may have met, but I am not aware of it.”
The judge frowned.
The jury glanced around them, their interest still barely caught.
Pitt found his hands clenched, nails digging into his palms.
Markham deliberately kept his eyes on the witness stand. “Did you know the dead man, Tariq el Abd?”
“I learned a great deal about him,” Trenchard replied. He was standing very stiffly with his hands on the rails, knuckles white.
Pitt felt a ripple of fear go through him, wild and unreasonable. He turned to look at the dock. Ryerson was intent, but there was no leap of emotion in him; he dared not yet hope. But Ayesha was leaning forward, her eyes wide in amazement as she gazed at Trenchard, and Pitt realized with horror that unmistakably she knew him, not by repute, as he had said, but personally, face-to-face.
Now, at last, the jury were straining to catch each word, even a look.
The courtroom was warm, but Pitt felt a deep and terrible chill inside himself. He remembered Trenchard’s saying that he had loved an Egyptian woman who had died in an accident a short time ago. Suddenly, almost as if he were there sitting on the ground with his bones aching and the soft lapping of the Nile in the darkness outside, he heard Ishaq telling of his father, the imam, and his dying nightmares of slaughter and burning bodies, and the daughter who had nursed him, heard all his words, his passion of grief and guilt, and who also had died shortly afterwards.
A hideous, knife-bright possibility shone in Pitt’s mind, which made perfect sense of everything. The imam’s daughter and Trenchard’s mistress were the same woman. That was all it needed. Trenchard, with his passionate love of Egypt, knew Ayesha’s loyalties, knew of the massacre, and had pieced together the rest of it-the four British soldiers that Ferdinand Garrick had shipped out of Alexandria to protect them, and in his soul-deep and absolute devotion to his country, to protect Britain’s empire in Africa and the East.
Pitt turned to Narraway. “He’s going to tell them about the massacre,” he whispered, hearing his own voice tremble. “Maybe he always intended to do it himself to make it complete-with no one to argue, no one to lose nerve and fail. It’s not Ayesha’s motive he’s going to uncover-it’s el Abd’s. El Abd was not master to anyone-he was the perfect scapegoat. Ayesha to draw in Ryerson-so the world would be looking-el Abd to take the ultimate blame.”
The blood drained from Narraway’s face. “God Almighty!” he breathed. “You’re right…”
Markham was still talking to Trenchard.
“What was it you learned about Tariq el Abd that is relevant to the death of Lieutenant Lovat?” Markham said with a lift of curiosity, his eyes wide, seeing only his own victory, so close he could already taste it.
“I learned why he killed him,” Trenchard answered.
Pitt half rose to his feet. He had no clear idea what he was going to do, but he could not let this happen-the bloodshed would drown the whole of Egypt and ruin British India, Burma and beyond.
Trenchard saw him and turned toward him, and smiled.
“Tariq el Abd lost the whole of his family in a hideous-” he began.
There was a loud crack, and immediately another. Trenchard fell backwards and slid down onto the floor of the stand.
Pitt swung around just as the third crack sounded, and he saw Ferdinand Garrick’s head seem to explode as he fell, the revolver still in his hand.
The judge was paralyzed.
Markham’s legs folded underneath him, and he slipped down awkwardly.
Pitt walked forward, Narraway a pace behind. He went over to the witness stand where Trenchard was lying. Garrick had struck him through the head with both shots, blowing half his brain away. He had finally closed the last chapter of the massacre. Egypt and the East were safe.
Narraway looked at the body for a moment, then turned his back and stared towards the gallery, where everyone was moving away from Garrick, sprawled on the floor-except Vespasia. Oblivious of the blood on her gown, she knelt beside him and gently folded his hands. It was a pointless gesture, but it had a dignity, a peculiar respect, as if suddenly she had seen something of value in him, and a certain pity that was beyond judgments.
In the dock, Ryerson put out his hand and took Ayesha’s, it was all he could reach of her, but it was enough.
“I’ll see that Stephen Garrick is cared for,” Narraway said quietly. “I think we owe his father that.”
Pitt nodded, still looking at Vespasia. “It will be done,” he said with absolute conviction. “And Martin Garvie will watch over him.”
Narraway looked up at Ryerson, and something of the tension in his body softened and a burden inside him seemed to ease.
About the Author
ANNE PERRY is the author of two acclaimed series set in Victorian England. Her William Monk novels include Death of a Stranger and The Shifting Tide. Among her novels featuring Charlotte and Thomas Pitt are the New York Times bestselling Southampton Row and Long Spoon Lane. With No Graves As Yet, also a New York Times bestseller, Perry began a new miniseries set during World War I. Her short story 'Heroes' won an Edgar Award. Anne Perry lives in the Scottish Highlands. Visit her website at www.anneperry.net.
