Seven Dials

Pitt met him on the doorstep, dressed smartly in his usual perfectly tailored dark gray. Narraway stopped abruptly, his eyes wide, his face pale.

“What is it?” He caught his breath, his voice husky.

Pitt had never defied Narraway before, never even challenged him. He knew his own dependence upon Narraway too well, not only for his job in Special Branch, but for the guidance and the protection while he was feeling his way in learning a new skill. But the emotion inside him now had power to override all such careful considerations.

“Inside!” he said abruptly.

The wind was cold and there was a fine rain behind it. Narraway’s face hardened. “This had better be important, Pitt,” he said, now that his initial shock was controlled and the steel was back in his eyes.

“It is,” Pitt answered between his teeth. Perhaps he would have been wiser to say it all out there on the doorstep. He knew it, even as he followed Narraway in and heard the door close. Narraway led the way across the hall into his study and swung around.

“Well?” he demanded. “You have ten minutes. After that I am leaving whether you are finished or not. The trial resumes at ten. I mean to be there.” In the morning light through the large window, his face was ashen, the fine lines of strain and too little sleep marked harshly in the skin around his eyes and mouth.

“But the special new witness is dead,” Pitt replied. “There’ll be no revelations about Ayesha Zakhari’s motive now. El Abd’s suicide is almost as good as a confession.”

“Almost,” Narraway agreed tersely. “I still need to see the acquittal. What is it you want, Pitt?”

“Why do you suppose el Abd killed himself?” Pitt asked. He wished he were anywhere but here, doing anything but this. “He was on the brink of success.”

“We knew he was guilty,” Narraway said, but there was a fractional hesitation in his voice; perhaps no one but Pitt would have heard it.

Pitt stared at him. “And he was afraid? Suddenly? Afraid of what? That we would arrest him on the way into court and stop him from testifying?”

Narraway breathed in and out very slowly. “What are you saying, Pitt? There is no time for games.”

If he did not say it now then the moment would be past, and he would live with the doubt forever.

“Convenient for us,” he answered. “In fact, it has probably saved Suez.” He held Narraway’s gaze without blinking.

Narraway was very pale. “Probably,” he agreed. Again there was the shadow across his face.

“Why would el Abd do that?” Pitt asked.

“I don’t know. It makes no sense,” Narraway admitted, still standing motionless in the middle of the floor.

“If I had…” Pitt said. “Or you…”

At last Narraway understood. The last vestige of blood drained from his face, leaving his skin like gray paper. “God Almighty! You think I killed el Abd!”

“Did you?”

“No,” Narraway said quickly. “No, I didn’t.” He did not ask if Pitt had; he already knew the answer. He also knew that Pitt’s question was genuine, and that it hurt him to ask. It was the doubt twisting inside him that drove him to speak. “Was he murdered?”

“Are you certain he was murdered?”

“Not beyond doubt. But I believe he was,” Pitt replied. “It was done well, with great skill. Impossible to tell if the injuries were just before death or just after… a deliberate blow or accidental as he fell, or even from a passing ship. We’ll prove nothing.”

The shadow was there in Narraway’s face again. “Who would kill him, and why?”

“Someone who knew of the massacre,” Pitt replied. “And who would do anything, even commit murder and allow Ryerson to hang for it, rather than see the truth exposed, and face what it will cost.”

Narraway was truly astounded. “Is that what you think?” he said, his voice cracking with incredulity. “That I want Ryerson to hang?”

“No, I don’t think you do,” Pitt said honestly. “I think you hate it. I think the guilt tortures you, but you’ll let him hang rather than expose the massacre and lose Egypt.”

Narraway did not reply. The silence hung in the air like a gulf of darkness between them.

“Don’t use my few minutes left for this,” Pitt said, not moving from his position blocking the doorway. He did not intend a physical threat; in fact, he was not even sure if he could provide one. Narraway was lighter and shorter, but he was lean and possibly he was trained in ways that Pitt had not even thought of. He might even be armed.

Nevertheless, Pitt did not intend to move until he received an answer. It was emotion that held him, not reason. He had not thought what he would do if Narraway had confessed to having killed el Abd.

The clouds cleared and for a moment sunlight dappled the floor.

“It has nothing to do with Egypt, or Lovat’s murder, or the massacre,” Narraway said at last, his voice low and a little husky.

Pitt waited.

“Damn it, Pitt! It’s none of your business!” Narraway exploded. “It happened years ago… I… I just…” He stopped again.

Pitt did not move.

“Twenty years ago,” Narraway began again, “I was working on the Irish Problem. I knew there was an uprising pla

Pitt was suddenly cold.

“I needed to know what was going on,” Narraway said, his eyes unflinching but hot with misery. “I had an affair with Ryerson’s wife.” His voice shook. “It was my fault she was shot.”

So it was guilt, just not for Lovat or Ayesha or anything that was happening now. Without even thinking about it, Pitt realized that he believed him.

Narraway waited, still watching Pitt’s face. He would not ask.

Very slowly Pitt nodded. He understood. More than that, he realized with amazement something that would probably never be said, never even be referred to again-Narraway cared what he thought.

“Are we going to court?” Narraway snapped. He had seen the belief in Pitt’s face, and it was enough. Now the agony of tension was gone and he wanted the moment broken. He had a debt to pay and he was burning to be about it.

“Yes,” Pitt agreed, turning back to the door and leading the way out again without looking to see Narraway following.

THE OLD BAILEY COURTROOM was less than full. These last few days were something of an anticlimax. The newspapers had reported the death of Tariq el Abd, but only as an unknown foreigner who had apparently committed suicide. No co

Narraway and Pitt entered the courtroom just as Sir Anthony Markham, counsel for the defense, was rising to his feet to begin.

The judge looked at Narraway with a

Pitt hesitated. Markham obviously knew Narraway, but there was no interest in his face, rather the opposite. He shook his head very slightly and turned back to the judge.

Narraway stopped. Did Markham know about el Abd or not? Surely if he did not, he would be desperate for any defense at all. Then he realized with dismay that he was not certain whether el Abd had been a prosecution witness, to seal the case absolutely with a perfect motive, or a defense witness, to offer some mitigation for the crime?

Or was the surprise witness not el Abd, but someone else? It came back to the same question, to which they still had no answer at all-who was the prime mover behind Lovat’s murder, the man who wished to bring down Suez and the eastern half of the empire? And was one of the two lawyers here in his pay?

Who had murdered el Abd, and why?

The courtroom was motionless. Pitt looked around. The public gallery was about three-quarters full. He saw Vespasia, the light on her pale face and catching the silver of her hair. She was wearing a very small, discreet hat today, possibly in consideration for those whose view she might block. In the row behind her was Ferdinand Garrick, his face rigid, eyes forward in a wide, fixed stare, almost as if he were mesmerized by what was about to play itself out on the courtroom floor below him.