Read Seven Dials for Free Online Page A

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.
    By the time he had reached the first steps of number seven he had decided how to approach whoever answered Ryerson’s door.
    “Good morning, sir,” a fair-haired footman in full livery said without interest. “How may I help you?”
    “Good morning,” Pitt replied, standing upright and meeting the man’s eyes. “Would you be good enough to tell Mr. Ryerson that Mr. Victor Narraway sends his regards, and regrets that he is unable to call himself, but has sent me in his place? My name is Thomas Pitt.” He produced his card, the plain one that stated his name only, and dropped it on the silver tray in the footman’s hand.
    “Certainly, sir,” the footman replied, without looking at the card. “Would you care to wait in the morning room while I enquire if Mr. Ryerson is able to see you?”
    Pitt smiled and accepted. That was very direct, not the usual euphemism of pretending that he did not know whether his master was at home.
    The footman led the way through a magnificent hall of an opulent Italianate design, terra-cotta-colored walls and handsome marble and bronze busts displayed on plinths, paintings of canal scenes on the walls, one of which looked like a genuine Canaletto.
    The morning room was also in warm colors, with an exquisite tapestry on one wall that depicted a hunting scene in the minutest detail, the grass in the foreground starred with tiny flowers. This home belonged to a man of wealth and individual taste.
    Pitt had ten minutes to wait in nervous tension, trying to rehearse the scene in his mind. He was about to question a cabinet minister regarding a possibly criminal, certainly embarrassing, part of his personal life. He had come to learn the truth and he could not afford to fail.
    But he had questioned important people about their lives before, probing for the wounds that had led to murder. It was his skill. He was good at it, even brilliant. He had had far more successes than failures. He should not doubt himself now.
    He glanced at the books in one of the cases. He saw Shakespeare, Browning, Marlowe, and a little farther along, Henry Rider Haggard and Charles Kingsley and two volumes of Thackeray.
    Then he heard the door open and he swung around.
    As Narraway had said, Ryerson was a large man, probably in his late fifties, but he moved with the grace of someone trained to physical activity and who took joy in it. There was no extra flesh on him, no signs of indulgence or ease. He had the innate confidence of one whose body does as he wishes it to. Now he looked anxious, a little tired, but still very much in command of his outward emotions.
    “My footman tells me you have come on behalf of Victor Narraway.” He pronounced the name with a lack of emotion so complete Pitt instantly wondered if it was the result of deliberate effort. “May I ask why?”
    “Yes, sir,” Pitt said gravely. He had already decided that candor was the only way to achieve his goal, if it was possible at all. One trick or attempt at deviousness which failed would destroy all trust. “The Egyptian embassy is aware that you were present at Eden Lodge when Mr. Edwin Lovat was shot, and they are demanding that you also are called to be accountable for your part in those events.”
    Pitt expected smooth denial at first, and then perhaps bluster, anger as fear took hold. The ugliest possibility would be self-pity, and the plea to some kind of loyalty to extricate him from the embarrassment of a love affair which had turned sour. He dreaded the shame and the revulsion of it. His skin felt cold even at