Seven Dials - Anne Perry [40]
Pitt felt the wave of regret he always did when investigating a murder. Suddenly the truth of detail was overwhelmed by the loss of a life, the passion, the vulnerability, the virtues and the idiosyncrasies. The vitality of being was ended, not naturally in age, but without warning, and incomplete. The fault or the contributing sins of the person concerned seemed so unimportant as to be forgotten.
But emotion would cripple his analytical mind, and his job was to find the truth, easy or difficult, complicated and however painful.
“The names of his friends,” he said aloud. “I may find him innocent of all blame, Mr. Ragnall, but I cannot assume. If Miss Zakhari, or anyone else, is to be hanged for his murder, it will be because we know what happened, and why.”
“Yes, of course.” Ragnall pulled a piece of paper towards himself and picked up a pen, dipped it in the ink and began to write. He blotted it and pushed it towards Pitt.
“Thank you.” Pitt took it, glanced at it and read the names, and the clubs at which they might be found, then took his leave.
PITT SAW ONE or two of the people Ragnall had suggested, and learned very little more. No one was comfortable discussing a colleague who was dead, and unable to defend himself. It was not a matter of affection so much as loyalty to their own ideals, perhaps in the belief that to betray was to invite a similar betrayal yourself, when your own weaknesses were questioned.
By midafternoon Pitt had given up the hope of finding anything useful this way, and decided to go and see his brother-in-law, Jack Radley, who had now been a Member of Parliament for a number of years, some of it with particular interest in the Foreign Office.
He was not in the House of Commons, and Pitt caught up with him just after four o’clock, walking in the sun across St. James’s Park, a slight breeze sending a few early yellow leaves fluttering down over the grass.
Jack stopped and turned when he heard Pitt call his name. He was surprised to see him, but not displeased.
“The Eden Lodge case?” he said wryly as Pitt fell into step with him.
“Sorry,” Pitt apologized. They had a genuine liking for each other, but their social circles as well as their professions kept them apart almost all the time. Jack had no money of his own, but he had always managed to live as well as his good birth invited. To begin with, it had been by liberal use of his great personal charm. Since marrying Emily, it was on the fortunes she had inherited from her first husband.
For the first year or two he had been content to continue merely enjoying himself in society. Then, with Emily’s pushing, and some example of Pitt’s, and possibly the respect he had observed both his wife and her sister had for achievement, he had taken up a vivid interest in politics. That did not alter the fact that he and Pitt met seldom.
“I don’t know Ryerson,” Jack said regretfully. “Bit above my political reach . . . for the time being.” He saw Pitt’s face. “I mean I intend to climb,” he corrected quickly, “not that I think he is going to fall. Is he?” Now his expression was suddenly very serious.
“Too early to say,” Pitt replied. “No, I’m not being discreet. I really don’t know.” He pushed his hands into his pockets, a dramatic contrast to Jack, who would never have dreamed of doing so. It would ruin the line of his clothes, and he was far too innately elegant to do that.
“I wish I could help,” Jack said with implied apology. “It all seems ridiculous, from what I’ve heard.”
A small black-and-white dog was charging