Long Spoon Lane - Anne Perry [41]
Pitt stopped, to see if Voisey would turn in a moment or two to look for him. He did not. Was he more confident than his earliness would suggest? Or could he see Pitt reflected in the black marble surface of the tomb?
In case that was so, Pitt smiled and moved forward. He would not spoil his advantage by seeming to measure it, as though it mattered to him.
“Morning, Sir Charles,” he said, using both the correct form of address and the one that would remind Voisey that in their greatest clash it had been Pitt who had won. He would prefer not to have been the one to approach, but to avoid it would have made it even more obvious. It would have signaled that he was walking soft-footedly on purpose. The realization of how much thought he had given it, even before they entered any conversation, before Voisey himself said anything at all, was discomforting.
Voisey turned slowly. He was smartly and soberly dressed, almost as if he had come here to contemplate the heroes of the past rather than to discuss the political battles of today. “Good morning, Pitt,” he replied. “You are a trifle late. Is it the first time you have been to St. Paul’s? If you can keep your attention on the business in hand, perhaps you would like to walk around? I can show you some of the other notable tombs, although of course there is nothing to rival this for sheer”—he hesitated—“spectacle.”
Pitt looked at the magnificent monument. It was ornate, resplendent, a nation’s tribute to a man who was not only the architect of their greatest naval victory but a hero personally loved, who had died at the moment of his supreme triumph. Pitt thought it totally fitting, and he was filled with a deep pride as he stood in front of it, for a moment unaware of Voisey beside him.
“We lost nearly forty officers and five hundred men,” Voisey’s words interrupted his thoughts.
“In Trafalgar?” Pitt was surprised. It sounded very few for such a battle.
“In the British fleet,” Voisey replied, irony in his face, his eyes bright. “That doesn’t include the French, Spanish, of course.”
Pitt said nothing, feeling a little foolish.
“They lost over a hundred officers, and eleven hundred men,” Voisey went on.
Again Pitt did not answer.
“Funny little man,” Voisey continued. “Seasick at the beginning of every voyage.”
He was referring to Nelson. “I know,” Pitt said.
“And he liked fat women, who smelled,” Voisey added.
Pitt had no idea whether that was true or not, and he did not wish to know. He glanced at Voisey, and away again quickly. He knew why he had mentioned it, it was a matter of class. He was reminding Pitt that he was a gentleman and Pitt was not. He was using the aristocrat’s ease with the fallibility of heroes, and the earthier side of nature, compared with working-class prudency. He was testing, trying to find the place of offense.
“Really?” Pitt said casually. “How many ships did we lose?”
“The French and Spanish lost twenty-one from the combined fleet.”
“How many ships did we lose?” Pitt repeated.
“The French lost eight, the Spanish thirteen.”
“And us?”
Voisey nodded towards the tomb. “We lost Nelson.”
“And ships?” Pitt persisted, refusing to think of men, lives, passions. Stick to the measurable.
“None. We lost no ships. Every last one made it home.” Voisey blinked, as if his own emotion had caught him off-guard. “It was the greatest victory in the annals of our naval history. We were saved from invasion. And the fleet returned to England with flags at half mast, as if it had been a defeat.” His voice was thick and he looked away from Pitt for a moment. “Did Jack Radley tell you that Tanqueray’s bill will pass?” he asked.
Pitt concealed his jolt of surprise that Voisey knew already that he had spoken to Jack. “Yes,” he replied. “Also that there is very little organized resistance against it. We shall have to be much cleverer than we have been so