Long Spoon Lane - Anne Perry [9]
“Yes, sir,” the steward said quietly, his voice little more than a whisper. “Shall I inform his lordship you are here?”
“A private room,” Narraway instructed him. “I am afraid I have very bad news for his lordship. You might see that there is a decent brandy and glasses on the table.”
“Yes, sir. I’m very sorry, sir.” The steward conducted him along the silent corridor to such a room as he had requested, and left him there. Two minutes later another steward brought a silver tray with Napoleon brandy and two delicately engraved balloon glasses.
Narraway stood in the middle of the Aubusson carpet and tried to compose his thoughts. This was the heart of the most civilized place in Europe: a gentlemen’s club where impeccable manners were observed at all times. Voices were not raised. A man could sit here and discuss art and philosophy, sport or governments of the earth, exploration of the Empire and beyond, the history of the world itself, and meet with intimate wit and disciplined intelligence.
And he had come here to tell a man that his son had been murdered in an anarchist gun battle a handful of miles away.
Pitt might have been better at this. He was used to it. He might have some form of words that made it at least dignified. He had children himself. His imagination would lend an eloquence to his pity. Narraway could only struggle after it. He had no wife, no children, not even a younger sibling. His job had taught him how to survive alone even more than fate had dictated for him. He lived in his mind, his brilliant, subtle, instinctive brain, caring but never caring too much. Deliberately, he had no hostages to fortune.
The door opened and he found himself standing rigidly, gulping air. Lord Sheridan Landsborough came in and closed it softly behind him. He was a tall man, a trifle stooped now. He looked past seventy, with a wry, gentle face, which must have been handsome in his youth, and still held unusual charm and intelligence.
“Mr. Narraway?” he said courteously.
Narraway inclined his head in a slight bow of acknowledgment. “My lord. Perhaps you would like to sit down?”
“My dear fellow, I am not as fragile as all that! Or is the news you have brought so very terrible?” There was already a shadow in his eyes.
Narraway felt himself color slightly.
Landsborough saw it.
“I’m so sorry,” he apologized. “Of course it is. You would not have come personally were it something trivial.” He sat down, but more to oblige Narraway than because he felt required to. “What has happened?”
Narraway sat also, to avoid looking down at him. “There was an anarchist bombing in the Mile End area this morning,” he said quietly. “We were warned of it, and arrived in time to pursue those who caused it. We ran them down in Long Spoon Lane and laid siege to the house. There was a brief gun battle before we took it. When we went in we found two anarchists alive, and the body of a third. He had been shot. We don’t yet know by whom, except that it was from inside the room, not outside.” Looking at Landsborough’s face he could see that he already knew what Narraway would say next. “I’m sorry,” he continued gravely. “The signet ring on his hand, as well as the statements by one of the men we caught, identify him as Magnus Landsborough.”
Landsborough might have been half expecting it, but still the color bleached from his face leaving his skin almost gray. He hesitated a long, agonized moment, fighting to control his voice, then he answered. “I see. It was considerate of you to come in person. I suppose you wish me to identify…” He was unable to continue. His throat simply closed up and he gasped to draw air into his lungs.
Narraway felt utterly helpless. He had just inflicted appalling pain on a man, and was obliged to sit by without even averting his eyes as Landsborough struggled to maintain his dignity.
“Unless there is a close relative you would prefer to send,” he offered, knowing Landsborough would not accept, even were there such a person.
Landsborough tried to smile, and failed.