Traitors Gate Read online

  Vespasia was very grave. She held out her hand to him.

  “I hope you will be a powerful influence for good, Eustace,” she said without pretense. “Thank you for coming to tell us your news. Would you care to stay to luncheon? Charlotte and I will not be long.”

  “Thank you, Mama-in-law, but I have other calls to make,” he declined rapidly, rising to his feet and bowing very slightly, then similarly to Charlotte. “Charming to meet with you again, Mrs. Pitt. Good day to you both.” And without waiting for anything further he left the room.

  Charlotte looked at Vespasia and neither of them spoke.

  3

  THE INQUEST on Arthur Desmond was held in London since that was where he had died. Sitting in the gallery of the court, Pitt was grimly sure that it was also so that members of the Inner Circle could keep a greater command of the proceedings. Had it been in Brackley, where he and his family had been known and revered for three centuries, the personal regard in which he was held might have overridden even their power.

  As it was he sat beside Matthew, who this morning looked almost haggard, and together they waited while the formal opening of the inquest took place amid a hush of anticipation. The room was full. People bumped and jostled each other making their way through the narrow doorway and under the beamed arch into the main area. The buzz of noise died away as people took their seats, facing the single bench at the front, the table to one side where an official in a black gown took notes, his pen at the ready, and the other side, where there was a stand for witnesses.

  Pitt felt a strange sense of unreality. He was too filled with emotion to allow his mind to function with the clarity it usually had on such occasions. He had lost count of the number of inquests he had attended before this.

  He looked towards the front. He could see at least fifteen or twenty men of sober bearing, dressed in full or half mourning, sitting shoulder to shoulder ready to give testimony as they were called. Most of them had the solid, confident look of wealth and assured position. He assumed they were either professional experts of some sort or else the members of the club who had been present on the afternoon of Sir Arthur’s death. A nervous man, a few years younger, dressed less expensively, was probably one of the club stewards who had served the brandy.

  The coroner was ill-suited by appearance for his task. Anyone more robust and full of the vigor of life would be hard to imagine. He was large with red-gold hair and a highly florid complexion, features broad and full of enthusiasm.

  “Well now,” he said heartily, as soon as the preliminaries were completed. “Wretched business. Very sorry. Let us get it over with as soon as we may, with diligence and dispatch. Diligence and dispatch, best way to deal with the trappings of loss. Condolences to the family.” He looked around the room and saw Matthew. Pitt wondered whether he had already met him, or if he were simply skilled enough to recognize bereavement at a glance. “Shall we proceed? Good, good. Let us hear the first witness to this sorry event. Mr. Usher, send for him, if you please.”

  The usher obediently called for the club steward, who was, as Pitt had surmised, the man with the less expensive coat, and whose general embarrassment was now acute. He was overwhelmed, afraid of making a mistake. His manners were self-conscious, as were his clothes and his voice. He was awed by all the majesty of the law, even at this level, and by the finality of death. He mounted the witness stand with his eyes wide and his face pale.

  “No need to be afraid, my man,” the coroner said benignly. “No need at all. You didn’t do anything wrong, did you? Didn’t kill the poor creature?” He smiled.

  The steward was appalled. For half a second, a blood-chilling second, he thought the coroner was serious.

  “N-no sir!”

  “Good,” the coroner said with satisfaction. “Then compose yourself, tell us the truth, and all will be well. Who are you and what do you do? What have you to tell us about all this. Speak up!”

  “M-my name is Horace Guyler, my lord. I am a steward at the Morton Club for Gentlemen. It was me as found poor Sir Arthur. I mean, o’course we all knew where ’e was, but …”

  “I take your meaning perfectly,” the coroner encouraged. “It was you who discovered he was dead. And I am not a ‘my lord.’ That is for the judges. I am merely a coroner. ‘Sir’ will do very well when you address me. Proceed. Perhaps you had better begin with Sir Arthur’s arrival at the club. What time was that? When did you first see him? What was his appearance, his manner? Answer one at a time.”

  Horace Guyler was confused. He had already forgotten the first question, and the second.

  “Sir Arthur’s arrival,” the coroner prompted.

  “Ah. Yes sir. Well, ’e came in just after luncheon, which would be about quarter past three, sir, or thereabouts. ’e looked perfectly well to me at the time, which of course I realize now, but ’e must a’ bin awful poorly. I mean, awful distressed in ’isself, about summink.”

  “You must not tell us what you realize now, Mr. Guyler, only what you observed at the time. What did Sir Arthur say to you? What did he do? What was his manner? Can you recall? It is only five days ago.”

  “As far as I remember, sir, ’e simply wished me a good day, same as always. ’e were always a very courteous gentleman. Not like some. And then he went through to the green room, sat down and read a newspaper to ’isself. The Times, I think it were.”

  There was a vague stirring in the room, murmurs of approval.

  “Did he order anything to drink, Mr. Guyler?”

  “Not straightaway, sir. About ’alf an hour later ’e ordered a large brandy. Best Napoleon brandy, ’e wanted.”

  “So you took it to him?”

  “Oh yes sir, o’ course I did,” Guyler admitted unhappily. “O’ course, I didn’t know that then ’e was real upset and not ’isself. ’e seemed perfectly ’isself to me. Didn’t seem upset at all. Just sat there reading ‘is paper and muttering to ’isself now and then at pieces as ’e didn’t agree with.”

  “Was he angry or depressed about it?”

  “No sir.” Guyler shook his head. “Just reading, like a lot o’ gentlemen. ’e took it serious, o’ course. But then gentlemen does. The more important the gentleman, the more serious ’e takes it. And Sir Arthur used to be in the Foreign Office.”

  The coroner looked grave. “Any subject in particular that you are aware of?”

  “No sir. I weren’t that close to ’im. I had a lot of other gentlemen to serve, sir.”

  “Naturally. And Sir Arthur had only the one brandy?”

  Guyler looked unhappy. “No sir. I’m afraid ’e had a considerable number. I can’t recall ezzac’ly ’ow many, but at least six or seven. Best part of one o’ them ’alf bottles. I didn’t know ’e weren’t ’isself, or I’d never ’ave sent them!” He looked wretched, as if it really were somehow his responsibility, even though he was a club employee and might well have jeopardized his position had he refused to serve a member as he wished.

  “And Sir Arthur remained in his usual spirits the whole time?” the coroner asked with a tiny frown.

  “Yes sir, far as I could tell.”

  “Indeed. And what time did you serve the last brandy, do you recall?”

  “’alf past six, sir.”

  “You are very precise.”

  “Yes sir. On account of a gentleman that asked me to call ’im to remind ’im of a dinner engagement ’e ‘ad, so I knew ezzact.”

  There was no sound in the room.

  “And the next time you saw Sir Arthur?”

  “Well, I passed by ’im a few times, on me other errands like, but I took no notice ’cause ’e looked like ’e were asleep. O’ course I wish now I’d a’ done summink….” He looked wretched, eyes downcast, face flushed.

  “You are not responsible,” the coroner said gently, the bonhomie gone from his expression. “Even had you known he was unwell and called a doctor, by the time anyone arrived there was probably little he could have done to save him.�
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  This time there was a stirring in the room. Beside Pitt, Matthew shifted in his seat.

  The steward looked at the coroner with a lift of hope.

  “’e were one of the nicest gentlemen,” he said dolefully.

  “I’m sure.” The coroner was noncommittal. “What time was it when you spoke to Sir Arthur, Mr. Guyler, and realized that he was dead?”

  Guyler drew a deep breath. “Well first I passed him an’ thought ’e were asleep, like I said. Gentlemen who ‘as drunk a lot o’ brandy of an afternoon does fall asleep sometimes, an’ is quite ‘ard to rouse.”

  “I’m sure. What time, Mr. Guyler?”

  “About ’alf past seven. I thought as if ’e wanted dinner it were time I booked a place for ’im.”

  “And what did you do?”

  For a quarter of an hour no one in the court had moved or made any but the slightest of noises, merely a squeak of benches as the weight altered, or a creak and rustle of skirts from one of the two or three women present. Now there was a slow sighing of breath.

  “I spoke to ’im, and ’e didn’t answer,” Guyler replied, staring straight ahead, painfully conscious of all eyes upon him. The court official at the table was taking rapid notes of everything he said. “So I spoke again, louder. ’e still didn’t move, and I realized …” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He looked very nervous as the memory of death became sharper to him. He was frightened of it. It was something he chose never to think of in the normal course of things.

  The coroner waited patiently. He had watched emotions like Guyler’s chase across thousands of faces.

  Pitt watched with a continuing sense of remoteness. Grief boiled up inside him; grief, a sudden overwhelming isolation as if he had been cut adrift from a safety he had been familiar with all his life. It was Arthur Desmond they were discussing so dispassionately. It was ridiculous to feel that they should have cared, should have spoken in hushed or tearful voices as if they understood the love, and yet he did feel it, even while his mind knew the absurdity.

  He did not dare look at Matthew. He wanted to be done, to walk as quickly as he could, with the clear wind in his face, and the rain. The elements would keep him company as people could not.

  But he must remain. Both duty and compassion required it.

  “In the end I shook ’im.” Guyler lifted his chin. “Just gentle like. ’e looked a terrible color, and I couldn’t ’ear ’im at all. Gentlemen who is fallen asleep after the brandy very often breathe ‘ard and deep….”

  “You mean they snore?”

  “Well—yes sir.”

  There was a titter of laughter somewhere on the public benches, immediately suppressed.

  “Why doesn’t he get to what matters?” Matthew said fiercely beside Pitt.

  “He will do,” Pitt answered in a whisper.

  “It was then I knew something was wrong,” Guyler went on. He stared around the courtroom, not out of vanity but to remind himself where he was and dispel any memory of the club drawing room and what had happened there.

  “You realized he was either ill or dead?” the coroner pressed.

  “Yes sir. I sent for the manager, sir, and he sent for the doctor.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Guyler. That’s all. Thank you for coming.”

  Guyler departed with relief, and the club manager took his place. He was a large, solid man with an agreeable face and a walleye which was most disconcerting. It was never possible to be certain whether he was looking at one or not. He testified to having been called by the steward and finding that Sir Arthur was indeed dead. He had sent for the doctor who was usually called upon if any of the gentlemen were taken unwell, which regrettably did happen from time to time. The average age of the membership was at least fifty-five, and many were a great deal older. The doctor had confirmed death without hesitation.

  The coroner thanked the manager and permitted him to depart.

  “This is pointless!” Matthew said between his teeth. He leaned forward and put his head in his hands. “It’s all perfectly predictable and meaningless. They’re going to get away with it, Thomas! Death by accidental overdose of an old man who didn’t know what he was doing or saying!”

  “Did you expect anything different here?” Pitt asked as quietly as he could.

  “No.” There was defeat in Matthew’s voice.

  Pitt had known it would hurt, but he was unprepared for how hard he found it to watch Matthew’s distress. He wanted to comfort him, but there was nothing he could say.

  The next witness was the doctor, who was professional and matter-of-fact. Possibly it was his way of dealing with the shock and finality of death. Pitt saw the dislike on Matthew’s face, but it was born of emotion rather than reason, and this was not the time for an explanation which was irrelevant. It had nothing to do with what he was feeling.

  The coroner thanked the doctor, dismissed him and then called the first of the members of the club who had been in the room during that afternoon. He was an elderly man with enormous white side-whiskers and a polished dome of a head.

  “General Anstruther,” the coroner said earnestly, “would you be good enough, sir, to tell us what you observed on that particular occasion, and if you consider it relevant, anything that you were aware of regarding Sir Arthur’s health and state of mind.”

  Matthew looked up sharply. The coroner glanced at him. Matthew’s face tightened but he said nothing.

  General Anstruther cleared his throat loudly and began.

  “Decent chap, Arthur Desmond. Always thought so. Getting older, of course, like the rest of us. Forgetting things. Happens.”

  “That afternoon, General,” the coroner prompted. “How was his demeanor? Was he …” He hesitated. “Distrait?”

  “Ah …” Anstruther hesitated, looking deeply uncomfortable.

  Matthew sat rigid, his eyes unwaveringly on Anstruther’s face.

  “Is this really necessary?” Anstruther demanded, glaring at the coroner. “The fellow’s dead, damn it! What more do we need? Bury him and remember him kindly. He was a good man.”

  “No doubt, sir,” the coroner said quietly. “That is not in any sense in question. But we do need to ascertain exactly how he died. The law requires that of us. The circumstances are unusual. The Morton Club wishes to clear its name of any question of carelessness or impropriety.”

  “Good God!” Anstruther blew through his nose. “Who’s suggesting such a thing? Absolute nonsense. Poor Desmond was not well and a trifle confused. He took too much laudanum along with brandy. Simple accident. No more to be said.”

  Matthew jerked up. “He was not confused!” he said aloud.

  Everyone in the room turned towards him, surprised and more than a little embarrassed. One did not show emotion of such a sort, especially not here. It was not done.

  “We sympathize with you, Sir Matthew,” the coroner said clearly. “But please contain yourself, sir. I shall not allow any statements to pass without requiring they be substantiated.” He turned back to the witness stand. “Now, General Anstruther, what causes you to say that Sir Arthur was confused? Please be specific.”

  Anstruther pursed his lips and looked annoyed. He was obviously very loath to accede. He glanced once at the front bench. “He … er … he forgot what he had said,” he replied. “Repeated himself, don’t you know? Got his facts muddled now and then. Talked a lot of nonsense about Africa. Didn’t seem to understand.”

  Matthew rose to his feet before Pitt could restrain him.

  “You mean he disagreed with you?” he challenged.

  “Sir Matthew!” the coroner warned. “I will not tolerate repeated interruption, sir. We are aware of your very natural grief, but there are limits to our patience. This inquest will be conducted in proper order and decorum, with respect both for the truth and for the dignity of the occasion. I am sure you would wish that as much as anyone.”

  Matthew drew in his breath, possibly to apologize, but the coroner held
up his hand to silence him.

  Matthew sat back down again, to Pitt’s relief.

  “General, please be good enough to elaborate upon what you mean.” The coroner turned to General Anstruther. “Did Sir Arthur merely disagree with you upon some matters? What precisely causes you to believe his reasoning was confused?”

  The dark color washed up Anstruther’s cheeks, making his white whiskers seem even more pronounced.

  “Talked a lot of nonsense about secret combinations of people plotting together to conquer Equatoria, or some such thing.” He glanced again at the front row, and then away. “Made a lot of wild accusations. Absolute nonsense of course. Contradicted himself half the time, poor devil. Terrible thing, to start losing your sense of … of … God knows, all your old loyalties, where your trust and decency lie, who your own people are, and what the values are you believed all your life.”

  “You mean Sir Arthur had substantially changed from the man he had been in the recent past?”

  “I wish you wouldn’t force me to say this!” Anstruther persisted angrily. “Let us bury him in peace, and his latter misfortunes with him. Let us forget this nonsense and remember him as he was a year or so ago.”

  Matthew groaned so audibly that not only did Pitt hear him, the man on the far side of him heard as well. He looked around sharply, then flushed with discomfort at Matthew’s obvious emotion, and looked away again.

  “Thank you, General,” the coroner said quietly. “I think you have told us enough for us to have some idea. You are excused.”

  Anstruther took out a white handkerchief and blew his nose savagely, then left, looking to neither side of him.

  The Honorable William Osborne was called next, who said much the same as Anstruther had, adding one or two instances of Arthur Desmond’s strange and irrational opinions, but he did not mention Africa. He was altogether a smoother and more assured man, and while he expressed regret in words, his manner did not suggest any emotion at all, except a slight impatience.

  Matthew stared at him with implacable dislike, a growing bewilderment in his pain. It was more than possible that both Anstruther and Osborne were members of the Inner Circle. Pitt loathed to admit it, but it was also possible that Arthur Desmond had been somewhat irrational in his opinions, and that they were born more of emotion than a knowledge of fact. He had always been highly individual, even eccentric. It was possible that in old age he had become detached from reality.