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‘No, of course not. But if it should come to the necessity, my mother may be able to help.’
‘Your mother . . . sir?’ Falthorne could not conceal his doubt.
‘She knows very many people in society who might appreciate well-trained staff. Her sister even more so.’ Daniel preferred not to tell Falthorne his exact family position.
Falthorne rose to his feet. ‘Thank you very much, sir. Please ring the bell if there is anything else you wish. Otherwise, good night, sir.’
‘Good night, Mr Falthorne.’
Daniel had expected to sleep well, but he turned the new information over and over in his mind. Had it anything to do with Ebony’s death? Or to do with Graves’ new book? He almost got up at about two
in the morning, to search Graves’ papers for more information, but he was afraid of disturbing the whole household. Perhaps, rather more honestly, he knew he was too tired to do the job properly. He could see the facts on the page, and still miss them.
He finally fell asleep, and it was daylight when he woke to see Falthorne standing beside the bed with a tray of hot tea in his hands.
‘Good morning, sir. I hope you slept well. Breakfast will be in half an hour. I will serve you in the dining room, if you wish?’
‘No . . . no thank you.’ Daniel rubbed his eyes and sat up slowly. ‘I will eat with the rest of you, if I may?’
‘Yes, sir. Will that be all, sir?’
‘Yes, yes, thank you. Thank you for the tea.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Falthorne excused himself, and after opening the curtains on a bright morning, went out and closed the door softly behind him.
Daniel got up immediately. Thirty minutes later he was washed, shaved and dressed, and joined the staff in the kitchen for breakfast of bacon, eggs, sausages, and then toast and marmalade and a second cup of tea.
By nine o’clock, he was back in Graves’ study reading his research papers. He needed to find who it was that he was writing about, and if that person had anything to do with Epscomb. Perhaps Daniel needed to know anyway. The more he read, the more it was plain that Graves considered his subject morally deplorable, a man who used his office to gain painful, intimate information about people, and then forced them to do things that were sometimes close to treasonous. He was driven from office by a scandal that he managed to conceal, but it was too close to being criminal for him to remain – someone had stood up to him! But he managed to choose his successor, a weak man promoted beyond his ability. He then married his long-time mistress and retired to the House of Lords; such was the corruption that Graves would expose.
Daniel read his notes with a feeling of increasing distaste, as if he had covered himself with filth in being obliged to look into it. It would distress many people, both those who believed it, and those who did not. Accusations like these would not easily be forgotten, and they might well provoke the violence of which he had seen evidence in Ebony’s bedroom.
Why kill Ebony, unless she had something to do with it? Was the murderer so sure of seeing Graves hang for it? Indirect, oblique! But it had proved effective. But was that by luck, or skill? What was Marcus fford Croft’s part in it? Did he know any of this?
That made Daniel wonder if it was true, at least in part.
What damage would it do if this and the reasons for it were exposed? If the man was as important as Graves implied, immense!
Was that what fford Croft was afraid of? For that matter, was he seeking to expose it, or to make sure it was not exposed? Where did his loyalties actually lie? Or was he pressured also from some earlier act of indiscretion?
Did fford Croft want Graves saved, or hanged?
Daniel went back to the papers. Some of the notes were passages copied from other sources, with ideas written on them, which were often crossed out, or scribbled sideways up the margins of the pages.
At last, after what seemed like hours, he came across a name written in very small but neat writing in the margin.
The papers slid from Daniel’s hand onto the floor. He found he was shaking so that he could not grasp them again. They lay on the floor, but he could still see the words. He was not mistaken. Victor Narraway. Graves was writing of his father’s predecessor at Special Branch, Victor Narraway. And Narraway’s wife, Vespasia Cumming-Gould. Daniel dropped to his knees to pick up the papers one by one. One page with notes leaped out at him. As he read, his heart pounded so hard that he was shaking. The corrupt man following in Narraway’s footsteps, covering up crime, even murder, for his own benefit, was Daniel’s father, Sir Thomas Pitt himself.
Graves must have concocted a mountain of lies! He must have. None of this could be true. Daniel knew all these people. It was Graves who was asserting Narraway was guilty of treason.
If this book were ever published, the damage it would do would be immeasurable. Thank God Graves was going to be hanged – and all these lies would perish with him.
No – that was not good enough. These lies must not be spread. Rumour had wings; the more scandal, the stronger those wings, the greater the damage it did to the victims. And in this case, both Narraway and Vespasia were dead, and could not defend themselves. But Thomas Pitt was very much alive! He would be ruined.
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.
