Twenty-One Days (Daniel Pitt #1)(56)

‘Bad, eh?’ Blackwell asked. ‘You don’t care if Graves hangs. He deserves to, if he did that to his wife. And by all accounts, he’s a rotten sod anyway, quite apart from whether he killed her or not. So, what’s eating at you? Old fford Croft going to throw you out if you can’t rescue Graves? Or are you up to rescuing Kitchener, or whatever his name is?’

‘Kitteridge,’ Daniel corrected. ‘He’s looking for holes in the law . . .’

‘Well, if he can’t find a hole in the law, he’s an ass! It’s as full of holes as a sieve!’ Blackwell said in disgust. ‘Some you could drive a coach and horses through, but none that will save Russell Graves! Why does fford Croft want to? Have you worked that out yet?’

‘It’s a debt he owes. An old occasion when Marcus let Graves’ father down. It weighs on him,’ Daniel replied.

‘So, was his father a rotten sod as well?’ Blackwell’s eyebrows rose, giving his face a startled look.

‘A promise is a promise,’ Daniel replied, feeling even more cornered. ‘It’s about you, not whoever you made the promise to!’ He could almost hear his father’s voice in his head saying it for him.

‘Have a cup of tea.’ Blackwell turned in his seat. ‘Is that kettle boiling yet?’ It was an oblique observation, not a question as to fact. Blackwell turned to Daniel again. ‘So why do we care so much? And don’t lie to me. You’re not good enough at it yet to get away with it. Not to me, anyway. Don’t think you’ll ever be. You care so much, it’s got you all twisted up and cold inside, like a pig’s tail in ice. Why?’

Mercy put a fresh pot of tea and a fresh, crisp bacon sandwich in front of Daniel.

Blackwell sat and listened, his face increasingly grim, while Daniel told him very briefly about Graves’ intended book and its exposure of Narraway and Vespasia Cumming-Gould, who became his wife. He finished up by admitting it had to be the incontestable conclusion that the person most likely to destroy Graves was someone in Special Branch – either Thomas Pitt himself, or someone fulfilling his orders. He was uncomfortably conscious of omitting reference to Pitt, or the Portuguese murder.

Daniel wanted to choose his words carefully, understanding that his emotion was too strong for him. ‘He didn’t know anything about the book,’ he said, and then realised how incompetent that made Pitt seem. ‘He should have. Some of his own men must have access to that kind of information . . .’

Blackwell pursed his lips. His disgust was plain, but he did not waste words on it. ‘Has Graves a publisher for this thing?’

‘He says so,’ Daniel replied. ‘Ah! I see. Why is the publisher prepared to set up a book like this, and ruin his own reputation? Are there damages the people in it will claim – if they’re still alive? That’s the thing. Most of them are dead. Lord Narraway is, so is Lady Vespasia . . .’ He felt a sudden tightness in his throat as he said that. It had not been long ago, and the loss was still fresh enough to hurt. There was a place in his life that felt as if it would always be empty now. ‘Why would the publisher accept it in the first place?’ he asked, struggling to stop the emotion from drowning him. ‘I’ll find out exactly who it is. They are hiding behind the company name.’

‘You may be poking a stick into a hornets’ nest,’ Blackwell warned. ‘Why don’t you let me do it – sideways, like?’

‘Can you?’ Daniel asked, but he was really wondering if Blackwell already knew, or guessed, far more than Daniel did.

‘You can do most things, if you know the right people to ask.’ Blackwell smiled, pouring himself another cup of tea. ‘And, of course, the right questions.’

Daniel thought of a lot of things to ask, and a lot of warnings and rules for Blackwell to keep, or at least not to break too badly, and ended up simply saying, ‘Thank you.’ He took a sip of his own tea, still very hot, and a bite of the bacon sandwich. It was so good he realised how hungry he was, and ate the rest of it before speaking again.

Blackwell was following his own train of thought. ‘Wonder what axe the publisher has to grind. He won’t be so stupid as to think he could avoid causing a furore.’

Mercy put down the piece of toast she was buttering. ‘There could be a lot of interesting things to find out about that,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘And a lot of reasons for doing it, or not doing it.’

Daniel turned to look at her. The white stripe in her hair caught the light and shone dazzlingly, then she moved her head and it was shadowed again.

‘Apart from money, what?’ he asked. ‘A personal revenge? Pretty deep hatred to take revenge on the dead, isn’t it? Someone who was too scared to do it while they were alive?’

‘Your father’s head of Special Branch, right?’ Mercy said thoughtfully, moving her own slice of toast away from the open door of the oven fire.

‘Yes.’

‘His intention would be protecting the reputation of his friends, not protecting his own. It’s a good distinction. Oldest trick in the book,’ she added.

‘He’d see through that,’ Daniel answered, but as he said it, he wondered if it were true. Friends, real friends who had fought battles beside you, after they were exhausted, but fought on to protect, stood by you. Even if the end was defeat, they did not leave you, they stayed with you. Friends knew your flaws, as you did theirs, but stood by you anyway. You laughed together, and mourned together, celebrated victories and grieved for losses. Pitt would never let them down. Perhaps if they were guilty you could not protect them from the carrion creatures who dared not attack them when they were alive. But still you would protect what you could. That’s what friendship is, not lies, sometimes not silence either.