Seven Dials - Anne Perry [11]
Perhaps it was the failure to mention Ryerson which galled him, and the fact that the writer had not even enquired into the case, but had leapt to his conclusions rather than simply reporting the evidence.
Jemima looked at Pitt solemnly, and he smiled at her. He saw the tension ease in her shoulders, and she smiled back.
He finished his breakfast and stood up as Charlotte and Daniel came into the kitchen. The conversation turned to other things—the school day, what there would be for dinner, and the question of whether they would go to watch the cricket match on Saturday afternoon, as long as it was not rained off, or to the local outdoor theater, also if the weather permitted. An argument ensued as to what one could do in the rain, and ended only when both children left for school and Pitt set out to go to Narraway’s office.
HE FOUND THE ROOMS empty and closed, but Jesmond, waiting on the curb, told him that Narraway would be back within an hour and would be angry if Pitt were not there waiting for him.
Pitt masked his impatience at the time wasted. He could have been closing the case he had been working on before this tragedy happened, which as far as he could see was irrelevant to Special Branch. He paced up and down the small room at the bottom of the stairs, turning the matter over and over in his mind, to no effect at all.
Narraway arrived forty-five minutes later, looking grim. He was wearing a beautifully cut light gray suit in the latest fashion, with high lapels, and a gray silk waistcoat underneath.
“Come in,” he said briskly, unlocking the door of his room and leaving Pitt to follow. He sat down behind the desk without glancing at any of the papers on it, and Pitt realized he had already read them. He had been in early, and left to go somewhere important, which he had foreseen and dressed for accordingly. It had to be to see someone high in government. Did they really care about the murder of Edwin Lovat, or that Ayesha Zakhari should be blamed? Or had something else happened?
Pitt sat down in the opposite chair.
Narraway’s face was tight, his eyes wide and wary, as if even here in his own room there were something to be guarded against.
“The Egyptian ambassador went to the Foreign Office late last night,” he said in carefully measured words. “They, in turn, have spoken by telephone to Mr. Gladstone, and I was sent for this morning.”
Pitt waited without interrupting, the chill growing inside him.
“They were aware of the murder in Eden Lodge by yesterday afternoon,” Narraway continued. “But it was in the afternoon papers, so half of London knew of it.” He stopped again. Pitt noticed that Narraway’s hands were stiff on the desk, his slender fingers rigid.
“And the embassy knew that Ayesha Zakhari was arrested,” Pitt concluded. “Since she is an Egyptian citizen, I suppose it is natural for them to enquire after her well-being, and ensure that she was properly represented. I would expect as much of the British embassy were I arrested in a foreign country.”
Narraway’s mouth twisted a little. “You would expect the British ambassador to call the first minister of that country on your behalf? You overrate yourself, Pitt. A junior consul might see that you were appointed a lawyer, but not more than that.”
There was no time to be embarrassed or annoyed. Obviously something had happened that worried Narraway profoundly.
“Does Miss Zakhari have some importance that we were unaware of?” Pitt asked.
“Not so far as I know,” Narraway replied. “Although it does raise the question.” His expression of anxiety deepened. His fingers curled and uncurled, as if he were making sure he could still feel them. “The question raised was one of justice.” He took a deep breath, as though it was difficult for him to say this, even to Pitt. “The ambassador was aware that Saville Ryerson was at Eden Lodge when the