Authors: Anne Perry
Ashworth Hall
By Anne Perry
Published by Fawcett Books:
Featuring Thomas and Charlotte Pitt:
THE CATER STREET HANGMAN
CALLANDER SQUARE
PARAGON WALK
RESURRECTION ROW
RUTLAND PLACE
BLUEGATE FIELDS
DEATH IN THE DEVIL’S ACRE
CARDINGTON CRESCENT
SILENCE IN HANOVER CLOSE
BETHLEHEM ROAD
HIGHGATE RISE
BELGRAVE SQUARE
FARRIERS’ LANE
THE HYDE PARK HEADSMAN
TRAITORS GATE
PENTECOST ALLEY
ASHWORTH HALL
BRUNSWICK GARDENS
BEDFORD SQUARE
HALF MOON STREET
THE WHITECHAPEL CONSPIRACY
SOUTHAMPTON ROW
SEVEN DIALS
LONG SPOON LANE
BUCKINGHAM PALACE GARDENS
Featuring William Monk:
THE FACE OF A STRANGER
A DANGEROUS MOURNING
DEFEND AND BETRAY
A SUDDEN, FEARFUL DEATH
THE SINS OF THE WOLF
CAIN HIS BROTHER
WEIGHED IN THE BALANCE
THE SILENT CRY
A BREACH OF PROMISE
THE TWISTED ROOT
SLAVES OF OBSESSION
FUNERAL IN BLUE
DEATH OF A STRANGER
THE SHIFTING TIDE
DARK ASSASSIN
The World War I Novels:
NO GRAVES AS YET
SHOULDER THE SKY
ANGELS IN THE GLOOM
AT SOME DISPUTED BARRICADE
WE SHALL NOT SLEEP
The Christmas Novels:
A CHRISTMAS JOURNEY
A CHRISTMAS VISITOR
A CHRISTMAS GUEST
A CHRISTMAS SECRET
A CHRISTMAS BEGINNING
A CHRISTMAS GRACE
A Fawcett Book
Published by The Random House Publishing Group
Copyright © 1997 by Anne Perry
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Fawcett Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
Fawcett is a registered trademark and the Fawcett colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 97-97089
eISBN: 978-0-307-76767-7
v3.1
To my mother, for her courage and belief,
and to Meg MacDonald for her friendship,
her good ideas, and her untiring constructive comments
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
1
P
ITT STARED DOWN
at the body of the man lying on the stones of the alley. It was a gray October dusk. A few yards away on Oxford Street the carriages and hansoms were whirling by, wheels hissing on the wet road, horses’ hooves clattering. The lamps were already lit, pale moons in the gathering darkness.
The constable shone his lantern on the dead face.
“ ’E’s one o’ ours, sir,” he said with tight anger straining his voice. “Least ’e used ter be. I know’d ’im. That’s why I sent for you personal, Mr. Pitt. ’E went orff ter summink special. Dunno wot. But ’e were a good man, Denbigh were. I’d swear ter that.”
Pitt bent down to look more closely. The dead man—his name was Denbigh, according to the constable—looked to be about thirty and was fair skinned, dark haired. Death had not marred his features. He looked only slightly surprised.
Pitt took the lantern and shone it slowly over the rest of him. He was dressed in very ordinary cheap fabric trousers, plain cotton collarless shirt and poorly cut jacket. He could have been a laborer or factory worker, or even a young man come in from the country looking for employment. He was a little thin, but his hands were clean, his nails well cut.
Pitt wondered if he had a wife and children, parents, someone who was going to grieve for him with the deep, hurting pain of love, more than the respect this constable beside him felt.
“What station was he from?” he asked.
“Battersea, sir. That’s w’ere I knew ’im. ’E weren’t never in Bow Street, which is w’y you don’t know ’im, sir. But this in’t no ordinary murder. ’E’s bin shot, an’ street robbers don’ carry guns. They uses knives or a garrote.”
“Yes, I know that.” Pitt looked through the dead man’s pockets gently, his fingers searching. He found only a handkerchief, clean and mended carefully on one corner, and two shillings and nine-pence ha’penny in change. There were no letters or papers to identify the body.
“You’re sure this is Denbigh?”
“Yes sir, I’m sure. I know ’im quite well. Only for a short time, but I remember that mark wot ’e got on one ear. Unusual, that is. I remember people’s ears. Yer can make a lot of things look different, if yer wants ter pass unnoticed, but almost everyone forgets their ears stays the same. Only thing yer can do is get ’air wot ’ides ’em. I wish as I could say as it wasn’t, but that’s Denbigh, poor soul.”
Pitt straightened up. “Then you were right to call me, Constable. The murder of a policeman, even one off duty, is a very serious thing. We’ll start as soon as the surgeon comes and takes the body. I doubt you’ll find any witnesses, but try everyone. Try again tomorrow at the same time. People may pass regularly on their way home. Try the street traders, cab drivers, try the nearest public houses, and of course all the buildings around with a window onto the alley, any part of it.”
“Yes sir!”
“And you’ve no idea who Denbigh was working for now?”
“No sir, but I reckon as it were still some department o’ the police, or the gov’ment.”
“Then I think I had better find out.” Pitt rammed his hands into his pockets. He was cold standing still. The chill of the place, islanded in death as it was, only yards from the rattle and bustle of traffic, seeped into his bones.
The mortuary wagon pulled up at the end of the alley and turned awkwardly to come down, the horses whinnying and swinging shy at the smell of blood and fear in the air.
“And you’d better search the alley for anything that might be of meaning,” Pitt added. “I don’t suppose the gun is here, but it’s possible. Did the bullet go right through him?”
“Yes sir, looks like it.”
“Then look and see if you can find it. Then at least we’d know if he was shot here or brought here after he was dead.”
“Yes sir. Immediately, sir.” The constable’s voice was still harsh with anger and hurt. It was all too close, too very real.
“Denbigh.” Assistant Commissioner Cornwallis looked very unhappy. His strong features made him appear particularly bleak with his overlong nose and wide mouth. “Yes, he was still on the force. I can’t tell you precisely what he was doing, because I don’t know, but he was involved with the Irish Problem. As you know, there are a great many organizations fighting for Irish independence. The Fenians are only one of them, perhaps the most infamous. Many of them are violent. Denbigh was an Irishman. He’d worked his way into one of the most secret of these brotherhoods, but he was killed before he could tell us what he’d learned, at least more than the sort of thing we already know or take for granted.”
Pitt said nothing.
Cornwallis’s mouth tightened. “This is more than an ordinary murder, Pitt. Work on this one yourself, and use your best men. I would dearly like to find whoever did this. He was a good man, and a brave one.”
“Yes sir, of course I will.”
But four days later, with the investigation progressing only slowly, Pitt was visited in his office by Cornwallis again. He brought with him Ainsley Greville, a minister from the Home Office.
“You see, Inspector Pitt, it is of the utmost importance it should have every appearance of being a perfectly ordinary late-autumn country house party. Nothing that can be helped should detract from that, which is why we have come especially to you.” Ainsley Greville smiled with considerable charm. He was not a handsome man, but he had great distinction. He was tall with slightly receding, wavy hair, and a long, rather narrow face and regular features. It was his bearing and the intelligence in his eyes which made him unusual.
Pitt stared back at him, still without understanding.
Cornwallis leaned forward in his chair, his face grave. He had been in the position only a short time, but Pitt knew him well enough to realize he was uncomfortable in the role he was being required to play. He was an ex-naval captain, and the reasonings of politics were strange to him. He preferred ways far more direct, but he, like Greville, was answerable to the Home Office, and he had been given no alternative.
“There really is hope of some degree of success,” he said earnestly. “We must do everything we can to assist. And you are in the ideal position.”
“I am fully involved with the Denbigh case,” Pitt replied. He had no intention of handing it over to anyone else, regardless of this new issue.
Greville smiled. “I personally would appreciate your assistance, Superintendent, for reasons which I shall explain.” He pursed his lips slightly. “And which I regret profoundly. But if we can move even a single step forward in this matter, the whole of Her Majesty’s government will be in your debt.”
Pitt thought he was overstating the case.
As if he had read Pitt’s thoughts, Greville shook his head slightly. “The conference is to sound out opinions on certain reforms in legislation concerning land laws in Ireland, a further Catholic emancipation. Now perhaps you perceive both the importance of what we hope to achieve and the necessity for secrecy?”
Pitt did. It was most unpleasantly clear. The Irish Question, as it had been known, had plagued successive governments since the time of Elizabeth I. It had brought down more than one. The great William Ewart Gladstone himself had fallen on the issue of Home Rule only four years before, in 1886. Still, the murder of Denbigh was of more urgency to him, and certainly more suited to his skills.
“Yes. I see,” he replied with a chill. “But—”
“Not entirely,” Greville cut across him. “No doubt you appreciate that every effort to struggle with our most intractable domestic problem should be made discreetly. We don’t wish to trumpet our failure abroad. Let us wait and see if it succeeds, and to what degree, before we choose what to tell the world.” His face darkened a little, a shadow of anxiety in his eyes which he could not conceal. “There is another reason, Superintendent. Obviously the Irish are aware of the conference. It would hardly be of any purpose if they did not attend, and I shall personally inform you of all I know which is relevant regarding those who will be present. But we are not certain how far the information has gone. There are circles beyond circles, betrayals, secret loyalties—the whole society is riddled with them. We have done the best we can, but we still cannot trust entirely.”
His expression became even bleaker, and his mouth pulled tight at the corners. “We had placed a man within one of the secret societies, hoping to learn the source of their information.” He let out his breath slowly. “He was murdered.”
Pitt felt the coldness settle inside him.
“I believe you are investigating the case.” Greville looked very steadily in Pitt’s eyes. “James Denbigh. A good man.”
Pitt said nothing.
“And I have also received threats to my life, and one attempt, some three weeks ago now, but nonetheless most unpleasant,” Greville continued. He spoke quite lightly, but Pitt could see the tension in his body. His long, lean hands were stiff where they lay, one on his knee, the other on the arm of his chair. He concealed it well, but Pitt understood fear.
“I see.” This time he did. “So you wish a discreet police presence.”
“Very discreet,” Greville agreed. “The conference is to be held at Ashworth Hall ….” He saw Pitt stiffen. “Precisely,” he said with a flicker of appreciation. “The country home of your wife’s sister, sometime Viscountess Ashworth, now Mrs. Jack Radley. Mr. Radley is one of our brighter young members of Parliament and will be a most excellent asset in the discussions. And Mrs. Radley, of course, will be the ideal hostess. It will not be unnatural for you and your wife to attend also, being family members.”
It would be most unnatural. Emily Ellison had married well above herself in Lord Ashworth. Her sister, Charlotte, had horrified genteel society by marrying as far below. Young ladies in good families did not marry policemen. Pitt spoke well. He was the son of a gamekeeper on a large country estate, and Sir Arthur Desmond, the owner of the estate, had seen fit to educate him with his own son, to give Matthew a companion and someone against whom to measure himself. But Pitt was not a gentleman. Greville must know that, in spite of Pitt’s promotion … surely?
Pitt must not allow himself to imagine Greville mistook him for one of his own station just because he sat behind this elegant desk with its green leather inlay. His predecessor, Micah Drummond, had been a gentleman, ex-army. Cornwallis most certainly was also, if perhaps of a lesser standing. He had risen through merit on active service. Did Greville think Pitt of the same mold? It was a flattering thought … but a delusion. He wanted Pitt in order to protect his conference without it being apparent.
“And you believe this threat to you is in connection with your work with the Irish Conference?” Pitt said aloud.
“I know it,” Greville replied, watching Pitt closely. “There are many factors and individuals who would not wish us to succeed. That is surely clear enough in Denbigh’s murder?”
“You are threatened by letter?” Pitt asked.
“Yes, from time to time.” Greville shrugged very slightly, a gesture of dismissal. Giving it words seemed to have left him less isolated. He relaxed a little. “One expects a certain amount of opposition, even threats. Usually they are of no consequence at all. Had there not been an actual attempt, I should have ignored them as someone simply airing their feelings in a particularly distasteful manner, if not uncommon. The Irish Problem, as you must know, is one of a violent nature.”
That was an understatement of phenomenal proportions. It was impossible to estimate the number of people who had died in battles, riots, famine and murder in a greater or lesser way connected with the problem of Irish history. Pitt was fairly familiar with the Murphy riots in the north of England, where a rabid Protestant had traveled around the countryside stirring up fanatical anti-Catholic feeling which had ended in looting, fires, the destruction of whole streets of houses, and several deaths.
“You had better take someone thoroughly reliable with you,” Cornwallis said gravely. “Naturally we will have men around the hall and the village, posing as gamekeepers or farm laborers and so on. But you should have someone inside also.”
“Another guest?” Pitt said in surprise.