Traitors Gate (52 page)

When she had returned after seeing Harriet Soames and Matthew, Charlotte was in a buoyant mood, full of elation that the matter had gone so well; but there were other visions to be dealt with, which she was much less certain even as to how to approach, let alone what their resolution might be. It had all begun with the death of Arthur Desmond. Susannah’s murder was a tragedy she felt keenly, having known her; but Sir Arthur’s death was the one which hurt Pitt, and his grief was interwoven through everything because it was part of his life and could never be set aside or forgotten. And she knew, even through his silences, that there was still guilt in it.

She had the framework of a plan in her mind, but it needed someone to help, someone with access to the Morton Club, who would not in any way be associated with the police but could go there as an innocent and curious member. That person would also, of course, have to be willing to conduct such an enquiry.

The only one she knew who fitted even part of that description
was Eustace March, and she was very uncertain if he could ever be persuaded to satisfy the last requirement. Still, there was only one possible way to find out.

Accordingly she sat down and wrote a letter.

“Dear …”

She hesitated, confounded as to whether she should address him as “Uncle Eustace” or “Mr. March.” The first seemed too familiar, the second too stiff. Their relationship was unique, a mixture of distant kinship, acute guilt and embarrassment, and finally antagonism over the tragedies at Cardington Crescent. Now it was a sort of truce, nervous and extremely wary on his part.

She wanted his help, needed it. His own estimation of himself was such that he would always leap to assist a woman in distress; it fitted his conception of the respective roles of male and female, and his vision of a righteous and powerful Christian, as well as a beneficent gentleman.

“Dear Mr. March,” she wrote.

“Forgive my approaching you so forthrightly, and without any preamble, but I need help with a matter of the utmost moral gravity.” She smiled as she continued. “I can think of no one else to whom I could turn with the assurance both of their ability to help, and their willingness to do so with the courage it would require, and the supreme tact. Quick judgment may be called for, great perception of men, and their motives as well as their actual honesty, and possibly even a certain physical presence and authority.”

If that did not appeal to him, nothing would! She hoped she had not overstated her case. Pitt would instantly be suspicious of a letter like that. But then Pitt had a sense of humor, and Eustace had not.

“If I may call upon you this evening,” she continued, “I shall explain precisely what the trouble is, and how I believe we may solve it to the satisfaction of both honor and justice.

“I have a telephone, the number of which is at the top of the page. Perhaps you would be kind enough to let me
know whether it would be convenient for me to call … that is, if you are willing to come to my assistance?

“Yours with affection and hope, Charlotte Pitt.”

She sealed it and stamped it and sent Gracie to put it in the post. It would be delivered that afternoon.

She received the answer by telephone. It was an enthusiastic affirmative, delivered with gravitas and considerable self-assurance, not to say satisfaction.

“Well, my dear lady,” he said to her as she was shown into his withdrawing room at Cardington Crescent. “What may I do to be of assistance to you?” He stood in front of the fireplace, even though on such a balmy summer evening there was no fire lit. It was simply a matter of habit and the prerogative of the master of the house to warm himself there all winter, and he did it without thought. “Perhaps if you were to tell me the precise problem?”

She sat in the seat he had offered and tried not to think of the past associations of this place and all the memories of tragedy.

“It is to do with a terrible death,” she said, meeting his gaze frankly and endeavoring to look as appealing as possible without any shred of flirtation. “But it is a matter which the police, by virtue of their social standing, or lack of it, are unable to solve. At least, Thomas knows a great deal about it, but the final answer is beyond him, because he has not access to the place where it happened, except as a policeman. So everyone will be on their guard, and observing them will be no good at all.” She smiled very slightly. “Besides, some people need to see the authority and natural status of a gentleman before they will respond with the truth. Do you understand what I mean, Mr. March?”

“Of course I do, my dear lady,” he said immediately. “It is one of the great drawbacks of being of the social …” Just in time he realized he was about to be offensive. His dilemma was plain in his face. “Occupation,” he finished, with a flourish at his fortunate extrication. “People are forewarned,”
he added for good measure. “Where is it that you believe I have entrance?”

“To the Morton Club,” she said sweetly. “I know you are a member, because I recall your saying so. Besides, it is the most distinguished gentleman’s club, and I am sure you would find yourself welcome there, even as a visitor, were that necessary. No one would question your presence or think you out of place, and I know of no one else who could do that, and who would also have the … forgive me, I do not know how to phrase this without sounding fulsome.”

“Please, just be frank with me,” he urged. “I shall not criticize either what you say or the way in which you say it. If this is a matter as serious as you intimate, then it would be an unfortunate time to find fault in so small a subject.”

“Thank you, you are most understanding. It will take a love of justice and a courage which puts that love before comfort and convenience. Such people are not as common as one would wish.”

“Just so,” he said sadly. “It is a grim reflection of our times. What, precisely, is it you wish me to do?”

“To find out what happened to Sir Arthur Desmond the afternoon he died …”

“But surely that was either an accident, or a suicide.” He pulled a very slight face. “To take one’s own life was not the act of a Christian, or of a gentleman, unless he had debts he could not pay or had committed a grave dishonor. Or suicide,” he finished.

“No, no, Mr. March! That is exactly the point, it was most certainly murder … for reasons I shall not go into now.” She leaned forward, facing him with an intense look. “It is not unconnected with the death of Mrs. Chancellor.” She ignored his look of amazement.

“And with members of the Colonial Office I am not free to name. Indeed, I only know the veriest fraction which I have overheard, but matters where England’s interest, and
those of the Empire, may have been jeopardized.” Now his face was agog and his round eyes wide.

“Sir Arthur was murdered because he drew attention to matters which exposed certain people to suspicion and eventually ignominy,” she finished.

“Good gracious! You don’t say so!” He drew a deep breath. “Dear lady, are you perfectly sure you have this quite right? It seems …”

“Mrs. Chancellor is dead,” she pointed out. “And now Mr. Chancellor also. Can you doubt the matter is profoundly serious?”

“No. No, of course not. But the connection …?”

“Is to do with Africa. Will you help me?”

He hesitated only a moment. How could he refuse, and deny himself the opportunity for such gallantry, a noble part in such a matter, perhaps a small place in history?

“Of course,” he said enthusiastically. “When shall we begin?”

“Tomorrow, about lunchtime?” she suggested. “Of course, I cannot come into the club….”

“Good gracious no!” he agreed with a look of alarm. Such a thing would be tantamount to sacrilege.

“So I shall be obliged to wait outside in the street,” she said with as little irritation as she could manage, although it called for more self-control than she thought she possessed. It was absurd. Why on earth should they all be so appalled at the idea of a woman coming into the club? Anyone would think that they were all sitting around naked! That idea was so amusing she contained her laughter only with difficulty.

He noticed her expression, and his face filled with alarm.

“I hope you are not considering …”

“No!” she said sharply. “No, of course not. I shall wait in the street, I assure you. If nothing else will convince you, remember that Thomas has been promoted. I have every interest in behaving with the most perfect decorum to see that
I do not in any way embarrass him.” That was a major stretching of the truth, but she felt Eustace would believe it.

“Of course, of course.” He nodded sagely. “I apologize for having doubted you. Now tell me what information it is you wish?”

“To begin with, to know precisely who was there that afternoon, and where they were sitting, or standing, or whatever it is gentlemen do in their clubs.”

“That sounds very simple. Surely Thomas would have learned that from the stewards,” he said with satisfaction.

“No, apparently they are so terribly busy waiting on people they don’t notice,” she responded. “Anyway, people tend to avoid speaking to the police if they can, especially if they fear it might compromise their friends unjustly.”

“I quite see the point….” He was dubious.

“But you will not be talking to the police, you will simply be telling me,” she pointed out.

She wondered whether she ought to mention Farnsworth’s opposition to Thomas’s working on the case at all, and decided it was too big a risk to take. Eustace was very impressed by authority. Apart from that, he might conceivably be in the same ring of the Inner Circle, and that would never do.

“Yes, that is certainly true,” he agreed, apparently calmed by the thought. After all, who was she, that anyone should mind? “Right.” He rubbed his hands together. “Then we shall begin tomorrow morning, shall we say outside the Morton Club at eleven o’clock?”

She rose to her feet. “I am enormously grateful to you, Mr. March. Thank you very much. I have taken the liberty of writing a short description of the principal suspects,” she added hastily, passing him a piece of paper. “I am sure it will be helpful. Thank you so much.”

“Not at all, dear lady, not at all,” he assured her. “In fact I am quite looking forward to it!”

He was not nearly so certain that that was how he felt at ten minutes past eleven the following day when he was actually in the main sitting room of the Morton Club, looking for a place to sit down and wondering how on earth he was to begin such an extraordinary undertaking. To start with, in the cold light of a public place, he realized it was in the most appallingly bad taste. One did not question a fellow member about his acts, whatever they were. It simply was not done. The very essence of the purpose of having a club was in order to remain unquestioned, to have both company and privacy, to be among people of one’s own thought, who knew how to behave.

He sat down where Charlotte had told him Sir Arthur had died, feeling a complete fool, and quite sure that his face was scarlet, even though no one took the slightest notice of him. But then people never did in a decent club. He should not have undertaken this, whatever Charlotte Pitt had said! He should have declined politely and kindly, pointing out the impossibility of it, and sent her on her way.

But it was too late now. He had given his word! He was not cut out to be a knight errant. For that matter, Charlotte was not really his choice of a damsel in distress. She was too clever to be satisfactory, much too sharp with her tongue.

“Good morning, sir. May I bring you something?” a discreet voice said at his elbow.

He started in surprise, then saw the steward.

“Oh, yes, er, a small whiskey would be excellent, er …”

“Yes sir?”

“Sorry, I was trying to recall your name. Seems I know you.”

“Guyler, sir.”

“Yes, that’s right. Guyler. I, er …” He felt hopelessly self-conscious, a complete ass, but it had to be done. He could not possibly go back to Charlotte and tell her he had failed, that he had not even had the courage to try! No shame here could be worse than that. To confess such cowardice
to any woman would be appalling; to her it would be intolerable.

“Yes sir?” Guyler said patiently.

Eustace took a deep breath. “Last time I was here, very end of April, I was talking to a most interesting chap, been all over the place, especially Africa. Knew the devil of a lot about settlement there, and so on. But can’t remember his name. Don’t think that he ever said. Sometimes one doesn’t, you know?”

“Quite, sir,” Guyler agreed. “And you were wishing to know who it was?”

“Exactly!” Eustace said with intense relief. “See you understand completely.”

“Yes sir. Where were you sitting, sir? That might help. And perhaps if you could describe the gentleman a little. Was he elderly? Dark or fair? A large gentleman, or not, sir?”

“Er …” Eustace racked his brains to think of how Charlotte had described the main suspects. Unfortunately they were quite unalike. Then a brilliant idea occurred to him. “Well, the gentleman in question was quite bald, with a powerful nose and very clear, pale blue eyes,” he said with sudden conviction. “I remember his eyes especially. Most arresting …”