Long Spoon Lane - Anne Perry [124]
“Aren’t you! If you think about it?” Pitt asked. “It had to be someone who knew you would go back to Long Spoon Lane, because he was waiting there. He knew Magnus by sight, and killed no one else. He didn’t even shoot at Welling or Carmody. Also he kept out of sight himself.”
Kydd’s face tightened. “All right, it must have been Piers. It’s the only answer that makes sense. Poor devil. I suppose I want to see him on the end of a rope, but I’m not as sure as I was.” He put his hand over Mite again and stroked her, being rewarded by an instant rattle. “Go and do whatever you have to. Turn left at the door. Follow the London Road to the Onega Yard, past the Norway Dock to where it goes into Brickley Road right to the Rotherhithe Pier. You’ll get a ferry there.” He did not get up.
Pitt nodded. “Thank you.”
“Don’t bother looking for me here again.”
“I wasn’t going to. As you pointed out, I owe you a favor.” He stopped in the doorway. “I suppose you had nothing to do with Scarborough Street?”
The contempt in Kydd’s face was unseen, but he spoke. “That’s another one I’ll see on the end of a rope with pleasure, if you can catch him. That’s why I fished you out—I reckon you’re the only one who’s ever going to try.”
Vespasia was about to set out for a late dinner with friends when her butler informed her that Mr. Pitt was in the hall.
“Have the carriage wait and show Mr. Pitt in,” she ordered without hesitation. She went to her sitting room. The curtains were drawn because the evening was wet and she did not want to look at light reflected on dripping trees. She was barely there when she heard Pitt’s voice thanking the butler, and then he was there, closing the door behind him. He looked pale and cold. His unruly hair was wet with the rain and curling wildly. There was a considerable amount of dirt on his face and his clothes.
“You were about to go out,” he said, looking at her magnificent gown with its high, full-shouldered sleeves and the sheen of dove-gray satin under the falls of ivory lace. “I’m sorry.” There was a finality in his voice and the short, shivering attitude of his body that canceled even the possibility of her wishing to leave.
“It is of no importance.” She dismissed it with a tiny gesture of her hand, the diamonds on her fingers catching the light. “Shall I ask Cook to prepare us something? You look a little like a horse that has run a hard race…and lost.”
He smiled. “Actually, I think I might have won. Yes. I’m cold more than hungry. I…” He stopped. He was trembling.
“Sit down,” she ordered. “But for heaven’s sake take that coat off!” She reached for the bell. When it was answered, she dispatched the butler to send the coachman with an apology for her absence at the dinner party. The cook was requested to prepare a meal for two, and the butler to bring back a hot toddy immediately, and, when he had time, to sponge clean and dry Pitt’s coat.
“Now.” She sat down facing him. “What has happened, Thomas?”
Briefly he told her, elaborating only when he came to the death of Magnus Landsborough, and what Kydd had told him. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “It is going to be very hard for the Landsborough family, but I cannot let it go.”
“Of course not,” she agreed, her throat so tight she could barely swallow. She thought of Sheridan, then the instant after of Enid. They were so close to each other, and yet her son had killed his. How would they bear it? “I assume you would not have told me if there could be any doubt.” That was not really a question. It all made an ugly and terrible sense. At least Pitt was safe, even if Voisey was still alive. “And this Kydd said that Magnus’s father had been there, and tried to persuade him to abandon his anarchist beliefs?”
“Yes. That is a natural thing to do. Were it my son, I would have done so too. Kydd spoke of Magnus with respect, and I thought considerable affection. He had even adopted Magnus’s kitten.”
“Magnus’s kitten?” she said. It was extraordinary. Surely Magnus was as sensitive to cats as the