Traitors Gate - Anne Perry [65]
Farnsworth chewed on his lower lip. “Find out all you can about her,” he ordered. “Who she is, where she comes from, who else she associates with.”
“I have Tellman on it.”
“Never mind Tellman, get on it yourself.” Farnsworth frowned. “Where were you yesterday, Pitt? No one saw you all day.”
“I went to Hampshire to a family funeral.”
“I thought your parents died a long time ago?” There was challenge in Farnsworth’s voice as well as question.
“They did; this was a man who treated me like a son.”
Farnsworth’s eyes were very hard, clear blue.
“Indeed?” He did not ask who that man was, and Pitt could not read his face.
“I believe you went to the inquest on Sir Arthur Desmond,” he went on. “Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” Farnsworth’s eyebrows rose. “There’s no case there. Tragedy that a man of his standing should end that way, but illness and age are no respecters of persons. Leave it alone now, Pitt, or you’ll only make it worse.”
Pitt stared at him.
Farnsworth misunderstood his surprise and anger for incomprehension.
“The least that is said about it, the least will have to be known.” He was irritated by Pitt’s slow-wittedness. “Don’t let the whole sorry matter drag out before his friends and associates, never mind the general public. Let it all be forgotten, then we can remember him as the man he used to be, before all this obsession began.”
“Obsession?” Pitt said thinly. He knew he would achieve nothing by pursuing it with Farnsworth, and yet he could not help himself.
“With Africa,” Farnsworth said impatiently. “Saying there were conspiracies and secret plots and so on. He thought he was being persecuted. It’s quite a well-known delusion, but very distressing, very sad. For heaven’s sake, Pitt, if you had any regard for him at all, don’t make it public. For his family’s sake, if nothing else, let it be buried with him.”
Pitt met his eyes squarely and did not look away.
“Sir Matthew does not believe his father was mad, or so forgetful or careless as to have taken laudanum in the middle of the afternoon, and in such a quantity as to kill himself.”
“Not unnatural,” Farnsworth dismissed it with a slight movement of his well-manicured hand. “It is always hard to accept that those we love are mentally deranged. Wouldn’t have cared to think it of my father. I have every sympathy with him, but it has nothing to do with the facts.”
“He may be right,” Pitt said stubbornly.
Farnsworth’s lips thinned. “He’s not right, Pitt. I know more about it than you do.”
It was on the edge of Pitt’s tongue to argue with him, then he realized that over the last ten years his knowledge of Sir Arthur was sporadic at best, although Farnsworth could not know that. Still, it left him in a fragile position to argue.
His thoughts would not have shown in his face, but something of his emotions must have. Farnsworth was watching him with growing certainty, and something like a bitter amusement
“Just what is your personal knowledge of Sir Arthur, Pitt?”
“Very little … lately.”
“Then believe me, I have seen him frequently and he was unquestionably suffering from delusions. He saw conspiracies and persecutions all over the place, even among men who had been his friends for years. He is a man for whom I had a high regard, but feelings, however deep or honorable, do not change the truth. For friendship’s sake, Pitt, let him rest in peace, and his memory be as little damaged as possible. In kindness you must do that.”
Still Pitt wanted to argue. Sturges’s weather-beaten face came sharply to his mind. Or was his judgment just loyalty, an inability to believe that his master could have lost touch with reality?
“Right,” Farnsworth said briskly. “Now get on with the job in hand. Find out who is passing information from the Colonial Office. Give it your entire attention, Pitt, until it is finished. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, of course I understand,