Daniel went back to his lodgings, although it was a little late for dinner now. He apologised to Mrs Portiscale, who forgave him, as she always did, and made him some scrambled eggs on toast, and a fresh pot of tea. He ate his meal, still contemplating the case.
Where would his father have begun? As Marcus fford Croft had reminded him, Thomas Pitt had been an extremely good detective. Still was! That didn’t mean that Daniel had any of the same gifts; he certainly hadn’t got the same history.
His features and his colouring were more like a masculine version of his mother, so he had been told. But his build was tall and lanky, like his father’s, and the way he walked was the same. A big difference was that he did not stuff his pockets with everything he might need one day! Perhaps he had a little more vanity.
He took his tray to the kitchen, and thanked Mrs Portiscale again, then returned to his room and lay back in the armchair, looking at the ceiling.
He may learn nothing if he gained permission to see Graves, but they had no new questions to ask him. Graves had already said he was innocent, and had no idea who might be guilty. Had he expected to be acquitted? Would the shadow of the noose now hanging over him sharpen his mind to the reality that no one could save him without his help?
It was Ebony Graves who was dead. Someone had hated her – terribly. Could such a hatred remain secret? Somebody must know. Or had the police been so certain her killer was Graves that they had not looked very far into her life?
What advice would Pitt give? Daniel tried to remember the cases he knew something about: the older ones that were domestic murders. When Pitt joined Special Branch, so much of it became political. He had talked about some of the cases to Daniel, occasionally, when he had asked. Not the details, but how the investigation was proceeding. Daniel had listened with rapt attention. What little boy doesn’t want to share his father’s adventures?
What could he remember now?
Observation! Listen to what people say, but also how they say it. And watch their expressions: faces give away a lot. Remember what they tell you that you didn’t ask them. And remember what they avoided telling you. It was coming back now: memories of sitting at the kitchen table with his father and mother. His mother was always part of it, and quick with helpful insights, particularly in her understanding of society’s rules and limitations. And long ago, the little maid, Gracie. She had been barely five foot tall, but with a mind as sharp as a needle.
And later, Great-aunt Vespasia – Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould. Actually, she was Aunt Emily’s first husband’s great-aunt, but she became an indispensable part of the whole family – and vital to Thomas Pitt’s career as well – long after Emily’s husband died.
Daniel smiled as he remembered Vespasia. She was quite old, but he did not realise it at the time. She was beautiful, highly intelligent, and very witty. His mother had said that Aunt Vespasia was who every woman wished to be, in her dreams. But what mattered was that she was brave and vulnerable, honest, frequently to a fault, and that she loved with all of her heart.
But what about Ebony Graves? What did she believe in? And who wanted her dead?
Graves had suggested Ebony was eccentric, that catchall word for everything that was out of the expected, good or bad. Graves’ expression when he said it had suggested the bad. The servants had said no one outside the family had entered the house the day she was killed. But would they lie to protect her reputation, even if it meant implicating Graves? Or to protect the children? Probably. Maybe Graves was not liked, and had earned less loyalty than she?
Sarah was nineteen. In her case, at least, that was definitely adult. Or at least old enough to have a lover. If so, one she dared not tell her father about? An unsuitable lover?
Arthur was sixteen, and probably still being educated. Did he have a tutor? How much of an invalid was he?
The police would have looked closely at the servants, even if only to exclude them. Someone could have let a stranger in. They had said there was nothing missing. Perhaps they didn’t know at the time, being too shocked by the murder to notice. Or too ashamed at having let in a lover, a friend, a brother or father in trouble? There were possibilities that might look different now that the master was on the way to the gallows.
Daniel would have to be gentle enough to get someone to tell him the truth when they had already lied about it to the police. But to cause a man to be hanged on false testimony was a guilt that could stain the rest of their lives indelibly.
Daniel’s mother, Charlotte, and her sister Emily, had meddled in Pitt’s earlier cases, and been of some considerable help, because no one thought to connect them with the police. Perhaps he would go home for dinner one evening, when he had a little more information, and see if his mother could offer any light on Ebony Graves. She knew an extraordinary number and variety of people.
He suddenly sat up straight. He could ask Mercy Blackwell! She was a woman with a lively interest in London life, and a sharp mind. It was possible that she had heard of Ebony Graves, maybe had even encountered her. Women were gathering at meetings and rallies to discuss their rights all the time these days, and Ebony, by all accounts, was not someone to keep her opinions to herself. Mercy might know of Ebony, or have heard something. She would at least have advice. What she did not know, she could enquire about. She was sufficiently grateful to Daniel for doing the seemingly impossible in saving Roman Blackwell. Somebody, somewhere, knew something. It was up to him to find them. He had twenty days – very nearly three weeks. A good night’s sleep, the first one since well before the verdict, and he would face the morning with a clear head – and a clear purpose.
Chapter Six
Daniel set out very early in the morning to see Graves. The day was cool and the fresh wind added to the chill. The streets were still quiet. Grimy prison walls rose above him, adding to his sense of claustrophobia once he was inside, and emphasising the futility of trying to escape.
He was permitted in, but a dour-faced guard told him he had to wait until the prisoner had finished breakfast.
‘You wouldn’t want ’im to go ’ungry, would yer, Mr Pitt? Not got many breakfasts left.’
‘I’d rather . . .’ Daniel began, then realised the emptiness of what he had been going to say. There was little enough chance that he would succeed in finding cause for appeal. Was false hope really better than none at all?
His stomach was churning, as he realised how ill-prepared he was to speak to a man who was facing certain death in twenty days. Daniel would walk out of this place at the end of their meeting. Graves would see these stone walls for a few days, and only leave them to face his death. Hanging was supposed to be comparatively painless: a civilised thing to do to those who had committed capital crimes, such as murder, piracy, or treason.
But nobody ever knew the whole story. Perhaps Graves was not guilty. After all, they had nearly hanged Blackwell. Maybe someone else had killed Ebony, someone she had known, and whom Graves himself had not even suspected. How frightened and alone he must feel!
‘Want a cup of tea?’ the warder offered.
Daniel thought he would choke on it. It was probably stewed. He shook his head, then changed his mind. Perhaps it would settle his churning stomach.
The guard brought it to him wordlessly, his face slightly amused.
‘Thank you,’ Daniel said, taking the enamel mug. The tea was black and very hot.