Traitors Gate - Anne Perry [101]
“Absolutely,” Osborne agreed fervently. “Totally absurd! And irresponsible, dammit. He might have been believed.”
“I doubt it,” Pitt said with a sudden rush of bitterness. “It is a truly appalling thought, and very few people believe what they do not wish to, particularly if it is nothing they have feared before, even in nightmare, and there is no evidence of it to prove it true.”
Osborne looked at him narrowly, as if he suspected sarcasm, but Pitt’s eyes were guileless. He felt no compunction at all in being as devious as he could, or in quite plainly lying.
Osborne cleared his throat.
“That is all I have to tell you, Pitt. I know of nothing else. Africa is not my field of expertise.”
“That has been most helpful, thank you, sir,” Pitt conceded. “I think it possible I may be able to establish the truth with a little more assistance from others. Thank you for your time, sir. Good day.”
“Good day to you.” Osborne drew breath as if to add something further, then changed his mind.
By the time Pitt had found Calvert, the third man who had given evidence at the inquest, it was late, and in spite of being mid-May, nearly dark. He heard a similar story from him, full of hearsay, confusion, accusations repeated with outrage, ignorance of Africa except that somehow it should be British by right, moral if not political.
Pitt was so weary his feet were sore and he found he had unconsciously clenched his shoulders and his jaw till his throat ached. It was all nebulous, a matter of impressions, assumptions springing from anger, and a sense of having been betrayed by someone they should have been able to trust. For all the words of pity, the blame was there all the time. Arthur Desmond had made public suggestions, true or false, that they were corrupt. Men who should have given them respect would now not do so. People who should not even have guessed at the existence of the Inner Circle would wonder and speculate about it. That had been the greatest sin in the man’s view, the spreading before the general gaze of that which should have been private. No matter what the sin or the crime, one did not wash one’s linen in public. It was not the act of a gentleman. If you could not rely upon a gentleman to behave like one, what was there left of worth?
Pitt did not know if the man was a member of the Inner Circle or not. What he had said could simply have been a class loyalty. So could what Osborne had said, for that matter, but he was almost certain of Osborne.
Who else? Hathaway, Chancellor, Thorne, Aylmer? Of Farnsworth there was no doubt, and he loathed Farnsworth. But he had loved Arthur Desmond all his life, and he had been a member. So had Micah Drummond, whom he had grown to like immensely and to trust without question. He should talk to him. He was probably the only person who could help. Even as he lengthened his stride along the footpath, his decision was made. He would go now!
Membership had now been offered to Pitt. It was not exclusive to gentlemen. Anyone might be a member, might even be the executioner. It could have been the steward of the club, or the manager. Or the doctor who was called.
He was walking briskly and the night was balmy. He should have been warm, but he was not. He was chilled inside, and his legs were so tired every step required an effort of will, but he was determined to see Drummond, and the sense of purpose lent him strength.
A hansom came around the corner too quickly and he was obliged to move sharply out of its way, knocking into a stout man who had not been looking where he was going.
“Have a care, sir!” he said furiously, facing Pitt with bulging eyes. He held a heavy carved walking stick in one hand, and he gripped it tightly as if he would have raised it to defend himself if necessary.
“Look where you are going, and I won’t need to!” Pitt said.
“Why you raffian!” The man lifted the end of the stick a foot off