been shot in a garden in the middle of the night. There seemed to be no sense in Ayesha Zakhari’s having taken her gun and gone outside to see who it was lurking in the bushes. She had a perfectly capable manservant and a telephone in her home to call for assistance.
He had assumed that she had known it was Lovat, but there seemed no sane reason to have killed him. If she did not wish to see him she had merely to remain inside. If she did not know who it was, the answer was the same.
But what if she had supposed it was someone else? What if she had not recognized Lovat until after he was dead? The garden was dark. They were not in a path of light thrown from the house, even if all the lamps had been lit in the downstairs rooms, which in itself was unlikely at three in the morning.
Who might she have mistaken him for? Was it possible that a perfectly rational answer to the murder lay in the fact she had believed him to be someone else?
He began by going back to Eden Lodge. It looked curiously empty in the sharp autumn morning, the long light golden across the quiet street, and in the absolute stillness not even the leaves of the birch trees stirred. He could hear hooves in the distance, and a bird singing somewhere above him. A small black cat wove in and out through the dead lily stems waiting to be cut back.
Tariq el Abd answered the door.
“Good morning, sir,” he said politely, his face expressionless. “How can I help you?”
“Good morning,” Pitt replied. “I need to make some further enquiries, and you can help me.”
El Abd invited him in and led the way through to the withdrawing room. He did not look entirely comfortable about having the police in this part of the house-they were hardly social acquaintances-but the kitchens and laundry rooms were his domain, and he did not wish them there either. He drew the line at offering refreshment.
“What is it you need to ask me, sir?” he said, remaining standing so Pitt should do so as well.
Pitt had little time to look around the room, but he had a sense of subtle colors and light. The lines were less cluttered than he was accustomed to; everything was simpler. There was an elaborate ornament of a dog with large ears, the whole creature perhaps a foot and a half long, crouching on one of the side tables. It was a thing of great loveliness.
El Abd must have seen his eye caught by it.
“Anubis, sir,” he said. “One of the ancient gods of our country. Of course, the people who believed in him are long dead.”
“The beauty of their workmanship remains,” Pitt answered with feeling.
“Yes, sir. What is it you wish to ask me?” His face was still almost devoid of expression.
“Were the lights on in this room when Mr. Lovat was shot?”
“I beg your pardon, sir? I do not understand. Mr. Lovat was shot in the garden… outside. He never entered the house.”
“You were awake?” Pitt asked in surprise.
El Abd’s face showed an instant’s lack of composure, then it was gone again. “No, sir, not until I heard the shot. Miss Zakhari said he did not come inside. I believe her. There had been no one in here. The lights were not on.”
“Anywhere else in the house?”
“There were no lights lit anywhere downstairs, sir, except in the hall. They are never turned completely off.”
“I see. And upstairs?”
“I do not understand what it is you seek, sir. The lights were on in Miss Zakhari’s bedroom and her sitting room upstairs, and on the landing above the stairs, as always.”
“Are there some at the front of the house, or the back?”
“The front, sir.” It was natural. Master bedrooms usually faced the front.
“So there was no light from the house on the back garden where Mr. Lovat was shot?” Pitt concluded.
El Abd hesitated, as if he perceived a trap of some sort. “No, sir…”
“Is it possible Miss Zakhari was unaware of Mr. Lovat’s identity? Might she have thought he was someone else?”
For the first time el Abd’s composure cracked. He looked not merely startled but as if he was in a moment’s actual danger. Then it passed, and he stared back at Pitt, blinking a little. “I never thought of that, sir. I can’t say. If… if she thought it were a robber, surely she could have called me? She knows I would defend her… it is my duty.”
“Of course,” Pitt agreed. “I was not thinking of a robber, but of someone else she actually knew, someone who was a threat to her in some way?”
El Abd was sounding confident now, his balance found again. “I know of no such person, sir. Surely if that were so, she would have told the police that it was an accident? A mistake… in self-defense? Are you permitted to shoot in self-defense in England?”
“If there is no other way to protect yourself, yes you are,” Pitt answered. “I was thinking of someone she knew and who was an enemy, a danger to her not physically but in another way, to her reputation, or to some interest about which she cared passionately.”
“I do not know what you mean, sir.” El Abd’s face was back to its smooth, polite servant’s mask.
“Your loyalty is commendable,” Pitt said, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “But pointless. If she is found guilty of murdering Mr. Lovat, she will be hanged for it. If she mistook him for someone else, who was perhaps a threat to her, then she might be able to plead some justification.”
It was marvelous how el Abd changed his expression hardly at all, and yet managed to alter from deference to contempt. “I think, sir, that it is Mr. Ryerson you are interested in seeing. And if he knew Miss Zakhari’s reason for killing the man, whoever she believed him to be, then he should tell you the truth, and justify himself, and her also. If he does not know, but found only Mr. Lovat, with no excuse, then he is guilty, whatever Miss Zakhari believed. Is it not so?”
“Yes,” Pitt said uneasily. “It is so. But perhaps Miss Zakhari would prefer not to accept that she shot Mr. Lovat, for no sensible reason at all, than tell us the truth of what she believed.”
El Abd inclined his head with the shadow of a smile. “Then loyalty to my mistress decrees that I should abide by her decision, sir. Will there be anything else?”
“Yes, there will! I would like you to write me a list of all the people you know who have called here since Miss Zakhari moved in.”
“We have a visitors’ book, sir. Will that be of assistance?”
“I doubt it. But it will be a start. I require the names of the others as well.”
“Very good, sir,” el Abd agreed, and withdrew, his feet making no noise at all on the carpets, or on the polished wood of the hall beyond.
He returned a quarter of an hour later with a sheet of paper and a white, leather-bound book, and offered them to Pitt.
Pitt thanked him and took his leave. The book was interesting. There were more names in it than he had expected, and it would take some time to learn who they all were. The additional sheet of paper, he suspected, would be of no use at all.
He spent the rest of the day identifying various men in the city, mostly to do with the cotton trade in one way or another, but there were also others who were artists, poets, musicians and thinkers. He would be interested to know why they had called upon Ayesha Zakhari-and what Saville Ryerson would think of it, and if he knew. No times of the day were noted, simply dates.
THE NEXT MORNING Pitt received a message while he was still at breakfast telling him to report within the hour to Narraway’s office. He put his knife and fork down. His kippers had lost their taste.
He still had several names both from the visitors’ book and from the additional sheet to identify, and he resented being called to report when there was nothing helpful to say.
Half an hour later he told Narraway of his visit to Eden Lodge and the names he had taken from the visitors’ book and from the manservant, el Abd.
Narraway sat deep in thought, his dark face pinched and smudged with weariness, but now there was something like a flicker of hope there as well, though he struggled to mask it.
