Southampton Row - Anne Perry [154]
Voisey was on the other side of the returning officer, standing to attention, waiting. Pitt realized with a particle of pleasure that he did not yet know if he had won or not. He was not sure.
Hope welled up inside Pitt like a spring, making him gasp.
There was silence in the room.
The returning officer read out the figures, Aubrey first. There was a tremendous shout. It was high. Aubrey flushed with pleasure.
The officer read out Voisey’s figure; it was nearly a hundred higher. The noise was deafening.
Aubrey was white, but he had been born and bred to accept defeat as graciously as victory. He turned to Voisey and offered his hand.
Voisey took it, then that of the returning officer. Then he stepped forward to thank his supporters.
Pitt stood frozen. He should have known, but he had hoped, right to the bitter end he had hoped. Defeat was crushing like a weight in his chest.
The words went on, the cheers. Then at last Voisey left the platform and pushed his way through the crowd. He was bent on savoring the last drop of his victory. He must see Pitt, look at him and be certain he knew.
A moment and he was there, standing in front of him, close enough to touch.
Pitt offered his hand. “Congratulations, Sir Charles,” he said levelly. “In a sense you deserved it. You paid a far higher price than Serracold ever would have.”
The amusement was sharp in Voisey’s eyes. “Indeed? Well, the big prizes do cost, Pitt. That is the difference between the men who reach the top and those who don’t.”
“I imagine you know that Bishop Underhill and Lena Forrest both died in the explosion in Southampton Row this morning?” Pitt went on, standing in front of Voisey, blocking his way.
“Yes. I heard. An unfortunate business.” He was still smiling. He knew he was safe.
“Perhaps you have not yet heard that they performed an autopsy on Francis Wray,” Pitt continued. He saw Voisey’s eyes flicker. “Digitalis poisoning.” He pronounced the words very clearly. “In raspberry jam tarts . . . quite unmistakably. I don’t have the autopsy report myself, but I have seen it.”
Voisey was staring at him incredulously, fighting against belief in what he had heard. A bead of sweat formed on his lip.
“The odd thing is”—Pitt smiled very slightly—“there was no raspberry jam in the house, except in two tarts brought as a gift by a Mrs. Octavia Cavendish. Why on earth she should wish to murder such a gentle and harmless old man, I have no idea. There must be some reason we have not yet discovered.”
There was panic in Voisey’s eyes; his breath was ragged, beyond his control.
“It seems probable,” Pitt said, “that someone who trusted Mrs. Cavendish implicitly enlisted her help with the express purpose of killing Wray in a manner that would look like suicide, regardless of what it might cost her!” He moved his hand very slightly, dismissing the subject. “The reason doesn’t matter . . . let us say it was a complicated scheme of personal revenge. That is as good a story as any.”
Voisey opened his mouth to speak, then gulped air and closed it again.
“We have the coroner’s report,” Pitt continued. “And Mary Ann Smith’s testimony signed and witnessed, and there will be photographs of both kept in separate and extremely safe places, to be made public should anything unpleasant happen to me, or to any member of my family—or, of course, to Mr. Narraway.”
Voisey stared at him, his skin pasty white. “I’m sure . . .” he said between dry lips. “I’m sure nothing will happen to them.”
“Good,” Pitt said with intense feeling. “Very good.” And he stood back for Voisey to pass, unsteadily, ashen-faced, on his way.
By Anne Perry
Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group
Featuring William Monk
The Face of a Stranger
A Dangerous Mourning
Defend and Betray
A Sudden, Fearful Death
The Sins of the Wolf
Cain