Twenty-One Days (Daniel Pitt #1)(39)

It was so unjust that Daniel could not stop shaking. He would have put the rope around Graves’ neck himself, and pulled the lever to let him drop.

Then another thought formed itself in his mind: had Graves told anyone else about this? If he was framed for Ebony’s murder, and was not actually guilty, who could have done it? Special Branch, of course! They would be the obvious suspects.

Daniel knew that he must find the answer. He must do everything possible to force the truth into the open – not to save Graves, but to see who was really guilty, without question, before they hanged him.

He stared at the papers. He even thought of burning them, destroying all mention of Narraway’s name. Then he reminded himself that Graves could recreate his work. But Daniel’s father would never have done such things; he knew that absolutely.

But could any of this be true? Pitt was not someone who would collude in the murder of anyone, a man doing as he was bidden in order to hang onto a job too large for him, as Graves said. But Daniel knew many of his cases had been complicated, very difficult to solve, and not always a simple answer of innocent or guilty. He could remember long days and nights of his father’s anxiety. Both his parents talking earnestly, and suddenly falling silent when he or Jemima came into the room.

Narraway had trusted Pitt. They had both trusted Vespasia. Had she been Narraway’s mistress all along? He did not believe it. No doubt, he was charming. He had been very dark, lean and elegant, and brilliant, such a biting wit. Daniel had been afraid of him when he was younger, but had grown to trust him later on.

Vespasia he had always loved. She had been the greatest beauty of her age, when she was younger. But that did not matter to him. He had not known her then. She was always magnificent to Daniel, a magical figure to a small boy. She wore her hair like a crown, had dark silver eyes, and grace like no one else, not even the queen. Actually, the queen was quite ugly. So was everyone, compared with Vespasia. And she was funny, too, with a quicker wit than anyone else he knew, even Narraway. And she said what she believed.

No, Graves had to be wrong.

Daniel would prove it.

He stood up, still shaking a little, put the papers at the bottom of the pile, and the whole manuscript in a drawer of the desk, and relocked it. He went to find Falthorne and ask him to lock the study door, then if he would be good enough, find Daniel a taxi to take him to the railway station. He must return to London immediately.

‘Are you all right, sir?’ Falthorne asked with concern.

‘Yes . . . thank you. I . . . will not forget your . . . anxiety about the staff. I’ll do what I can.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Falthorne said grimly.

Daniel barely heard him as he went upstairs to get ready to leave. He needed to be alone to compose himself, away from observant eyes, no matter how well-meaning.





Chapter Nine


Daniel paced the platform at the station for ten minutes before the morning train came in with clouds of steam and a comforting roar of engine and clatter of metal on metal. No one got off, which he had expected, but half a dozen people got on. All of them he guessed to be workers in the city, such as bankers, managers of this and that, people who did not have to report for duty at an early hour.

He climbed up the steps and found a seat immediately. He had bought a newspaper, not to read, but to hide behind, so he would not be expected to converse with anyone. He could not face polite exchanges of any sort. His mind was in a state like the proverbial Gordian knot: everything was tied to everything else, and there was nowhere to begin or end.

Did the news of Graves’ inheritance – completely unexpected – somehow trigger the death of Ebony? But how? Must he silence her to protect his new place in society?

Or was it the biography? Who or what would it destroy? Marriages? Fortunes? Reputations? Daniel sat up, clenched his fists, and took a deep breath. The answer was obvious: Special Branch. His father.

Was it a Special Branch agent gone rogue? But again, why?

Why had the killer obliterated Ebony’s face? Everyone knew who she was. Was it just hatred? Would anyone linger in order to do such a hideous thing without a compelling reason?

A sudden thought came to him. What if he let Graves hang? Then all of the papers could be destroyed, all the questions and accusations would disappear. A sudden warmth returned to his limbs, and he relaxed back into his seat. It would be the answer to everything! It would all be so easy.

Then a wave of nausea swept through him. My God, what was he thinking? It was hideously plain: he thought his father could be guilty! How could he ever face him again? He would have betrayed everything he had been taught. How far would he go to protect those he loved? Far enough to let them hang a man who was possibly innocent?

Pitt would never want that! Daniel must find the truth, whatever it was, and trust that he could live with it.

Daniel wished that he had never been called onto this case. He had thought for an instant that it was an honour, a step up in the hierarchy. Then he realised that there had been no one else to take it on. He was merely the least busy, and had not even expected to do anything more than fill a position that would be noticeable if it were left empty. Kitteridge was the one to do battle, and that was deservedly so.

Was there really any chance that there was a legal error sufficient to allow an appeal? Daniel doubted it. Kitteridge was meticulous. But that was only the first thread. There were others far more important, and dangerous. Was Graves guilty? Or, as he had said, was someone trying to blame him and discredit him so that even in death his work would not be worth publishing?