Southampton Row - Anne Perry [24]
I write with the greatest sadness,
Roland Kingsley, Major General, retired
Pitt let his tea go cold, staring at the printed sheet in front of him. This was the first open blow against Serracold, and it was hard and deep. It would damage him.
Was this the Inner Circle mobilizing, the beginning of the real battle?
CHAPTER
THREE
Pitt went out and bought five other newspapers and took them home to see if Major General Kingsley had written to any more of them in similar vein. Almost the same letter was in three of them; there was only a variation of phrase here and there.
Pitt folded the papers closed and sat still for several minutes wondering what weight to attach to it. Who was Kingsley? Was he a man whose opinion would influence others? More importantly than that, was his writing coincidence or the beginning of a campaign?
He had reached no conclusion as to whether there was a necessity for learning more about Kingsley, when the doorbell rang. He glanced up at the kitchen clock and realized it was after nine. Mrs. Brody must have forgotten her keys. He stood up, resentful of the intrusion although he was grateful enough for her work, and went to answer the increasingly insistent jangle of the bell.
But it was not Mrs. Brody on the step, it was a young man in a brown suit, his hair slicked back and his face eager.
“Good morning, sir,” he said crisply, standing to attention. “Sergeant Grenville, sir . . .”
“If Narraway wants to tell me about the letter in the Times, I’ve read it,” Pitt said rather sharply. “And in the Spectator, the Mail and the Illustrated London News.”
“No, sir,” the man replied with a frown. “It’s about the murder.”
“What?” Pitt thought at first that he had misheard.
“The murder, sir,” the man repeated. “In Southampton Row.”
Pitt felt a stab of regret so sharp it was almost a physical pain, then a surge of hatred for Voisey and all the Inner Circle for driving him from Bow Street, where he had dealt with crimes he understood, however terrible, and for which he had the skill and the experience in almost all cases to find some resolution. It was his profession, and he was good at it. In Special Branch he was floundering, knowing what was coming and powerless to prevent it.
“You’ve made a mistake,” he said flatly. “I don’t deal with murders anymore. Go back and tell your commander that I can’t help. Report to Superintendent Wetron at Bow Street.”
The sergeant did not move. “Sorry sir, I didn’t say it properly. It’s Mr. Narraway as wants you to take over. They won’t like it at Bow Street, but they just got to put up with it. Mr. Tellman’s in charge in Southampton Row. Just made up recent, like. But I expect you know that, seeing as you was used to working with ’im all the time. Begging your pardon, sir, but it would be a good thing if you went there right away, seein’ as they discovered the body about seven, an’ it’s coming up ’alf past nine now. We just got to ’ear of it, and Mr. Narraway sent me right over.”
“Why?” It made no sense. “I’ve already got a case.”
“’E said this is part of it, sir.” Grenville glanced over his shoulder. “I’ve got a cab waiting. If you’d just like to lock the door, sir, we’ll be on our way.” The manner in which he said it, his whole bearing, made it apparent he was not a sergeant suggesting something to a senior officer; he was a man who was very sure of his position passing on the order of a superior whose word could not be disobeyed. It was as if Narraway himself had spoken.
Slightly irked and unwilling to intrude on Tellman’s first murder case as commander, Pitt did as he was bidden and followed Grenville to the hansom. They rode the short distance along Keppel Street, around Russell Square