Seven Dials - Anne Perry [122]
So of the four friends in Alexandria two were dead, one on the field of battle, one murdered, one was apparently missing, and the fourth was a priest in Seven Dials who had been stunned with horror at the mention of Martin Garvie’s name.
He turned on his heel and walked straight to the curb, then out into the first couple of yards of the street, his arm waving to attract the next hansom that passed.
The Old Bailey was crowded with people, pressing forward, calling out to each other, complaining and jostling for a place. With difficulty, Pitt elbowed his way towards the front and finally was stopped by a constable who placed himself squarely in his path.
“Sorry, sir. Can’t go in there. If you wanted a seat you should’ve come sooner. First come, first in, that’s the rule. Fair enough?”
Pitt drew in his breath to argue, and realized it was pointless. He had no authority to show that would allow him preference. To the constable he would seem to be just another curious spectator, come to watch the fall of a powerful man and gaze at an exotic woman accused of murder. And there were certainly enough of them. He was pressed from behind, his feet trodden on, his back bumped and poked. The constable was keeping his temper with difficulty, his face overpink and gleaming with sweat.
“I’ll wait out here,” Pitt said.
“In’t no use, sir. There isn’t going to be no room in there today.” The constable shook his head, indicating the courtroom.
“I need to speak to someone who is inside,” Pitt replied.
The constable looked disbelieving, but he said nothing.
Pitt went past the court where Ryerson and Ayesha Zakhari were being tried, and stood impatiently in the hallway outside the next one along.
It was an hour before anyone emerged, and he had begun to wonder if he was wasting his time. Perhaps Narraway was not in there anyway. Yet the compulsion remained to wait until the adjournment and watch every person who emerged. Finally the doors opened and a small, thin man with brown hair came out. He looked left and right, then took a step forward. Pitt approached him. “Excuse me. You were in the Ryerson trial.” It was more a statement than a question, but the words were out before he considered them.
“Yes,” the man agreed. “But it’s packed in there. You won’t get in.”
“What has happened so far?”
The man shrugged. “Only what you’d expect, a lot of police saying what they found. She did it, of course; the only mystery is how she thought she’d get away with it.”
Pitt glanced around him at the people still waiting hopefully, as if there was yet some chance of drama in which they could share.
“It could bring the government down in time,” the man said, as if in answer to the question Pitt had only thought. “Narrow majority—important minister mixed up with a woman like that. Trouble up Manchester way.” He pulled his mouth into a slight sneer. “I thought it would have been more interesting. Defense lawyer’s got nothing. I might come back tomorrow.” And without waiting he pushed past and disappeared into the crowd.
Pitt moved closer to the door so he would have a better chance to see Narraway, if indeed he was inside.
As it was, he very nearly missed him and only caught up as Narraway moved across the hall towards the steps to leave. He looked at Pitt with momentary irritation, thinking he had been bumped into by a stranger, then he recognized him and his face sharpened with attention. “Well?” he demanded.
“What happened in there?” Pitt countered.
Narraway stopped and faced Pitt, his eyes wide. “You came here to ask me that?”
There was a dangerous edge to his voice, and Pitt saw the lines of strain etched deep into his face. He was holding control of himself with an effort. They had failed to help Ryerson, and again Pitt was reminded sharply that for some reason deeper than anything he understood, it mattered intensely to Narraway. Was it simply failure that hurt him, or