Seven Dials - Anne Perry [38]
“Pitt!”
“Yes, sir?”
“I accepted you into Special Branch because Cornwallis told me that you were his best detective and that you know society. You know how to tread carefully but still find the truth.” It was a statement, but it was also a question, even a plea. For an instant, Pitt felt as if Narraway were asking for help in some way which he could not name or explain.
Then the impression vanished.
“Get on with it,” Narraway ordered.
“Yes, sir,” Pitt said again, then left, and closed the door behind him.
He went straight to the offices where Lovat had worked for the year or so before his death. Naturally the police had already been there. The information was so public it had been printed in Lovat’s obituary, so when Pitt arrived he was received with weary resignation by Ragnall, an official in his early forties who had obviously already answered all the predictable questions.
Ragnall stood in the quiet, discreetly furnished office overlooking Horse Guards Parade and regarded Pitt patiently but with very little interest.
“I don’t know what else I can tell you,” he said, gesturing for Pitt to sit down in the armchair opposite the desk. “I can offer no explanation except the obvious one—he pestered the woman until she grew desperate and shot him . . . either in what she construed to be self-defense or more likely because he threatened to disrupt her present arrangements.” A slight expression of distaste crossed his face. “And before you ask me, I have no idea what they might be.”
Pitt had little hope of learning much from the interview, but he had no better place to begin. He settled into the chair and looked across at Mr. Ragnall.
“You think he may have pestered Miss Zakhari to the point that she felt a simple rebuff was not adequate to make him desist?” he asked.
Ragnall looked surprised. “Well, it seems to have been the case, doesn’t it? Are you suggesting that she deliberately encouraged him, for some reason, and then killed him? Why, for heaven’s sake? Why would any woman do such a thing?” He frowned. “You said you were from Special Branch . . .”
“Special Branch has no knowledge of Miss Zakhari prior to the death of Mr. Lovat,” Pitt answered the implied question. “I wanted your judgment of Mr. Lovat as a man who would continue to pursue a woman who has told him that she has no desire for his attentions.”
Ragnall looked very faintly uncomfortable. His smooth, rather good-looking face flushed, so slightly it could have been no more than a change of the light, except that he had not moved.
“I suppose I am saying that—yes.” He made it sound like an apology. “I believe Miss Zakhari is very beautiful. At least that is what I have heard. One can become . . . obsessed.” He pursed his lips, giving himself a moment to seek exactly the right words to make Pitt understand. “She is Egyptian. There are unlikely to be many other Egyptian women in London. It is not as if she were ordinary, and easily replaceable. Some men are attracted to the exotic.”
“You saw Mr. Lovat regularly.” Pitt too was feeling his way. “Did you gather the impression that he was ’obsessed,’ as you put it?”
“Well . . .” Ragnall drew in his breath and then let it out again.
“Your protection of his reputation may condemn another man,” Pitt said grimly.
Ragnall looked puzzled for a moment.
“Another man?” Then his confusion cleared. “Oh . . . this nonsense in the newspapers about Ryerson? Surely it’s just . . .” He opened his palms to indicate a helplessness to describe exactly what he was thinking.
“I hope so,” Pitt agreed. “Was Lovat obsessed with her?”
“I . . . I really have no idea.” Ragnall was obviously uncomfortable. “I never knew of him being serious about a woman . . . at least for more than a short time. He . . .” Now there was distinct color in his face. “He seemed to find it rather easy to attract women and then . . . move on.”
“He had many affairs?