Traitors Gate - Anne Perry [97]
“Would you please ask General Anstruther if he can spare me a few moments of his time?” Pitt said politely, hating having to beg. He had no authority in this case, and could not use his office to insist. It galled him far more than he should have allowed it to.
“I will ask him, sir,” the steward replied expressionlessly. “Who may I say is asking?”
“Superintendent Pitt, of Bow Street.” Pitt handed him his card.
“Very well, sir. I shall enquire.” And leaving Pitt standing in the large and extremely opulent hall, he retreated upstairs, carrying the card on a silver tray.
Pitt gazed around the walls at the marble busts of long-dead soldiers and saw Marlborough, Wellington, Moore, Wolfe, Hastings, Clive, Gordon, and two he did not recognize. It crossed his mind with amusement, but no surprise, that Cromwell was not there. Above the doors were the arms of Richard Coeur de Lion, and Henry V. On the farther wall was a somber and very fine painting of the burial of Moore after Corunna, and opposite, another of the charge of the Scots Greys at Waterloo. More recent battle honors hung from the high ceiling, from Inkermann, the Alma and Balaclava.
General Anstruther came down the stairs, white whiskers bristling, his face pink, his back stiff as a ramrod.
“Good day to you, sir. What can I do for you?” He made it almost a demand. “Must be damned urgent to seek a fellow out at his club, what?”
“It is not urgent, General Anstruther, but I think it is important,” Pitt replied respectfully. “And I can get the information accurately from no one else, or I should not have troubled you.”
“Indeed! Indeed. And what is it, Mr…. Superintendent? Unless it is very brief, we can hardly stand around here like a couple of butlers, what. Come into the guests’ room.” He waved a heavy, florid hand towards one of the many oak doors off the hallway, and Pitt followed him obediently.
The room was filled with extremely comfortable armchairs, but the pictures and general decor were forbidding, perhaps to remind visitors of the military grandeur of the club’s members and the utter inferiority of civilians permitted in on sufferance.
General Anstruther indicated one of the chairs, and as Pitt sat down, took the one opposite him and leaned back, crossing his legs.
“Well then, Superintendent, what is it that troubles you?”
Pitt had thought carefully what he should say.
“The matter of the death of the late Sir Arthur Desmond,” he replied candidly. He saw Anstruther’s face tighten, but continued speaking. “There have been certain questions asked, and I wish to be in possession of all the facts so that I can refute any unpleasant or unwarranted suggestions that may be made.”
“By whom, sir? Suggestions of what?” Anstruther demanded. “Explain yourself, sir. This is most unfortunate.”
“Indeed it is,” Pitt agreed. “The suggestions are concerning his sanity, and the possibility of either suicide or—just as bad—murder.”
“Good God!” Anstruther was genuinely shocked; there was nothing assumed in the horror in his face, the slackness of initial disbelief, and then the growing darkness in his eyes as all the implications came to him. “That’s scandalous! Who has dared to say such a thing? I demand to know, sir!”
“At the moment it is no more than suggestion, General Anstruther,” Pitt replied, somewhat mendaciously. “I wish to be in a position to refute it decisively if it should ever become more.”
“That’s preposterous! Why should anyone murder Desmond? Never knew a more decent chap in my life.”
“I don’t doubt that is true, until the last few months,” Pitt said with more confidence than he felt. He had a growing fear in his mind that Anstruther’s outrage might be so deep as to prompt him to complain in a manner which would reach Farnsworth’s ears, and then Pitt would be in serious trouble. Perhaps he had overstated his case and brought about more harm than good?
It