Treachery at Lancaster Gate (18 page)

“Probably nothing,” Pitt said quietly. “She would have her loyalty to her husband as well…” He tried to imagine the conflict within her. What would Charlotte have done in a similar situation? He knew the answer to that: she would have faced him with it and demanded an answer—for him to resign his position, if necessary.

And what would he have done? Put his family before his career? Yes. But what if the member of his family, his son, were wrong? Then the answer would have to be different. You did not sell your own honor, whatever the cause, or you had nothing left to give anybody. Was that what Narraway was thinking of?

The room seemed suddenly overwhelmingly silent.

“Think hard before you act, Pitt,” Narraway warned. “Alexander has had two years in which to try to get somebody to listen to him. Setting a bomb off that killed three policemen, and badly injured two more, is the very last resort, even of a man desperate and emotionally unbalanced. You met him; you liked him. Was he a raving lunatic?”

“No…at least I thought not…”

Pitt swallowed hard. His throat felt tight. What the hell had made him take this job? He was not fit for it, not prepared. The decisions were too wide and deep. He had not the knowledge, or the connections, to survive it. He had made enemies who would be only too happy to see him brought down.

“I can't let it go.” The moment the words were out of his mouth he realized that he had done exactly what he had believed he would not. He had placed his job before his family. If he were destroyed, how would they survive?

But if he backed away because he was afraid, how would he survive that? Charlotte would probably be loyal to him. Love would survive, but respect would turn into pity. The whole balance of their relationship would change. And he would hate himself.

A wave of fury boiled up inside him against Ednam, or whoever was responsible. How dare they create a corruption that was going to drown all of them in its tide of poison?

“I can't let it go,” he repeated, but this time his voice was almost strangled in his throat.

“I know you can't,” Narraway said gently. “Neither can I, now that I know. But for God's sake be careful! Know everything you can about what you're dealing with before you take the cover off, even if you have to lie as to what you're looking into, and why.”

Pitt said nothing. The enormity of it overwhelmed him. It was like a dark storm on the horizon racing toward him. The first wind of it was tingling on his skin already; the first needles of ice began to hurt.

H
E SLEPT BADLY, EVEN
though he was exhausted. His dreams were full of dark passages that led nowhere, locked doors, paths through grass that crumbled under his feet and slid away.

He was glad to get up early and take a quick breakfast. Minnie Maude was busy already, clearing out the ash in the oven and piling in more coal. She was good at it, and the kettle boiled in a matter of minutes.

She had grown used to Pitt's manner, and his odd hours, and made him tea and toast without surprise. She offered to cook more, but he declined. The bread was fresh and she made the toast crispy, as he liked it. There was new marmalade, tart, with a real bite to it, almost aromatic. It was a good start to a cold, unwelcoming day. Two days to go until Christmas. He would take that one day off. He had chosen a gift for Charlotte some time ago, so that was taken care of. He had agreed to share with Charlotte and get both Jemima and Daniel something special. Charlotte would shop, wrap, and deliver gifts to all the other people to whom they gave presents too. But perhaps he should remind her to do something nice for Minnie Maude as well. Or would she have thought of it already?

He finished breakfast, thanked her, and collected his coat, hat, and scarf from the hooks in the hall. He went out and closed the front door gently, then turned into the wind and walked to Russell Square. From there he would catch a hansom to the Public Record Office and begin by searching the records of the trial of Dylan Lezant. He would read the account carefully, note who had presided, who prosecuted, and who defended. He would find and note all the witnesses and what they had said. He would consider finding Alexander Duncannon and asking him who he had consulted in trying to get justice for Lezant, but that was a decision he would leave until later. This side of Christmas, many people had already left the city, and nobody's mind would be on an old case that was ugly and tragic but long since considered closed.

It was afternoon by the time Pitt had read and noted all that he had set out to find. Reading the trial transcripts was a long and miserable job, but he became so absorbed in it that when he finally reached the end and stood up his back was stiff. His neck ached, too, and he realized his mouth was as dry as the dust he disturbed when he put the mounds of papers back where he had found them.

“Thank you,” he said to the clerk as he was leaving.

“You're welcome, sir,” the man replied, pushing his spectacles back up his nose. They slid again immediately.

Pitt turned back. “Oh…by the way, has anyone else had those out recently, do you know?”

“No, sir. And I'd know. No one has had this lot out in close to two years.”

“You'd know the name of whoever read them?” Suddenly Pitt did not wish to have it known he had inquired, let alone taken the transcripts. “Who took them?”

“Not took them, sir, just read and put them back again. Can't take them off the premises.”

Pitt had produced his identification to get them in the first place. The clerk would have read his name, along with his rank.

“And do you recall who read them?”

“No, sir. Sorry.”

“I would be obliged if you could be as forgetful of my name as well, if you please.”

“Yes, sir.” The man looked startled. “If you wish…”

“I do wish, Mr….” He struggled to remember the name the clerk had given. “Mr. Parkins. Thank you.”

The clerk paled, but said nothing more.

W
HEN
P
ITT FINALLY GOT
to Lisson Grove there was a message waiting that he should see Commissioner Bradshaw as soon as possible.

“Seemed a bit upset, sir,” Dawlish told him with a rueful half smile. “Expect he wants to get off for Christmas.”

Pitt did not need to ask what it was about.

“Thank you,” he said, merely as a matter of civility.

In the hansom on the way back into the heart of the city, he considered what he would say to Bradshaw. It was his force Pitt was investigating. It would be a courtesy to inform the man of his intent, but it would also be an unwise thing to do. Bradshaw would be offended, and maybe more worried than he would show. Let him have what Christmas he could, rather than sit worrying when there was nothing he could change or protect now.

He found Bradshaw impatient, pacing the floor. The fire was low in the grate but the room was still warm and it was easy to ignore the rain spattering against the window.

Bradshaw barely observed the civilities.

“Thank you for coming,” he said briskly. “Filthy night. Before I leave, I want to know exactly what it is you are looking for regarding the men who were killed at Lancaster Gate. Do you think their past records are going to turn up something? What, for example?”

Pitt was already prepared. “The identity of Anno Domini, the name assumed by their informer, sir. It's possible those particular men were there just by chance and nothing to do with the fact that he had informed them before—”

“We had all got that far, Pitt!” Bradshaw said impatiently. “You didn't need to have someone go digging through the station records for that!”

Pitt ignored his interruption. “It is also possible that this informer chose them intentionally, targeting them from the beginning.”

Bradshaw jerked his head up.

“Why? What are you suggesting?”

“That he had some personal issue with one or all of them, and this was done out of the desire for revenge over something that happened, or that he believed happened.”

Bradshaw looked pale, and suddenly very tired. “What do you have in mind? Most criminals resent being arrested. It's always someone else's fault, never theirs. A man caught stealing will blame the man who arrests him, not himself for committing the crime. Did you spend twenty years in the police force with your eyes shut and your ears muffed?”

“No, sir. But neither did I ever have to investigate a revenge bombing and the murder of three officers.”

Bradshaw sat down behind his desk. He looked almost as if he were punch-drunk at the end of a big fight. Pitt was left to sit or stand as he chose.

Pitt was stung with a sense of pity for him, but he could not avoid telling him at least something of the truth. To do less now would be insulting. He glanced beyond Bradshaw to the framed photograph of a lovely, delicate woman in the niche on the bookcase.

Bradshaw caught the look. “My wife,” he said, as if the explanation were necessary.

“She's beautiful,” Pitt said quite genuinely.

“Yes…” There was pain in Bradshaw's voice. “That photograph catches her perfectly. It's…it's a few years old now.”

Was she dead? Pitt could hardly ask. At any time it would have been intrusive. Now, the day before Christmas Eve, it would be even more painful.

“Sir, I know that men make mistakes, and that petty thieves, embezzlers, men who can't control their fists or their tempers usually blame somebody else for their misfortunes, police or victims they beat or robbed. I am looking for some incident that links the men at Lancaster Gate together, as a starting point.”

“What have you found?”

“It was my police associate who found a series of errors rather more than usual. Most of them were very well covered up, largely by Ednam.”

“The man's dead, Pitt! Is there really any point in raking that up now? He isn't here to defend himself or explain what really happened. His widow has little but grief for Christmas, and that to spend alone. Is this really going to serve anyone?”

“The rumors are already there, sir,” Pitt pointed out. “In the newspapers, magazines, in the talk in clubrooms and public bars all over the city. Are the police corrupt? Are we riddled with anarchists, nihilists, men with bombs waiting to blow us up any day or night? Where will the next explosion be? In a house, a church, a shop, on a train? Can the police stop them? Can anyone? Or are the police part of it? Does each man have to look after his own—”

“All right!” Bradshaw snapped. “I can read as well as you can! I know what the public is saying, and what most of the newspapers are saying. And I realize how damned dangerous it is, and that we can't stop it. If we're not careful, we'll have half the citizens taking up their own arms to carry out whatever law they see fit. It'll be chaos. Have you thought that that is exactly what some foreign power might want? Or is that too hideous to contemplate, and that's why you're trying to make this look like one bad police station, and that's an end to it?”

“Are you sure it's only one?” Pitt returned. “I'd love to think it's Ednam and half a dozen of his men. But shutting our eyes to any other possibility is exactly what allows this to happen in the first place.”

Bradshaw started up out of his chair. Then he looked at Pitt's face, and the rigidity of his body, ready to hold Bradshaw in check by force, if necessary. He slumped back again.

“We have to be able to trust the police,” Pitt said very gravely. “We must not only get rid of the doubtful men, we must show the public that we have and we will go on doing so.”

“By blaming Ednam for his own death?”

“By finding out who Anno Domini is, and if he placed that bomb in the house at Lancaster Gate, and if he did, then why.”

“I assume you have a suspect?”

“Yes. And if I'm right, I also know why. I'm sorry, sir, but if it is so, it's going to be very ugly indeed. If we address it, we can bring it to an end. If not, I'm afraid he will go on bombing until we do. I am not going to be responsible for that, and I imagine you have no wish to be either.”

Bradshaw sighed heavily. “I hope you know what the hell you're doing.”

Pitt hoped so too. He did not want Bradshaw to have any idea how much he dreaded having to conclude this case, but there was no way out of it. Once Alexander Duncannon detonated that bomb in Lancaster Gate, the course was set.

P
ITT ARRIVED HOME TIRED,
wet, and very cold. He had to make an effort to join in around the dinner table with the excited chatter of his family. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve. The day after that they would all be with Emily, Jack, and their children.

Daniel put on his exaggeratedly patient face whenever Jemima was talking and made sure everyone noticed it. Before pudding had been served, Jemima had her own back by teasing him over the sister of one of his friends, and Pitt was startled to see how easily vulnerable Daniel was. His children were growing up.

He relaxed a little as the good dinner restored his sense of wellbeing and he was no longer cold. For an instant, he thought of the widows of the men killed in the bombing, and wondered if there were anything on earth that would lessen the terrible grief of their Christmas. Perhaps the only gift worth having would be to know that their husbands had been innocent, and he was not at all sure that he could give them that.

After dinner, the children were upstairs about their own plans, amid quite a lot of running around and occasional calls for Charlotte's help to find ribbons or more paper. She was upstairs on one of those errands when the doorbell rang. Pitt went to answer it.

He found Jack Radley on the step. In spite of having come in a carriage, which was waiting at the curb, the shoulders of his elegant coat were soaked dark with rain.