Farnsworth’s voice, and yet the tone was disappointed rather than deliberately offensive.
He stood up. “I expect you’re right,” he conceded, surprised that he minded so little. “But gamekeepers protect and preserve what is good.” He smiled. “Is that not what you have been talking about?”
Farnsworth looked startled. He opened his mouth to dismiss the idea, then realized its truth and changed his mind.
“Good day, sir,” Pitt said from the doorway.
There was only one thing Pitt could profitably do regarding the Colonial Office. The routine investigation of associates, personal habits, the search for weakness, could be accomplished as well by Tellman and his men as by Pitt himself. Not that he expected any of it to yield much of value. But quite apart from that, Arthur Desmond’s death still filled his thoughts in every quiet moment and the underlying sadness was with him all the time. It grew gradually more compelling that he should resolve what he could, for Matthew’s sake and for his own.
Charlotte had said little to him on the subject, but her unusual silence was more eloquent than speech. She had been gentle with him, more patient than was characteristic, as if she were sensitive not only to his loss but to his awareness of guilt. He was grateful for it. He would have found her criticism painful, because it would have been fair, and when one is most vulnerable, one is also the least able to bear the wound.
But he also longed to return to the frankness that was more natural to both of them.
He began with General Anstruther, and was obliged to pursue him from one of his clubs to a second, and ultimately find him in a quiet reading room of a third. Or it would be more accurate to say he was informed by the steward that General Anstruther was there. Pitt, not being a member, was not permitted into that very private and privileged sanctuary.
“Would you please ask General Anstruther if he can spare me a few moments of his time?” Pitt said politely, hating having to beg. He had no authority in this case, and could not use his office to insist. It galled him far more than he should have allowed it to.
“I will ask him, sir,” the steward replied expressionlessly. “Who may I say is asking?”
“Superintendent Pitt, of Bow Street.” Pitt handed him his card.
“Very well, sir. I shall enquire.” And leaving Pitt standing in the large and extremely opulent hall, he retreated upstairs, carrying the card on a silver tray.
Pitt gazed around the walls at the marble busts of long-dead soldiers and saw Marlborough, Wellington, Moore, Wolfe, Hastings, Clive, Gordon, and two he did not recognize. It crossed his mind with amusement, but no surprise, that Cromwell was not there. Above the doors were the arms of Richard Coeur de Lion, and Henry V. On the farther wall was a somber and very fine painting of the burial of Moore after Corunna, and opposite, another of the charge of the Scots Greys at Waterloo. More recent battle honors hung from the high ceiling, from Inkermann, the Alma and Balaclava.
General Anstruther came down the stairs, white whiskers bristling, his face pink, his back stiff as a ramrod.
“Good day to you, sir. What can I do for you?” He made it almost a demand. “Must be damned urgent to seek a fellow out at his club, what?”
“It is not urgent, General Anstruther, but I think it is important,” Pitt replied respectfully. “And I can get the information accurately from no one else, or I should not have troubled you.”
“Indeed! Indeed. And what is it, Mr…. Superintendent? Unless it is very brief, we can hardly stand around here like a couple of butlers, what. Come into the guests’ room.” He waved a heavy, florid hand towards one of the many oak doors off the hallway, and Pitt followed him obediently.
The room was filled with extremely comfortable armchairs, but the pictures and general decor were forbidding, perhaps to remind visitors of the military grandeur of the club’s members and the utter inferiority of civilians permitted in on sufferance.
General Anstruther indicated one of the chairs, and as Pitt sat down, took the one opposite him and leaned back, crossing his legs.
“Well then, Superintendent, what is it that troubles you?”
Pitt had thought carefully what he should say.
“The matter of the death of the late Sir Arthur Desmond,” he replied candidly. He saw Anstruther’s face tighten, but continued speaking. “There have been certain questions asked, and I wish to be in possession of all the facts so that I can refute any unpleasant or unwarranted suggestions that may be made.”
“By whom, sir? Suggestions of what?” Anstruther demanded. “Explain yourself, sir. This is most unfortunate.”
“Indeed it is,” Pitt agreed. “The suggestions are concerning his sanity, and the possibility of either suicide or- just as bad-murder.”
“Good God!” Anstruther was genuinely shocked; there was nothing assumed in the horror in his face, the slackness of initial disbelief, and then the growing darkness in his eyes as all the implications came to him. “That’s scandalous! Who has dared to say such a thing? I demand to know, sir!”
“At the moment it is no more than suggestion, General Anstruther,” Pitt replied, somewhat mendaciously. “I wish to be in a position to refute it decisively if it should ever become more.”
“That’s preposterous! Why should anyone murder Desmond? Never knew a more decent chap in my life.”
“I don’t doubt that is true, until the last few months,” Pitt said with more confidence than he felt. He had a growing fear in his mind that Anstruther’s outrage might be so deep as to prompt him to complain in a manner which would reach Farnsworth’s ears, and then Pitt would be in serious trouble. Perhaps he had overstated his case and brought about more harm than good?
It was too late to go back.
“Well …” Anstruther said guardedly. “Ah-yes.” He was obviously remembering what he had said at the inquest. “That is true-up to a point.”
“That is what I am worried about.” Pitt felt he had regained a little ground. “Just how erratic was his behavior, sir? You were naturally very discreet at the inquest, as becomes a friend speaking in a public place. But this is private, and for quite a different purpose.”
“Well … I hardly know what to say, sir.” Anstruther looked confounded.
“You said earlier that Sir Arthur was forgetful and confused,” Pitt prompted him. “Can you give me instances?”
“I … er. One doesn’t choose to remember such things, man! For heaven’s sake, one overlooks the failings of one’s friends. One does not commit them to memory!”
“You don’t remember any instance?” Pitt felt a stirring of hope, too thin to rely on, too bright to ignore.
“Well … er … it is more of an impression than a catalog of events, don’t you know, what?” Anstruther was now thoroughly unhappy.
Pitt had the sudden sharp impression that he was lying. He did not actually know anything at all. He had been repeating what he had been told by fellow members of the Inner Circle.
“When did you last see Sir Arthur?” he asked quite gently. Anstruther was embarrassed. There was no point in making an enemy of him; then he would learn nothing.
“Ah …” Anstruther was pink-faced now. “Not certain. Events put it rather out of my mind. I do recall quite plainly dining with him about three weeks before he died, poor fellow.” His voice gained in confidence. He was on firm ground now. “Seemed to me to have changed a lot. Rambling on about Africa.”
“Rambling?” Pitt interrupted. “You mean he was incoherent, disconnected in his ideas?”
“Ah-that’s a little steep, sir. Not at all. I mean simply that he kept returning to the subject, even when the rest of us had clearly passed on to something else.”
“He was a bore?”
Anstruther’s eyes widened. “If you like, sir, yes. He didn’t know when to leave the matter alone. Made a lot of accusations that were most unfortunate. Quite unfounded, of course.”
“Were they?”
“Good heavens, of course they were.” Anstruther was appalled. “Talked about secret plots to conquer Africa, and God knows what else. Quite mad-delusory.”
“You are profoundly familiar with Africa, sir?” Pitt did his best to keep every shred of sarcasm out of his voice
