Southampton Row - Anne Perry [119]
Creep into thy narrow bed,
Creep, and let no more be said!
Vain thy onset! All stands fast.
Thou thyself must break at last.
Let the long contention cease!
Geese are swans, and swans are geese.
Let them have it how they will!
Those art tired; best be still.
Narraway’s eyes did not move from Pitt’s. “Close enough to a suicide note for most people,” he said softly. “And Voisey’s sister, Octavia Cavendish, who has been a friend of Wray’s for some time, called by to visit him just as you were leaving yesterday afternoon. She found him in a state of some distress; in her opinion, he had been weeping. You had made enquiries about him in the village.”
Pitt felt the blood drain from him. “He wept for his wife!” he protested, but he heard the note of despair in his voice. It was the truth, but it sounded like an excuse.
Narraway nodded very slowly, his mouth a thin, tight line.
“This is Voisey’s revenge,” Vespasia whispered. “He has not minded sacrificing an old man in order to blame Thomas for hounding him to his death.”
“I didn’t . . .” Pitt began, then stopped, seeing the look in her eyes. It was Wetron who had given him Wray’s name and suggested he was the man behind the cartouche. And according to Tellman, it was Wetron who had insisted Pitt go out again and follow up his first enquiry, or else he himself would send a force of men, surely knowing Pitt would go before he would allow that. Was he with Voisey, or against him? Or either way as it suited his own purposes?
Vespasia turned to Narraway. “What are you going to do?” she asked him, as if it were inconceivable he should do nothing.
Narraway looked beaten. “You are quite right, my lady, it is Voisey’s revenge, and it is exquisite. The newspapers will crucify Pitt. Francis Wray was deeply revered, even loved, by all who knew him. He had suffered many reverses of fortune with courage and dignity, first the loss of his children, then of his wife. Someone has already told the newspapers that Pitt suspected him of having consulted Maude Lamont and then having murdered her.”
“I did not!” Pitt said desperately.
“That is irrelevant now,” Narraway dismissed it. “You were trying to determine if he was Cartouche, and Cartouche is among the suspects. You are arguing the depth of the water in which you will drown. It is deep enough. What does it matter if it is two fathoms or thirty, or a hundred?”
“We had afternoon tea,” Pitt said, almost to himself. “With greengage jam. He hadn’t much of it left. It was an act of friendship that he shared it with me. We talked of love and loss. That was why he wept.”
“I doubt that is what Mrs. Cavendish will say,” Narraway replied. “And he was not Cartouche. Someone else has come forward to say exactly where Wray was on the evening of Maude Lamont’s last séance. He had a late supper with the local vicar and his wife.”
“I believe I already asked you, Mr. Narraway, what you intend to do about it?” Vespasia said a little more sharply.
He turned to look at her. “There is nothing I can do, Lady Vespasia. The newspapers will say what they wish, and I have no power over them. They believe that an innocent and bereaved old man has been hounded to death by an overzealous policeman. There is considerable evidence to that effect, and I cannot prove it false, even though I believe it is.” There was no conviction in his voice, just a flat despair. He looked at Pitt. “I hope you will be able to continue with your job, although it seems inevitable now that Voisey will win. If you need anyone to help you, other than Tellman, let me know.” He stopped, his face pinched with misery. “I’m sorry, Pitt. No one crosses the Inner Circle and wins for long . . . at least not yet.” He went to the door. “Good day, Lady Vespasia. I apologize for my intrusion.” And he left as easily as he had come.
Pitt was stunned. In a matter of a quarter of an hour his world had been shattered. Charlotte and the children were