know anything of the Inner Circle or imagine that such a society could exist. Had she not known of it herself, the suggestion would have seemed absurd to her too, the delusion of someone whose fancy had become warped, and who imagined conspiracies where there were none.
What was harder to accept, and hurt the emotions as well as the reason, was that Harriet thought Sir Arthur had become senile, and had indeed been responsible for his own death. Of course it was good that her concern was born of her love for Matthew, but that would be of only marginal comfort to him if he realized what was in her mind. At the moment his grief for his father was much too raw to accept it.
“Don’t speak of this to Matthew,” she said urgently, taking Harriet’s arm and beginning to walk forwards again in case their hesitation should be questioned. “I am afraid at this point he may feel your disbelief as another wound, if you like, another betrayal.”
Harriet looked startled, then slowly realization came into her face.
They were still moving very slowly and Pitt and Matthew were drawing ahead of them, not noticing their absence.
Harriet increased her pace to keep their distance from those coming after them. She did not wish to be overheard, still less for Matthew to turn around and come back to them, fearing something amiss.
“Yes. Yes, perhaps you are right. It is not really sensible, but I think I might take a great deal of time to come to accept that my father was no longer the man I had known, no longer so … so fine, so strong, so … wise,” she went on. “Perhaps we all tend to idealize those we love, and when we are forced to see them in truth, we hate those who have shown us. I could not bear Matthew to feel like that about me. And perhaps I am asking equally as much of your husband, if I am to request him to tell Matthew what he so much does not wish to hear.”
“There is no point in asking Thomas,” Charlotte said honestly, keeping pace beside her. “He thinks just as Matthew does.”
“That Sir Arthur was murdered?” Harriet was amazed. “Really? But he is a policeman! How could he seriously believe … are you sure?”
“Yes. You see, there are such societies….”
“Oh, I know there are criminals. Everyone who is not totally sheltered from reality knows that,” Harriet protested.
Charlotte remembered with a jolt that when she had been Harriet’s age, before she met Pitt, she had been just as innocent about the world. Not only the criminal aspect of it was unknown to her, but perhaps more seriously, she had not had the least idea of what poverty meant, or ignorance, endemic disease, or the undernourishment which produced rickets, tuberculosis, scurvy and such things. She had imagined that crime was the province of those who were violent, deceitful and innately wicked. The world had been very black and white. She should not expect of Harriet Soames an understanding of the shades of gray which only experience could teach, or a knowledge outside the scope of her life and its confines. It was unfair.
“But you didn’t hear what Sir Arthur was saying,” Harriet went on. “Who it was he was accusing!”
“If it is quite untrue,” Charlotte said carefully, choosing her words, “then Thomas will tell Matthew, however it hurts. But he will want to look into it himself first. And that way, I think Matthew will accept it, because there will be no alternative. Also, he will know that Thomas wants Sir Arthur to have been right, and sane, just as much as he does himself. I think it would be best if we said nothing, don’t you?”
“Yes. Yes, you are right,” Harriet said with relief. They were fast approaching the last section of the driveway to the house. The elms had fallen away behind them and they were in the open sunlight. There were several carriages standing on the gravel before the front doors, and the gentlemen ahead were going into the Hall for the funeral meats. It was time they joined them.
It was when he was almost ready to leave that Pitt was given the opportunity to speak to Danforth and ask him further about the episode of the dogs. Sir Arthur had always cared deeply about his animals. If he took the matter of finding homes for his favorite bitch’s pups lightly, then he had changed almost beyond recognition. It was not as if he had forgotten the matter entirely; according to Danforth he had sold them to someone else.
He found Danforth in the hallway taking his leave. He still looked uncomfortable, not quite sure if he should be here or not. It must be his testimony at the inquest weighing on his mind. He had been a close neighbor and agreeable friend for years. There had never been bad blood between the estates, although Danforth’s was much smaller.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Danforth.” Pitt approached him as if by chance. “Good to see you looking so well, sir.”
“Er-good afternoon,” Danforth replied, squinting a little in an effort to place Pitt. He must have looked as if he came from London, and yet there was an air about him as if he belonged, and a vague familiarity.
“Thomas Pitt,” Pitt assisted him.
“Pitt? Pitt-oh yes. Gamekeeper’s son, I recall.” A shadow crossed his face, and quite suddenly the past flooded back and Pitt could recall the disgrace, the fear, the shame of his father’s being accused of poaching, as if it were yesterday. It had not been Danforth’s estate, but that was irrelevant now. The man who had pressed the charge and seen him sent to prison, where he had died, had been one of Danforth’s social class and background, one who owned land as he did; and poachers were a common enemy.
Pitt felt his face burn and all the old humiliation come back, the resentment and the feeling of being inferior, foolish, of not knowing the rules. It was absurd. He was a policeman now, a very senior policeman. He had arrested better men than Danforth, wiser, richer, and more powerful men, men of better blood and lineage.
“Superintendent Pitt, of Bow Street,” Pitt said coldly, but the words fumbled on his tongue.
Danforth looked surprised.
“Good God! Not a police matter, for heaven’s sake. Poor man died of …” He let out his breath with a sigh. “They don’t send superintendents for-suicide. And you’ll never prove it. Certainly not through me!” Now his face was equally cold, and there was a bitter affront in his eyes.
“I came to pay my respects to a man I loved deeply,” Pitt said with a clenched jaw. “And to whom I owe almost all I have. My occupation has no more to do with my presence here than does yours.”
“Then dammit, sir, why did you say you were from the police?” Danforth demanded. He had been made to look a fool, and he resented it.
Pitt had done it to show that he was no longer merely a gamekeeper’s son, but he could hardly admit that.
“I was at the inquest.” He evaded the subject. “I know what you said about the pups. Sir Arthur always cared very much about his dogs.”
“And his horses,” Danforth agreed with a frown. “That’s how I know the poor fellow was really losing a grip on things. He not only promised me the pick of the litter, he actually came with me to choose. Then, dammit, he went and sold them to Bridges.” He shook his head. “I could understand simple forgetfulness. We all forget the odd thing now and again as we get older. But he was convinced I’d said I didn’t want them. Swore blind to it. That’s what was so unlike the man. Terribly sad. Fearful way to go. But glad you came to pay your respects, Mr. er- Superintendent.”
“Good day, sir,” Pitt acknowledged him, and then without giving it conscious thought, turned and went back through the baize door into the kitchens. He knew precisely where he was going. The paneled walls were so familiar he could recognize every variation in the wood, every place worn smoother and darker by countless touches of the hand, or brushes of fabric from the shoulders of footmen and butlers, and skirts of maids, housekeepers and cooks for generations past. He had added to the patina of it himself when his mother had worked here. In the history of the Hall, that must seem like only yesterday. He and Matthew had crept down here to beg biscuits and milk from the cook, and odd titbits of pastry. Matthew had teased the maids, and put a frog in the housekeeper’s sitting room. Mrs. Thayer had hated frogs. Matthew and Pitt had laughed themselves nearly sick when they heard her scream. Tapioca pudding for a week had been a small price to pay for the savoring of such a delight.
The smell of furniture polish and heavy curtains and uncarpeted floors was indefinable, and yet so sharp he would hardly have been surprised to face the mirror and see himself reflected a twelve-year-old boy with lanky limbs, steady gray eyes and a shock of hair.
When he turned into the kitchen, the cook, still in her black bombazine with her apron over it, looked up sharply. She was new since Pitt’s time, and to her he was a stranger. She was flustered as it was, with the loss of her master, being allowed to attend the service herself, while still being in charge of the funeral meats.
“You lost, sir? The reception rooms are back that way.”
