Traitors Gate - Anne Perry [40]
“I suppose I should have expected this,” he said at last as they turned the corner. He was about to walk on and Pitt caught him by the arm. “What?” he asked.
“Opposite.” Pitt indicated a public house sign for the Bull Inn.
“I’m not hungry,” Matthew said impatiently.
“Eat anyway,” Pitt instructed, stepping off the curb and avoiding a pile of horse droppings. Matthew trod in it and swore.
At another time Pitt might have laughed at the sight of Matthew’s face, but he knew this was not the occasion. They hurried to the far side, and Matthew scraped his feet angrily against the curb. “Don’t they have any crossing sweepers anymore?” he demanded. “I can’t go inside like this.”
“Yes you can. They’ll have a proper boot scraper at the door. Come on.”
Reluctantly Matthew followed Pitt to the entrance, used the iron scraper meticulously, as if the state of his boots were of the utmost importance, and then they went in side by side. Pitt ordered for both of them and they sat down in the crowded, noisy room. Tankards gleamed on pegs above the bar, polished wood shone darkly, there was sawdust on the floor and the smell of ale, heat and bodies.
“What can we do?” Matthew said finally when their meal was served: thick bread with sharp crusts, butter, crumbling cheese, dark aromatic pickles and fresh cider.
Pitt made his sandwich and bit into it.
“Did you ever mean that we could achieve anything?” Matthew went on, his plate untouched. “Or were you just trying to comfort me?”
“Of course I meant it,” Pitt replied with his mouth full. He was also angry and distressed, but he knew the importance of keeping up their strength if they were to fight. “But we cannot prove them liars until we know what they’ve said.”
“And then?” Matthew asked with disbelief in his voice.
“And then we try,” Pitt finished.
Matthew smiled. “How very literal of you. Absolutely exact. You haven’t changed, have you, Thomas?”
Pitt thought of apologizing, and then realized there was no need.
Matthew appeared to be on the point of asking him something further, but decided against it and bit into his own sandwich. He ate it with surprising appetite, and did not speak again until it was time to leave.
The first witness of the afternoon was the medical examiner, who gave his evidence in detail, but he was very practiced at this unhappy task and avoided scientific terms. Quite simply, Arthur Desmond had died of an overdose of laudanum, administered within the hour. It was sufficiently large to have killed anyone, but there was a certain amount of brandy in his stomach, and that might well have masked the flavor. Personally he thought the laudanum would have tainted the brandy. He favored a very good cognac himself, but that was a matter of taste.
“Did you find any other signs of illness or deterioration?” the coroner asked.
The medical examiner pulled a long face. “Of course there was deterioration. The man was seventy! But that taken into account, he was in excellent health. I’ll be happy to be as fit if I reach that age. And no, there was no other sign of illness whatever.”
“Thank you, Doctor. That is all.”
The medical examiner gave a little grunt and left the stand.
Pitt would have wagered that he was not a member of the Inner Circle. Not that he could think how that fact would be of any use.
The next witness was also a doctor, but an utterly different man. He was serious, attentive, polite, but he knew himself to be of great importance. He acknowledged his name and his qualifications and addressed himself to the matter in hand.
“Dr. Murray,” the coroner began, “I believe you were Sir Arthur’s physician; is that correct?”
“I was indeed.”
“For some time.”
“The last fourteen years, sir.”
“Then you were very familiar with the state of his health, both in mind and body?”
Beside Pitt, Matthew was sitting forward, his hands clenched, his face tense. Pitt found himself also straining to hear.
“Naturally,” Murray agreed. “Although I must confess I had no idea the deterioration had gone so far, or