“No,” Pitt confessed. “Unfortunately the matter is urgent, and unpleasant, or I would not have called without making an appointment. I regret it cannot wait.”
“Just so, sir. I will inform Mr. FitzJames.” And he left Pitt in the cool blue-and-brown morning room filled with dappled light while he performed his errand.
Pitt looked around. He had already been aware, even before he had come into the house, that the FitzJames family had a great deal of wealth. Most of it had been acquired through speculation by Augustus FitzJames, using the money his wife had inherited from her godmother. Pitt had picked up this piece of information from Charlotte’s younger sister, Emily, who before her present marriage to Jack Radley had been married to the late Lord Ashworth. She had retained the money he had left her, and his aristocratic associates, and also an inveterate curiosity for details about people, the more intimate the better.
The FitzJames morning room was extremely comfortable, if a little chilly. It did not have the usual plethora of glass-cased trophies, dried flowers and stitched decorations which many families relegated to a room in which they spent little time. Instead there were two very good bronzes, one of a crouching lion, the other of a stag. Bookcases lined the farthest wall and the shafts of sunlight slanting in between the heavy brocade curtains showed not a speck of dust on the gleaming mahogany surfaces.
Pitt walked over and glanced at the titles. Probably the books FitzJames read were in the library, but still it would be interesting to note what he wished his guests to believe he read. He saw several histories, all of Europe or the Empire, biographies of politicians, religious discourses of an orthodox nature, and a complete edition of the works of Shakespeare, bound in leather. There were also translations of the works of Cicero and Caesar. There was no poetry, and no novels. Pitt smiled without being aware of it. This was how Augustus FitzJames wished to be perceived … a man of much learning and no levity or imagination.
It was no more than ten minutes before the butler returned, still smiling.
“Mr. FitzJames regrets he is extremely busy this morning, sir, but if the matter is as pressing as you say, perhaps you would care to join him in the dining room?”
It was not at all what Pitt wanted, but he had little alternative. Perhaps when he realized the nature of the enquiry, FitzJames would elect to discuss the matter alone.
“Thank you,” Pitt accepted reluctantly.
The dining room was splendid, obviously designed to accommodate at least twenty people with ease. The velvet curtains framed three deep windows, all looking out on to a small, very formal garden. Pitt glimpsed topiary hedges and box trees, and a walkway paved in an exact pattern. The table was laid with silver, porcelain and crisp, white linen. On the sideboard were dishes of kedgeree; another of bacon, sausage and kidney; and a variety of eggs, any one of which would have fed half a dozen people. The aroma of them filled Pitt’s nostrils, but his mind was forced back to Pentecost Alley, and he wondered if Ada McKinley had ever seen as much food as this at one time in her life.
He must remember FitzJames was not necessarily guilty.
There were four people at the table, and they commanded his attention. At the head sat a man of perhaps sixty years, narrow-headed with powerful features. It was the face of a self-made man, owing no obligation to the past and possibly little to the future. It was a face of courage and intolerance. He regarded Pitt with challenge for having interrupted the domestic peace of his breakfast.
At his side was a handsome woman, also of about sixty. Her features were marked by patience and a degree of inner control. She understood myriad rules and was used to obeying them. She might have assumed Pitt was a banker or dealer in some commodity. She inclined her head courteously, but there was no interest whatever in her wide-set eyes.
Her son resembled her physically. He had the same broad brow, wide mouth and squared jaw. He was about thirty, and already there was the beginning of extra weight about him, a fading of the leanness of youth. This must be Finlay, and his magnificent fair, wavy hair fitted exactly the description both Rose and Nan had given.
The last member of the party was quite different. The daughter must have inherited her looks from some ancestor further back. She had nothing of her mother in her, and little of her father except a rather long nose, but on her it was slender, giving her face just enough eccentricity to stop it from being ordinarily pretty. She had an air of daring and vitality. She regarded Pitt with acute interest, although that might be simply because he had interrupted the usual monotony of breakfast.
“Good morning, Mr. Pitt,” the senior FitzJames said coolly, looking at Pitt’s card, which the butler had offered him. “What is it that is so urgent you need to address it at this hour?”
“It is Mr. Finlay FitzJames I wish to see, sir,” Pitt replied, still standing, since he had not been invited to sit.
“You may address him through me,” the father replied without reference to Finlay. Possibly he had consulted him before Pitt was admitted.
Pitt controlled an impulse to anger. He could not yet afford to offend the man. This was just conceivably some form of error, although he doubted it. And if it should prove as he feared, and Finlay was guilty, it must be handled so that there would be not the slightest ground for complaint. He had no illusion that FitzJames would not fight to the bitter end to protect his only son, and his family name, and therein also himself.
Pitt began very carefully. He understood only too well why Ewart clung to the hope that some other evidence would be turned up to indicate any other answer.
“Are you acquainted with a group calling themselves the Hellfire Club?” he asked politely.
“Why do you wish to know, Mr. Pitt?” FitzJames’s eyebrows rose. “I think you had better explain yourself. Why should we give you any information about our business? This … card … offers your name and no more. Yet you say your business is urgent and unpleasant. Who are you?”
“Has there been an accident?” Mrs. FitzJames asked with concern. “Someone we know?”
FitzJames silenced her with a glare and she looked away, as though to tell Pitt she did not expect to be answered.
“I am a superintendent in the Metropolitan Police Force,” Pitt replied. “Presently in charge of the Bow Street Station.”
“Oh my goodness!” Mrs. FitzJames was startled and uncertain what she should say. She had obviously never been faced with such a situation before. She wanted to speak, and was afraid to. She looked at Pitt without seeming to see him.
Finlay was also quite openly amazed.
“I used to be a member of a club which used that name,” he said slowly, his brow furrowed. “But that was years ago. There were only four of us, and we disbanded about, oh, ’eighty-four, somewhere about then.”
“I see.” Pitt kept his voice level. “Will you give me the names of these other members please, sir?”
“Have they done something awful?” Miss FitzJames asked, her eyes bright with curiosity. “Why do you want to know, Mr.-Pitt, is it? It must be very terrible to have sent the head of a police station. I think I’ve only ever seen constables before.”
“Be quiet, Tallulah,” FitzJames said grimly. “Or you will excuse yourself and leave the room.”
She drew breath to plead, then saw his expression and changed her mind, her mouth pulled tight, her eyes down.
FitzJames dabbed his lips and laid down his napkin. “I don’t know why on earth you should concern me with such a matter at home, Mr. Pitt, and at this hour of the morning. A letter would have sufficed.” He made as if to stand from the table.
Pitt said with equal sharpness, “The matter is a great deal more severe than you think. I thought it would be more discreet here. But I can deal with it at Bow Street if you prefer. It may possibly be explained without that necessity, although if that is what you wish, of course I shall oblige you.”
The blood darkened FitzJames’s narrow cheeks, and he rose to his feet, as if he could no longer tolerate Pitt’s standing where he was obliged to look up at him. He was a tall man, and now they were almost eye to eye.
“Are you arresting me, sir?” he said through a tight jaw.
“It was not my intention, Mr. FitzJames,” Pitt replied. He would not be intimidated by the man. Once such a pattern was set it would be impossible to break. He was in charge of Bow Street and he owed this man nothing but courtesy and the truth. “But if that is the way you care to view it, then you may take it so.”
FitzJames drew in his breath sharply, was about to retaliate, then realized the matter must be far more serious than he had originally supposed or Pitt could not have had the audacity to speak so.
