Seven Dials

“Yes,” the man agreed. “But it’s packed in there. You won’t get in.”

“What has happened so far?”

The man shrugged. “Only what you’d expect, a lot of police saying what they found. She did it, of course; the only mystery is how she thought she’d get away with it.”

Pitt glanced around him at the people still waiting hopefully, as if there was yet some chance of drama in which they could share.

“It could bring the government down in time,” the man said, as if in answer to the question Pitt had only thought. “Narrow majority-important minister mixed up with a woman like that. Trouble up Manchester way.” He pulled his mouth into a slight sneer. “I thought it would have been more interesting. Defense lawyer’s got nothing. I might come back tomorrow.” And without waiting he pushed past and disappeared into the crowd.

Pitt moved closer to the door so he would have a better chance to see Narraway, if indeed he was inside.

As it was, he very nearly missed him and only caught up as Narraway moved across the hall towards the steps to leave. He looked at Pitt with momentary irritation, thinking he had been bumped into by a stranger, then he recognized him and his face sharpened with attention. “Well?” he demanded.

“What happened in there?” Pitt countered.

Narraway stopped and faced Pitt, his eyes wide. “You came here to ask me that?”

There was a dangerous edge to his voice, and Pitt saw the lines of strain etched deep into his face. He was holding control of himself with an effort. They had failed to help Ryerson, and again Pitt was reminded sharply that for some reason deeper than anything he understood, it mattered intensely to Narraway. Was it simply failure that hurt him, or was there a personal wound to do with events, feelings in the past of which Pitt was ignorant?

Narraway was waiting.

“I came to tell you that Arnold Yeats is dead,” Pitt replied. “He was the fourth soldier of the group of Lovat’s friends. Lovat was murdered, Garrick is missing, and Sandeman has become an obscure priest in the back alleys of Seven Dials.”

Narraway stood quite stiff. “Indeed? And how do you know this?”

“I asked the War Office!” It was the obvious answer. Then he realized that Narraway was referring not to Yeats but to Garrick and Sandeman.

“Keep your wife out of it, Pitt,” Narraway said in a low, careful voice, his face pinched. He ignored the flash of responding anger in Pitt’s eyes. “She is the only one who has co

“It’s going badly?” Pitt said. It was barely a question.

Narraway leaned against the door arch, but his body was rigid; there was no grace in it. He looked too tense to remain in any position long. “They are not here to see proof of guilt or i

Pitt looked at the anger and helplessness in Narraway’s face, and again was almost submerged in his emotion. “Are you saying it is political by accident or by design?” he asked.

Anger filled Narraway’s eyes, then disappeared. “I don’t know!” he said with a note of desperation.

“I don’t believe Ayesha Zakhari is guilty of the stupid murder of a man she no longer knew or cared about,” Pitt said miserably.

“And if her intention was to bring Ryerson down, in whatever way she could?” Narraway asked, his black eyes hard and angry.

“She came as an idealist, believing she could improve her country’s economic independence,” Pitt said with complete conviction. “That is not so unrealistic.”

“I am as familiar with Egyptian economic history as you are!” Narraway snapped. “And it was the expansion under Said Pasha, then Khedive Ismail, and the return of American cotton after their civil war, which crippled them and forced Ismail to abdicate in ’79 and opened the way for us to take the control we now have. If Ayesha Zakhari is as well-educated as you say, surely she must have known that even better than we do.”

Pitt had no answer. They were caught in a morass of facts which made no coherent story, except one of impulse and stupidity, and that was not what he wanted to believe.

“You had better follow it,” Narraway said quietly, already half turning away, almost as if he did not wish Pitt to see any hope in his face. “Be in my office at seven in the morning,” he ordered. “Day after tomorrow.” And he walked away, leaving Pitt alone.

Pitt learned all he could about Arnold Yeats, but it added nothing to his understanding of Lovat’s death, or anything that had happened to him in Egypt, and there was no co

THE DAY THAT PITT left early to keep his appointment with Narraway, Charlotte also went out, but in the opposite direction. She did not tell Gracie where she was going, because she did not want to place her in the position of having to tell Pitt something less than the truth, should he return before she did.

She caught the omnibus to Oxford Street, and from there walked south as far as Dudley Street. She hesitated a moment, trying to remember exactly which way Sandeman had taken her. It was towards the circle of Seven Dials itself, but not all the way. She started off along Great White Lion Street, and turned left up the alley. It looked different in the morning light, somehow paler and bleaker, as if it were under a layer of dust.

It all seemed smaller.

How many steps had they taken? She had no idea. Anything she thought now seemed too far.

A man bent over with a misshapen body was moving towards her. There was no malice in his face, but something in his lurching gait frightened her. She made an instant decision and started away from him, towards the nearest doorway.

It proved to be a shop of some indeterminate sort. Piles of clothes lay on the floor, smelling stale and moldy. Several boxes perched awkwardly on each other.

“I’m sorry!” she said hastily and backed out, swinging around and almost bumping into a fat woman with a white face and eyebrows so sparse as to lend her expression a bald, surprised air. “I’m sorry,” Charlotte repeated, and pushed past her and outside.

Now she had lost her bearings altogether. She turned all the way around, slowly, and tried another door. She was shivering, although it was not cold. Her hand was raised to knock, then she changed her mind and decided simply to open it. She realized the woman was watching her, standing so close now that if Charlotte were to step back she would bump her. She felt cut off.

She put her weight against the door and it swung open. Relief washed over her as she saw the vestibule and the long hallway beyond. Please heaven, Sandeman was there. If she was caught alone with the woman behind her, there was now no escape. That was ridiculous. The woman was probably coming for help, just as she was herself.

She went so rapidly across the stone floor to the next door she was almost ru