Seven Dials - Anne Perry [154]
“No, I don’t, and it doesn’t matter.” Narraway’s voice was cold. “Perhaps Lovat misused his daughter, or his sister, or even his wife, for all I know. Just get on with it! Call the river police. Then Pitt will identify the dead man for you.”
Markham glanced at Pitt.
Pitt nodded.
Markham’s face was set hard. He disliked being told what to do, by anyone.
“Do you intend to proceed, Sir Anthony?” the judge enquired with a touch of irritation.
Markham looked up, as if already dismissing Narraway.
“Yes, my lord. I have just learned of some very remarkable events which shed a totally different light on Lieutenant Lovat’s death. With your permission, I would like to call Thomas Pitt to the stand.”
“This had better be relevant, Sir Anthony,” the judge said warily. “I will not have theatrics in my court.”
“The evidence will be dramatic, my lord,” Markham replied coldly. “But it will not be theatrical.”
“Then proceed with it!” the judge snapped.
“I call Thomas Pitt!” Markham said loudly.
Narraway looked very briefly at Pitt, then turned on his heel and walked two paces to the nearest row where there was a vacant seat, and left Pitt to go across the floor and climb up the steps to the witness stand.
Pitt swore to his name and place of residence, and waited for Markham to ask him about el Abd. He was only slightly nervous about answering. This was the first time he had not testified as a police officer. Now he was a person from the shadows, without a rank or an occupation to give him status.
“Were you acquainted with Miss Zakhari’s house servant, Tariq el Abd, Mr. Pitt?” Markham enquired.
“Yes.”
“In what capacity?”
“As a servant at Eden Lodge,” Pitt replied. “I did not know him personally.”
“But you spoke with him at some length?” Markham pressed.
“Yes, perhaps an hour altogether.”
“So you would know him if you saw him again?”
“Yes.”
“Have you seen him since then?”
The jurors were openly fidgeting.
The counsel for the prosecution rose to his feet. “My lord, my learned friend’s idea of drama is very different from mine. I have never heard anything so unutterably tedious. Whatever relevance can it have if this . . . gentleman . . . has spent time gossiping with Miss Zakhari’s house servant . . . or not?”
“I was establishing that Mr. Pitt was able to identify Tariq el Abd, my lord,” Markham said with injured innocence, and without waiting for any ruling he turned back to Pitt. “Where did you see him, Mr. Pitt . . . and when?”
“In the morgue,” Pitt replied steadily. “Yesterday.”
There was a gasp of breath indrawn around the room.
The judge leaned forward, his face dark and angry. “Are you saying that he is dead, Mr. Pitt?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“From what cause?”
The prosecution stood up. “My lord, Mr. Pitt has no established credentials in medicine. He is not qualified to give evidence as to cause of death.”
The judge resented the objection, but he could not argue and he knew it. He glared at the counsel for the prosecution, then swiveled back to Pitt. “Where was this man found?”
“Hanging by his neck on a rope from under London Bridge, I was told by the river police,” Pitt replied.
“Suicide?” the judge barked.
“I am not qualified to say,” Pitt answered him.
There was a moment’s total silence, then a nervous titter washed around the room.
The judge’s face was like ice. He looked at Markham. “Can you continue with your case in view of the man’s death?” he said with barely concealed anger. His face was pink. He would not forget that Pitt had made the court laugh at his expense.
“Most certainly, my lord,” Markham said vigorously. “I cannot prove that Tariq el Abd’s death was suicide, but I can think of no conceivable way in which a man could find himself hanging with a rope around his neck under the arches of London Bridge by accident. I believe that any jury of twelve honest men must consider his responsibility for the death of Lieutenant Edwin Lovat a more than reasonable doubt as to whether my client is guilty or not. El Abd had