Seven Dials - Anne Perry [136]
She turned back and closed the door, leaning against it, almost choked for breath. She felt as if she had betrayed Garrick by allowing him to be taken, and the fact that there was no other possible answer did not take from her the memory of the anguish in his eyes, the despair as he realized she was not going with him.
“Are you gonna go an’ see the priest again later?” Gracie asked very quietly when they returned to the kitchen. “Yer gotta know what’s the truth of it.”
“Yes,” Charlotte said with hesitation. “There’s a whole lot more to it, there has to be.” She rubbed her hand across her eyes, exhaustion making them gritty. “You can tell Tilda that Martin’s safe.”
Pitt and Narraway returned to Keppel Street by half past nine, weary and aching. They stopped only long enough for breakfast, then Charlotte took them to Seven Dials, sending them through the alley and into the courtyard. This time she had no trouble remembering which door it was, and moments later they were in front of the smoldering fire while Sandeman, white-faced, stared beyond them with misery bleak and terrible in his eyes.
Charlotte felt as if she had betrayed him too, and yet surely he must have known when he told her of Garrick’s nightmares that she would have to come back to him, and when she did it would be with Pitt at least. She looked across at Pitt now, and caught the pity in his face. There was no blame in him as he met her gaze. He understood the pain inside her, and exactly why.
Tears prickled her eyes and she turned away. This was not a time to allow her own emotions to govern anything; they had no place in this.
“I need to know what happened, Mr. Sandeman,” Narraway said without any leniency in his voice. “Whatever I may feel or wish, there is no room for anything but the truth.”
“I know that,” Sandeman replied. “I suppose I always knew that one day it would be uncovered. You can bury the dead, but you can’t bury guilt.”
Narraway nodded. “We know about the sacrifice of the pig and the desecration of the sanctuary. What happened after that?” he asked.
Sandeman spoke as if the pain were still with him, physically eating into his gut. “A woman returning from caring for the sick saw the torchlight and came to see what it was. She screamed.” Without being aware of it, he moved his hands as if to put them over his ears and keep out the sound. “Lovat caught hold of her. She struggled.” His voice was barely audible. “She went on and on screaming. It was a terrible sound . . . thick with terror. He broke her neck. I don’t think he meant to.”
No one interrupted him.
“But she had been heard,” he whispered. “Others came . . . all sorts of people . . . They saw the dead woman lying there . . . and Lovat . . .”
The fire was burning and yet the room seemed to freeze.
“They came at us,” Sandeman went on. “I don’t know what they wanted . . . but we panicked. We . . . we shot them.” His voice broke. He tried to add something, but the scene inside his head suffocated everything else.
Charlotte felt as if she could not breathe.
“They weren’t found,” Narraway stated.
“No . . . we set fire to the building.” Sandeman’s voice was hoarse. “We burnt them all . . . like so much rubbish. It wasn’t difficult . . . with the torches. It was taken to be an accident.”
Narraway hesitated only a moment.
“How many were there?” he asked.
Sandeman shivered.
“About thirty-five,” he whispered. “Nobody counted, unless it was the imam who buried them.”
The room was engulfed in a hideous silence. Narraway was about as ashen as Sandeman. “Imam?” he repeated huskily.
Sandeman looked up at him. “Yes. They were given a decent Muslim burial.”
“God in heaven!” Narraway let out his breath in a sigh of anguish.
Charlotte felt a needle of fear inside herself, far down in the pit of her stomach. She was not even certain yet why, but something vast and unseen was terribly wrong. It was there in Narraway’s face, in the stiffness of his body in its elegant suit.
“By whom?” Narraway said, his voice shaking.