Southampton Row - Anne Perry [81]
Pitt felt as if someone had opened the doors onto a winter night. “Who was it that asked you?” he said softly.
Jack shook his head, only a tiny movement. “I can’t tell you.”
It was on the edge of Pitt’s tongue to demand if it had been Charles Voisey, but he remembered at the last moment that Jack did not know what had happened in Whitechapel, and for his own safety it was better it should remain so. Or was it? He looked at Jack now, sitting at the other side of the table with the beer tankard between his hands, his expression still carrying some of the charm and a kind of innocence he had had when they had first met. He had been so worldly wise in the manners and rules of society, but naive of the truly darker alleys of life, the violence of the mind. The facile betrayals of country house parties, the selfishness of the idle, was an uncomplicated thing compared with the evil Pitt had seen. Would knowledge be a greater protection? Or a greater danger? If Voisey guessed Jack was aware of his position as leader of the Inner Circle, it might mark Jack as another he had to destroy!
And yet if Jack did not know, was Pitt leaving him without shield against the seduction of twisted reason? Was Jack more than just another Liberal candidate? Disarmed, was he also another way to wound Pitt? Corruption would be infinitely more satisfying than mere defeat.
Or perhaps it was coincidental, and Pitt was creating his own demons?
He pushed his chair back and stood up, drinking the last of his cider and setting the glass down. “Come on. We’ve both got a long way to go home, and there’ll be all sorts of traffic on the bridges at this time of night. Don’t forget Rose Serracold.”
“Do you think she killed that woman, Thomas?” Jack climbed to his feet also, ignoring the dregs of his ale.
Pitt did not answer until they had pushed their way through the crowd and were outside in the street, which was almost completely dark.
“It was she, General Kingsley, or the third person, who kept his identity secret,” Pitt replied.
“Then it was the third person!” Jack said instantly. “Why would any honest man hide his identity over what is an eccentric pursuit, perhaps a trifle absurd, even pathetic, but quite respectable and far from any kind of crime?” His voice picked up enthusiasm. “There was obviously more to it! He was probably slipping back after the others left and having an affair with her. Perhaps she blackmailed him, and he killed her to keep her quiet. What better way to conceal his visits than in the open, going to a séance with other people. He’s looking for his great-grandfather, or whoever. Foolish, but innocent.”
“Apparently he wasn’t looking for anyone in particular. He appeared to be a skeptic.”
“Better still! He’s trying to discredit her, prove her a fraud. That shouldn’t be difficult. The very fact that he didn’t expose her suggests another motive.”
“Perhaps,” Pitt agreed as they passed under the street lamp again. The wind was rising a little, blowing up from the river, carrying loose sheets of old newspapers, drifting over the cobbles and settling again. There were beggars in the doorways; it was too early to huddle down for the night. A street woman already kept an eye hopeful for custom. The air was sour in the throat as they walked abreast towards the bridge.
Pitt slept badly. The silence in the house was oppressive, an emptiness, not a peace. He woke late with a headache and was sitting at the kitchen table when the doorbell rang. He stood up and went in his stocking feet to answer it.
Tellman stood on the step looking cold although the morning was mild and the high clouds were already thinning. By midday it would be bright and hot.
“What is it?” Pitt asked, stepping back in tacit invitation. “Judging by your face, nothing