“Good morning,” Pitt replied, standing upright and meeting the man’s eyes. “Would you be good enough to tell Mr. Ryerson that Mr. Victor Narraway sends his regards, and regrets that he is unable to call himself, but has sent me in his place? My name is Thomas Pitt.” He produced his card, the plain one that stated his name only, and dropped it on the silver tray in the footman’s hand.
“Certainly, sir,” the footman replied, without looking at the card. “Would you care to wait in the morning room while I enquire if Mr. Ryerson is able to see you?”
Pitt smiled and accepted. That was very direct, not the usual euphemism of pretending that he did not know whether his master was at home.
The footman led the way through a magnificent hall of an opulent Italianate design, terra-cotta-colored walls and handsome marble and bronze busts displayed on plinths, paintings of canal scenes on the walls, one of which looked like a genuine Canaletto.
The morning room was also in warm colors, with an exquisite tapestry on one wall that depicted a hunting scene in the minutest detail, the grass in the foreground starred with tiny flowers. This home belonged to a man of wealth and individual taste.
Pitt had ten minutes to wait in nervous tension, trying to rehearse the scene in his mind. He was about to question a cabinet minister regarding a possibly criminal, certainly embarrassing, part of his personal life. He had come to learn the truth and he could not afford to fail.
But he had questioned important people about their lives before, probing for the wounds that had led to murder. It was his skill. He was good at it, even brilliant. He had had far more successes than failures. He should not doubt himself now.
He glanced at the books in one of the cases. He saw Shakespeare, Browning, Marlowe, and a little farther along, Henry Rider Haggard and Charles Kingsley and two volumes of Thackeray.
Then he heard the door open and he swung around.
As Narraway had said, Ryerson was a large man, probably in his late fifties, but he moved with the grace of someone trained to physical activity and who took joy in it. There was no extra flesh on him, no signs of indulgence or ease. He had the innate confidence of one whose body does as he wishes it to. Now he looked anxious, a little tired, but still very much in command of his outward emotions.
“My footman tells me you have come on behalf of Victor Narraway.” He pronounced the name with a lack of emotion so complete Pitt instantly wondered if it was the result of deliberate effort. “May I ask why?”
“Yes, sir,” Pitt said gravely. He had already decided that candor was the only way to achieve his goal, if it was possible at all. One trick or attempt at deviousness which failed would destroy all trust. “The Egyptian embassy is aware that you were present at Eden Lodge when Mr. Edwin Lovat was shot, and they are demanding that you also are called to be accountable for your part in those events.”
Pitt expected smooth denial at first, and then perhaps bluster, anger as fear took hold. The ugliest possibility would be self-pity, and the plea to some kind of loyalty to extricate him from the embarrassment of a love affair which had turned sour. He dreaded the shame and the revulsion of it. His skin felt cold even at the thought of it. Was that why Narraway had refused to come himself? In case an old friend should become contemptible in front of him, and he would find it better for both of them if that did not happen? Then he would still be able to feign ignorance of that much at least.
But Ryerson’s reaction was none of these things. There was confusion in his face-fear, but not anger, and no bluster at all.
“I was there just after,” he corrected Pitt. “Although I have no idea how the Egyptian embassy would know that, unless Miss Zakhari told them.”
Pitt stared at him. There was no sense of injustice in his voice or his face. He did not seem to think of it as any kind of betrayal if she had done so. And yet, according to Narraway, she had not mentioned his name at all. In fact, she had had no opportunity of speaking to anyone except the police officers who had questioned her.
“No, sir, it was not Miss Zakhari,” Pitt replied. “She has spoken to no one since her arrest.”
“She should have someone to represent her,” Ryerson said immediately. “The embassy should do that-it would be more discreet than my doing so-but I will if necessary.”
“I think it would be much better if you did not,” Pitt responded, caught off balance that Ryerson should even make such a suggestion. “It might do more harm than good,” he added. “Would you please tell me what happened that night, sir, as far as you know?”
Ryerson invited Pitt to sit down in one of the large, smooth, leather-covered chairs, then sat in one opposite, but not at ease, instead leaning a little forward, his face a mask of concentration. He offered no hospitality, not out of discourtesy, but it obviously had not occurred to him. His mind was consumed in the present problem. He made no attempt at dissimulation.
“I was at very late meetings that night. I had intended to be at Miss Zakhari’s house by two in the morning, but I was late. It was closer to three.”
“How did you come, sir?” Pitt interrupted.
“By hansom. I stopped on the Edgware Road and walked a couple of streets.”
“Did you see anyone leaving Connaught Square, either on foot or in a coach or carriage?” Pitt asked.
“I don’t recall seeing anyone. But I wasn’t thinking of it. They could have gone in any direction.”
“You arrived at Eden Lodge,” Pitt prompted. “At which entrance?”
Ryerson flushed very faintly. “The mews. I have a key to the scullery door.”
Pitt tried to keep his expression from reflecting any of his thoughts. Moral judgments would be unhelpful, and perhaps he had little right to make them. Curiously enough, he did not wish to. Ryerson did not fit any of the assumptions Pitt had made before meeting him, and he was obliged to start again, feeling his way through his own conflicting emotions.
“Did you go in through the scullery?” he asked.
“Yes.” Ryerson’s eyes were troubled by the memory. “But I was standing in the kitchen, just up the step, when I heard a noise in the garden, and I went out again. Almost immediately I ran into Miss Zakhari, who was in a state of extreme distress.” He breathed in and out slowly. “She told me a man had been shot and was lying dead in the garden. I asked her who he was and if she knew what had happened. She told me he was a Lieutenant Lovat whom she had known briefly in Alexandria several years ago. He had admired her then…” He hesitated briefly over the choice of words, then went on, trusting Pitt to put his own interpretation on it. “And now wished to rekindle the friendship. She had refused, but he was reluctant to accept that answer.”
“I see. What did you do?” Pitt kept his voice neutral.
“I asked her to show me, and followed her to where he was lying on the ground, half under the laurel bushes. I had thought perhaps he was not actually dead. I hoped she had found him knocked senseless, and perhaps leaped to a hasty conclusion. However, when I knelt down to look at him, it was quite apparent that she was correct. He had been shot at fairly close range, through the chest, and was unquestionably dead.”
“Did you see the gun?”
Ryerson’s eyes did not waver, but it obviously cost him an effort.
“Yes. It was lying on the ground beside him. It was Ayesha’s gun. I knew it immediately, because I had seen it before. I knew she owned it, for protection.”
“Against whom?”
“I don’t know. I had asked her, but she would not tell me.”
“Could it have been this Lieutenant Lovat?” Pitt suggested. “Had he threatened her?”
Ryerson’s face was tight, his eyes miserable. He hesitated before answering. “I believe not,” he said at last.
“Did you ask her what had happened?”