‘Are you sure you want to be out of the office when they send for you, sir?’ This time Stoker’s face was unreadable.
‘I’m damn sure I’d like to be miles away,’ Pitt said fervently. ‘But I’ll be within reach — if Lady Vespasia is at home. If I’m sent for, leave me a message there and I’ll go straight to Whitehall.’
Stoker looked dubious.
‘I want to know what’s going on!’ Pitt told him, taking his coat off the stand and putting it on as he went out of the door.
Vespasia was still at breakfast but her maid was used to Pitt turning up without announcement, and frequently at inconvenient times. She simply tightened her lips a little, and requested the maid to bring fresh tea.
In her youth Vespasia Cumming-Gould had been accepted by many to be the most beautiful woman of her generation. As far as Pitt was concerned, she still was, because for him beauty was a quality of the mind and the heart as much as of physical perfection. Her hair was silver and her face now reflected decades of passion, grief and laughter, and a courage that had seen her through triumph and loss of many different kinds.
‘Good morning, Thomas,’ she said with some surprise. ‘You look tired and exasperated. Sit down and have some tea, and tell me what has happened. Would you like something to eat as well? Toast, perhaps? I have a new and most excellent marmalade. It is so pungent I can feel it right through my head.’
‘It sounds like exactly what I need,’ he accepted, pulling out the chair at the opposite side of the table from her and sitting down. He had always liked this yellow breakfast room where she often took all her meals when dining alone, or with only one guest. It felt as if the sun always shone here, regardless of the weather beyond.
The maid returned with the second cup and saucer, and Vespasia requested more toast.
‘Now tell me what has occurred,’ Vespasia said as soon as they were alone again.
He had never hesitated to tell her the truth, even when perhaps it was indiscreet, and never had she betrayed his trust. She knew many people’s secrets, and the fact that she had not relayed them to him only increased his certainty of her judgement. Briefly, between mouthfuls of toast, and the marmalade that was as good as she had claimed, he told her about the missing maid, and the body in the gravel pit on Shooters Hill.
‘I see,’ she said at last. ‘It is a dilemma, but I do not yet understand why you think I can be of help. You are far better able to pursue it than I.’
‘I am expecting a telephone call here, any moment, and I apologise for requesting it be forwarded to me without asking your permission …’
‘Thomas! Please reach the point of this visit before that happens!’
‘It will be from someone in the Prime Minister’s office asking me what I know, and what I am doing about it,’ he explained.
Her silver eyebrows arched even higher. ‘You told the Prime Minister about it? For heaven’s sake, Thomas, why?’
He swallowed the last of his toast. ‘No, I didn’t! That is exactly the point. He knows because there were questions in the House, yesterday evening.’
‘Oh dear …’ In her mouth the words were extraordinarily expressive, even catastrophic.
‘Asked by Somerset Carlisle,’ he finished.
‘Oh dear,’ she said again, a little more slowly. ‘Now I see why you have come to me. I’m afraid I have no idea how he came to know of the affair, or why he should raise it in the House.’ She looked worried. ‘I assume you are involved because the body may be that of this poor maid of Dudley Kynaston’s? Tragic as it is, it would not concern Special Branch otherwise, would it?’
‘No, it wouldn’t. And I still have considerable hope that it is not Kitty Ryder-’
‘But you fear that it is?’ she interrupted him. ‘And that either her death involves the Kynaston household, or it will be made to look as if it does? Why? To ruin Kynaston personally, or to embarrass the Government?’ She refilled his cup from the pewter teapot.
‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘But if it is to embarrass the Government it seems rather a poor effort. It’s tragic and sordid, if the poor girl was killed because of some romantic involvement, either with one of the male servants, or with Kynaston himself …’
‘Don’t be so delicate, Thomas,’ Vespasia said briskly. ‘If it has anything at all to do with the household, it will be with Kynaston himself, or at the very least there will be the suggestion that it is. Frankly it sounds most unlikely to me, and I do not believe that Somerset Carlisle is naïve enough to become involved in such a thing. Certainly not in order to embarrass the Government!’
‘That was my conclusion.’ He sipped the tea. It was hot and fragrant. ‘Therefore it is something else, but why is he asking questions in the House, instead of coming to me? If it is of any legitimate concern to him anyway.’
‘I have no idea,’ she replied, passing him more toast. ‘But I shall certainly do what I can to find out.’
‘Thank you,’ he accepted. He was just about to eat it when there was a knock on the door. The maid came in quietly.
‘Excuse me, my lady, but there is a message on the telephone for Commander Pitt.’
‘What is it?’ Vespasia asked.
The maid turned to Pitt. ‘The Prime Minister requires that you go to Downing Street immediately, sir, where a government official is waiting to speak to you.’
Vespasia sighed. ‘You had better take my carriage, Thomas. Send it back when you reach there. There is no convenient place for it to wait for you, and I believe I have some errands to run myself. Goodbye, my dear, and good luck.’
‘Thank you,’ Pitt said grimly, putting the cup down again and rising to his feet. He finished the toast as he went out into the hall.
He had only fifteen minutes to wait in one of the outer rooms in the Prime Minister’s offices before he was escorted into a larger and much warmer room to face one of the Prime Minister’s assistants, a well-upholstered man whose look of ease belied his nature. It must have been well cultivated.
‘Morning, Pitt. Edom Talbot,’ he introduced himself. He was a burly man with a very ordinary face, except for remarkably penetrating eyes; it was impossible to tell if they were grey or brown. He was a man it might be easy to underestimate, but probably most unwise so to do. He did not invite Pitt to be seated, although there were two comfortable leather chairs near the fire, which was already burning up well.
‘Good morning, Mr Talbot,’ Pitt replied, trying not to sound wary.
Talbot wasted no time with niceties. ‘We’ve got a few nasty questions we don’t know how to answer. Can’t afford to be caught on the wrong foot again.’ He looked critically at Pitt. ‘I suppose we could say the fellow who asked them did us a kind of back-handed favour, though. Brought it to our attention, and we won’t be caught out this time.’ He stared at Pitt almost unblinkingly. ‘Expect the answers from you, sir. Or if not, then a damned good explanation that’ll do in the meantime.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Pitt returned his steady gaze. ‘What were the questions?’
Talbot looked bland. ‘Good,’ he said with almost no tone in his voice. ‘Look at the press with that blankness. Know nothing.’ Then suddenly all the muscles in his neck and shoulders tightened and his mouth went into a thin, flat line. ‘But don’t damned well try it on me, sir!’
Pitt felt his temper flame, but he controlled himself as if nothing had changed. He did not ask again for the questions but waited for Talbot to continue.
‘You’ve got your nerve, I’ll say that for you,’ Talbot observed. ‘Or else you’re too damned stupid to understand the issue. I suppose, God help me, I’ll find out which soon enough. Who is the woman whose body was found in the gravel pit on Shooters Hill? What happened to her, and how did she get there? What the hell has all this got to do with Dudley Kynaston? Or anyone else in his house? And when are you going to get this damn great mess sorted out? And most importantly, how are you going to keep the lid on it until you do? And if you can’t do the job, then tell me, and we’ll get Narraway back, damn his hide!’