Traitors Gate - Anne Perry [183]
The general was shouting out commands no one was obeying. The bishop was making noises of disapproval and muttering something about peace and wisdom, and was totally ignored.
Out in the hallway, a judge of the Queen’s Bench demanded to know what was going on, but no one would tell him.
Someone sent for the manager. Someone else sent for a doctor, assuming that one of the members had taken a fit and was being restrained, with difficulty. An advocate of temperance was delivering a monologue, and one of the stewards was praying.
“Police!” Eustace shouted as loudly as his lungs would bear. “Send for the police, you fool! Bow Street … Inspector Pitt.” And with that he hit Hathaway as hard as he could on the point of the jaw, and his left foot caught the table on the other side and sent it hurtling sideways into the trolley. There was a final crash as a decanter of brandy and half a dozen glasses smashed on the wooden floor at the edge of the carpet.
Hathaway subsided into unconsciousness, his body limp, his eyes closed.
Eustace did not entirely trust him. “Get the police,” he ordered again, struggling upright to sit astride Hathaway’s chest.
The steward in the doorway hastened to obey. That at least was an order he both understood and agreed with. Whatever was going on, the police were obviously needed, even if it was only to remove Eustace himself.
Then he was face-to-face with the impossible, the worst offense of all. There was a woman standing in the doorway staring into the blue room and watching the appalling scene, a young woman with chestnut-colored hair and a very handsome figure, and—although her eyes were wide with amazement—she was also on the verge of laughter.
“Madam!” the bishop said in horror. “This is a gentleman’s club! You are not permitted in here. Please, madam, observe the decencies and take your leave.”
Charlotte looked at the debris of broken china and crystal, spilled coffee and brandy, the splintered furniture, the overturned chair, the earl with his collar askew and a bruise fast purpling on his cheek, and Eustace sitting astride the still-senseless form of Hathaway on the floor.
“I always wondered what you did in here,” she said mildly, but there was a lift in her voice, and a slight huskiness that threatened to erupt in giggles. She arched her eyebrows very high. “Extraordinary,” she murmured.
The bishop said something completely unholy.
Eustace was beyond embarrassment. He was flushed with victory both moral and physical. “Has anyone sent for the police?” he asked, looking at each in turn.
“Yes sir,” one of the stewards said immediately. “We have a telephone. Someone is on their way from Bow Street right now.”
Charlotte was bundled out and persuaded to wait in the foyer, and that only on sufferance. The blue room was out of bounds. For goodness’ sake, it was out of bounds even to junior members!
Eustace refused to leave Hathaway, especially when he regained consciousness (albeit with a profound headache), although he remained silent and made no protest or defense.
When Pitt arrived he found Charlotte first of all, who told him that Eustace had solved the case, adding modestly that she had given him some assistance and direction, and that he had the murderer under citizen’s arrest.
“Indeed,” Pitt said dubiously, but when she explained to him precisely how it had come about, he was generous in his praise, both of her and of Eustace.
Some fifteen minutes later Hathaway, under arrest and manacled, was put in a hansom cab to the Bow Street station, and Eustace emerged to receive the praise of his fellows. Charlotte was sent home, under protest, in a hansom.
On the journey towards Bow Street, Pitt sat in the cab beside Hathaway. Hathaway was manacled and unarmed, but still in his quiet face with its long nose and small, round eyes there was a sense of strength. He was afraid—he would be a fool not to be—but there was nothing of weakness in his expression, no suggestion that he would break the covenants by