Again she was caught by a sadness in his voice, some shadow of the gaslight that caught an old pain not usually visible… and by the fact that apparently he also knew at least something about Tilda as well.
“Of course it is possible,” she said very gently. “But the possibility does not excuse the need to be certain that he is safe. It couldn’t.” She nearly added that he must know that, as she did, but she saw his understanding as the words touched her lips, and she left them unsaid.
They stood for seconds. Then he straightened. “Nevertheless, Mrs. Pitt, for your safety’s sake, please do not press any further with enquiries regarding Mr. Garrick. There can be no conceivable reason for his having harmed a servant, other than possibly in reputation, and that is something you cannot undo.”
“I would like to oblige you, Mr. Narraway,” she replied very levelly. “But if I find myself in a position to help Tilda Garvie, then I cannot hold back from doing so. I can think of no way in which it would inconvenience Mr. Garrick, unless he has done something unjust… If he has, then, like anyone else, he is answerable for it.”
Exasperation filled Narraway’s face. “But not to you, Mrs. Pitt! Haven’t you-” He stopped.
She smiled at him with great charm. “No,” she said. “I haven’t. May I offer you a cup of tea? It will be in the kitchen, but you are very welcome.”
He stood motionless, as if the decision were a major one on which something of great importance depended, as if even from the parlor he could sense the warmth and the comfortable familiarity of scrubbed wood, clean linen, gleaming china on the dresser, and the lingering, sweet odor of food.
“No, thank you,” he said at last. “I must go home.” His voice held the regret he could not put into words. “Good night.”
“Good night, Mr. Narraway.” She accompanied him to the front door, and watched his slender, straight-backed figure walk with almost military elegance along the rain-wet footpath towards the thoroughfare.
CHAPTER TEN
PITT THANKED TRENCHARD for his help and left Alexandria with a stab of regret that surprised him. He would miss the balmy nights pale with stars, the wind blowing in off the sea, smelling clean above the spice odors and filth of the hot streets. And he would also miss the sound of music and voices he did not understand, the colors in the bazaars, the fruit. But in London there would be fewer mosquitoes, and no scorpions. Certainly in the coming winter no cloying, sticky heat to make the sweat run down his skin or light that blinded his eyes and made him permanently squint in the sun.
And there would be no more sense of being a stranger intruding in a land where his people were different and unwelcome, and the weight on the conscience of having contributed to the searing poverty. Of course there was poverty in England too. People died of hunger, cold and disease, but they were his own people; he was one of them and not to blame.
There was a sense of incompleteness in his mission as he stood on the deck of the ship, the bright water churning around him and the city already fading into the distance. What could he tell Narraway? He knew far more about Ayesha Zakhari, and she was not at all as he had assumed, which forced him to reassess the whole question of why Lovat had been killed. It seemed a pointless thing to have done, and Ayesha was not stupid.
Above all, he wanted to be home with Charlotte, his children, the comfort of his house and the familiarity of streets where he knew every corner, and understood the language.
It was another three days before he docked at Southampton, and then a train journey back to London which was in truth less than two hours but seemed to drag to the very last minute.
By seven o’clock he was on the doorstep of Narraway’s office, determined to leave a note if there was no one in, but wishing intensely to say all he had to tonight, and go home to sleep as long as he wanted, luxuriously, in all that was sweet and gentle and long-loved, without the need to trouble his mind with what he must say or do in the morning.
But Narraway was in and there was no escape from reporting in person. He leaned back in his chair when Pitt was inside and the door had closed behind him. His stare was penetrating but guarded, already prepared to defend against a returning enquiry.
Pitt was too tired, both physically and emotionally, to pretend to any form of etiquette. He sat down opposite him and stretched out his legs. His feet hurt and he was cold with exhaustion and the sudden chill of English October.
Narraway simply waited for Pitt to speak.
“She is a highly intelligent, literate, and well-educated woman of Christian descent,” Pitt said. “But an Egyptian patriot who cared very much for the poor in her country and for the injustice of foreign domination.”
Narraway pursed his lips and made his fingers into a steeple, his elbows on the arms of his chair. “So a woman coming for a political end, not merely to make her own fortune,” he said without surprise. His expression did not alter in the slightest. “Did she imagine that she could affect the cotton industry through Ryerson?”
“It seems so,” Pitt answered.
Narraway sighed, his face now filled with sadness. “Naive,” he murmured.
Pitt had a powerful feeling that Narraway was speaking of far more than simply Ayesha Zakhari’s ignorance of political inevitability. He sat back in his chair as if at ease, and yet his body was not relaxed. There was a tension within him which was palpable in the room. “You said well educated. In what?” he demanded.
“History, languages, her own culture,” Pitt replied. “Her father was a learned man, and she was his only child. Apparently he found her an excellent companion and taught her much of what he knew.”
Narraway’s face tightened. He seemed to understand far more from Pitt’s words than the simple facts they referred to. Was he thinking that she was brought up in the intellectual company of an older man, that it was comfortable to her and she was used to both the advantages, and perhaps the disadvantages as well? Pitt wondered if it had been a training for her which enabled her to charm Ryerson without ever seeming to be too young, too unsophisticated, too impatient? Or was it the forming of a woman for whom young men were unsubtle, shallow and with whom she was ill at ease? Could she actually be as much in love with Ryerson as he believed?
Then why on earth would she have shot Lovat? Had Pitt missed something critical in Alexandria after all?
Narraway was watching him. He said abruptly, “What is it, Pitt?” He was leaning forward. His hand was shaking slightly.
Pitt was intensely aware of currents of emotion far beyond the facts he could see. He hated working with a superior who obviously trusted him so little, whatever the reason. Was it for his safety? Or someone else’s? Or was Narraway protecting something in himself that Pitt could not even guess at?
“Nothing that seems to have any relevance to Lovat, or to Ryerson,” he answered the question. “She was a passionate follower of one of the Orabi revolutionists, an older man. She fell in love with him, and he betrayed both her and the cause. It was a bitter hurt to bear.”
Narraway drew in a long, deep breath and let it out silently. “Yes.” The single word was all he said.
For seconds Pitt waited, sure Narraway would say more. There seemed to be sentences, paragraphs in his mind, just beyond reach.
But when he did speak, it was a change of subject. “What about Lovat?” he asked. “Did you find anyone who knew him? There must be something more than the written records we have here. For God’s sake, what were you doing in Alexandria all that time?”
Pitt swallowed his irritation and told him briefly what he had done, his further pursuit of Edwin Lovat and his army career in Egypt, and Narraway listened, again in silence. It was unnerving. Some response would have made it easier.
“I couldn’t find anything at all to suggest a motive for murder,” Pitt finished. “He seemed a very ordinary soldier, competent, but not brilliant, a decent enough man who made no particular enemies.”
“And his invaliding out?” Narraway asked.
“Fever,” Pitt replied. “Malaria, as far as I could tell. He certainly was not the only one to get it at that time. There doesn’t seem to have been anything remarkable about it. He was sent back to England, but honorably. No question over his record or his career.”
“I know that much,” Narraway said wearily. “His trouble seems to have begun after he got back home.”
