Seven Dials - Anne Perry [8]
Pitt finished his coffee and rose to his feet. “Thank you,” he said, trying to swallow the last of the sweet, sticky liquid and clean his mouth of the taste.
“Sir.” El Abd bowed very slightly, no more than a gesture.
Pitt went out of the back door, thanking Constable Cotter as he passed him. Then he walked along the mews and around the corner into Connaught Square, where he looked for a hansom to take him back to Narraway.
“WELL?” Narraway looked up from the papers he was reading. His face was a little pinched, his eyes anxious.
“The police are holding the woman, Ayesha Zakhari, and completely ignoring Ryerson,” Pitt told him. “They aren’t investigating it too closely because they don’t want to know the answer.” He walked over and sat down in the chair in front of Narraway’s desk.
Narraway breathed in deeply, and then out again. “And what are the answers?” he asked, his voice quiet and very level. There was a stillness about him, as if his attention were so vivid he dared not distract himself by even the slightest action.
Pitt found himself unconsciously copying, refraining from crossing one leg over the other.
“That Ryerson helped her, at least in attempting to dispose of the body,” he replied.
“Indeed . . .” Narraway breathed out slowly, but none of the tension disappeared from him. “And what evidence told you that?”
“She is a slender woman, at the time wearing a white dress,” Pitt replied. “The dead man was slightly over average height and weight. It took two mortuary attendants to lift him from the barrow into the wagon, although of course they may have been more careful with him than whoever was trying to dispose of him.”
Narraway nodded, his lips tight.
“But her white dress was not stained with mud or blood,” Pitt went on. “Only a little leaf mold from where she had knelt on the ground, possibly beside him where he lay.”
“I see.” Narraway’s voice was tight. “And Ryerson?”
“I didn’t ask,” Pitt said. “The constable was quite aware of why I enquired, and of the obvious conclusions. Do you want me to go back and ask him? I can do so perfectly easily, but it will then—”
“I can work that out for myself, Pitt!” Narraway snapped. “No. I do not want you to do that . . . at least not yet.” His eyes flickered for a moment, then he looked over at the far wall. “We’ll see what happens.”
Pitt sat still, aware of a curious, unfinished air in the room, as if elusive but powerful things were just beyond the edge of perception. Narraway had left something unsaid. Did it matter? Or was it just an accumulation of knowledge gathered over the years, a feeling of unease rather than a thought?
Narraway hesitated also, then the moment passed and he looked up at Pitt again. “Well, go on,” he said, but with less asperity than before. “You’ve told me what you saw and what the constable reported. We’ll save Ryerson from himself, if we can. The next move is up to the police. Go home and have breakfast. I might want you later.”
Pitt stood up, still looking at Narraway, who stared back at him—his eyes bright, almost blank of emotion, but with deliberate concealment. Pitt was as certain of that as he was of the charge in the room, like electricity in the air on a sultry day.
“Yes, sir,” he said quietly, and with Narraway still looking at him, he went out of the door.
WHEN HE GOT HOME, it was late morning. His children, Jemima and Daniel, were at school, and Charlotte and the maid, Gracie, were in the kitchen. He heard their laughter the moment he opened the front door. He smiled to himself as he bent and took off his boots. The sounds washed around him like a balm: women’s voices, the clatter of pans, a kettle whistling shrilly. The house was warm from the kitchen stove, and there was an odor of freshly laundered cotton, still a little damp, clean wood from the scrubbed floor, and baking bread.
A marmalade-striped