Traitors Gate - Anne Perry [184]
This was the man who had murdered Arthur Desmond. It was Hathaway who had slipped the laudanum into the brandy and passed it to him, and then discreetly left, knowing what would happen. But it was the whole senior hierarchy who was guilty of his death. Hathaway had carried out the sentence. But who had pronounced judgment, who had given the orders that Hathaway had obeyed?
That was the man Pitt wanted. That was the only justice which would be enough to take to Matthew, and more importantly still, to ease the ache of guilt within himself and allow him to rest with the memory of Sir Arthur.
He believed he knew who it was, but even certainty was futile without proof.
He glanced sideways at the silent, almost motionless figure of Hathaway. The small blue eyes looked back at him with biting intelligence and hard, ironic humor. Pitt knew in that moment that whatever fear Hathaway might have, whatever beliefs of death or what lay beyond it, loyalty to the Inner Circle would supersede them all, and would remain unbroken.
He shivered, cold with a new perception of the power of the oaths that bound the society, far more than a club or an association. It was mystic, almost religious, the vengeance for betrayal more than merely human. Hathaway would hang alone rather than speak even a word that would lead to another.
Or did he imagine that even now some other member, someone as high as a judge, would somehow contrive his escape from the rope?
Was even that possible?
He must not allow it, for Arthur Desmond’s sake, if nothing else. Pitt looked at him again, meeting his eyes and holding them in a long, steady stare. Neither of them spoke. It was not words, arguments, he was seeking, it was emotion and beliefs.
Hathaway did not flinch or look away, and after several seconds the corners of his mouth turned upwards in a very tiny smile.
In that moment Pitt knew what he must do.
When they reached Bow Street they alighted. Pitt paid the cabby and with Hathaway still manacled, led him inside past the openmouthed desk sergeant who leapt to attention.
“Is Mr. Farnsworth there yet?” Pitt demanded.
“Yes sir! I sent the message to ’im like you told me, sir—that you was off to make an arrest for the murder of Sir Arthur Desmond….”
“Yes?”
“And he came straightaway, sir. He’s been here about ten minutes, maybe. And Mr. Tellman is here, sir, as you said, sir.”
“Is Mr. Farnsworth in my office?”
“Yes sir. And Mr. Tellman’s in his room too.”
“Thank you.” Pitt felt a sudden surge of excitement, and at the same time a hardening of fear inside him, as if a hand had closed into a fist in his chest. He turned and strode up the stairs, almost pushing Hathaway ahead of him. At the top he flung his office door open and Farnsworth swung around from where he had been standing at the window. He saw Hathaway and although his expression did not flicker, the blood drained from his skin, leaving it blotched, white around the eyes and mouth.
He parted his lips as if about to speak, then changed his mind.
“Good morning, sir,” Pitt said calmly, as if he had noticed nothing. “We’ve got the man who murdered Sir Arthur Desmond.” He smiled and nodded at Hathaway.
Farnsworth’s eyebrows rose. “He did?” He allowed his surprise to border on incredulity. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely,” Pitt said calmly. “We know precisely how he did it, and have all the witnesses. It is just a matter of piecing it together. Very clever and very efficient.”
“Are you,” Farnsworth said coldly.
“No sir, I meant Hathaway’s means and method.” Pitt allowed himself to smile. “Only a chance observation of stewards’ bells on a board caught him. But it’s enough.” He looked at Farnsworth guilelessly.
Farnsworth came forward and took Pitt by the arm, guiding him towards the door.
“Speak to you privately, Pitt,” he said tersely. “Call a constable to wait in here and keep guard.”
“Of course,” Pitt agreed. “I’ll get Tellman.” It was what he had intended anyway, and would have contrived if Farnsworth had not.
“Yes sir?” he asked as soon as they