Southampton Row - Anne Perry [57]
Pitt was cold. “I am doing that,” he said between his teeth. It cost him an effort precisely because he was thinking of Charlotte and the children and he hated Narraway for reminding him of it. “But if Rose Serracold murdered Maude Lamont, I’m not hiding it. If we do that, then we’re no better than Voisey is, and he’ll know that as well as we do.”
Narraway’s face was dark. “Don’t lecture me, Pitt!” he spat. “You are not a constable on the beat blowing his whistle if somebody picks a pocket! There’s more than a silk handkerchief or a gold watch at stake, there’s the government of the nation. If you want simple answers, go back to arresting cutpurses!”
“And precisely what did you say was the difference between us and the Inner Circle, sir?” Pitt exaggerated the last word, and his voice was sharp and brittle as ice.
Narraway’s lips tightened, and there was anger deep in his face, but there was a flash of admiration also.
“I haven’t asked you to protect Rose Serracold if she’s guilty, Pitt. Don’t be so damned pompous! Although it sounds as if you think she might be. What did she go to this wretched woman for anyway?”
“I don’t know yet.” Pitt relaxed into the chair again. “To contact her mother, she admits that, and Kingsley said that was the reason she gave Maude Lamont, but she hasn’t told me why, or how it can matter so much she’s prepared to deceive her husband and risk his career if some Tory journalist wants to make a fool of her.”
“And did she contact her mother?” Narraway asked.
Pitt looked at him with a sudden tingle of shock. Narraway’s eyes were clear, without irony. For an instant it was as if he had believed either answer were possible.
“Not to her satisfaction,” Pitt replied with certainty. “She is still searching for something, an answer she needs . . . and fears.”
“She believed in Maude Lamont’s powers.” That was a statement.
“Yes.”
Narraway breathed in and out silently, very slowly. “Did she describe what happened?”
“Apparently, Maude Lamont’s appearance changed, her face shone and her breath seemed luminous. She spoke with a different voice.” He swallowed. “She also seemed to rise in the air, and her hands to elongate.”
The tension eased out of Narraway’s body. “Hardly conclusive. Many of them do that. Vocal tricks, oil of phosphorus. Still . . . I suppose we believe what we want to believe . . . or what we dread to.” He looked away. “And some of us feel compelled to find out, however much it hurts. Others leave it forever hanging unknown . . . can’t bear to take away the last hope.” He straightened up sharply. “Don’t underestimate Voisey, Pitt. He won’t let desire for revenge get in the way of his ambition. You aren’t that important to him. But he won’t ever forget it was you who beat him in Whitechapel. He won’t forget, and he certainly won’t forgive. He will wait for his time, and it will be when you can’t defend yourself. He won’t be precipitated, but one day he’ll strike. I’ll watch your back for you as I can, but I’m not infallible.”
“I met him . . . in the House of Commons, three days ago,” Pitt replied, shivering inside in spite of himself. “I know he hasn’t forgotten. But if I walk in fear, then he’s won already. My family is out of London, but I can’t stop him. I admit, if I thought there were any escape, I might be tempted to take it . . . but there isn’t.”
“You’re more of a realist than I gave you credit for,” Narraway said, and there was a grudging respect in his voice. “I resented Cornwallis for wishing you onto me. Took you as a favor to him, but perhaps it wasn’t after all.”
“Why do you owe Cornwallis any favors?” The words slipped out before he thought about it.
“None of your business, Pitt!” Narraway said tartly. “Go and find out what the devil that woman was doing . . . and prove it!”
“Yes, sir.”
It was only