Twenty-One Days (Daniel Pitt #1)(43)

‘I have an idea,’ fford Croft said. ‘First, we must go back to the beginning. The police didn’t give us much to go on. We need to know more about the science.’

‘What science, sir? Fingerprints aren’t going to help us. Everybody’s prints are all over the place,’ Daniel pointed out.

‘There is more to the science of forensics than that,’ fford Croft answered. ‘My daughter has studied medicine . . . and chemistry. Her name is Miriam. I’ve asked her to come in. Tell her what we have, and see if she has any ideas. Don’t be put off by her. She’s clever. Very clever, although her achievements are not recognised among her male peers and she was not awarded her degrees although she passed all her examinations.’

Daniel said nothing. He couldn’t imagine that this was going to turn up any new evidence.

‘I’ll let you know when Miriam’s here. We’ve only got another seventeen days left after today!’

‘Yes . . . sir.’ Daniel stood up slowly. He wanted to say something else, but his mind was whirling like a dust storm, everything banging into each other: Arthur in his chair, with the exquisite birds, all wings and dreams on his walls; the blood and the scorched carpet in Ebony’s room. The servants facing the break-up of the only family they knew. Graves’ pointless words about the people Daniel loved the most. And fford Croft wanted to call in his daughter, who was a doctor and a chemist!

‘Yes, sir,’ he said again from the doorway. And then he walked out and closed the door softly behind him.





Chapter Ten


Daniel worked at his desk, mostly making notes on what he had heard and observed at Graves’ house. Kitteridge came in, looking tired and unhappy. Daniel was not surprised to learn that he had discovered no legal error of any size at all, let alone one sufficient to justify an appeal.

He sat down facing Daniel’s desk. No one else in the same room took any notice of him. They were busy studying, worrying about their own cases.

Daniel did not want to discuss what he had learned, particularly the part about Special Branch, but Kitteridge had a right to know. If it proved viable and there was a retrial, then everyone who could read a newspaper would know. He realised with a profound sharpness, as only the first impact of the wound, what it would be like to have every person in the street aware of what you were accused of, but no idea of the reality of who you were, or your side of the story.

‘Pitt!’ Kitteridge said sharply.

Daniel realised that Kitteridge had spoken to him, and he had not heard. ‘Yes? Sorry . . .’

‘Did you learn anything at Graves’ house? Do you think he did it? Have you got any other suspects at all?’ Kitteridge’s patience was short, and it was audible in his tone of voice.

‘I learned quite a lot,’ Daniel replied. ‘Did you know he was writing a biography of one of the past heads of Special Branch?’

‘No, is it relevant?’ Kitteridge looked blank. Then suddenly it came to him, and he sat forward so he could lower his voice and be heard only by Daniel. ‘That’s your father’s job, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. But this is mostly about the man before him, who’s dead now. The notes are vile.’

‘Can we still stop it?’ Kitteridge asked. ‘What a cowardly thing to do. I knew I didn’t like the bastard.’

Daniel smiled with a sudden upsurge of warmth. ‘Neither do his household staff, although they’re very discreet about it. An expression on their faces, and extra polite language. But the point is, someone from Special Branch might have done this to frame him.’

‘What? Kill his wife?’ Kitteridge looked very sceptical indeed.

‘Make it look as if he did.’

Kitteridge’s eyebrows rose. ‘Why not simply kill him? It seems a long way round about it.’ Then suddenly he shook his head, as if he understood. ‘Disgrace him, then ruin him. Probably effective. But then who did kill Mrs Graves?’

‘That’s the difficulty,’ Daniel agreed.

‘Do Special Branch go in for that sort of thing? Assassinations?’ Kitteridge asked. ‘It’s a bit steep! Killing poor Mrs Graves. It’s not her fault. It would be plain murder. I don’t like the sound of that at all.’

‘The way he paints Special Branch, or at the least the heads of it, that would be the least of their crimes,’ Daniel said bitterly.

‘What are you going to do?’ There was a surprising gentleness in Kitteridge’s voice, as if he understood the complexity and the pain of family loyalty, rivalry, complicated love, and the need for ties at the same time as freedom.

Daniel hesitated before he answered. ‘I’m going to try to find out who did kill Ebony Graves. It still could have been Graves himself. We know no one broke in, and I can’t imagine any of the staff doing it. None of them would have the strength, except the butler. If he did, he must have had a hell of a reason!’

‘It must have been someone already in the house,’ Kitteridge said. ‘We’ve been through this. If Graves had let someone in, he’d have said so by now.’

‘Or she let them in herself?’

‘A lover? They couldn’t find any trace of one.’

‘So, he was clever, and careful.’

‘Do you believe that?’