Long Spoon Lane (43 page)

Pitt went up his own steps, calling a warning to Narraway. He took Tellman quickly across the street and knocked on the Denoons’ front door.

It was opened by a downstairs maid with an apron on and hands smutted with ash from cleaning out the withdrawing room fireplace.

“Yes, sir?” she said doubtfully.

“Police,” Tellman said, and pushed past her.

“You had better waken your master,” Pitt added.

Tellman was already on his way towards the kitchen. Pitt followed him, passing a bemused boot boy who was half awake and a scullery maid with a bucket of coals.

They found Piers in the kitchen itself, pouring a cup of tea from the pot the staff must have made for themselves.

“Don’t bother trying to go out the back door,” Pitt said quietly. “There’s someone waiting if you do.”

Piers froze. The cup dropped out of his hand and slopped over onto the kitchen table. Closer to, his face was gaunt, his cheeks darkened with stubble, his eyes hollow, haunted. Terror mixed with a kind of strange, desperate relief as if at last the chase were over and he could resign himself to the worst.

“Piers Denoon,” Tellman said stiffly. “I arrest you for the murder of Magnus Landsborough. You’d best come without trouble, sir. Sake of your family.”

Piers remained as if unable to move. Tellman was confused as to whether to put manacles on him or not.

“Go through to the front of the house, Mr. Denoon,” Pitt told him. “There’s no need to do this in front of the servants.”

As if he were an old man, Denoon began to walk out to the corridor and through to the front, Tellman half a step behind him.

They came through the green baize door almost together, and found Enid Denoon standing at the bottom of the stairs. She was wearing her night attire with a gown wrapped around her. Her hair was loose, still luxuriant despite her haggard face.

“What has happened?” she asked Pitt.

He had a terrible feeling that perhaps she guessed.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Denoon.” He meant it intensely. He would have given a great deal to have had it differently. It would have hurt him far less if it could have been Edward Denoon. But Denoon was too careful of himself and his ambitions to have done such a thing personally, and perhaps she knew that. He was a man who used others, as Wetron did, in all but the most desperate circumstances.

Piers looked at his mother, but it was not for help. He knew there was nothing anyone could do. “I couldn’t face it, and I thought I could get away,” he said simply.

Enid looked beyond him to Pitt.

She deserved an explanation. He made it as simple as he could. “Three years ago he committed a crime,” he said. “The police kept his confession and the witness statements. They used them to blackmail him into acting for the anarchists, obtaining money for them. They wanted the bombings to provoke public feeling to the point where the vast majority would be willing to arm the police and give them greater powers.”

Her face was ashen; she knew what was coming next. “And Magnus knew?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Magnus was killed in order to raise public outrage and get it in all the newspapers. A lesser man, someone without a famous family, and it might not have mattered so much.”

“Police?” she repeated. “Who? The man Simbister? Or the leader who just killed Voisey? No, you don’t need to answer that. It must be Wetron, or you wouldn’t still care so much. You do. I can see the anger in you.” She looked at her son. “I shall inform your father. I doubt he can help you, but I am sure he will try. I will do what I can.” She looked back at Pitt. “Please see yourself out. I have duties to fulfill. I understand that you have done what you had to, now so must I.” And she turned and climbed the stairs slowly, her hand on the banister rail as if it were all that held her upright.

Pitt followed Tellman and Piers Denoon outside where Narraway was waiting. There was a cab also. Tellman put the manacles on Piers Denoon, just in case he should suddenly panic and run, or even try to throw himself out of the cab once they were moving. Narraway got in beside them.

“Well done, Pitt,” he said without pleasure. “You’ll have to get another cab. Sorry.”

“Yes, sir,” Pitt replied. “But after I’ve been to see Lady Vespasia. I think Mrs. Denoon needs all the comfort she can be given.”

“It’s not yet seven in the morning!” Narraway protested.

Pitt was determined. His own distress demanded an earlier balm for Enid than at eight, or nine. “I know. If I have to wait, then I will do.” He did not wait to hear what Narraway would say, but turned and strode towards the nearest cross street where he might find a hansom. If there were none, then he would walk. It was not above a mile and a half.

In the event, when he saw a cab he was within ten minutes of his destination, and he ignored it.

Naturally Vespasia was not up, but her maid answered the door and invited Pitt to wait in the drawing room while she woke Vespasia.

“Please tell her that Mrs. Denoon will need her comfort as soon as possible,” Pitt added.

“Yes, sir. And I’ll have the scullery maid bring you tea and toast, shall I?”

“Oh, yes, please,” Pitt suddenly realized how empty he was, how clenched with unhappiness. He had found the truth, but Piers Denoon was only a pawn. Wetron was still free, still winning. That Edward Denoon would somehow stop him was a gamble, and a very long one. It was far more likely that Wetron would buy him off by using his power of corruption to obtain some kind of pardon or escape for Piers. Maybe he would even find a way to blame someone innocent, at least of that particular crime, like Simbister!

The tea and toast came, and he welcomed it. He had just finished when Vespasia appeared. It had been barely twenty minutes but she was fully dressed in outdoor clothes and obviously ready to leave.

“What has happened, Thomas?” she asked, dread in her voice as if she already knew, although she could not have.

He rose to his feet immediately.

“I just arrested Piers Denoon for the murder of Magnus Landsborough,” he answered. “Wetron blackmailed him into it, but that doesn’t alter the facts. And no. I can’t prove it was Wetron. It was Simbister who began it, and it is his name on the papers.”

Vespasia lost the last trace of color in her face. “And Enid knows?”

A tightness inside him clenched like a locked fist. “I meant it to reach Denoon first. I sent the servant for him, and she woke Enid instead.”

“I daresay she is frightened of Denoon,” Vespasia said, walking to the door. “My carriage is waiting.” Her voice was hoarse with emotion. “Piers is her only child. Hurry, Thomas. We may already be too late.”

He did not ask for what, but did as she requested, dreading that Enid Denoon might have taken her own life, unable to bear the shame and the grief. He should have made sure her husband was there to care for her, or at the very least a strong, capable servant—the butler, or a long-serving ladies’ maid. He had been stupid. Now he cursed himself for it. He had been so occupied with his loathing of Wetron he had not thought to see that she was coping with the initial shock.

But it was not Enid’s address Vespasia gave her coachman, it was Wetron’s, and she climbed in without waiting for Pitt to give her his hand.

“Wetron?” he exclaimed.

“Hurry!” was all she said.

The coachman obeyed, urging the horses forward. In the almost deserted morning streets, where there was no trade but domestic deliveries, they careered through the silent avenues and squares as if there were almost no one else alive.

There was no opportunity for speech and Pitt was glad of it. Thoughts raced through his mind, but they were too hectic to make sense. They pulled up and he threw the door open, swiveling to hand Vespasia out, almost catching her in her urgency to follow him. Enid’s carriage stood silently on the far side.

Together they sped across the pavement and up the steps. It was the second time this morning he had banged on a front door and had a startled servant open it to him.

They pushed past him just as the shot rung out. Vespasia gave a cry and turned to the morning room just as Wetron appeared at the door. He looked gray-faced, his hair tousled, and there was a small pistol in his hand.

“She’s insane!” he gasped, staring wildly first at Vespasia, then at Pitt. “She came at me like a…a…a mad woman! I had no choice. It’s…” He looked at the gun in his hand as if he were almost surprised to see it there. “This was hers. She was going to shoot me! Her son has been arrested. It…it unhinged her mind…poor creature.”

Vespasia pushed past him as if he had been a servant in the way, and went into the morning room, leaving the door wide open behind her.

Even from where he stood Pitt could see Enid on the floor, lying on her back, blood welling scarlet from a wound in her lower chest.

Vespasia bent to her, cradling her in her arms, oblivious to the blood now covering her also.

Pitt took the gun from Wetron. It was surprisingly small, a woman’s weapon.

Enid was still alive, just.

“She’s mad!” Wetron said again, his voice thin and high. “I had no choice!”

Vespasia looked up from where she was kneeling, her arm now around Enid’s shoulders. “Rubbish!” she said with savage, glittering triumph. “The bullet is in the carpet under her!” she shouted hoarsely. “She was lying on the floor when you shot her. You struck her and she fell and dropped the gun. You picked it up and used it in cold blood. The police surgeon will be able to prove that. You’ve made your one final mistake, Mr. Wetron. You destroyed her nephew, and her son. But she has destroyed you. It is the end of the Police Bill, and I think at last it is also the end of the Inner Circle. Voisey is dead and Edward Denoon will be ruined.”

She looked down at Enid and the tears filled her eyes. “I hope she knew what she had achieved,” she whispered, letting go of her at last. “You had better use the telephone to have someone come and take the wretched man away, Thomas. You must have people for such things. I will then tell Lord Landsborough what is lost, and what is gained.”

Pitt remembered that among all the collected things in his pocket he had a set of manacles. He took them out and locked Wetron to one of the brass posts on the magnificent club fender around the fireplace, obliging him to sit on the floor a yard from Enid’s body.

“Yes, of course,” he said. “I’m…sorry.”

Vespasia looked at him, ignoring her tears. “Don’t be, my dear. This was what she chose, and I think perhaps there was no other way.”

“Thank you, Aunt Vespasia,” he said, swallowing hard, and went to obey.

BY ANNE PERRY
Published by The Random House Publishing Group

F
EATURING
W
ILLIAM
M
ONK

The Face of a Stranger

A Dangerous Mourning

Defend and Betray

A Sudden, Fearful Death

The Sins of the Wolf

Cain His Brother

Weighed in the Balance

The Silent Cry

A Breach of Promise

The Twisted Root

Slaves of Obsession

Funeral in Blue

Death of a Stranger

The Shifting Tide

Dark Assassin

F
EATURING
C
HARLOTTE AND
T
HOMAS
P
ITT

The Cater Street Hangman

Callander Square

Paragon Walk

Resurrection Row

Bluegate Fields

Rutland Place

Death in the Devil’s Acre

Cardington Crescent

Silence in Hanover Close

Bethlehem Road

Highgate Rise

Belgrave Square

Farriers’ Lane

The Hyde Park Headsman

Traitors Gate

Pentecost Alley

Ashworth Hall

Brunswick Gardens

Bedford Square

Half Moon Street

The Whitechapel Conspiracy

Southampton Row

Seven Dials

Long Spoon Lane

T
HE
W
ORLD
W
AR
I N
OVELS

No Graves As Yet

Angels in the Gloom

Shoulder the Sky

T
HE
C
HRISTMAS
N
OVELS

A Christmas Journey

A Christmas Guest

A Christmas Visitor

Praise for
Long Spoon Lane

“One can always count on Anne Perry’s elegant Victorian mysteries.”

—New York Times Book Review

“[Readers] will appreciate the cleverly orchestrated political machinations as much as the personal agendas—both of which come fully into play when it comes to solving the mystery.”

—Booklist

“Carnage comes early in Perry’s engrossing Victorian historical…. A convincing historical backdrop with echoes of modern-day fears.”

—Publishers Weekly

“The plot of
Long Spoon Lane
is neatly put together and works out like a clever contraption with no loose ends.”

—Los Angeles Times