Murder on the Serpentine Read online

  She mourned the death of Halberd, and perhaps in a way she was bitterly reminded of death itself. Too much of all that she had loved lay in the past. She had asked Halberd to help her, and he had died trying to do so. Surely it was out of loneliness and imagination that she would feel guilty for that. If Pitt could prove to her that Halberd’s death was a genuine accident, one that could have occurred at any time, then would she be reassured and at peace?

  —

  HE HAD CONVINCED HIMSELF of that by the time the carriage stopped in Keppel Street and let him off at his own front door. He alighted, thanked the driver, and went up the steps and inside.

  A sense of warmth surrounded him immediately. It had nothing to do with the summer evening, but with familiarity, long memories stretching back through friendship, countless conversations, a few griefs—but above all, love.

  He put his jacket on the coat stand in the hall. Charlotte had bought it in a junk shop and given it to him the first Christmas after their marriage, when money was scarce. The pewter candlestick had been his mother’s. In this house he had celebrated victories, and recovered from a few losses. His dearest friends had sat around the kitchen table far into the night and talked about endless possibilities.

  The sitting-room door opened and Charlotte came out, her face lighting with pleasure at seeing him. It was nineteen years since they had met, but he still found himself smiling, noticing the curve of her cheek, the grace with which she moved.

  He bent a little to kiss her, holding her tightly for a moment.

  She pushed him back. “What’s wrong?” she asked quietly, her brow furrowed.

  He glanced over her shoulder at the tall clock against the wall.

  “It’s not so late,” he replied.

  Her expression registered momentary amusement, then anxiety. He knew exactly what she was thinking. He had evaded the question. When he had been in the regular police he had often discussed cases with her. Indeed, they had met when a number of murders took place in the area where she lived. Her own elder sister had been one of the victims. Out of that tragedy had come the greatest happiness in his life. He had never imagined that he, the son of a laundress and a man convicted of poaching—wrongly, he still believed—could marry the daughter of a wealthy banker, not far beneath the aristocracy.

  “Thomas!” She was looking at him steadily, the concern in her eyes deepening.

  “I have just gained a delicate case I don’t know how to approach,” he answered. Since moving from the police to Special Branch, he could no longer discuss cases with her. At times he would have dearly liked to have her wisdom and knowledge of the upper levels of society, where he would always be a stranger. There were multitudes of small expressions, mannerisms, codes of behavior that he’d observed but could not copy without seeming clumsy.

  They went into the sitting room, where the French doors onto the garden were closed against the evening breeze but the curtains were not yet drawn. Again, the familiarity wrapped around him, the calm, painted seascape over the mantelpiece, all muted blues. The carved wooden coal scuttle had been an extravagance when they bought it. On the shelves were photographs of Daniel and Jemima, aged two and six, and mementos like seashells, a piece of polished driftwood from a holiday on the coast.

  “Stoker will help,” Charlotte said with certainty. “Tell me when you are ready for dinner. Daniel and Jemima have already eaten, but I waited for you.”

  That happened so often it was hardly worth comment, yet he was grateful. He did not like to eat alone.

  “I can’t tell Stoker,” he replied, easing back in the armchair and stretching his legs out. “But I might ask Narraway.” Victor Narraway had been head of Special Branch when Pitt was first moved there from Bow Street. It was Narraway who had recommended Pitt to take his place, after the disaster of the O’Neill case had forced his own resignation, much to many people’s surprise. Several in high positions had been against Pitt’s appointment as Narraway’s successor, thinking there were other candidates much more capable. But Narraway had prevailed.

  Charlotte looked unhappy. Surely she understood?

  “Thomas, you’ve forgotten,” she said quietly.

  “What?”

  “Narraway and Aunt Vespasia are on a cruise to Rome and then Egypt. They’ll be away for a couple of months at least.” He had forgotten. Now he recalled it, and it was like a blow. He would need to have this matter resolved long before then. Perhaps Halberd’s death had been the accident it had seemed, and he would be able to reassure the Queen. She would still grieve for him, and no doubt still dislike Kendrick.

  That was not something that could be addressed.

  Charlotte was waiting for him to answer, and her anxiety was plain in her eyes.

  He smiled at her. “I forgot,” he admitted. “Perhaps I shouldn’t be looking for the easy way out. Yes, I would like dinner, before it gets too late.” He stood up, smiling now, willing himself to think of other things.

  EARLY THE NEXT MORNING Pitt began by going in to Lisson Grove and telling Stoker that he would be absent from the office for a few days on a case, but could always be reached in the evenings at his home, were it necessary.

  “Yes, sir,” Stoker said calmly. His bony face was almost impassive. “There’s nothing out of the ordinary at the moment. I’ll tell Jenkins and Doherty. Anything we can do to help?”

  “Not so far. Probably not at all,” Pitt replied. “I’ll look in on Friday, if not before.” He hesitated. There was a question in his mind that it would be foolish not to ask Stoker: He had been in Special Branch several years before Pitt had joined. “Do you know anything about Sir John Halberd?”

  Stoker frowned. “I’ve heard the name. I’m trying to think where.”

  “He died recently,” Pitt prompted.

  Stoker nodded. “That’s right. Stupid boating accident. You’d think he’d have more sense than to stand up in a boat, even in shallow water.”

  “What do you know about him, other than that?” Pitt asked.

  “Nothing really. He’s one of those people everyone knows slightly and nobody knows well. Never had government office. Don’t know who he is related to. I’m sorry. Is it important? I can find out.”

  “No, thank you. Forget I mentioned him. And that’s not a casual remark, it is an order.”

  “Yes, sir.” Stoker looked puzzled, but he knew that Pitt meant what he said. He would not inquire.

  The first thing Pitt did was to telephone the police station in Savile Row, some fifteen or twenty minutes’ brisk walk from the place on the Serpentine where Sir John’s body had been found. He was told courteously that the case had been dealt with by the station on Pavilion Road in Knightsbridge, roughly the same distance in a different direction. He thanked the man and ended the call.

  The Serpentine was a decorative stretch of water that curved across the middle of Hyde Park. The Queen’s instructions to Pitt were clear. He was to be discreet. That in itself was difficult. Special Branch had no uniforms, so at least he looked like any other tall man in his late forties, with untidy hair and a well-cut suit that somehow managed not to sit comfortably on him. But he had been a policeman all his working life. Half the policemen in London knew him by sight.

  He walked into the station and presented his card, still something he was not used to.

  “Yes, sir,” the desk sergeant said with sudden respect.

  “I would like to speak to your superintendent, please.” He did not have to give a reason: His rank was sufficient. Not everyone respected Special Branch, but everyone held it in some degree of awe. They dealt with secrets and violence, the hidden threats to a whole way of life most people held in common and largely took for granted, although in the last twenty years or so there had been unrest throughout Europe. There were whispers of change everywhere.

  “Yes, sir. I’ll tell him you’re here, sir,” the sergeant said. Five minutes later Pitt was seated in Superintendent Gibson’s comfortable, cluttered office. Wan
ted posters were tacked on the walls, all very slightly crooked. Law books and procedure manuals were heaped on the shelves.

  “What can I do for you, Commander Pitt?” Gibson asked, his brows drawn down in an anxiety he tried to mask with a soft voice.

  “Just tidying up a few details,” Pitt replied, as if it were of no importance. “Your officers were called when Sir John Halberd was found in the Serpentine?”

  “Yes, sir,” Gibson agreed, biting his lip. “Very unfortunate. Don’t get many accidents there. Usually just people getting wet. Fall in, feel like a fool, and one or two get angry about it.” He gave a slight shrug. “Often young men, the worse for a few too many drinks. This was quite different. Poor man must’ve stood up for something, lost his balance, and hit his head as he went down. Chance in a hundred. Tipped the boat badly and slid into the water. Never came to.” He shook his head, started to say something else, then changed his mind.

  “You found him in the water the next morning?” Pitt asked.

  “Yes, sir. Young gentleman walking his dog stopped, but there was nothing he could do to help. By then there were more people gathered, and someone came for us. Can I ask why you’re inquiring, sir?” Gibson put his hand up as if to straighten his tie, then let it fall again.

  “Details,” Pitt repeated. “He was a distinguished man. Just want to have all the answers. No sign of anyone else there, I presume? Does anyone know what he was doing on the Serpentine alone? What time did the police surgeon say he died? Where did he hire the boat, and when? That sort of thing.”

  Gibson cleared his throat. “Is that what this is about, sir? It rather looks as if he took the boat out at night, having arranged the hire earlier.” He was quite openly anxious now. What was wrong that he had not seen?

  “After dark, then?” Pitt pressed.

  “Yes, sir. Police surgeon reckoned he must have gone into the water about ten in the evening, most likely. Give or take a bit. But with the body lying in the water, which is still pretty cold even at this time of year, it’s hard to be exact.”

  Pitt nodded. “Anyone got an idea what he was doing alone in a boat on the Serpentine, at ten in the evening?”

  Gibson colored uncomfortably. “No, sir. Nothing to suggest there was anybody there. If there was a young lady, she left no evidence as we could find.”

  “Uncomfortable place for a rendezvous.” Pitt shook his head slightly.

  “If it were a young woman of…” Gibson began. He did not finish the sentence, but his meaning was obvious.

  Or a young man, Pitt thought, but he did not say it.

  He changed the subject slightly. “When you informed his staff, butler, or valet, did they make any remark as to why Halberd was there?”

  Gibson looked relieved. He did not wish to inquire too closely into the habits of the gentry, yet equally he could not afford to appear incompetent.

  “No, sir. He must have let himself out after the house was locked up, which was a little before ten o’clock. He came and went as he pleased. Nobody knew anything about why he went out that night. Upset, they were, all of them. Held him in very high regard. My officers said it seemed more than just shock, or of course the loss of a position. There is no one else in the house for them to look after.”

  “I see.”

  “Sir…” Gibson was clearly uncomfortable. He moved awkwardly in his seat, and twisted his hands as if he had no idea what to do with them.

  Pitt waited.

  “Sir…if Mr. Halberd…I mean Sir John…made an indiscreet appointment and…and had an accident…Well, there’s no one else hurt. Couldn’t we just…close it up…let it be?”

  “If that’s what it was, then yes, of course we could,” Pitt agreed. “Does the evidence suggest that?”

  “Looks like it to me, sir.”

  “Nothing to make you think there was a quarrel?”

  “No, sir. He stood up and overbalanced, hit his head on the gunwale, and fell into the water. Because he was knocked out, he drowned. If there was a young woman there, she must have taken fright and run off. Or maybe he stood up because she arrived, and when he fell she scarpered. Didn’t want to be caught and blamed. Let it go, sir.” There was no judgment in his face, only compassion for a man who had made a fool of himself and paid a terrible price for it.

  Pitt stood up slowly. This was not an answer the Queen would like, but she did not need to know the details. Indeed, they were only speculation anyway.

  “Thank you, Superintendent. It was more or less the answer I expected, but I had to be sure. Good day.”

  Gibson released a sigh. “Good day, sir.”

  Pitt went out into the busy street, filled with shouts and the clatter of wheels and hooves over the uneven cobbles.

  Was that the answer? An accident, not investigated any further because it was part of an indiscretion that would have spoiled the reputation of a good man? A silence of kindness? He could allow the Queen to believe the assignation was with a woman of his own class, her name withheld because it would serve no purpose to disgrace her. But he had to be satisfied that was all it was.

  He would check with Cornwallis, who had been assistant commissioner of police when Pitt was still at Bow Street. He was a man Pitt both professionally trusted and personally liked. He might also know more about Alan Kendrick. Halberd might have spoken to him on the subject already but not had the chance to report his findings to the Queen. Which would be what? That Kendrick was an ambitious man, keen to become a close friend of the man about to be king? It was what she expected. She must be more than familiar with such people. In her position, did one at least half suspect everybody’s motives?

  Pitt had already reached the end of the street, where it crossed the main road, and within a few moments he stopped a cab and gave the driver Cornwallis’s address. Cornwallis had retired now, and it was still early enough in the morning that he might well not have left the house.

  Cornwallis was at home and delighted to see Pitt, but he knew that a call at such an hour meant Pitt needed advice or information. After the briefest of greetings to Cornwallis’s wife, Isadora, whom Pitt also knew well, they retired to his study and remained uninterrupted.

  Cornwallis sat back in one of his well-upholstered armchairs, and Pitt in the other. Pitt had seldom been to this house, but it seemed familiar because of the paintings of sailing ships before the wind, the ship’s sextant, and the brass model cannon. Cornwallis had had those paintings in his commissioner’s office since Pitt first knew him. He even recognized at a glance many of the books, some of them poetry.

  Cornwallis was a lean man, usually of few words. “Well?” he prompted.

  During his cab ride, Pitt had considered what to say, and how much to tell Cornwallis.

  “John Halberd,” he said simply. “Did you know him?” Cornwallis stiffened almost imperceptibly, no more than a slight increase in the tension of certain muscles. “Yes,” he replied. “We were friends. Why?”

  “Your feelings about him?” Pitt asked.

  A shadow crossed Cornwallis’s face. “Stop studying me, Pitt. Why are you asking? The man died in an idiotic boating accident. Any fool should have known better than to stand up in a flat-bottomed boat like that. Let him rest in peace, man. The police surgeon said it was mischance. Why on earth do you want to rake it up? He’s scarcely settled in his grave.”

  “I need to know something more about him,” Pitt explained. “I am not looking into his death.” Was that entirely true? He disliked being evasive, with Cornwallis particularly. “He was investigating a certain matter. That is all I can tell you.”

  Cornwallis relaxed a little. “He wouldn’t discuss anything of that sort with me or anyone else. What do you need to know?” He was still guarded. It was in the steadiness of his eyes, the motionless hands locked together in front of him.

  “Was he a good investigator? Where did he come from? What did he do? Who was his family?” Pitt asked.

  Cornwallis thought for a moment. “L
anded gentry. Lincolnshire, I think. He went up to Cambridge and read history. Good degree, Honors. Then he traveled. Mostly Egypt, down the Nile and farther south into Africa itself. What the devil does this have to do with Special Branch? He’s been here in Britain for decades since then.”

  “So an intelligent and well-traveled man,” Pitt summed up. “But you didn’t tell me if you think he was a good investigator.”

  “Of what?”

  “People. If he wanted to find out about someone, would he be likely to succeed?”

  “What the hell does it matter now? He’s dead, poor soul. Barely into his sixties. He had probably the best part of twenty years left.” Cornwallis’s voice caught for an instant, betraying the depth of his feelings. That was probably the most powerful clue Pitt would gain as to Halberd’s character. Cornwallis had been at sea, and he knew its demands and the price a single mistake could cost. His respect was not won easily.

  Pitt would have liked to have left it there, but he could not.

  “Was he a man to exaggerate?”

  “Never.” Cornwallis sat upright, then leaned forward a little. “For heaven’s sake, man, tell me what it is you want to know. Was Halberd working for you? How did you come to employ somebody you know so little about? Didn’t Victor Narraway teach you better than that? I certainly did!”

  “He was investigating something when he died,” Pitt told him. And that was possibly more than he should have said. “I have now been asked to complete it. And you would be wasting your time, and mine, by asking me more than that. Would Halberd have exaggerated anything?”

  “No. If you’d ever met him, such a thing wouldn’t cross your mind.”

  Pitt weighed his response only for a moment. “What do you suppose he was doing in a rowing boat on the Serpentine alone, at ten o’clock in the evening? And why would a man who’d been along the Nile stand up and overbalance on the water?”

  Cornwallis’s face paled and he sat motionless. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “But even if he had some kind of…assignation—which I find hard to believe—what the hell has that to do with anyone else? Let him rest in peace. We all have our…weaknesses. Does it matter?”