Belgrave Square - Anne Perry [117]
He tidied up the piles of papers and left the office, locking the door behind him and returning the key to the sergeant who had given it to him.
“You all right, sir?” the man asked tentatively, his face screwed up in concern. “Yer don’t look all that sharp, if yer don’t mind me sayin’ so, sir.”
“Probably need a little air,” Pitt lied automatically. He needed to protect his information; he could trust no one. “Hate all that reading.”
“Find what you wanted, sir?”
“No—no, I didn’t. It seems it was a wrong trail. Have to try somewhere else.”
“S’ppose there’s no shortcut to bein’ a detective, sir,” the sergeant said philosophically. “Used ter think it was what I wanted, now I’m not so sure. Mebbe find out a lot o’ things I’d a bin ’appier not knowin’.”
“Yes,” Pitt agreed, then changed his mind. “Or find out nothing at all.”
“Bad day, sir? Mebbe termorrer’ll be better.”
“Maybe.” Pitt forced a smile at the man, and thanked him again before leaving and going out into the rapidly cooling evening air. It smelled like rain. The faint wind was easterly, off the Channel, and it carried the sounds of the river up from the Pool of London and the docks. It would still be light for several hours yet, and on the Embankment there were carriages clipping along as people took the air. A pleasure boat with bright little flags fluttering made its way upstream, towards Windsor or Richmond. He could hear the laughter drifting across the water. Somewhere out of sight, also towards Westminster Bridge, a hurdy-gurdy played a popular tune and a cart was propped up on the opposite side of the Embankment, selling winkles and eel pies.
It was six o’clock, and he was ready to go home and forget Weems and his list, and all the misery and corruption it had shown him. He would have supper in his own kitchen, with Charlotte, then go outside and do a little work in the garden, perhaps cut the grass and tidy up some of the bigger weeds which Charlotte did not get to.
He would make a decision what to tell Drummond tomorrow. Perhaps in the morning it would seem clearer.
It did not really rain, just a light drizzle, so fine it lay on top of the grass, barely bending the petals of the flowers or the long light stems of leaves. Pitt stayed outside in it because he wanted the cool feel of it on his face and the sight of the slowly dimming light across the sky. He had been inside all day, and hated it. And it was a satisfaction to work manually and see the garden begin to look cared for, manicured and husbanded. Charlotte did the small chores like taking the dead heads off the roses and pansies, lifting the tiny weeds, and Gracie swept the path, but they had too many other chores to attend to it every day, and the grass cutter was too heavy for them anyway.
He came in at last a little after nine o’clock when the overcast was bringing the dusk early. He took off his wet jacket and boots and sat down in his chair in the parlor, ignoring the fact that his trouser legs were damp also.
Charlotte was mending a dress of Jemima’s. She put it down, poking the needle in carefully where she could find it again.
“What is it?” she asked, her face grave, her eyes on his.
He thought for a moment of evading the question and giving some trivial answer, but he wanted to share it. He did not want to make the decision alone, and she at least he could trust absolutely. With brief, painful words he told her.
She sat listening without moving her eyes from his face and her hands in her lap for once were completely motionless. She did not reach again for the needle or to wind wool or skein silks.
“What are you going to tell Mr. Drummond?” she said at last when he was finished.
“I don’t know.” He looked at her, trying to see any certainty in her face, if she had a vision of judgment he had not. “I don’t know how deep he is in this brotherhood himself.”
She thought for only an instant.
“If you don’t tell him, you are making the judgment that you do not trust him.”
“No,” he said, denying it immediately. “No,” he said again. “I am simply not placing him