feelings does you credit.” She was only barely sarcastic. “But since it was I who heard the original story, it will hold no more surprises for me than for you. I shall remain.”
Surprisingly, he did not argue. Together with Martin, they went through to the parlor, where Pitt and Gracie were sitting and Stephen Garrick lay half conscious on the sofa.
It took them all night to draw from the wreck of a man the terrible story. Sometimes they would prop him up and he spoke almost coherently, whole sentences at a time. At others he lay curled over like a child in the womb- silent, shivering, withdrawn into himself and beyond even Martin’s reach.
It was Charlotte who took him in her arms when he wept and cradled him while the sobs racked his body.
Pitt watched her with a fierce pride, remembering the stiff, protected young woman she had been when he first fell in love with her. Now her compassion made her more beautiful than he could have dreamed she would ever be.
It seemed that the four young men had been friends almost from their initial meeting. They had much in common, both in background and interests, and had spent most of their free time together.
The tragedy was born when they learned that a shrine beside the river, sacred to Christians, was also sacred to Muslims, men who in their view denied Christ.
One night, influenced with drink, they decided to desecrate it in such a fashion that no Muslim would ever again use it. Whipped up in a frenzy of religious indignation, they stole a pig, an animal unclean to Muslims, and slaughtered it in the very heart of the shrine, scattering its blood around to make the place obscene forever after.
At this point Garrick became so hysterical even Narraway’s endless patience could draw nothing further from him which made any sense. He sat slumped forward, leaning a little against Charlotte, who was beside him on the sofa. Only his open eyes, staring vacantly at some hideous sight within his own brain, indicated that he was alive.
She could remember the screams torn from him long after she had hoped to forget them.
She smiled at Narraway very slightly. “Surely you will need to know more exactly what happened?”
His eyes widened a fraction. “Sandeman?”
“You will have to, won’t you?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.” That apology was real; she knew it without question.
For a moment he seemed about to say more, then changed his mind, and she bent her attention on Garrick, not to speak to him, because he was obviously not hearing anything, but simply to rest her hand on his shoulder and very tentatively touch his hair. Whatever he had done, it was tormenting him beyond his ability to bear. She had no need to judge him, and nothing she or anyone else could do would inflict on him a punishment as terrible as that he put upon himself.
Narraway turned to Pitt. It was nearly four o’clock in the morning. “There is nothing more we can do for him here. There is a house where he will be safe until we can find something permanent.”
“Will he be helped?” Charlotte asked when they reached the door and she held it open for them as Martin helped them pull and drag Garrick through it, talking to him softly all the time. It was rendingly clear that Garrick did not want to leave, for all Narraway’s assurances that this was not a return trip to Bedlam and Martin’s promises to remain with him. It was only on the footpath as Garrick turned desperately for one last look that Pitt realized it was Charlotte he clung to, not the house, and a shadow of searing pity crossed his face for an instant, and then was controlled and vanished the moment after.
She turned back and closed the door, leaning against it, almost choked for breath. She felt as if she had betrayed Garrick by allowing him to be taken, and the fact that there was no other possible answer did not take from her the memory of the anguish in his eyes, the despair as he realized she was not going with him.
“Are you gonna go an’ see the priest again later?” Gracie asked very quietly when they returned to the kitchen. “Yer gotta know what’s the truth of it.”
“Yes,” Charlotte said with hesitation. “There’s a whole lot more to it, there has to be.” She rubbed her hand across her eyes, exhaustion making them gritty. “You can tell Tilda that Martin’s safe.”
Pitt and Narraway returned to Keppel Street by half past nine, weary and aching. They stopped only long enough for breakfast, then Charlotte took them to Seven Dials, sending them through the alley and into the courtyard. This time she had no trouble remembering which door it was, and moments later they were in front of the smoldering fire while Sandeman, white-faced, stared beyond them with misery bleak and terrible in his eyes.
Charlotte felt as if she had betrayed him too, and yet surely he must have known when he told her of Garrick’s nightmares that she would have to come back to him, and when she did it would be with Pitt at least. She looked across at Pitt now, and caught the pity in his face. There was no blame in him as he met her gaze. He understood the pain inside her, and exactly why.
Tears prickled her eyes and she turned away. This was not a time to allow her own emotions to govern anything; they had no place in this.
“I need to know what happened, Mr. Sandeman,” Narraway said without any leniency in his voice. “Whatever I may feel or wish, there is no room for anything but the truth.”
“I know that,” Sandeman replied. “I suppose I always knew that one day it would be uncovered. You can bury the dead, but you can’t bury guilt.”
Narraway nodded. “We know about the sacrifice of the pig and the desecration of the sanctuary. What happened after that?” he asked.
Sandeman spoke as if the pain were still with him, physically eating into his gut. “A woman returning from caring for the sick saw the torchlight and came to see what it was. She screamed.” Without being aware of it, he moved his hands as if to put them over his ears and keep out the sound. “Lovat caught hold of her. She struggled.” His voice was barely audible. “She went on and on screaming. It was a terrible sound… thick with terror. He broke her neck. I don’t think he meant to.”
No one interrupted him.
“But she had been heard,” he whispered. “Others came… all sorts of people… They saw the dead woman lying there… and Lovat…”
The fire was burning and yet the room seemed to freeze.
“They came at us,” Sandeman went on. “I don’t know what they wanted… but we panicked. We… we shot them.” His voice broke. He tried to add something, but the scene inside his head suffocated everything else.
Charlotte felt as if she could not breathe.
“They weren’t found,” Narraway stated.
“No… we set fire to the building.” Sandeman’s voice was hoarse. “We burnt them all… like so much rubbish. It wasn’t difficult… with the torches. It was taken to be an accident.”
Narraway hesitated only a moment.
“How many were there?” he asked.
Sandeman shivered.
“About thirty-five,” he whispered. “Nobody counted, unless it was the imam who buried them.”
The room was engulfed in a hideous silence. Narraway was about as ashen as Sandeman. “Imam?” he repeated huskily.
Sandeman looked up at him. “Yes. They were given a decent Muslim burial.”
“God in heaven!” Narraway let out his breath in a sigh of anguish.
Charlotte felt a needle of fear inside herself, far down in the pit of her stomach. She was not even certain yet why, but something vast and unseen was terribly wrong. It was there in Narraway’s face, in the stiffness of his body in its elegant suit.
“By whom?” Narraway said, his voice shaking. “Who arranged it? Who found this imam?”
“The commanding officer,” Sandeman answered. “General Garrick. The place burned like an inferno, but there must have been something left.” He swallowed. His face was sheened with sweat. “Anyone looking at them would know they died of gunshots, and it couldn’t have been an accident.”
“Who else knows about it?” Narraway asked, his voice wavering.
“No one,” Sandeman replied. “General Garrick covered it up, and the imam buried the bodies. They were all wrapped up in shrouds, and he conducted all the appropriate prayers and rites.”
“And that is what drove Stephen Garrick mad?” Narraway continued. “Guilt? Or fear somebody one day would
