Traitors Gate (32 page)

Pitt had expected some difficulty, and even if Murray were a member of the Circle, as he suspected, he knew his trick with Osborne would not work a second time. Murray was far too confident to be duped. And he thought it likely he was also much more senior in the hierarchy which governed it, and might well know who Pitt was, his past enmity to the Circle and his very recent refusal to join. He forced from his mind the further possibilities that Murray himself was the executioner, though as he sat in the consulting room with the door closed behind him, and the windows with their thick, velvet curtains, he could see the bright street beyond and carriages passing to and fro in the sunlight. But the glass was so thick and so well fitted he could hear nothing of the rattle and bustle of life. He felt suddenly claustrophobic, almost imprisoned.

He thought of lying about the coroner’s being dissatisfied, but then he dared not. The coroner might be an Inner Circle member as well. In fact almost anyone might be, even among his own men. He had always felt Tellman was too angry, too full of resentment to lend himself to anything so dedicated to the power of governing. But perhaps that was blind of him.

“I am a personal friend of Sir Matthew’s,” he said aloud. That at least was perfectly true. “He asked me to make a few further enquiries on his behalf. He is not well at the moment. He met with an accident in the street a few days ago, and was injured.” He watched Murray’s face intently, but saw not even a flicker in his eyes.

“I am so sorry,” Murray sympathized. “How very unfortunate. I hope it was not serious?”

“It seems not, but it was very unpleasant. He could have been killed.”

“I am afraid it happens all too often.”

Was that a veiled threat? Or only an innocent and truthful observation?

“What is it you wish to know, Mr. Pitt?” Murray continued, folding his hands across his stomach and looking at Pitt gravely. “If you are indeed a friend of Sir Matthew’s, you would do him the greatest service by persuading him that his father’s death was in many ways a mercy, before he became sufficiently ill to damage his reputation beyond recall, and possibly to have suffered greatly in his more lucid moments. It is most unpleasant to face, but less damaging in time than to go on fighting against the truth, and possibly causing a great deal of unpleasantness along the way.” A smile flickered across his face and disappeared. “Men of goodwill, of whom there are many, wish to remember Arthur as he was, but to rake the matter up over and over will not allow that to happen.” His eyes did not waver from Pitt’s.

One moment Pitt was sure it was a warning; the men of goodwill he referred to were members of the Circle, large in number, but immeasurably more powerful than number alone would suggest. They would retaliate if Matthew pressed them.

Then the next moment he knew there was no proof of that. Murray was simply a doctor stating the obvious. Pitt was developing a delusion about being persecuted himself, seeing plots everywhere, accusing innocent people.

“I shall be better able to convince him if I have some facts and details to tell him,” he replied, not moving his gaze either. “For example, had you ever prescribed laudanum for Sir Arthur before? Or was this his first experience with it, as far as you were aware?”

“It was his first experience,” Murray replied. “He told me that himself. But I did explain to him most carefully both its properties and its dangers, Mr. Pitt. I showed him precisely how and when to take it, and how much would produce a sleep of reasonably natural depth and duration.”

“Of course,” Pitt agreed. “But in his confused state … he was confused, was he not? Irrational and contradictory at times?”

“Not with me.” Murray said what he had to, to protect himself, as Pitt had expected. “But I have subsequently learned from others that he had some strange obsessions, not altogether rational. I take your point, Mr. Pitt. He may have forgotten what I told him and taken a lethal dose, thinking it would merely give him an afternoon nap. We can’t know what was in his mind at the time, poor man.”

“How was the laudanum made up?”

“In powders, which is the usual way.” He smiled very slightly. “Each dose separated and in a folded paper. It would be difficult to take more than one dose, Mr. Pitt, unless one had forgotten and taken a second in absentmindedness. I regret it could not more satisfactorily fill your theory. It is a precaution I usually take.”

“I see.” It did not affect Pitt’s real belief. It would still have been perfectly possible for Murray to make up a dose that was lethal and put it in with the others. He kept the look of agreeable enquiry on his face. “When did Sir Arthur come to you, Dr. Murray?”

“He first consulted me in the autumn of 1887, over a congestion of the lungs. I was able to help him and he effected a complete cure. If you are referring to this last visit, that was … let me see.” He looked through a calendar of appointments on his desk. “April twenty-seventh.” He smiled. “At four-forty in the afternoon, to be precise. He was here some half hour or more. He was very troubled indeed, I regret to say. I did all I could to reassure him, but I am afraid he was beyond my ability to help this time. I don’t think I flatter myself if I say he was past the help of any man of medicine.”

“Did you make up the laudanum yourself, Dr. Murray?”

“No, no. I don’t keep supplies of all the drugs I prescribe for my patients, Mr. Pitt. I gave him a prescription which
I presume he took to an apothecary. I recommended Mr. Porteous of Jermyn Street. He is an excellent man, both knowledgeable and extremely careful. I am most particular, for the very cause you mention, that the laudanum should be precisely measured and each dose separately wrapped. Sir Arthur had been to him on several previous occasions, and said that he would indeed use him.”

“I see. Thank you very much, Dr. Murray. You have been most patient.” Pitt rose to his feet. He had learned only little that was of use, but he could think of no more to ask without raising suspicion, if not actual certainty, that he was pursuing the Inner Circle again, and that he was convinced of murder. That would achieve nothing, and he was acutely aware of his own danger.

As it was, he was absurdly relieved to be outside in the bright air amid the rattle of hooves and hiss of carriage wheels and the vitality and movement of the street.

He went straight to Jermyn Street and found the apothecary’s shop.

“Sir Arthur Desmond?” The old man behind the counter nodded benignly. “Such a nice gentleman. Sorry to hear about his death. Very sad. So unfortunate. What may I do for you, sir? I have just about everything a body can need to repair or ease whatever troubles you. Have you seen a physician, or may I advise you?”

“I don’t need to purchase anything. I’m sorry for misleading you. It is your memory I need to consult.” Pitt did feel guilty for offering no business, but there was nothing he needed. “When was Sir Arthur last in here?”

“Sir Arthur? Why do you wish to know that, young man?” He squinted at Pitt curiously but not unkindly.

“I—I am concerned about his death … the manner of it,” Pitt answered a little awkwardly. The old man looked not unlike Sir Arthur, and it brought an odd twist of memory back, seeing him behind the counter of the dark shop.

“Oh. Well, so am I, and that’s the pity of it. If he’d come
here with his writ from the doctor, as he usually did, I’d have given him the laudanum all wrapped separately, as I always do for all my customers, and then this dreadful accident would never have happened.” The old man shook his head sorrowfully.

“He didn’t come here?” Pitt said sharply. “You are sure?”

The old gentleman’s eyebrows rose. “Of course I am sure, young man. Nobody serves behind this counter but myself, and I did not serve him. I haven’t seen Sir Arthur since last winter. About January, it would be. He had a cold. I gave him some infusion of herbs to put in hot water, to clear his head. We talked about dogs. I recall it very well.”

“Thank you. Thank you, Mr. Porteous. I am greatly obliged to you, sir. Good day.”

“Good day, young man. I shouldn’t run like that, sir, if I were you. No good for the digestion. You’ll get overexcited….”

But Pitt was out of the door and off down Jermyn Street at a flying pace.

He was halfway along Regent Street before he realized he did not know where he was going. Where had Sir Arthur obtained the laudanum? If not in Jermyn Street, then from some other apothecary. Or had Murray given it to him after all? Was there any way whatever of proving it?

Perhaps Matthew would know? Apothecary’s papers frequently had their names on them. It was both a safeguard and a means of advertising. He retraced his steps and called a cab to take him to Matthew’s apartments.

“What is it?” Matthew asked quickly. He was sitting up at his desk in the small room which served him as dining room and study. He was wearing a dressing robe, and still looked very pale. There were shadows around his eyes as if latent bruises were at last beginning to show.

“You look ill,” Pitt said anxiously. “Should you be up?”

“I have nothing worse than a headache,” Matthew dismissed it quickly. “What is it? What have you found?”

Pitt sat on one of the other chairs. “I’ve been to see several people. It seems all of Sir Arthur’s irrational behavior is either hearsay or based on the fact he upset people’s prejudices and desires….”

“I told you!” Matthew said triumphantly, light and eagerness in his face for the first time since he had come to Pitt’s house with the news of Sir Arthur’s death. “He wasn’t the least confused or senile. He knew only too well what he was saying. What else? What about the brandy, and the laudanum? Have you proved that wrong yet?” He smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry, I’m expecting miracles. You’ve done brilliantly, Thomas. I am grateful.”

“The brandy is hearsay too. The steward only served him one glass; the rest were ordered by other people on his behalf … perhaps.”

Matthew frowned. “Perhaps? What do you mean?”

Pitt recited what Guyler had told him.

“I see,” Matthew said quietly, leaning back. “God, isn’t it frightening. The Inner Circle is all over the place. But surely not everyone you’ve spoken to can be members, can they? Or can they?” His face looked pale again at the thought.

“I don’t know,” Pitt confessed. “I presume members can be summoned if they are needed. And this was something of an emergency for them. After all, Sir Arthur was breaking the covenant of secrecy and accusing them of conspiracy to commit fraud, and in some senses even treason.”

Matthew sat silent, deep in thought.

“Matthew …”

He looked up.

“I went to see Dr. Murray as well. He says he recommended Sir Arthur to get the laudanum he prescribed at the usual apothecary in Jermyn Street, but Porteous is quite certain that Sir Arthur did not go to him. Have you any idea where else he might have got it?”

“Does it matter? Do you think it was wrong dosages or something? An apothecary who was the executioner of the Circle?” His face was pinched with revulsion. “What an appalling thought … but it makes excellent sense.”

“Or the doctor himself,” Pitt added. “Do you know?”

“No. But if we could find one of the papers it would probably tell us.” He stood up. “There may be some left among his effects. I’ll look. Come, we’ll both go.”

Pitt rose. “He only had them two or three days. It was April twenty-seventh he went to see Murray for the consultation.”

Matthew stood and turned to face Pitt.

“The twenty-seventh. Are you sure?”

“Yes. Why?”

“He said nothing about it to me. He can’t have got them that day, because we went to Brighton in the afternoon.”

“What time?”

“To Brighton? About half past two. Why?”

“And what time did you get back?”

“We didn’t. We dined with friends and came back the following morning.”

“Murray said that was the day he saw Sir Arthur—at four-forty in the afternoon. Are you sure it was the twenty-seventh you went to Brighton, not the day before, or after?”

“Absolutely certain. It was Aunt Mary’s birthday and we had a party. We always do on the twenty-seventh of April, every year.”

“Then Murray lied. He never saw Sir Arthur!”

Matthew frowned. “Could he have misunderstood the date?”

“No. He looked it up in his book. I saw him.”

“Then the whole consultation was a lie,” Matthew said, curiously melancholy. “And if that is so, then where did the laudanum come from?”

“God knows!” Pitt whispered huskily. “Someone in that club room … someone who took him a brandy he didn’t order.”

Matthew swallowed hard and said nothing.

Pitt sat down again, feeling curiously weak and frightened, and looking across at Matthew’s white face, he knew he felt just the same.

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