Seven Dials

Narraway was a far cleverer man, subtler. He never intentionally gave away anything of himself. Secrecy, misleading, taking knowledge without giving it, were his profession. But being obliged to trust where he could not see was a new experience for Pitt, and not a comfortable one.

“Have you?” he repeated. This time it was a challenge.

For a moment they faced each other in a silent, level stare. Pitt was not sure he could afford a confrontation, but he was too tired to be careful.

Narraway spoke very steadily, as if he had suddenly decided to take control of the exchange. “No, unfortunately not. But our job is to protect Ryerson, if possible.”

“At the expense of hanging an i

“Ah!” Narraway let out his breath in a sigh, his face easing, as if he had learned something of great interest. “And are you now of the opinion that Ayesha Zakhari is i

Pitt felt jolted as hard as if he had been slapped. Tomorrow! That was no time at all. The truth came to his tongue almost as if he had no ability to prevent it.

“I went to Egypt thinking she was a very pretty young woman of loose morals, prepared to use her charm to provide herself with the wealth and comfort she would not otherwise obtain.” He saw Narraway’s eyes intent upon him, and the faint curve of his lips into a smile. “And I came back knowing she was well-born, highly articulate, and probably far better educated than nine tenths of the men in London society, never mind the women. She is passionate in the cause of her country’s economic independence and welfare. She has been totally betrayed once, and may find it hard to believe any man again, no matter what he professes. And yet she has said nothing in prison to implicate Ryerson.”

“Which proves what?” Narraway asked.

“That there is something crucial we don’t know,” Pitt replied, pushing his chair back. “We haven’t done very well.” He stood up. “Either of us.”

Narraway looked at him, tilting his head back a little to meet his eyes. “I do know that Edwin Lovat was a man of profound and corroding misery,” he said very quietly. “And neither of us has uncovered the reason for it. It may have nothing to do with his murder-but it makes as much sense as anything else we have.”

“Well, I have no idea what it was,” Pitt replied. “According to his superiors in Alexandria, he was a man of religious conviction, well-liked, good at his job, and in love with Ayesha, but only casually. It ended before he left Egypt. He certainly wasn’t heartbroken-nor was she.”

“Nobody is suggesting that kind of passion, Pitt,” Narraway said with an edge to his voice; it could have been anything: pain, regret, memory, even dream. “She was beautiful, he was far from home. Since Egypt he has gone from woman to woman, but it was not for love of her. She was just one more.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I’ve spoken to those in their circle. He saw her several times in London before he bothered to pursue her at all. He was becoming more deeply involved than he wished with another woman. He wanted an escape from entanglement. Being seen to court Miss Zakhari provided it for him. He wanted to chase-he did not want to catch.”

Pitt hesitated at the door. He was too tired to think clearly. “Then what was the matter with him? What happened between leaving Egypt and arriving in England?”

“I don’t know yet,” Narraway answered. “But I am not certain that it has nothing to do with his death.”

“And Miss Zakhari?”

“As we have already said, there’s something we do not know, something that may bring more than a simple, rather pointless murder with it.”

Pitt opened the door and stood with his hand on it. “Good night.”

Narraway smiled very slightly. “Good night, Pitt.”

IT WAS DARK by the time Pitt reached Keppel Street. The lamps gleamed along the pavement like a string of endlessly reflected moons, dimming in the mist until the last he could see was no more than a suggestion, a luminescence without shape.

He opened the door with his own key and stood inside, tasting the moment, breathing in deeply the familiar odors of beeswax and lavender polish, clean linen, and the soft earthiness of chrysanthemums on the hall table. There was no light on in the parlor. The children would be upstairs; Charlotte and Gracie must be in the kitchen. He took his boots off, relishing the feel of his stocking feet on the cool linoleum. He padded down to the door and pushed it open.

For a moment Charlotte did not notice. She was alone in the room, her head bent over her needle, her face grave, heavy hair slipping out of its pins, bright in the gaslight. At that instant the sight of her was more beautiful than anything else he could imagine, more than sunset over the Nile or the desert sky white with stars.

“Hello…” he said quietly.

She jerked around, stared at him for an unbelieving heartbeat, then dropped the sewing on the floor and threw herself into his arms. It was long minutes later, when they heard Gracie’s heels along the hall, that they broke apart and Charlotte, her face flushed, went over to put the kettle on.

“Yer ’ome!” Gracie said with exuberant delight. Then, remembering her dignity a little, and lowering her voice to something closer to normal, “Well I’m that glad ter see yer safe. I s’pose yer ’ungry?” That was hopeful. Hungry was back to normal. When he did not answer immediately she regarded him with a shadow of anxiety.

“Yes, please.” He smiled at her and sat down in his usual place. “But a cold meat sandwich will be fine. Is everything well here?”

“ ’Course it is,” Gracie said firmly.

Charlotte turned from the stove, the kettle now on the hob. Her eyes were bright. “Very well,” she confirmed, not looking at Gracie.

He caught the tension, the shadow somewhere, the communication in that neither had looked at each other, almost as if the answer was agreed before he had come in.

“What have you been doing?” he asked conversationally.

Charlotte looked at him, but after a hesitation so minute that had he not been watching her closely, he would have missed it. It was as if she had been going to turn to Gracie first, and then decided not to.

“What have you been doing?” he repeated, before she had time to say something less than the truth, which she would then be unable to withdraw.

She took in a deep breath. “Gracie has a friend whose brother seems to be missing. We have been trying to find out what happened to him.”

He read her expression. “But you haven’t succeeded,” he said.

“No. No, and we don’t know what to do next. I’ll tell you about it… tomorrow.”

“Why not tonight?” The question sprang from the nudge of anxiety that she was delaying because something in the story would displease or disturb him.

She smiled. “Because you are tired and hungry, and there are far better things to talk about. We have tried, and not achieved very much.”

As if released from waiting on every word, Gracie swiveled around and darted to the pantry to slice the cold meat, and Charlotte went upstairs to wake the children.

They came racing down the stairs and threw themselves at Pitt, almost overbalancing him off his chair, hugging him, asking question after question about Egypt, Alexandria, the desert, the ship, and constantly interrupting the answers. Then he opened his case and gave them all the gifts he had brought, to everyone’s intense delight.

BUT IN THE MORNING he raised the question again, when Gracie was out shopping and Daniel and Jemima were at school. He had slept late, and came down to find Charlotte making bread.

“Who is the missing brother?” he asked, accepting tea and toast and fishing in the marmalade pot to see if there was sufficient left to satisfy his hunger for it. Its tart pungency was one of his favorite flavors, and it seemed like months since he had enjoyed crisp toast. He thought there might be just enough. He looked up at her. “Well?”