help he had given her twenty years ago? Was it connected with Special Branch at all? Could it have been personal? Pitt did not imagine Narraway had led a cloistered life. He had been single; he could certainly have had affairs. Pitt knew of one or two already. Duty might require him to find out regarding Delia, but he felt grubby even at the thought of pursuing such a thing about the man who had helped him, trusted him, and was now perhaps his closest friend—apart, of course, from Vespasia, whom he regarded as family.

  He learned little more about Ferdie Warburton, reading the notes on his various adventures, romantic and financial, the latter all to do with gambling. What emerged was his charm, his love of horse-races, and the embarrassing fact that when he drank too much, which was rather often, he was prone to long lapses of memory. It made him peculiarly vulnerable to blackmail or, at best, pressure from those who would take advantage of his easygoing nature and rather too much freedom with money.

  Pitt smiled as he closed the thick file. He could well see how the Prince of Wales found him a good companion. Rather than helping each other’s weaknesses, they mirrored them almost perfectly. Ferdie also was charming, sometimes even witty, and had an educated taste for the good life.

  Had that given Kendrick any power that Halberd might have found dangerous? The prince had always had boon companions, people with whom he could enjoy himself, indulge his tastes, and know that at least most of it would go no further. Pitt had had one or two such friends himself, long ago, before police work took up so much of his time and marriage answered his emotional needs. He still found great pleasure in a good conversation with a man he both liked and respected, preferably one who understood the triumphs and disasters of his work and the thoughts that plagued him even after a case was solved. It was a delicate happiness to be able to share with someone who needed no explanations of the feelings for which it was so hard to find words, the self-questioning, the regrets, the painful wondering if it could have been done better, sooner, with more delicacy, and perhaps saved a life or a reputation.

  For several years, Pitt’s person had been Narraway. Maybe that was what was hurting Pitt now: the shadow over a man who was more than a friend, who in some ways stood in for the father Pitt had lost almost forty years ago. Not that he would ever have let Narraway know that. Even the thought of it was mortifying. He could feel the hot blood in his face.

  A knock on the door interrupted him.

  “Yes?” he said abruptly.

  Stoker came in. His lean, bony face looked tired, his skin pale and drawn tight over his cheeks.

  Pitt made up his mind in that momen
t.

  “Come in, Stoker. And close the door. First, what did you come for?” He gestured to the chair. “Sit down.”

  “Just to report that that Marylebone business is all but closed, sir.” Stoker sat down uncomfortably.

  Pitt stared at him. “Is that all? You look awful!”

  Stoker gave one of his rare sweet smiles. “Wondered about the case you’re on, sir. You told us nothing, but you’re putting in all sorts of hours, and you look awful too.”

  “Then perhaps it’s time I did tell you, but it must go no further. You are the only one who will know. Lady Vespasia is out of England, Narraway also.”

  “Yes, sir. In Greece, I believe, or so you said.”

  “Somewhere like that. We get cards every so often, but they take a long time to get here, so the news is out of date by the time we get it. I’m investigating the death of Sir John Halberd, at the personal request of the Queen…”

  Stoker’s eyes were wide. “Then it was murder? How did she know about it?”

  There was no point in telling Stoker a half truth. He would guess the rest anyway, and to evade now would insult him unnecessarily.

  “He was investigating a certain matter for her, to do with Alan Kendrick, a friend and adviser to the Prince of Wales. Halberd was about to deliver his report to her, but that night he died in a rather ridiculous accident on the Serpentine.”

  “Except it wasn’t an accident,” Stoker finished the thought. “Is Kendrick a suspect?”

  “Yes. The only one at this point. Although Halberd seems to have known a lot of people’s secrets, or at least things they would rather not have had made public.”

  Stoker frowned. “Blackmail? Or fear of it?”

  “Perhaps nothing as overt as blackmail, just discreet pressure?” Pitt replied, watching Stoker’s face.

  For an instant Stoker was puzzled, then he understood.

  “Could have upset a lot of people,” he observed. “Very powerful information. Have you looked through our files to see if Mr. Narraway ever used him?” He still found it difficult to remember that Narraway was “Lord” now, since his dismissal from his position, totally unjustly, and his subsequent elevation to the House of Lords, where his work experience could be useful.