couldn’t have proved it. All he had to do was get into the witness stand and say that it was she who had lost relatives in the massacre-or friends, a lover, whatever you like-and that was why she shot Lovat. Even if she had denied it and claimed it was he who did, there’s no proof. His death looks like an admission, and leaves the massacre a secret.”
They were standing in the hall, and both turned as the parlor door opened and Charlotte stood in the entrance looking at them anxiously. She saw Narraway just as he turned, and the gaslight in the passage caught the momentary softening of his face.
“Miss Zakhari’s house servant has been found dead,” Pitt said to her.
She looked from him to Narraway, to see if she was being protected from some deeper meaning.
“It appears to be suicide,” Narraway added. “But we can see no reason why.”
She stepped back, tacitly inviting them in, and they followed her into the warmth of the parlor, Pitt closing the door behind them and poking the fire before putting more coal on. It was not that it was cold so much as the desire for the brightness of new flame.
“Then either there is something we do not know,” she said, sitting down again on the sofa next to her sewing. “Or he did not take his own life, but someone else did.”
Pitt looked at Narraway. “I said nothing to Ayesha about the massacre. If she didn’t know about it before, then she still doesn’t.”
“I beg your pardon,” Narraway apologized, sitting in Pitt’s chair close to the fire, shivering a little. “I should not have assumed you would be so careless.”
“Why would anyone kill the house servant?” Charlotte asked, looking from one to the other of them. “That kind of death couldn’t be an accident, nor was it intended to look like one.”
“You are right, Mrs. Pitt,” Narraway agreed grimly. “Therefore it was someone who knew who he was, in relation to Lovat’s murder and the entire plan to set Egypt alight.” He faced Pitt. “El Abd was not the prime mover in this. There is someone else behind him, and for some reason we don’t yet know, he killed el Abd.” His hand clenched unconsciously. “But why? Why now? They were on the brink of victory.”
Pitt stood in front of the fire, as if he too were cold.
“Perhaps el Abd lost his courage and was not going to testify?” he suggested. Then the moment the words were out of his mouth, he knew he did not believe them. “But that makes no sense either. Why would he not? He had nothing to lose. It is not as if he intended to take the blame-he was going to make her connection certain by giving her the perfect motive.”
Charlotte looked at Narraway. “Will this help Ryerson? Will you be able to show that el Abd killed Lovat, without exposing that massacre? Surely you can? He could have had any number of motives for it, dating back to Lovat’s time in Alexandria… couldn’t he?”
“Yes,” Narraway said thoughtfully. “Yes… one result of it is that we should be able to exonerate Ryerson and Ayesha Zakhari completely… as long as we allow el Abd’s death to be taken as suicide.”
The tiny germ of an idea stunned Pitt’s mind, ugly and painful, and he refused to look at it.
“Is that what you are going to do?” Charlotte asked.
Pitt did not answer.
“It is all we can do, for the meantime,” Narraway replied.
They sat a little longer, warming themselves. Charlotte fetched tea. They spoke of the news for half an hour or so, even the very recent death of Lord Tennyson, and wondered who would be the next poet laureate, before Narraway rose and took his leave.
But as soon as he had gone, Pitt, restless and unhappy, also went out. He gave Charlotte no explanation because the fear inside him was too painful to give words to, even to her. It was as if, still unspoken, he could deny it a little longer.
He took an omnibus south to the Thames Embankment and the offices of the river police. There was only a sergeant on duty, but he told Pitt which morgue the hanged man had been taken to, and half an hour later Pitt was standing in the offensively clean tiled room with the familiar smell of carbolic and death filling his throat. He stared down at the swollen, purplish face of Tariq el Abd.
The mark of the rope was burned deep into his neck, crooked, high under one ear, and his head lay at an awkward angle.
Pitt touched the head to move it very slightly, searching for other marks, bruises, anything to indicate beyond doubt whether he had been struck before death.
He heard footsteps behind him and swung around more quickly than he had meant to, as if he felt himself in danger. His heart was knocking in his chest and it was difficult to draw breath into his lungs.
McDade looked at him with wry surprise.
“Jumpy, aren’t you, Pitt? What do you want to know? He died sometime during last night. Difficult to say when; the water affected the temperature of the body.”
“Tides?” Pitt asked.
“I did think of that.” McDade’s lips thinned fractionally. “I have been aware for some time that the water in the Thames goes up and down with monotonous and predictable regularity. However, what I cannot say is whether he was caught up in the wash of a passing boat that soaked him higher than the actual water level, or even if he slipped and got wetter than he intended.”
“Can you say for certain that he hanged himself?” Pitt asked. Even though it made no sense of anything they knew, he hoped intensely that McDade would tell him it was suicide.
McDade did not hesitate. “No, I can’t,” he said dryly. “He’s been knocked around a bit, bruised under the skin, but it happened either just before death or just after. There’s been no time for the blood to gather, no marks to see. Bit of a gash on his head under the hair, but that’s not necessarily a blow administered by someone else. It could have happened when he dropped, or any of a dozen ways afterwards-water carried him against the arches, struck by a passing boat, or even by driftwood or flotsam.” He shrugged his massive shoulders. “It could be murder, but I can’t tell you anything to prove it one way or the other. Sorry.”
Pitt pulled back the sheet and looked at the rest of the torso. There were other marks on it as if it had buffeted to and fro, and been caught by rough objects which had torn the skin in several places. He replaced the sheet and turned away.
“Will anyone see he gets a burial according to his faith?” he asked.
McDade’s eyebrows rose. “No one to claim the body?”
“Not so far as I know. I think the court will decide by now that he was the one who shot Lieutenant Lovat.”
McDade shook his head, his chins quivering. “You say that as if you are not sure it is true,” he observed.
“I’m sure it’s true,” Pitt replied. “I’m just not sure it is all of the truth. Thank you.” He closed the conversation and turned to go. McDade made him uncomfortable; he was too observant. And Pitt needed to speak once more to the river police about exactly where el Abd was found, the state of his clothes, and the precise hours of the tides last night. A time of death mattered to him; in fact, just at the moment the importance of it overrode everything else in his mind.
Two hours later, at a quarter to nine, he had the answers. He stood on the Embankment in the gusty wind, his coat flapping around his legs and his scarf whipping out sideways, staring at the racing water of the flood tide returning. Out on the river, boats churned the water, steamers, barges, a lone pleasure boat with only half a dozen people on deck.
Tariq el Abd had died between one and five in the morning. They could not be more accurate than that. It was a time when most people were at home in bed. Pitt could have proved he was there, because Charlotte always woke if he got up. A man who lived alone would have no such safety.
He realized how little he knew of Narraway’s private life; he had never even wondered about it. For that matter he knew almost nothing of Narraway’s past, his family or his beliefs either. He was private to the point of being secretive. The only thing Pitt was sure of was that Narraway cared passionately about his work, and the causes it served, and that there was a personal relationship between him and Ryerson which caused him deep pain and which he would not discuss, no matter what the circumstances. And it was that which ate at Pitt now with a hard, angry pain that he could no longer ignore. It must be now; there was just time before the court resumed-if Narraway was at home.
Pitt met him on the doorstep, dressed smartly in his usual perfectly tailored dark gray. Narraway stopped
