Traitors Gate - Anne Perry [158]
“Got summink?” he asked with excitement, waiting to be told what it was and what it meant.
“I think so,” Pitt replied.
“Well?” The man was not going to be shut out of the explanation.
“A cigar butt,” Pitt said with a smile. “An expensive one.
“Gawd …” The cabby let out his breath in a sigh. “’er murderer sat an’ smoked, with ’er corpse in his carriage, awaiting to take ’er across the river. ’e’s a cool bastard, in’t ’e?”
“I doubt it.” Pitt climbed into the cab. “I rather think he was in the grip of a passion possibly greater than ever before in his life. Take me to Belgravia please, Ebury Street.”
“Belgravia! Yer never thinking ’im what done it lives in Belgravia, are yer?”
“Yes I am. Now get started will you!”
It was a long ride back across the river and westwards, and in places the traffic was heavy. Pitt had plenty of time to think. If Susannah’s murderer had thought of her as a traitor, and felt it so passionately he had killed her for it, then it could only be someone to whom she could be considered to owe an intense loyalty. That must be either her family, represented by Francis Standish, or her husband.
What betrayal could that be? Had she believed Arthur Desmond and Peter Kreisler, after all? Had she questioned Standish’s investment with Cecil Rhodes, the whole manner in which the Inner Circle was involved? If Standish were a member, possibly a prominent one, could he even be the executioner? And had Susannah known, or guessed that? Was that why she had to be killed, for her knowledge, and because she was bent on sharing it rather than remaining loyal to her family, her class, and its interests?
That made a hideous sense. Standish could have met her in Mount Street. She would have expected a quarrel, a plea, but not violence. She would have been quite unafraid of anything but unpleasantness, and climbed into his carriage without more than a little coercion on his part. It satisfied all the facts he knew.
Except for what had happened to her cloak. Now that he was sure she had not been put in the river at all, simply made to look as if the receding tide had left her there by chance, it was no longer a reasonable explanation that her cloak had become lost as the current took her one way and then another.
Had he dropped it in the river for that purpose? Why? It proved nothing. And if he had, why had it not been washed up somewhere, or tangled in some rudder or oar? It would not have sunk with no body in it to carry it down. Anyway, it was a stupid thing to do; simply one more article for the police to search for, and meaning nothing one way or the other.
Unless, of course, the cloak did mean something! Could it be in some way marked, which would incriminate Standish?
Pitt could think of nothing. No one was pretending it was suicide or accident. The method and means were plain enough, even the motive was plain. He had defiantly and unnecessarily drawn attention to it!
The more he thought about it, the more sense it made. Sitting in the hansom, in spite of the mildness of the day, he shivered as he felt the power of the Inner Circle everywhere around him, not only making threats of financial and political ruin, but when betrayed, ruthlessly murdering its own, even a woman.
“Ebury Street, guv!” the cabby called out. “What number do you want?”
“Twelve,” Pitt replied with a start.
“’ere y’are then, twelve it is. D’yer want me to wait for yer?”
“No thank you,” Pitt replied, climbing out and closing the door. “I could be some time.” He looked in his pocket for the very large sum he now owed for having had the cab out most of the day.
The cabby took it and counted it. “No offense,” he apologized before putting it into his pocket. “That don’t matter,” he said, referring back to the time. “I’d kinda like to see this to the end, if yer don’t mind, like?”
“As you please.” Pitt gave a slight smile, then turned and went up the steps.
The door was opened by a tall footman in livery.