Murder on the Serpentine by Anne Perry

Author:Anne Perry
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2017-03-20T16:00:00+00:00

PITT CAME HOME A little later than usual, although because of the time of year it was still broad daylight.

Daniel and Jemima had already eaten and gone to separate parties given by their friends. Pitt and Charlotte took a light supper to the sitting room and sat before the open French doors.

Charlotte could see that Pitt had been outside quite a long time; the sun had caught his face and there was a warm glow to his skin. But it did not hide the anxiety, even deeper than before. She understood something of the issues far more deeply than she had only a few days ago. If Halberd had been involved with the possible war in South Africa, then his death could be infinitely more than a miserable, but very ordinary, scandal.

That brought it back to Special Branch again and explained why Pitt was involved so deeply. And she could not put out of her mind what she had heard said about Narraway.

Was Pitt just as afraid as she was that Victor Narraway had used methods that even he was ashamed of? He would not have wanted them to know, but Pitt had to. Knowledge was the material of his profession. Understanding people was essential in his work, not merely interesting, curious, uncomfortable. It was so much easier to allow yourself to believe what you wanted to and leave your own dreams undamaged.

Pitt could not afford that. Perhaps Narraway could not have either.

Was Pitt going to lose the part of himself that she loved most dearly, the gentleness, the understanding and even pity for those who had betrayed themselves and lost sight of everything but the darkness within? She remembered past cases, in which people had done terrible things and yet he had felt deep, twisting sorrow for them rather than rage. He took no joy in their punishment.

Was he going to lose that? Knowing frailty in people you love is part of growing up. Seeing weakness in everyone is cynicism, and it is poisonous.

“Thomas…” she said.

He looked up, and she saw the tiredness in his eyes. If he had spent the day using his knowledge in a way he dreaded, she should allow him to do it without having to show her. He still needed her to believe in him, and to discover this part of his duty only when he was ready. Maybe even spend all her life looking slightly away, as if she did not see it.

He was waiting.

Now she had to think of something to say, but it must not sound contrived.

“There was another letter from Aunt Vespasia. They are going south, by train, all the way to Sicily,” she told him.

He smiled slightly. “Sicily is an island; they’ll have to go the last bit by sea. Did she sound well? Happy?”

In a letter one can sound however one wishes, but Charlotte did not say that. “Yes. Italy is marvelously beautiful, if one picks the places to look at. And the weather is perfect.”

The question of Narraway hung between them, unspoken.

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