Pitt was numb. The nightmare was getting worse. His imagination created all kinds of horror. What had happened to Narraway? How wide was this conspiracy? Perhaps he should have realised that if they removed Pitt himself to France on a pointless errand, then of course they would have got rid of Narraway as well. There was no purpose in removing Pitt otherwise. He was only a kind of backup: a right-hand man, possibly, but not more than that. Narraway was the real threat to them.
‘Yer want a cup o’ tea, sir?’ the constable repeated. ‘Yer look a bit rough, sir. An’ a sandwich?’
‘Yes. .’ Pitt said slowly. The man’s humanity made it all the more grotesque, yet he was grateful for it. ‘I would. Thank you, Constable.’
‘Yer just rest, sir. Don’t give yerself so much trouble. I’ll get yer a sandwich. Would ’am be all right?’
‘Very good, thank you.’ Pitt sat down on the cot to show that he had no intention of causing any problems for them. He was numb anyway. He did not even know who to fight: certainly not this man who was doing his best to exercise both care and a degree of decency in handling a prisoner he believed had just committed a double murder.
It was a long and wretched night. He slept little, and when he did his dreams were full of fear, shifting darkness and sudden explosions of sound and violence. When he woke in the morning his head throbbed, and his whole body was bruised and aching from the fight. It was painful to stand up when the constable came back again with another cup of tea.
‘We’ll take yer ter the magistrate later on,’ he said, watching Pitt carefully. ‘Yer look awful!’
Pitt tried to smile. ‘I feel awful. I need to wash and shave, and I look as if I’ve slept in my clothes, because I have.’
‘Comes with being in gaol, sir. ’Ave a cup o’ tea. It’ll’elp.’
‘Yes, I expect it will, even if not much,’ Pitt accepted. He stood well back from the door so the constable could place it inside without risking an attack. It was the usual way of doing things.
The constable screwed up his face. ‘Yer bin in the cells before, in’t yer,’ he observed.
‘No,’ Pitt replied, ‘but I’ve been on your side of them often enough, as I told you. I’m a policeman myself. I have another number I would like you to call, seeing that Mr Narraway doesn’t seem to be there. Please. I need to let someone know where I am. My wife and family, at least.’
‘’Oo would that be, sir?’ The constable put down the tea and backed out of the cell again, closing and locking the door. ‘You give me the number and I’ll do it. Everyone deserves that much.’
‘Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould,’ Pitt replied. ‘I’ll write the number down for you, if you give me a pencil.’
‘You jus’ tell me, sir. I’ll write it down.’
Pitt obeyed; there was no point in arguing.
The man returned ten minutes later, his face wide-eyed and a trifle pale.
‘She says as she knows yer, sir. Described yer to a T, she did. Says as ye’re one o’ the best policemen in London, an’ Mr Narraway’s ’oo yer said ’e were, but summink’s ’appened to ’im. She’s sending a Member o’ Parliament down ter get yer out of’ere, an’ as we’d better treat yer proper, or she’ll be ’avin’ a word wi’ the Chief Constable. I dunno if she’s real, sir. I ’ope yer understand I gotter keep yer in ’ere till this gentleman comes, wi’ proof ’e’s wot ’e says ’e is, an’ all. ’E could be anyone, but I know I got two dead bodies on the tracks.’
‘Of course,’ Pitt said wearily. He would not tell him that Gower was Special Branch, and Pitt had not known that he was a traitor until the day before yesterday. ‘Of course I’ll wait here,’ he added. ‘I’d be obliged if you didn’t take me before the magistrate until the man arrives that Lady Vespasia sends.’
‘Yes, sir, I think as we can arrange that.’ He sighed. ‘I think as we’d better. Next time yer come from Southampton, sir, I’d be obliged if yer’d take some other line!’
Pitt managed a lopsided smile. ‘Actually, I’d prefer this one. Given the circumstances, you’ve been very fair.’
The constable was lost for words. He struggled, but clearly nothing he could think of seemed adequate.
It was nearly two hours later that Mr Somerset Carlisle, MP came sauntering into the police station, elegantly dressed, his curious face filled with a rueful amusement. Many years ago he had committed a series of outrages in London, to draw attention to an injustice against which he had no other weapon. Pitt had been the policeman who led the investigation. The murder had been solved, and he had seen no need to pursue the man who had so bizarrely brought it to public attention. Carlisle had remained grateful, and become an ally in several cases since then.
On this occasion, he had with him all his identification of the considerable office he held. Within ten minutes Pitt was a free man, brushing aside the apologies of the local police and assuring them that they had performed their duties excellently, and found no fault with them.
‘What the devil’s going on?’ Carlisle asked as they walked outside into the sun and headed in the direction of the railway station. ‘Vespasia called me in great agitation this morning, saying you had been charged with a double murder! You look like hell. Do you need a doctor?’ There was laughter in his voice, but his eyes reflected a very real anxiety.
‘A fight,’ Pitt explained briefly. He found walking with any grace very difficult. He had not realised at the time how bruised he was. ‘On the platform at the back of a railway carriage travelling at considerable speed.’ He told Carlisle very briefly what had happened.
Carlisle nodded. ‘It’s a very dark situation. I don’t know the whole story, but I’d be very careful what you do, Pitt. Vespasia told me to get you to her house, not Lisson Grove. In fact, she advised very strongly against going there at all.’
Pitt was cold. The sunlit street, the clatter of traffic all seemed unreal. ‘What’s happened to Narraway?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve heard whispers, but I don’t know the truth. If anyone does, it’ll be Vespasia. But I’ll take you to my flat first. Clean you up a bit. You look as if you’ve spent the night in gaol!’
Pitt did not grace the observation with a reply.
Two hours later, he was washed, shaved and dressed in a clean shirt, provided by Carlisle, as well as clean socks and underwear. Pitt alighted from the hansom cab outside Vespasia’s house and walked up to the front door. She was expecting him, and he was taken straight to her usual favourite sitting room, which looked onto the garden. There was a bowl of fresh narcissi on the table, their scent filling the air. Outside the breeze very gently stirred the new leaves on the trees.
Vespasia was dressed in silver grey, with the long ropes of pearls he was so accustomed to seeing her wear. She looked calm, as she always did, and her beauty still moved him with a certain awe. However, he knew her well enough to see the profound anxiety in her eyes. It alarmed him, and he was too tired to hide it.
She looked him up and down. ‘I see Somerset lent you a shirt and cravat,’ she observed with a faint smile.
‘Is it so obvious?’ he asked, standing in front of her.
‘Of course. You would never choose a shirt of that shade, or a cravat with a touch of wine in it. But it becomes you very well. Please sit down. It is uncomfortable craning my neck to look up at you.’
He would never have seated himself before she gave her permission, but he was glad to do so, in the chair opposite her.
The formalities were over and they would address the issues that burdened them both.
‘Where have you been?’ she asked. She gave no thought even to the possibility that he might consider it confidential from her. She knew more about the power and danger of secrets than most ministers of government.