Seven Dials - Anne Perry [61]
“A cotton strike in Manchester?” Pitt said slowly.
Narraway did not reply. “Go and do your job,” he said instead. “Don’t stand here wasting time asking me for help I can’t give you.”
Pitt went out into the street and had walked only twenty yards when he passed a newspaper seller and saw the headlines, new since he had come from the opposite direction to see Narraway.
The boy noticed his hesitation. “Paper, sir?” he offered eagerly. “They’re all sayin’ now as Mr. Ryerson oughta be arrested wi’ that foreign woman and both of ’em ’anged! Read all about it, sir?” He held out a newspaper hopefully.
Pitt forced himself to be civil. He took the paper and paid the money, walking away quickly to where he could read it without being observed. He realized with surprise at himself that he did not want his emotions seen. It might be too obvious that it mattered to him.
He took an omnibus, newspaper still folded, and got off again near one of the numerous small, leafy squares where he walked to an empty bench and sat down. He opened up the paper. It was what he would have expected. A Member of Parliament in the Opposition had demanded to know why Ayesha Zakhari was in police custody for the murder of Lovat, an honorable soldier with no stain on his character, and Ryerson, whose presence at her house at three in the morning was unexplained, and unexplainable in decent terms, had not even been questioned on the matter. He asked—in fact, he demanded in the name of justice, that the prime minister should give the House of Commons, and the British people, an answer as to why this was, and how much longer it would remain so.
BY LATE AFTERNOON, before dusk had done more than smudge the horizon and rob some of the color from the leaves, the government had been forced to yield. The home secretary informed the House that of course Mr. Ryerson would give full and satisfactory answers to the police.
By the time the first lamplighters were out, Ryerson was to all effect under arrest.
Pitt did not need to be sent for to return to Narraway’s office. He had no further news of any worth, and he did not even bother to reveal the little he had, merely a few more acquaintances from the Eden Lodge visitors’ book cleared of any involvement. There were only half a dozen or so still unaccounted for.
He stood in front of Narraway’s desk, waiting for him to speak.
“Yes . . . I know,” Narraway said, his jaw tight, his eyes focused on the polished desk in front of him, piled with papers, every one facedown. “I don’t imagine he’ll tell the police anything he hasn’t already told you.”
“He doesn’t know me,” Pitt pointed out, although he felt inexplicably as if he did know Ryerson. He could bring back to memory his face precisely, every line and shadow, the urgency and emotion in his voice, and his own sense of involvement as Ryerson had tried to explain his actions, and what he would do if Ayesha Zakhari came to trial. “He had no reason to trust me more than the circumstances forced him to,” Pitt went on. “He might say more to you.” He did not add that Ryerson and Narraway were of the same social class, the same culture and understanding, because it was implicit.
Narraway ignored it. He opened his desk drawer and took out a small metal box. It appeared to have no key and he simply opened it and withdrew a handful of Treasury notes. There must have been a hundred pounds’ worth at least. “I’ll attend to pursuing the London evidence,” he said, still not looking at Pitt. “Leave me your notes. You are going to Alexandria to find out what you can about the woman, and Lovat when he was there.”
Pitt drew in his breath in amazement. It was a moment before he could find his tongue.
Narraway had apparently already counted out the money, because he took no notice of it now but simply laid it on the desk.
“But I know nothing about Egypt!” Pitt protested. “I can’t speak whatever language it is they use there! I—”
“You’ll get by very well with English,” Narraway cut across him. “And I don’t have anyone who’s an expert