Seven Dials - Anne Perry [119]
“Which proves what?” Narraway asked.
“That there is something crucial we don’t know,” Pitt replied, pushing his chair back. “We haven’t done very well.” He stood up. “Either of us.”
Narraway looked at him, tilting his head back a little to meet his eyes. “I do know that Edwin Lovat was a man of profound and corroding misery,” he said very quietly. “And neither of us has uncovered the reason for it. It may have nothing to do with his murder—but it makes as much sense as anything else we have.”
“Well, I have no idea what it was,” Pitt replied. “According to his superiors in Alexandria, he was a man of religious conviction, well-liked, good at his job, and in love with Ayesha, but only casually. It ended before he left Egypt. He certainly wasn’t heartbroken—nor was she.”
“Nobody is suggesting that kind of passion, Pitt,” Narraway said with an edge to his voice; it could have been anything: pain, regret, memory, even dream. “She was beautiful, he was far from home. Since Egypt he has gone from woman to woman, but it was not for love of her. She was just one more.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I’ve spoken to those in their circle. He saw her several times in London before he bothered to pursue her at all. He was becoming more deeply involved than he wished with another woman. He wanted an escape from entanglement. Being seen to court Miss Zakhari provided it for him. He wanted to chase—he did not want to catch.”
Pitt hesitated at the door. He was too tired to think clearly. “Then what was the matter with him? What happened between leaving Egypt and arriving in England?”
“I don’t know yet,” Narraway answered. “But I am not certain that it has nothing to do with his death.”
“And Miss Zakhari?”
“As we have already said, there’s something we do not know, something that may bring more than a simple, rather pointless murder with it.”
Pitt opened the door and stood with his hand on it. “Good night.”
Narraway smiled very slightly. “Good night, Pitt.”
IT WAS DARK by the time Pitt reached Keppel Street. The lamps gleamed along the pavement like a string of endlessly reflected moons, dimming in the mist until the last he could see was no more than a suggestion, a luminescence without shape.
He opened the door with his own key and stood inside, tasting the moment, breathing in deeply the familiar odors of beeswax and lavender polish, clean linen, and the soft earthiness of chrysanthemums on the hall table. There was no light on in the parlor. The children would be upstairs; Charlotte and Gracie must be in the kitchen. He took his boots off, relishing the feel of his stocking feet on the cool linoleum. He padded down to the door and pushed it open.
For a moment Charlotte did not notice. She was alone in the room, her head bent over her needle, her face grave, heavy hair slipping out of its pins, bright in the gaslight. At that instant the sight of her was more beautiful than anything else he could imagine, more than sunset over the Nile or the desert sky white with stars.
“Hello . . .” he said quietly.
She jerked around, stared at him for an unbelieving heartbeat, then dropped the sewing on the floor and threw herself into his arms. It was long minutes later, when they heard Gracie’s heels along the hall, that they broke apart and Charlotte, her face flushed, went over to put the kettle on.
“Yer ’ome!” Gracie said with exuberant delight. Then, remembering her dignity a little, and lowering her voice to something closer to normal, “Well I’m that glad ter see yer safe. I s’pose yer ’ungry?” That was hopeful. Hungry was back to normal. When he did not answer immediately she regarded him with a shadow of anxiety.
“Yes, please.” He smiled at her and sat down in his usual place. “But a cold meat sandwich will be fine. Is everything well here?”
“ ’Course it is,” Gracie said