Twenty-One Days (Daniel Pitt #1)(26)

‘What did you imagine when you started doing biographies like this?’ Daniel lashed back at him. ‘That they were going to let you write whatever you like, and they’d do nothing about it? It must have crossed your mind, in among all the thoughts of how clever you were.’

‘The men I am writing about are dead! At least the most powerful ones are!’

‘But you said yourself their power stretches beyond the grave. Someone who cares is still alive. Are you going to tell me who I should start looking at?’

‘So you can destroy my writing? How do I know you aren’t paid by them?’

‘Because I wouldn’t be trying to clear your name, you fool! I’d let you hang,’ Daniel replied.

‘For all I know, that’s what you are doing.’ Graves rose to his feet, chains on his manacles clanking together.

Daniel thought for a moment before he answered, then he spoke deliberately. ‘You are quite right. You don’t know. But if these people really were guilty of treason, the Government would want to know. That might halt your death sentence long enough for us to find out more.’

Hope flared in Graves’ eyes, then died again as Daniel looked at him. In spite of himself, he felt a kind of pity.

‘I’ll find out what I can about whether Mrs Graves was speaking unwisely. And Mr Kitteridge is working on the legal side of it. If there was any flaw in the proceedings whatever, he’ll find it.’

‘Will you come back and tell me?’

‘If I have anything to tell. Or to ask.’

Graves did not reply. He turned away, so Daniel could not see his face. It was dismissal.

It was still only the middle of the day when Daniel went out of the grey shadow of the prison into the light on the pavement. He was going over in his mind what he would, or could, do. He was not sure how much he believed of anything that Graves had to say.

Perhaps the first thing was to find out if Graves was actually anything like the writer he claimed to be. He should exhaust his own resources first. Surely fford Croft would know. He was the man who had involved them in the case in the first place. But if fford Croft knew that Graves was a biographer who dealt in such dangerous subjects, would he not have told them that at the beginning? It was an obvious place to start looking.

To what purpose? Graves had nothing to gain in sending Daniel on a fool’s errand. But perhaps he had nothing to lose, either. Would he rather have Daniel think he was a threat to some traitor than guilty of a sordid domestic murder over jealousy, humiliation, or greed? That was believable, too. Perhaps Ebony had mocked him, and his pride had led him to such hatred that he had killed her, and he had to destroy the beautiful face that had made a fool of him?

It sounded more likely than his writing an exposé of some famous figure whom he had previously suspected of . . . what? An unknown treason?

He passed a fairly large bookshop and decided to go in and enquire about Graves’ work.

‘Yes, sir, may I help you?’ the elderly gentleman at the counter asked him.

‘Thank you. I have had a certain author recommended to me, and I wondered whether you carried any of his work, and would advise me where to begin.’

‘If you will tell me the name of the author, sir . . .?’

‘Yes. Russell Graves. I believe he is a biographer of some note.’

‘Oh dear.’ The man’s face assumed an expression of piety. ‘I dare say you have not heard. I’m afraid he has met with . . . a catastrophe.’

‘Yes. I had heard. But he will perhaps appeal. And it does not alter his work. I am told he gets very much to grips with his subjects.’

‘His research is exhaustive. Personally, sir, I prefer to leave my heroes their privacy. We are all weak at times, and I dare say there is no one who could stand the closest scrutiny. But I believe his biography of the Duke of Wellington was less scathing than some, and told us a few incidents that are little known, particularly of his political career, long after the Peninsula War or Waterloo. I can see if have a copy, if you like. We have sold one or two of his works lately, but I may have one left.’

Daniel had no money to spend on rare and expensive books he was not going to read, certainly not in the next nineteen days. ‘No thank you,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I’d like something more contemporary. If I change my mind, I shall return.’

‘Yes, sir,’ the man nodded, understanding exactly what Daniel meant.

Daniel checked in with fford Croft, and told him of his progress, or lack of it, but that he had a line of enquiry to follow. Apparently, Kitteridge had not yet discovered anything worthy of comment. That was no surprise. There probably was not anything to find – it was simply obligatory to try.

In the middle of the afternoon, Daniel went to see Mercy Blackwell. He had no idea whether she would welcome him or not. He had been to her house before, when consulting her regarding Roman’s trial, and during the struggle to find any proof of his innocence. She knew perfectly well that Roman had lied about many things, but she also knew exactly when he was lying and when he was telling the truth. Daniel wondered if Roman was aware of quite how little he ever fooled her. He thought not. But it was a totally comfortable relationship, of that he was certain. There was a warmth in it, a natural friendship of two people who understood each other very well and, beneath any squabbling on the surface, held exactly the same values as to the kind of honesty that was important, and the jokes that were trivial. Above all they held a loyalty to each other that had no price.