Pitt sat down in the opposite chair.

Narraway’s face was tight, his eyes wide and wary, as if even here in his own room there were something to be guarded against.

“The Egyptian ambassador went to the Foreign Office late last night,” he said in carefully measured words. “They, in turn, have spoken by telephone to Mr. Gladstone, and I was sent for this morning.”

Pitt waited without interrupting, the chill growing inside him.

“They were aware of the murder in Eden Lodge by yesterday afternoon,” Narraway continued. “But it was in the afternoon papers, so half of London knew of it.” He stopped again. Pitt noticed that Narraway’s hands were stiff on the desk, his slender fingers rigid.

“And the embassy knew that Ayesha Zakhari was arrested,” Pitt concluded. “Since she is an Egyptian citizen, I suppose it is natural for them to enquire after her well-being, and ensure that she was properly represented. I would expect as much of the British embassy were I arrested in a foreign country.”

Narraway’s mouth twisted a little. “You would expect the British ambassador to call the first minister of that country on your behalf? You overrate yourself, Pitt. A junior consul might see that you were appointed a lawyer, but not more than that.”

There was no time to be embarrassed or annoyed. Obviously something had happened that worried Narraway profoundly.

“Does Miss Zakhari have some importance that we were unaware of?” Pitt asked.

“Not so far as I know,” Narraway replied. “Although it does raise the question.” His expression of anxiety deepened. His fingers curled and uncurled, as if he were making sure he could still feel them. “The question raised was one of justice.” He took a deep breath, as though it was difficult for him to say this, even to Pitt. “The ambassador was aware that Saville Ryerson was at Eden Lodge when the police found Miss Zakhari with the body, and they want to know why he was not arrested also.”

It was a perfectly reasonable question, but that was not the thought that rippled through Pitt like fire in the bones. “How did they know that?” he asked. “Surely no one allowed her to contact her embassy and say such a thing? Anyway, didn’t she tell the police at the time that she was alone? Who told the ambassador?”

Narraway’s mouth twisted in a bitter smile and his eyes were hard. “An excellent question, Pitt. In fact, it is the principal question, and I don’t know the answer. Except that it was not the police, nor was it any lawyer of Miss Zakhari’s, because she has not yet asked for one. And Inspector Talbot assures me that she has not answered any further questions or mentioned Ryerson’s name to anyone.”

“What about the constable who was first on the scene… Cotter?”

“Believe me, Talbot has had him over the coals at least twice, and Cotter swears he spoke to no one outside the station, except you.” There was no accusation in his voice, not even doubt.

“Which leaves us with our anonymous informer who heard the shots and called the police,” Pitt concluded. “Apparently he-or she-remained around to see what happened, and presumably saw Ryerson and recognized him.”

“It was hardly the first time he’d been there,” Narraway pointed out. “They may have seen him on several occasions before.” He frowned, his fingers still stiff on the tabletop. “But it raises further questions, beginning with why tell the Egyptian embassy and not the newspapers, who would almost certainly pay them?”

Pitt said nothing.

Narraway stared at him. “Or Ryerson, himself,” Narraway went on. “Blackmail might net them a nice profit, and on a continuing basis.”

“Would Ryerson pay?” Pitt asked.

A curious expression crossed Narraway’s face: uncertainty, sadness, but something which was unquestionably painful. With an effort he wiped it away, concentrating on the practicalities of the answer. “Actually I doubt it, particularly since, if Miss Zakhari has chosen to deny he was there, he would be seen to be a liar when it came to court, because the police know he was there. He is a very recognizable figure.”

“Is he? I don’t think I’ve ever seen him.” Pitt tried to bring him to mind, and could not.

“He’s a big man,” Narraway said very quietly, his voice a little raw. “Over six feet tall, broad-shouldered, powerful. He has thick, graying hair, and strong features. He was a fine athlete as a young man.” His words were full of praise, and yet he said them as if he had to make himself do it, a matter of justice rather than desire. For some inner reason of his own he was compelled to be fair.

“Do you know him, sir?” Pitt asked, then instantly wished he had not, although it was a necessary question. There was something in Narraway’s face which told him he had intruded.

“I know everyone,” Narraway replied. “It is my job to know them. It is your job too. I am told that Mr. Gladstone desires us to keep Mr. Ryerson’s name out of the case, if it is humanly possible. He has not specified how it is to be done, and I assume he does not wish to know.”

Pitt could not conceal his anger at the injustice of it, and he resented the implication that he should try to. “Good!” he retorted. “Then if we are obliged to tell him that it was impossible, he will not have the information to argue with us.”

There was not even a flicker of humor in Narraway’s face; even the usual dry irony in his eyes was absent. In some way this touched a wound in him not yet healed enough to be safe. “It is I who will answer to Mr. Gladstone, Pitt, not you. And I am not prepared to tell him that we failed, unless I can prove that it was already impossible before we began. Go and see Ryerson himself. If we are to save him, then we cannot work blindly. I need the truth, and immediately, not as it is unearthed a piece at a time by the police. Or, God help us, by the Egyptian ambassador.”

Pitt was confused. “You said you knew him. Would it not be far better for you to see him? Your seniority would impress on…”

Narraway looked up, his eyes angry, his slim hand white-knuckled on top of the desk. “My seniority doesn’t seem to impress you. At least not sufficiently for you to obey me without putting up an argument. I am not making suggestions, Pitt, I am telling you what to do. And I do not propose to explain myself. I am accountable to Mr. Gladstone for my success, as I will answer to him for my failure. You are accountable to me.” His voice rasped. “Go and see Ryerson. I want to know everything about his relationship with Miss Zakhari in general, and that night in particular. Come back here when you can tell me, preferably tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir. Do you know where I will find Mr. Ryerson at this time of day? Or should I simply make enquiries?”

“No, you will not make enquiries!” Narraway snapped, a flush in his cheeks. “You will tell no one but Ryerson himself who you are or what you want. Begin at his home in Paulton Square. I believe it is number seven.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.” Pitt kept his own emotions out of his voice. He turned on his heel and went out of the room, disliking his errand but not surprised by it. The thing that confused him was that concerning a matter so important, with Gladstone involved, why Narraway did not go to see Ryerson himself. The question of being recognized by anyone did not arise. No newspaper reporters would be in Paulton Square at this hour, but even if they were, Narraway was not a public figure to be known on sight.

There must be a factor, perhaps a major one, which Narraway was not telling him, and the knowledge made him uncomfortable.

He hailed a hansom and directed it to Danvers Street, just beyond Paulton Square. He would walk the rest of the way. Since being with Special Branch he had learned a kind of carefulness in being observed. It was a precaution, no more. He disliked the secrecy of it, but he understood its worth.