importance to him.
‘Perhaps I had better go and see Lady Vespasia.’ Pitt stood up and moved towards the coat stand in the corner of the room. ‘It’s a bit late to get ahead of this, but I’d like to be as close behind as possible.’
‘Are you sure you want to be out of the office when they send for you, sir?’ This time Stoker’s face was unreadable.
‘I’m damn sure I’d like to be miles away,’ Pitt said fervently. ‘But I’ll be within reach – if Lady Vespasia is at home. If I’m sent for, leave me a message there and I’ll go straight to Whitehall.’
Stoker looked dubious.
‘I want to know what’s going on!’ Pitt told him, taking his coat off the stand and putting it on as he went out of the door.
Vespasia was still at breakfast but her maid was used to Pitt turning up without announcement, and frequently at inconvenient times. She simply tightened her lips a little, and requested the maid to bring fresh tea.
In her youth Vespasia Cumming-Gould had been accepted by many to be the most beautiful woman of her generation. As far as Pitt was concerned, she still was, because for him beauty was a quality of the mind and the heart as much as of physical perfection. Her hair was silver and her face now reflected decades of passion, grief and laughter, and a courage that had seen her through triumph and loss of many different kinds.
‘Good morning, Thomas,’ she said with some surprise. ‘You look tired and exasperated. Sit down and have some tea, and tell me what has happened. Would you like something to eat as well? Toast, perhaps? I have a new and most excellent marmalade. It is so pungent I can feel it right through my head.’
‘It sounds like exactly what I need,’ he accepted, pulling out the chair at the opposite side of the table from her and sitting down. He had always liked this yellow breakfast room where she often took all her meals when dining alone, or with only one guest. It felt as if the sun always shone here, regardless of the weather beyond.
The maid returned with the second cup and saucer, and Vespasia requested more toast.
‘Now tell me what has occurred,’ Vespasia said as soon as they were alone again.
He had never hesitated to tell her the truth, even when perhaps it was indiscreet, and never had she betrayed his trust. She knew many people’s secrets, and the fact that she had not relayed them to him only increased his certainty of her judgement. Briefly, between mouthfuls of toast, and the marmalade that was as good as she had claimed, he told her about the missing maid, and the body in the gravel pit on Shooters Hill.
‘I see,’ she said at last. ‘It is a dilemma, but I do not yet understand why you think I can be of help. You are far better able to pursue it than I.’
‘I am expecting a telephone call here, any moment, and I apologise for requesting it be forwarded to me without asking your permission …’
‘Thomas! Please reach the point of this visit before that happens!’
‘It will be from someone in the Prime Minister’s office asking me what I know, and what I am doing about it,’ he explained.
Her silver eyebrows arched even higher. ‘You told the Prime Minister about it? For heaven’s sake, Thomas, why?’
He swallowed the last of his toast. ‘No, I didn’t! That is exactly the point. He knows because there were questions in the House, yesterday evening.’
‘Oh dear …’ In her mouth the words were extraordinarily expressive, even catastrophic.
‘Asked by Somerset Carlisle,’ he finished.
‘Oh dear,’ she said again, a little more slowly. ‘Now I see why you have come to me. I’m afraid I have no idea how he came to know of the affair, or why he should raise it in the House.’ She looked worried. ‘I assume you are involved because the body may be that of this poor maid of Dudley Kynaston’s? Tragic as it is, it would not concern Special Branch otherwise, would it?’
‘No, it wouldn’t. And I still have
‘Perhaps I had better go and see Lady Vespasia.’ Pitt stood up and moved towards the coat stand in the corner of the room. ‘It’s a bit late to get ahead of this, but I’d like to be as close behind as possible.’
‘Are you sure you want to be out of the office when they send for you, sir?’ This time Stoker’s face was unreadable.
‘I’m damn sure I’d like to be miles away,’ Pitt said fervently. ‘But I’ll be within reach – if Lady Vespasia is at home. If I’m sent for, leave me a message there and I’ll go straight to Whitehall.’
Stoker looked dubious.
‘I want to know what’s going on!’ Pitt told him, taking his coat off the stand and putting it on as he went out of the door.
Vespasia was still at breakfast but her maid was used to Pitt turning up without announcement, and frequently at inconvenient times. She simply tightened her lips a little, and requested the maid to bring fresh tea.
In her youth Vespasia Cumming-Gould had been accepted by many to be the most beautiful woman of her generation. As far as Pitt was concerned, she still was, because for him beauty was a quality of the mind and the heart as much as of physical perfection. Her hair was silver and her face now reflected decades of passion, grief and laughter, and a courage that had seen her through triumph and loss of many different kinds.
‘Good morning, Thomas,’ she said with some surprise. ‘You look tired and exasperated. Sit down and have some tea, and tell me what has happened. Would you like something to eat as well? Toast, perhaps? I have a new and most excellent marmalade. It is so pungent I can feel it right through my head.’
‘It sounds like exactly what I need,’ he accepted, pulling out the chair at the opposite side of the table from her and sitting down. He had always liked this yellow breakfast room where she often took all her meals when dining alone, or with only one guest. It felt as if the sun always shone here, regardless of the weather beyond.
The maid returned with the second cup and saucer, and Vespasia requested more toast.
‘Now tell me what has occurred,’ Vespasia said as soon as they were alone again.
He had never hesitated to tell her the truth, even when perhaps it was indiscreet, and never had she betrayed his trust. She knew many people’s secrets, and the fact that she had not relayed them to him only increased his certainty of her judgement. Briefly, between mouthfuls of toast, and the marmalade that was as good as she had claimed, he told her about the missing maid, and the body in the gravel pit on Shooters Hill.
‘I see,’ she said at last. ‘It is a dilemma, but I do not yet understand why you think I can be of help. You are far better able to pursue it than I.’
‘I am expecting a telephone call here, any moment, and I apologise for requesting it be forwarded to me without asking your permission …’
‘Thomas! Please reach the point of this visit before that happens!’
‘It will be from someone in the Prime Minister’s office asking me what I know, and what I am doing about it,’ he explained.
Her silver eyebrows arched even higher. ‘You told the Prime Minister about it? For heaven’s sake, Thomas, why?’
He swallowed the last of his toast. ‘No, I didn’t! That is exactly the point. He knows because there were questions in the House, yesterday evening.’
‘Oh dear …’ In her mouth the words were extraordinarily expressive, even catastrophic.
‘Asked by Somerset Carlisle,’ he finished.
‘Oh dear,’ she said again, a little more slowly. ‘Now I see why you have come to me. I’m afraid I have no idea how he came to know of the affair, or why he should raise it in the House.’ She looked worried. ‘I assume you are involved because the body may be that of this poor maid of Dudley Kynaston’s? Tragic as it is, it would not concern Special Branch otherwise, would it?’
‘No, it wouldn’t. And I still have
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