Seven Dials - Anne Perry [66]
“Zakhari!” Trenchard repeated the name curiously, his face alive with interest.
“You know her family?” Pitt said quickly. Perhaps this was going to be easy after all.
“No—but it’s a Coptic name, not Muslim.” He saw Pitt’s lack of understanding. “Christian,” he explained.
Pitt was startled. He had not even considered the question of religion, but now he realized its importance.
Then the moment after, Trenchard added more, his mouth twisted in a slight, wry smile, his eyes meeting Pitt’s steadily. “From what you say, she is something better than a prostitute, perhaps a rather exclusive courtesan. If she were Muslim she would be cut off from her own people for associating with a non-Muslim man in such a way, however discreetly. As a Christian, if she is extremely careful, she can maintain the fiction of acceptability.”
“I don’t know that she’s a courtesan!” Pitt said rather hotly, then felt embarrassed at his own lack of professional detachment as he saw the laughter in Trenchard’s eyes.
Trenchard forbore from comment, even though it was in his expression, not unkindly, simply as the gentle weariness of a man of the world dealing with someone of startling naÏveté. Pitt felt scalded by it. He was a professional policeman with far more knowledge of the darker sides of human nature than this aristocratic diplomat. He controlled his temper with difficulty.
“The only association we know of is with Saville Ryerson,” he said in a chillier tone than he had intended. “Lovat was apparently an ardent admirer when he served here in Alexandria twelve years ago, but we don’t know if he was ever more than that.”
Trenchard folded his hands, completely unperturbed. “And you want to know?”
“Among other things, yes.”
“Presumably your brief is to clear Ryerson?” That was more an invitation to explain his precise needs than a question, but Trenchard was a man whose courtesy never failed. Pitt had the sudden, profound impression that if he were to shoot you, he would do it politely.
There was no point in being abusive; Trenchard would only consider him even more of a fool.
“If possible,” he agreed.
Trenchard saw his hesitation, minute as it had been, and it was reflected in his expression.
“We need to know the truth,” Pitt continued quickly. “Why would she kill Lovat? Why did she come to London in the first place? Was she seeking Ryerson or did she meet him by chance?” He realized as he said it how unlikely it was that a beautiful Egyptian woman merely happened to fall in love with the government minister in charge of cotton exports. And yet history was littered with unlikely meetings that had altered its course irrevocably.
“Yes . . .” Trenchard said, pursing his lips. “Of course. Puts a different complexion on it. Why is she supposed to have shot this Lovat?” His eyes widened very slightly. “Who is he, anyway?”
“A junior diplomat of no apparent importance,” Pitt replied. He decided to say nothing yet about the possibility of blackmail. “And even if he were pestering her,” he went on, “Ryerson is sufficiently in love with her that he is doing all he can to protect her from a charge of murder, even at the expense of his own reputation. She had no cause to fear that a past lover would turn his affections away from her.”
“Yes, indeed,” Trenchard said softly. “It seems there is something beyond the obvious, and the possibilities are numerous. Your visit here is well advised. I admit, I wondered why Narraway did not simply request someone at the consulate to look into it, but now I see that a detective is required. The answer may be complex, and it may be that there are those who would wish it to remain unknown.” He smiled, a charming, candid gesture. “Are you familiar with Egypt, Mr. Pitt?”
Pitt saw behind Trenchard’s easy manner a glimpse of the passion he had shown before when he spoke of the beauty and antiquity of Egypt, and the brilliance of the culture that had crossed its path, particularly here, where the Nile met