The Angel Court Affair (Thomas Pitt 30) (21 page)

But it had not altered his moral judgements or made him imagine doing something so appalling as apparently Sofia had, and the man who was now her husband.

Would he even have considered it, were Charlotte married to someone whom she did not love? Please heaven, no! But was he certain? Can you ever be certain of such a thing, beyond any doubt at all? It was so easy to judge when you had not been tested. He had known people commit crimes he could very easily understand, if still not overlook. It might have been hard to be so decisive had they been his own decisions, his own passion or loneliness.

Hall was watching him, judging his response.

‘I’m sorry,’ Hall said quietly. ‘I can see that you had no idea. Imagine how those people who believe her doctrine will feel should they discover the truth. I don’t think I exaggerate if I say that her deception is a betrayal. I would have protected people from it, had I the power. I tried everything I could think of to persuade her not to come to England but she insisted.’

Pitt struggled to choose his words carefully. Whatever she had done, the murder of the two unfortunate women who had followed her was a monstrous crime. If she had suffered a similar fate herself, it might well develop into an international incident with tragic and dangerous consequences. He could imagine what Laurence would write if her mutilated body were found.

‘What do you think Laurence will make of it if she is never found?’ he said aloud.

‘What?’ Hall was startled.

‘Frank Laurence,’ Pitt repeated. ‘He wrote a very powerful article about disillusion and responsibility in
The Times
this morning. You knew him, I believe.’

Hall looked confused.

‘You were at the same school,’ Pitt reminded him.

‘Was I?’

‘You and Dalton Teague.’

For an instant Hall’s face was frozen, then he regained his composure with a faint look of confusion. ‘Oh, yes, Teague, of course. I don’t remember Laurence. Unless he was that smart-mouthed little beggar who ran errands for Teague, practically hanging on his every word. Mind, I suppose there were several like that. Practically thought he was God. You don’t need to part the Red Sea if you can hit a cricket ball out of the field.’ He straightened his shoulders. ‘Sorry. Schooldays weren’t my best. Bit of a swot.’

‘I heard you played cricket rather well.’ Pitt exaggerated the story a little.

‘Tolerable fielder, that’s about all.’ Hall dismissed the subject. ‘Is there anything else I can help you with? I have an appointment with the Dean of St Paul’s in half an hour.’ He reached for a pile of papers close to his hand, as if to resume studying them.

‘Just one more thing,’ Pitt said. ‘Apparently Sofia helped a great many people one way or another, especially those who had committed offences they deeply regretted.’

‘Possibly,’ Hall said quickly, but his hand over the papers clenched till the big knuckles shone white. ‘I told you, we had no communication.’

‘Apparently she felt there was a way back from any sin whatever, if you were prepared to make such amends as you could,’ Pitt continued. ‘She gave such penitents sanctuary and pardon.’

Hall swallowed. ‘Really.’ His voice was flat, as if he were scarcely breathing.

‘It was part of her ministry,’ Pitt went on relentlessly. ‘There was one man in great trouble, terrified for his life, just before she left to come to England. Apparently she felt that seeing you was for some reason even more important than this man’s redemption. She didn’t mention him, did she?’

‘No, I’m afraid I cannot help you. Now, Commander, I have a great deal of urgent business to attend to. If you please . . . Mr Barber will show you out.’ Hall turned away and picked up the telephone attached to the wall near him and Pitt heard his voice, tight in his throat, ask for a number.

He opened the door and stepped through it, hesitated for several moments, then turned back in time to see Hall’s face turn ashen pale and the phone almost slip from his fingers.

PITT SAT at the breakfast table, his tea ignored and the toast going cold in his hand. The letter had come by the first postal delivery of the day. Charlotte had brought it from the hall minutes ago. There was one sheet written in a scrawling hand, addressed to him personally. The lines went down at the end, and there were no commas.

Commander Thomas Pitt

I have the self-styled prophetess Sofia Delacruz in my keeping for the time being safe and no more than slightly injured. Well not a lot more. Of course that could change for the better or the worse. This depends on your skill.

You must be aware by now of the nature of her marriage to Nazario Delacruz and the resulting terrible death of his first wife Luisa and of their two little children. If by any chance you are so naïve you do not know of this it is easily verifiable.

Your choice is simple. Find Nazario Delacruz in Toledo, and have him write in detail exactly how Sofia seduced him into betraying his family and abandoning them for her. Publish the account in the personal column of the London Times. I appreciate that he will be reluctant to do this. It will make her a laughing stock and those who previously loved her will end in hating and despising her. Her preposterous religion will crumble into dust.

But on the other hand it will save her life because if she does not then she will die most unpleasantly. The deaths of Cleo and Elfrida were comparatively quick. Hers will not be so.

The decision of course will be her husband’s not yours. You must convey this choice to him. Naturally that will take some time. I will allow you exactly two weeks from the date you receive this letter. If by then I do not see Nazario’s confession of guilt in the Times and believe me I will not be fooled by a fake edition then Sofia will receive the martyrdom she professes to crave.

I don’t think that is what you wish. You are something of a squeamish man and you have a wife and children yourself!

See what you can persuade Nazario to do. We shall discover where his loyalties really lie!

There was no signature.

Pitt was aware of Charlotte watching his face, her brow wrinkled in concern as he tried to think what to say to her. His first dreadful thought was what he would do were he in Nazario Delacruz’s place. Nazario had no way of reaching Sofia. He could hardly fail to know her nature and the depth of her belief. To write the letter that was asked of him could destroy everything she had built and betray every person who had believed in her.

And yet he could not doubt that the man who held her would murder her, violently and terribly, if he did not. It explained why he had killed the other poor women in such a way. Not that they had done anything to incur his fury, they were simply a demonstration of his seriousness.

‘Thomas!’ Charlotte said urgently, fear in her voice now.

He needed her opinion, her understanding of Sofia. There were no women in Special Branch. He handed her the letter.

She read it through, slowly, to be certain she had really seen it as it was. When she looked up her face was white.

‘Do you know anything about him?’ she asked huskily.

‘Of course I don’t,’ he replied, confused. ‘We’ve no idea who it is. Except it is a complete muddle. The writing is awful, in places almost indecipherable, and yet the spelling is correct. And he uses some unusual words as if with ease: “martyrdoms she professes to crave”! And there are no commas.’

‘Not who wrote this!’ Desperation made her tone sharp. ‘Sofia’s husband! This . . . Nazario. What will he do? Does he love her, or is he some religious fanatic who would accept her death as the greatest boost to her faith?’

‘You think he could be behind it?’ The thought was appalling.

‘Could he?’ she insisted. ‘And if the story of him leaving his wife for Sofia is true, what about the first wife’s family? They could easily want revenge for her.’

‘Why would they wait all this time?’ he asked, as much to himself as to Charlotte. ‘Wouldn’t they have killed her then? A lot of people would have understood that. Why do it in London? We need to know a lot more about her.’ He drew in a deep breath. ‘What a mess. But why kill Cleo and Elfrida? None of it was their fault.’

Charlotte raised her eyebrows. ‘You’re expecting bereaved and distressed people taking revenge to be reasonable?’ Then she saw his face and came forward, standing very close to him and touching him gently on the cheek. ‘I am sorry. You’re right, it is a mess. In fact it’s hideous. And it may still have to do with anarchists. Whoever it is may have sympathy with them. Heaven knows, when I hear about some of their poverty and the injustices, I have!’

For several moments he said nothing, trying to picture Sofia’s face accurately from the brief times he had spent with her, recall exactly what she had said about her husband. He could recall nothing. She had spoken only about her belief. But that was what he had asked her. He had not even thought of her own followers as dangerous to her, let alone her husband in Spain.

But then he had not taken any of it seriously as more than a nuisance. He had been thinking of the usual dangers facing Special Branch, the ever rising tide of violence all over Europe and America. There had been several major political assassinations. The restlessness could break out anywhere, against anyone. Many of the troublemakers were extremists, unpredictable, idealists with plans that could never work. But the poverty they protested against was killing millions of people all over the world from the slums of Moscow to the narrow crumbling alleys of Southern Naples or the rioting streets of cities in America such as Chicago.

What if this were some plot to involve England in the Spanish-American war which was getting uglier by the day? Was that why Sofia had been kidnapped in London, not Toledo? Then the obscene murder of the two other women could have been to make certain it was news in the headlines everywhere.

Was Nazario Delacruz part of it, or only a victim? If he refused to denounce Sofia, that could have international implications he could not foresee.

Pitt had wanted movement in the case, something he could react to. He had not imagined this.

‘The kidnapping is all over the news,’ he answered quietly. ‘Anyone could have written this letter. She could be already dead.’ He felt Charlotte’s body tighten, her hand freeze. He pulled away and looked up at her. ‘It isn’t as simple as agreeing or not.’

‘Simple! Agree to destroy all her work, deny her faith, disillusion heaven knows how many people – or let her be tortured to death? That’s simple?’

‘No, of course it isn’t. But do we take that choice to her husband without knowing if the person who wrote it has her? Or if she is alive?’

Charlotte was very pale. Instead of letting her hands fall, she clung on to him more tightly. ‘No. I’m sorry. But there’s some kind of hope . . . isn’t there? And please don’t treat me like a child. Is there, Thomas?’

‘I think so. But I have to know this is genuine before I ask Nazario Delacruz to make the decision.’

‘How are you going to do that?’

‘I need to see her. The writer of this must expect that.’

‘But he hasn’t given you any way of answering him to say so,’ she pointed out.

‘If he wants me to do anything, he’ll write again. He took her for a reason. He wants something . . . if this person really did take her.’

She swallowed. ‘You mean we just . . . wait?’

‘Not quite. I think I’ll go and find Frank Laurence. I’ll get him to write a specific article. See if we can shake something loose.’

‘You like him, in spite of yourself, don’t you?’

‘Definitely in spite of myself,’ he agreed ruefully. ‘And I’d like to know why he lied about knowing Teague at school. It seems pointless.’

‘Maybe it is.’

He shook his head. ‘No it isn’t. People don’t lie for no reason. He hates Teague. I’d like to know why.’

‘Be careful, Thomas. It could make you very vulnerable.’

She had not said it, but he knew what she was thinking. He was new at the task of leading Special Branch. He was still struggling to think like a politician and see a wider view than the solution of one crime, regardless of where that led. Looking back at that, there was a simplicity to it he would like to have back now.

‘I’ll be careful,’ he promised.

‘You want me to write a piece about ransom?’ Laurence said with interest. He picked up his tankard of ale and stared at Pitt over the rim. They were sitting in a noisy, crowded public house where their conversation could not be overheard by anyone. A burst of laughter and loud cheers made it necessary to lean forward across the table to hear each other.

‘Only a fool pays ransom without proof that the victim is alive,’ Pitt replied. ‘If one waited, he might get in touch with us, but I would rather take that decision from him. And I don’t know how she is, or if she will last, if I wait and play a slow game.’

‘Last?’ Laurence said quickly, leaning forward over the table. ‘You mean she’s injured? Or they are torturing her? Pitt, I hate to say this, but do you think they can afford to hand her over alive, even if you do pay?’

Pitt could feel his body go cold. He could see the pity in Laurence’s eyes and he believed it was real.

‘No,’ he admitted. ‘I don’t. And it isn’t money they want.’

‘What do they want?’

‘I’ll tell you when you need to know, if that ever happens.’

‘The street runs both ways, Pitt,’ Laurence said carefully. ‘I want something in return.’

Pitt stiffened, possible threats running through his mind.

‘I’ll do it,’ Laurence said quietly. ‘But when you see her, I want to be with you. I give you my word I’ll do nothing except look at her.’

‘Then write it up in
The Times
for everyone to see,’ Pitt said bitterly. ‘No.’

‘You want my help . . .’ Laurence began.