Murder on the Serpentine Page 3

  “Not if it was a genuine accident,” Pitt replied, “but the more you tell me of Halberd, the less likely it seems he would have been so careless. Although if there was a woman and she lost her balance, he might have stood up to help, slipped, and knocked himself senseless when he fell.”

  “Then why the devil did she not help him?” Cornwallis said angrily. “At the very least hold his head above the water.”

  “Have you any idea who it might have been—was he there with anyone?”

  “None at all. I presume someone married, or they would not have been meeting at night in a rowing boat.” Cornwallis blushed as he said it. He had been passionately in love with Isadora, and still was, but women in general were a mystery to him. He had spent most of his life at sea, ending as a captain of his own ship, before becoming a commissioner in the police.

  Pitt moved the subject a little. “Where did Sir John’s living come from?”

  “Largely inherited, I think.” Cornwallis was clearly relieved. “The land in Lincolnshire, or that direction, brings in a tidy sum. And I think I recall hearing that his mother brought a goodly fortune to the marriage. Halberd was the only son.”

  “Did he ever marry?”

  “Not that I know of.” Cornwallis’s look dared Pitt to make anything of it.

  “What did he do with his time?” Pitt continued. “Who were his friends?”

  “As I said, I was one of them.” Cornwallis leaned forward again, his face earnest. “Pitt, he was a good man. One of the best I’ve known. Maybe he had weaknesses. Who doesn’t, one way or another? Please, leave it alone.”

  Could he? Pitt would have liked nothing better than to do precisely that. If Halberd had died during an indiscretion, ending tragically but without fault, then Cornwallis was right. It was both cruel and pointless to dig into it, and no matter how careful he was, it could end up becoming public. Would it be sufficient for the Queen if he undertook to learn about Alan Kendrick and complete the task Halberd had begun? It would be awkward, and perhaps futile, and he would have to put at least one other man on it. Stoker would be ideal, the very soul of discretion, but there were half a dozen others who could also make inquiries in the right places.

  Cornwallis was watching him, waiting. He might be naïve about women, but he was an excellent judge of men. He could not have commanded a ship had he not been. The sea forgives nothing, especially when you battle it under sail, without the power of an engine to rescue you.

  “You knew him well enough to be certain he was a good man?” Pitt asked, watching Cornwallis’s face for even a brief shadow.

  Cornwallis gave a very slight smile. “I did.”

  —

  PITT HAD TO STEEL himself to face the next person he decided to interview. It would have been so much easier simply to ask Vespasia, Charlotte’s sister’s great-aunt by marriage and the woman Pitt cared for most in the world after Charlotte herself. In her youth Vespasia had been the greatest beauty of her age, and—of far more importance—she had been brave and devastatingly honest at times with a wit that cut through all pretense. She had known almost everyone of any importance at all.

  But as Charlotte had reminded him, she was out of the country. He must see Somerset Carlisle himself. At least he knew where to find him. He was a member of Parliament and took his office seriously, underneath the passionate, unorthodox beliefs and the occasionally outrageous humor.

  Pitt did not find him until early afternoon, taking an after-luncheon stroll along the Thames Embankment next to the Houses of Parliament. Pitt walked rapidly enough to catch up with him just before he joined a group of his fellow members.

  Carlisle stopped, slightly surprised as Pitt took his arm. He was a slender man, even a little gaunt lately. He had a sardonic face, too much laughter in it to be conventionally good-looking.

  “You look ominous,” he said with a smile. “But I will admit, you are never a bore.”

  “Thank you,” Pitt said drily. “I need to talk to you privately, and without interruption.”

  Carlisle’s expression was suddenly lugubrious. “Oh dear. This time, whatever it was, I did not do it! Or is it information? Yes, of course it is. Lady Vespasia is somewhere in the Mediterranean, I hope enjoying herself.” He had been a friend of Vespasia’s as long as Pitt had known him, which dated from his involvement in a particularly grisly and absurd case in Resurrection Row. Carlisle had been crusading for a cause, which he did rather too often.

  Pitt had never been able to befriend a man simply for the sake of it. But Carlisle would have been interesting. He was the utmost eccentric but, in his own way, passionately moral.

  “Did you know Sir John Halberd?” he asked.

  Carlisle’s remarkable eyebrows shot up. “Of course I did! We will all miss him, even if we don’t know it is his absence that is hurting us. Why? Sorry. Silly question. No doubt it is all frightfully secret. He was a good man. What do you want to know?”

  “Probably everything…”

  “Oh! Then yes, a private place, and perhaps a halfway decent meal will be required. Small private club I know. I’ll give you the address. How about dinner—in one of the side rooms? Waiters are chosen for their discretion.” He took out one of his cards and scribbled a note on the back of it, then handed it to Pitt. He had written the address in a very elegant script, and the time of eight p.m.

  “Thank you.” Pitt nodded his agreement.

  Carlisle gave a cheery wave and caught up with his colleagues as casually as if he had been asked directions by a stranger.

  Pitt turned and walked back toward Westminster Bridge.

  —

  HE SPENT THE AFTERNOON reading the coroner’s report on Halberd’s death, and various obituaries with remembrances of his life. Of course such notices very rarely said anything about the deceased except what was flattering. It was the custom to be generous. But they all agreed on his origins, his education, his exploration of Egypt and Africa, and that he had contributed quietly and consistently to the welfare of his countrymen. It was exactly what Pitt expected; he was reading only to be sure he had not missed something that might prove to be relevant later.

  He arrived at Carlisle’s club precisely five minutes after the time Carlisle had stipulated on the card. He did not wish to draw attention to himself by getting there first and having to explain who he was. Narraway would never have had to. He was a gentleman from birth, part of the Establishment, not needing to prove anything.

  Carlisle was waiting for him inside the lobby. Either it was his normal courtesy or an act of particular sensitivity. In some ways he was an outsider himself—but by choice. He could have conformed, had he wished, and probably risen to high office.

  Carlisle led him through the inner hallway with its high ceiling and ornately paneled oak doors leading off into cloakrooms, offices, and smaller sitting rooms for private meetings. Pitt had no time to look at the many portraits on the walls—to judge by costume, dating back at least a hundred years.

  They passed the entrance to the main dining room before Carlisle stopped, opened a door, and ushered Pitt inside, then followed him in, leaving the door ajar. Possibly it was a signal to the steward that they were ready for him.

  Pitt took his seat and tried not to appear as if he had never been here before. He was aware of the carved oak fireplace, the high-backed dining chairs, and the gleaming surface of the table. Then the steward arrived with the wine menu.

  They were served an excellent meal, chosen by Carlisle beforehand.

  Pitt began to speak the moment the steward had withdrawn and closed the door behind him with barely a snick of the latch. He had already decided how much he intended to tell Carlisle.

  “I believe Halberd was making inquiries into Alan Kendrick shortly before he died,” he said. “The task remains unfinished, and for various reasons I need to complete it.”

  “Really?” Carlisle did not disguise his interest, or his surprise. “Since you appear to know very little about Halberd,
I assume he was not doing it for you. I also assume you are not free to tell me for whom he was doing it? No, I thought not. Perhaps it is better I don’t know.”

  “Did Halberd make inquiries for many people?” Pitt asked.

  “He had a great deal of knowledge,” Carlisle replied slowly, now measuring his words. “I don’t know how much of it he searched for and how much was incidental to his way of life, his natural curiosity, and his phenomenal memory. He observed relationships between facts that many other people missed. He was a natural scholar of human behavior, but one, I believe, of unusual compassion. At least that is what I have heard from several people. But the observations were general. Whatever was particular remained discreet.”

  Pitt thought about it for a moment.

  “So if one wished to know a good deal of information about someone, then Halberd would be the man to ask,” he concluded.

  “Especially if it was not easily available,” Carlisle agreed, his eyes still on Pitt’s face. “Have you any idea what kind of information your…patron was looking for? I assume something Kendrick would not willingly reveal?”

  Pitt sidestepped the answer. Given the slightest hint, Carlisle was easily quick enough to deduce it was the Queen.

  “Who are Kendrick’s friends, his associates? Where did his money come from?” he went on.

  Carlisle took another mouthful of the excellent pâté and swallowed it before he answered. “I have no idea where his money came from, but he seems to have a great deal of it. Has stables in Cambridgeshire, and some very fine horses indeed. Word is that he has a couple of possible Derby winners in training. That doesn’t come cheap.”

  Pitt made it easy for him. “So his friends would be others who care about horse-racing?”

  “Exactly. And gambling in general. He likes to live well, when he’s in town. He spends a while in Cambridgeshire. It’s more than a hobby for him. He knows horses better than most men, even in racing circles.”

  “His friends?”

  “The Prince of Wales is the most obvious. And Algernon Naismith-Jones, another lover of horses and gambling in general. Likable fellow, but a bit unreliable as far as money is concerned. Never quite sure whom he owes, and that can make a man erratic. Sod of a thing, owing people money you can’t pay, even if the situation is temporary.”

  Pitt had heard the name before, as a member of the prince’s circle. He was liked, if not trusted.

  “Others?” he asked.

  “Walter Whyte.” Carlisle seemed to be turning over his answer in his mind, uncertain how to continue.

  Pitt waited, finishing the last of his pâté and taking a sip of the rich dark wine Carlisle had chosen to complement it.

  The door was closed and he could not even hear the murmur of conversation beyond.

  “Decent chap,” Carlisle continued. “Married Lady Felicia Neville—of course Lady Felicia Whyte now. She loathed Halberd. No idea why. Story behind it somewhere, but haven’t heard any hint of what it is.”

  “Guess!” Pitt suggested with a slight smile.

  Carlisle raised his eyebrows. “How totally irresponsible of you!” he said with satisfaction. “Moving up in society has done wonders for your sense of humor. Or perhaps I should amend that—your appreciation of the absurd. My guess would be an old affair that ended badly. Lady Felicia was once quite lovely but is not wearing well; time can be cruel to the very fair. Delia Kendrick looks ten years younger and I think they are of an age.”

  “And acquainted?” Pitt guessed.

  “Of course!” Carlisle agreed. “Everyone in society is acquainted with everyone else. At least half of them are related, one way or another. That’s possibly why nothing is ever entirely forgotten, good or bad. There’s always a cousin or a sister-in-law who will recall it in ghastly detail. And Halberd knew hundreds of people, Naismith-Jones and Whyte included, of course.”

  “Did he use the information?”

  Carlisle pursed his lips. “That’s the curious thing. Not that I am aware of. But then, if people know that you know, you don’t need to use it. It uses itself.”

  The next course was served: rack of lamb with spring vegetables. Pitt ate it with less pleasure than it deserved. Everything Carlisle had said suggested someone could have a motive for wishing Halberd to be permanently silent.

  “Tell me more about Halberd,” he asked after several minutes had passed. “What did he believe? What were his loves, his hates? He seems to have been acquainted with a huge number of people, but who did he like? What did he read? Listen to? Who did he support politically? Or perhaps more important, what did he fight against? He didn’t marry—why not? Most men do, and he must have had ample opportunity.”

  “What did he believe?” Carlisle considered the first question thoughtfully. “Do you know what you believe, Pitt?” He took another mouthful of the lamb, as if he expected Pitt to need some time to weigh his answer, or even evade it altogether.

  Pitt did not hesitate. “That without honor and kindness there are no rituals in the world that make any difference,” he replied. “The rest is detail. Do whatever seems beautiful or of comfort to you.”

  Carlisle stopped with his fork halfway to his mouth and very slowly put it down again onto his plate. All levity disappeared from his face.

  “I’m sorry. I should have taken you more seriously. Do you believe John Halberd’s death was suspicious?”

  “I don’t know,” Pitt admitted. “But I need to find out. If it was, then it matters very much. He seems to have been a man who knew a great many secrets. And when people are frightened, the most surprising ones can become dangerous.”

  Carlisle thought for a few minutes before replying. “It could be anybody, Pitt. All sorts of people are more than they appear at a glance. Halberd looked like a quiet man with many adventures in the past, now retired to study for its own pleasures, doing a little quiet good here and there as the opportunity arose. Only the occasional remark gave away that he was a man of extraordinary self-control and knowledge of people. I can remember vividly one occasion at a dinner party when someone made a damn silly remark about Africa in general, rather disparaging, actually. Halberd froze. I can still see the expression on his face. He was lean, suntanned. He didn’t move, but everything within him altered. He became like a bird of prey that had seen its kill. He did not raise his voice, but in a few words he demolished the man. Then equally quickly, he was benign again. But I did not forget it.”

  Pitt imagined the scene and understood Carlisle’s sense of shock. When he thought of some of the bizarre things that Carlisle himself had done—outrageous, crusading things when he perceived injustice—the fact that Carlisle was startled made Halberd all the more remarkable.

  “What do you think he was doing alone in a rowing boat at night?” Pitt asked.

  Carlisle’s face broke into a broad smile, his eyes lighting. “Trust you to wrong-foot me, Pitt. You would have liked Halberd. You both have the same kind of tenuous idealistic innocence, and the ability to do the unexpected. I have absolutely no idea. Except I doubt very much that it was an assignation of a romantic kind, to put it politely. Nor do I believe he simply wanted to be alone on the water. It will have been to meet someone else who found that a convenient place. It is the only thing that makes sense.”

  “And that person killed him?” Pitt asked quietly. “And Halberd was caught completely off guard? Doesn’t sound like the man you described.”

  “Or it was an accident,” Carlisle said. “And whoever else was there had a pressing reason why they did not report it. Not likely an honorable one, but I suppose it’s possible.” They were interrupted briefly when the steward brought dessert, and resumed as soon as he had closed the door behind him.

  It was Pitt who spoke first. “If Halberd knew something about anyone, would he make use of it against them, if he thought it served a higher purpose?”

  “I presume that is what this entire conversation is about?” Carlisle lifted his remarkable eyebro
ws in an expression that was more amusement than any kind of disapproval. Pitt had never known how to determine Carlisle’s exact beliefs. He was as bright, and as hard to pin down, as mercury. The moment you thought you understood him, he had eluded you again.

  “Of course,” Pitt admitted. “And you didn’t answer me as to what he believed.”

  Carlisle shrugged very slightly. “Because I hate to have to say that I don’t know. He looked like an old-fashioned country gentleman, the sort of adventurer who built the empire, and gave all he had, because it was his nature and his belief to do so. But I have no idea if that was merely how he wished to appear. If it was an act, then it was a good one. So do I know if he used his extraordinary knowledge for his own ends, or even for the love of power? I do not.”

  Pitt declined brandy after dinner. He thanked Carlisle for an excellent meal, then walked out into the darkened streets and the gas lamps and the clatter of hooves, to find a hansom to take him home, all the while mulling over what he had learned. Had Halberd been the loyal friend the Queen imagined him to be? Or something quite different? Had he finally threatened or blackmailed the wrong person?

  A hansom pulled up, and he gave the driver his address and climbed in. The questions haunted him through the lamplit streets.

  Knowledge was power, but it was also a razor-edged weapon. The greatest test of all was to have power and yet refrain from using it. It was something few men could do. Sooner or later the mere fact that you could do something drew you to do it, as a precipice draws you to its edge, no matter how deep your sense of vertigo.

  Did the Queen understand any of that? Since she was eighteen she had held extraordinary power, with far greater restraint than most people knew. She of all people must understand its lure, and its dangers. Did that mean she thought other people did too? He realized with surprise how much it would hurt him if she was disappointed in Halberd.