“The message includes figures quite specifically, and this is what is incomprehensible. They are not any of those which I distributed, nor are they the genuine figures which I retained and passed to Lord Salisbury.”
“What?” Pitt could scarcely believe what he had heard. It made no sense whatever. “I beg your pardon?”
“Precisely,” Hathaway agreed. “I can see no sense in it at all. That is why I delayed contacting you.” He sat motionless. Even his hands on the desk were quite still. “I made doubly sure that I had received the message correctly. It was my first thought that somehow figures had been transposed or misunderstood; but it was not so. The message was clear and correct, the figures are quite different, and indeed if acted upon, seriously misleading. I have no desire whatever to disabuse the German Embassy of its error. I am also, at this stage, at a loss to understand what has happened. I did take the liberty of informing Lord Salisbury of the matter, to be sure he had the correct figures himself. I need hardly say that he has.”
Pitt sat in silence, digesting what Hathaway had told him and trying to think of some explanation. None came to his mind.
“We have failed, Superintendent, and I confess to total confusion,” Hathaway said ruefully, leaning back in his chair again and regarding Pitt steadily. “I am perfectly prepared to try again, if you think there is any purpose to it?”
Pitt was more disappointed than he cared to admit. He had been counting on this producing some result, however small or difficult to follow. He had no idea where to turn next, and he dreaded confessing to Farnsworth that what had seemed such an excellent plan had failed so completely. He could already imagine his response, and the contempt with which it would be delivered.
“About the death of Mrs. Chancellor,” Hathaway said quietly. “I fear I can be of little help there either. I wish I knew something of service to you. It seems such a pointless tragedy.” He looked totally sincere, a decent man expressing a profoundly felt regret for grief, and yet Pitt also sensed in him a reasoning in his brain that superseded emotion. Was he distinguishing between pointless tragedies and those which were necessary, and had meaning?
“Did she ever mention Sir Arthur Desmond to you, Mr. Hathaway?” Pitt asked.
Not a flicker crossed Hathaway’s face.
“Sir Arthur Desmond?” he repeated.
“Yes. He used to be at the Foreign Office. He died recently at his club.”
“Yes, yes I know who you mean.” He relaxed so slightly it was barely noticeable, a mere shift of the muscles in his shoulders. “Most unfortunate. I suppose such things tend to happen from time to time, when a club’s membership is on the elderly side. No, I cannot recall her having mentioned him. Why? Surely he can have nothing whatever to do with this latest business? His death was a very ordinary sort of misfortune. I was at the club that afternoon myself, in the writing room with a business colleague.”
He let out his breath in a very gentle sigh. “As I understood it from the newspapers, Mrs. Chancellor was attacked very violently, presumably while in her hansom cab, and then put in the river afterwards. Is that so?”
“Yes, that is correct,” Pitt conceded. “It is simply that Sir Arthur was vehemently against the development of Central Africa as planned by Mr. Rhodes, and so is Mr. Kreisler, who …” He stopped. Hathaway’s face had changed noticeably.
“Kreisler?” Hathaway said slowly, watching Pitt very closely. “He came to see me, you know? Also regarding Mrs. Chancellor’s death, although that was not the reason he gave. He concocted some story about mineral rights and leases and so on, but it was Mrs. Chancellor and her opinions which seemed to concern him. A most unusual man. A man of powerful passions and convictions.”
He had a curious habit of stillness which conveyed an intense concentration. “I assume you have naturally considered him as a possible suspect, Superintendent? I don’t mean to tell you your business, but anyone who asks as many questions as to detail as does Mr. Kreisler has a far more than passing interest in the outcome.”
“Yes, Mr. Hathaway, I have considered him,” Pitt replied with feeling. “And by no means discounted the possibility that they quarreled, either about Africa and Mr. Chancellor’s backing of Mr. Rhodes, or about something else, possibly more personal, and that that quarrel became a great deal more savage than either of them intended. I imagine Mr. Kreisler is well able both to attack and to defend himself as the situation may require. It is possible he may do either instinctively when aroused to uncontrolled rage, and far too late to realize he has committed murder.”
Hathaway’s face pinched with distress and distaste.
“What a very grave and uncivilized way to behave. Temper of such violence and complete lack of control is scarcely a characteristic of a human being, let alone a man of honor or intellect. What a dismal waste. I hope that you are not correct in your assumption, Superintendent. Kreisler has real possibilities for better ends than that.”
They spoke a little further, but ten minutes later Pitt rose to leave, having learned nothing about Susannah Chancellor, and in a state of confusion about the information from the German Embassy.
“And what has that to do with anything at all?”
Charlotte was paying a duty call upon her grandmother, who, now that Charlotte’s mother was recently remarried (a fact which Grandmama disapproved of with almost apoplectic fury), was obliged to live with Charlotte’s sister and her husband. Emily and Jack found this arrangement displeasing; the old lady was of an exceedingly difficult temperament. But she could no longer remain at Cater Street with Caroline and Joshua-in fact she had refused point-blank to do so, not that the opportunity had been offered. And there was certainly no room in Charlotte’s house, although in fact she had refused to consider that either. She would not dream of living in the house of a person of the police, even if he was recently promoted and now on the verge of respectability. That, when all was said and done, was only marginally better than being on the stage! Never in all the history of the Ellison family had anyone married an actor until Caroline had lost her wits and done so. But then of course she was an Ellison only by marriage. What poor Edward, Charlotte’s father, would have said could only be guessed at. It was a mercy he was in his grave.
Charlotte had pointed out that were he not, the question of Caroline’s remarrying anyone would not have arisen. She was told curtly not to be impertinent.
Now since Emily and Jack were on holiday in Italy, and Grandmama was thus alone, apart from the servants, Charlotte felt duty-bound to call upon her at least once a fortnight. She had kept a treat for herself after honor was satisfied. She was going out with Harriet Soames to visit the flower show.
Grandmama was keen to hear all the gossip Charlotte could think of. In fact, with Caroline living in Cater Street and seldom calling (being newly married and much occupied with her husband), and Emily and Jack abroad, she was starved for something to talk about.
Charlotte had idly mentioned Amanda Pennecuick and Garston Aylmer’s pursuit of her, and that Mr. Aylmer was unusually homely.
“It has quite a lot to do with many things, if one is to consider marrying him,” Charlotte replied candidly. They were sitting in Emily’s large, airy, rather ornate withdrawing room. There were portraits of past Ashworths on all the walls and an Aubusson carpet specially woven for the room.
“Stuff and nonsense!” the old lady snapped. “That just goes to show how light-minded you are! A man’s looks do not matter in the slightest.” She glared at Charlotte. “Anyway, if they did, why on earth did you marry Thomas? He is hardly handsome, or even graceful. Never seen a man so badly dressed in my life! He could make the best Saville Row suit look like a rag bag, once he had it on his back. His hair is too long, he keeps enough to stock a curiosity shop in his pockets, and I’ve never seen him with his tie on straight since the day he arrived.”
“That is not the same thing as being homely!” Charlotte argued.
“Then I should like to know what the difference is,” Grandmama retorted. “Except, of course, that a man cannot help his features, whereas he can most certainly help his dress. Untidy clothes are the sign of a slovenly mind, I always say.”
“You don’t always say it. In fact you’ve never said it before.”
“Only to save your feelings, but since you raised the matter, you have brought it upon yourself. Who is this Amanda Shilling, or Sixpence, or whatever her name is?”
“Pennecuick.”
“Don’t quibble. That is not an answer. Who is she?” the old lady demanded.
