Southampton Row - Anne Perry [76]
“Self-indulgence,” Pitt answered, obeying the instruction. “Nothing else, so far as I know, but I have not stopped looking.”
“Good!” Narraway said dryly. “That is what Her Majesty pays you for.”
“I think Her Majesty, like God, would be horrified at much of what is done in her name,” Pitt snapped back. “If she knew about it!” Then, before Narraway could interrupt, he went on. “Actually, I’ve been looking at Major General Kingsley to see why he went to Maude Lamont and why his letters to the newspapers condemning Serracold are so at odds with the opinions in his ordinary speech.”
“Have you indeed?” Narraway’s eyes were very sharp and still. “And what have you found?”
“Only his military record,” Pitt replied guardedly. “And that he lost his son in a skirmish in Africa in the same Zulu Wars in which he himself was highly distinguished. It was a bereavement from which he doesn’t seem to have recovered.”
“It was his only son,” Narraway said. “Only child, actually. His wife died young.”
Pitt searched his face, trying to read the man’s feelings behind the repeating of simple and terrible facts. He saw nothing he was sure of. Did Narraway deal in death so often, in other people’s grief, that it no longer marked him? Or could he not afford to feel, in case it swayed judgments that had to be made in the interest of all, not simply those for whom he cared? The closest look at Narraway’s clever, line-seamed face told him nothing. There was passion there, but was it of the heart or only the mind?
“How did he die?” Pitt asked aloud.
Narraway raised his eyebrows in surprise that Pitt should want to know. “He was one of the three who was killed during the reconnaissance at White Mfolozi. They ran straight into a rather well-laid Zulu ambush.”
“Yes, I saw that in the records. But why is Kingsley pursuing it through a woman like Maude Lamont?” Pitt asked. “And why now? Mfolozi was thirteen years ago!”
Anger flashed in Narraway’s eyes, then pain. “If you had lost anyone, Pitt, you would know that the hurt doesn’t go away. People learn to live with it, to hide it, most of the time; but you never know what is going to wake it again, and suddenly, for a space, it is out of control.” His voice was very quiet. “I’ve seen it many times. Who knows what it was? The sight of a young man whose face reminded him of his son? Another man who has the grandchildren he doesn’t? An old tune . . . anything. The dead don’t go away, they just fall silent for a while.”
Pitt was aware of something intensely personal in the room. These words were not practical, they were from the passion of the moment. But the shadow in the eyes, the set of Narraway’s lips, forbade the intrusion of any words that touched them.
Pitt affected not to have noticed.
“Is there any connection between Kingsley and Charles Voisey?” he asked.
Narraway’s dark eyes widened suddenly. “For God’s sake, Pitt, don’t you think I’d tell you that if I knew?”
“You might prefer me to find it for myself . . .”
Narraway jerked forward, the muscles of his body locked. “We haven’t time for games!” he said between his teeth. “I can’t afford to give a damn what you think of me! If Charles Voisey gets into Parliament there’ll be no stopping him until he has the power to corrupt the highest office in the land. He’s still head of the Inner Circle.” A shadow crossed his face. “At least I think he is. There is another power there. I don’t know who it is . . . yet.”
He held up his hand, finger and thumb an inch apart. “He came that close to losing it! We did that, Pitt! And he won’t forget it. But we didn’t finish him. He will have a new Number Two, and Three, and I haven’t the faintest idea who they are. It is a disease eating at the bowels of the true government of the land, whichever party sits in Westminster. We can’t deal without power