Treachery at Lancaster Gate (21 page)

Pitt felt a quickening of interest, and discomfort. He was not sure what he wanted to find, but he was afraid of learning that Alexander was right and the police were as badly wrong as he believed. Sitting here in this quiet, well-used morning room of a man he had not heard of until today, he was touched with a new chill as to what this would mean.

Hayman was staring at him, waiting for him to explain himself.

“The bombings,” Pitt said rather too bluntly. “I have to investigate every possibility. One of them is that they are related to the Dylan Lezant case.”

Hayman's eyes widened. “The bombings at Lancaster Gate? How?”

“You defended him?” Pitt asked.

“Not very effectively, I'm afraid. The evidence was overwhelming…by that I mean that it overwhelmed me, and I think possibly a good deal of the truth was obfuscated by lies in the interpretation of the evidence.”

Pitt was still hoping for an argument, something that would take him in a different direction. He was being a coward. He should face the facts and allow them to lead him wherever they may.

“What evidence was there, Mr. Hayman, apart from police testimony? Could they prove that Lezant had had the gun, or any gun? Had he a history of violence? Why would he shoot Tyndale? Did anybody ever find the opium, or proof that Tyndale was anything but the passerby he appeared to be? Could Alexander Duncannon have been telling the truth that he was there, and saw the police shoot Tyndale?”

Hayman thought for several moments, all the light gradually dying out of his face.

“Duncannon was a bad witness,” he said at last. “I didn't put him on the stand. He was willing enough to testify, but his father exerted all the pressure he could to prevent it. The prosecution would have done what they could to discredit him, and would have succeeded. He had been in an appalling accident and was still under the influence of the opium given him initially for the pain. No doubt you are familiar with opium addiction. He would have been exposed as an addict, his supplier very probably exposed, too, and his legality questioned. It was not his doctor: that I know because I found out for myself.”

“Who was it?” Pitt asked.

The barrister shook his head.

“I know only that it was not his doctor, because I went into his medical history very thoroughly.” His face was filled with pity. “Alexander wanted to testify that they both went to buy opium from their dealer, who did not turn up. The police did. Tyndale came by, purely by chance—he was not the dealer. The police panicked and shot wildly, hitting Tyndale and killing him immediately. With a spot of very quick thinking, they arrested Lezant, but Alexander escaped, presumably thinking Lezant was behind him.”

“What did Lezant say?” he asked.

“That the story was true. But he refused to have Alexander called. He said it would ruin Alexander and do little to help his case. He was right. It would have been a pointless sacrifice. But whether it would have helped or not, I had to do as Lezant wished.”

“Did you believe them?” It was a very blunt question, but Pitt needed an answer, even if it was only in the mounting surprise in Hayman's eyes, and then the discomfort.

“I don't know,” he said after a brief hesitation. “You have looked into it. Do you?”

Pitt had not expected Hayman to challenge him. “I think Alexander believes it,” he replied. “But whether that makes it true or not is another matter. How close were they?”

A flash of humor lit Hayman's face and then vanished. “Friends in affliction, I think. The desperate loyalty of people who understood one another's pain, and perhaps shared in many beliefs. Lovers, if that's what you mean? No, I don't think so. I've seen that before, and I would be very surprised. The love of brothers in grief, yes.”

“Again, do you believe Lezant was guilty?”

“Of shooting Tyndale? No, I don't think so.”

“Thank you.”

“I…I wish I could have saved him. I look back now and wonder if I tried hard enough.” He stopped abruptly.

Pitt rose to his feet. “Thank you, Mr. Hayman. I appreciate your honesty.”

Hayman stood also. “Not much point in wishing you a merry Christmas, is there? I don't envy your job, sir. You have a nasty mess that won't be either opened or closed easily.”

It was just after midnight when Pitt finally got home and went to bed. It did not feel like Christmas morning, a day of celebration, a new hope for the world, if the Church were to be believed, the dawn of a new redemption.

He must make an effort, for his family's sake, no matter what he felt like: he must smile, go to church, let the music and the bells, the sound of happy voices drown out all other sounds. He owed his children that, even if Charlotte knew him well enough to read the shadows inside.

I
T WAS THE DAY
after Christmas, traditionally known as Boxing Day, named for the boxes of money or other gifts the well-off gave to their staff, tradesmen, or others less fortunate. Pitt did not call on Tellman and Gracie for this reason, although he did take them a hamper of gifts from Charlotte and himself, because they were old friends. It had nothing to do with social position. Also, it was the perfect opportunity to leave the last shred of the quarrel behind. They both wanted it forgotten and that was what the heart of Christmas was about.

While Gracie prepared their tea and rich, fruit-filled Christmas cake, Pitt sat with Tellman in the parlor. The fire was burning up well and the whole room was decorated with homemade, brightly colored paper chains. Dark red candles flickered on both ends of the mantel.

Pitt looked around at the parlor and smiled. Every touch in it spoke not of money but of care. Christina's toys were placed in one corner, as if it were her part of the room. There was a stuffed rabbit, a box of bricks, and a doll with a homemade pink dress on. Pitt was absolutely certain that the little girl would have a dress of the same fabric. Years ago Jemima had had the same. He remembered Charlotte stitching it, and Jemima's face when she had opened the parcel.

It seemed almost a blasphemy to force a conversation about violence and corruption. It should not be permitted to intrude in a place like this. But that was the evil of it. It intruded everywhere, until it was stopped.

“I saw the lawyers for the prosecution and the defense for Lezant on Christmas Eve,” Pitt said, biting into the cake. It was excellent. He would immeasurably have preferred to eat it and think of nothing else. Gracie's cooking was very much to his taste, and it had improved all the time over the years.

Tellman cut straight to the point. “They think he was innocent?”

“Of shooting Tyndale, the defense thought so, yes. The prosecution thought Tyndale could have been the drug dealer, but I don't think it's likely. We've no choice but to investigate further. I hate dragging dead men's names through the mud, but there's no alternative now. At least it will stop Alexander Duncannon from setting off any more bombs.”

“He's as mad as a hatter!” Tellman said bitterly.

“Probably. But that doesn't mean he's wrong about this. If he is, I'll be delighted, but I need to prove it.”

Tellman did not argue. It was as if the comfort and sanity of Christmas had robbed him of the anger he had felt before. “Where are you going to start?” he asked. “Ednam's dead, and I doubt Yarcombe or Bossiney'll tell you anything useful. They don't want to be tarred with the same brush.”

“I doubt it, too,” Pitt agreed. “The police tried to trace everything they could about poor Tyndale at the time, but we could go over it again. I think he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. But I'd like to know who the dealer was, and why he wasn't there. What happened to him? And why did any of the police have guns? Was it an accident that Tyndale was hit? The only people there were other police, Lezant, and Duncannon.”

“They said Duncannon wasn't there,” Tellman pointed out.

“Best thing to say to discredit him,” Pitt answered. “If he wasn't there then his testimony was useless. Anything he said had to be a lie.”

Tellman's face was grim. “No way to verify that. Of course, the police could have been shooting at Duncannon to prevent his escape, and got Tyndale instead.”

“We need to go to the place and see exactly where the shots were fired,” Pitt said unhappily. “Read the testimony over again, and get the other men who were there to repeat their statements.”

“Everyone took it for granted that Lezant was guilty.” Tellman's voice was hard. He found the words difficult to say. “Of course, it could be that it was so absurd they didn't bother questioning it any further,” he added.

Pitt gave him a cold look, and did not add any words.

Tellman colored slightly. He was uncomfortable, desperate to cling onto his old certainties.

Gracie came in with the tea and set it down. Without asking, she poured for each of them. She possibly knew Pitt's taste even better than she knew Tellman's.

“Wot yer going ter do, then?” She looked from one to the other. “Yer gonna bury it and leave it till it poisons everything, or yer going ter dig up all the roots until yer got it all, an' yer can burn it?”

“We're going to dig it up,” Tellman answered before Pitt could swallow his cake and form the words.

P
ITT DID NOT FIND
Alexander at his flat this time. His mother must have persuaded him to come home for Christmas, or else he had felt well enough to offer her that, perhaps the best gift he could give her.

He made his way to the Duncannons' house, through the fog that curled thick as smoke over the city. The street lamps were hazy yellow, seeming to move as the rising wind twined the vapors across them like scarves.

He was conducted to the morning room as soon as he arrived. The house smelled of mulled wine, spice, the perfumed greenery of wreaths, and the burning of applewood, cigars, and thick, colored wax candles. A Christmas tree in the hall was hung with glass ornaments reflecting the glitter of the chandeliers in their faceted sides.

“I'll keep it brief,” Pitt said the moment the door was closed and he and Alexander were alone. “I've read all the records of Lezant's trial, and the police reports. I've talked to both Cornard and Hayman. There are a lot of unexplained elements in the story. There is certainly a possibility that errors have been made. I see why you wanted to be called to the stand, and why Lezant wouldn't allow it. You wouldn't have been believed anyway. You might have got yourself hanged as well, for no cause.”

Alexander looked startled. “I didn't shoot Tyndale!”

“I know that. But he was shot while you were in the act of committing a crime. That makes you guilty, even though you didn't pull the trigger.”

“Neither did Dylan! It was one of the police,” Alexander said hotly. There was a flush in his pale face and his hands were clenched on his knee.

“Why? Was it an accident? Were they shooting at you? Why was anyone shooting at all? Are you sure you didn't have a gun, either of you?”

“Yes, of course I'm sure!” Alexander's voice was raised. “Why would we take guns? If you're addicted to opium you don't shoot your supplier, for God's sake! He's your lifeline! If he's dead, you're cut off.” The panic rose in his voice as if the threat were there in the room with him now.

Pitt fought the urge to believe him and was overwhelmed. It was the truth, and he could not refuse to see it.

“Did the supplier come?” he asked.

“No.”

“It wasn't Tyndale? You're sure?”

Alexander was incredulous. “Of course I'm sure! He didn't come. Or if he did, he saw the police and went off without them or us ever knowing he was there.”

“Who was he?”

Something inside Alexander seemed to close down.

“I can't tell you.”

“You mean you won't!”

“Yes. I won't. Without the opium I can't stand the pain.” It was a simple statement of a fact he must live with day and night, every moment he was conscious, and that threaded through all his dreams, too.

“How did you know who the policemen were?” Pitt asked. “How were you certain enough to kill them?”

Alexander's face was bleak, tight with pain. “They testified in court, remember? They swore to their names, and to being there.”

Of course. And Alexander was not called to testify.

“I assume it was your handkerchief at Craven Hill,” he said.

Alexander nodded.

Pitt knew he had grounds to arrest Alexander. But if he arrested him now, without proof of what had truly happened to Dylan Lezant, the young man would surely hang. And he had promised Jack he would wait. So he asked him to go over the events of that day one more time, step by step. He could compare it with whatever Yarcombe or Bossiney might say. Newman, Hobbs, Ednam, Lezant, and even Tyndale were all dead.

Half an hour later Godfrey Duncannon came in. He did not knock, which, since it was his house, was perhaps acceptable. All the same, Pitt found it an intrusion.

Alexander rose to his feet, his wince of pain almost imperceptible.

“Commander Pitt was just leaving, Father.” He turned to Pitt with a sudden, gentle smile, which for a moment illuminated his face and showed the man he could have been. “Good night, sir.”

C
HARLOTTE PUT HOT PORRIDGE
in front of Pitt and passed him sugar and cream, then poured him a second cup of tea.

“Thomas, I think you should at least see the newspaper, even if you don't read it all. Perhaps some of the letters…”

He looked up at her. “I know,” he said quietly. “A good many people are concerned about finding the Lancaster Gate bomber, but even more about allaying this suspicion of the police, and the disgrace of corruption. It is doing a lot of damage.” He heard the strain in his voice, even though he had tried to hide it from her.

“It's more than that,” she replied, not moving away even to put the teapot down or resume her place opposite him. “I haven't mentioned this before, because I hoped he would leave it, but he's getting worse…”

“Who is?”

“Josiah Abercorn. I didn't know much about him, so I asked Emily if he was important. I'm sorry, but apparently he is.”

She had his attention now.

Charlotte refilled her own cup and sat down.

“He is very much for the police. He wants justice for those who were murdered, and all police treated with more respect. He wants the bomber found and hanged, and for Special Branch to stop maligning them, by implication.”

“And does he have any practical suggestions as to how we should do that?” Pitt said bitterly. “Most of us want to believe that the police are strong, clever, and honest. They are the shield between us and the reality of crime.”

“Of course he's saying what everybody wants to hear,” she said patiently. “He's ambitious to be a politician, no doubt destined for high office. What else would he say?”

“Is he?” He was surprised. He should have remembered that.

“He's not elected yet,” she said with a downward turn of her mouth, “but he aims to be, and he'll succeed.”

“You don't like him,” he observed.

She looked surprised. “Of course I don't. He's clever, opportunistic, and he's criticizing you. But you can't ignore him.”

He smiled. “What should I do? Write to
The Times
myself? And say what? ‘Regrettably the police are imperfect, and it is beginning to look very possible that they were in too much of a hurry to close a particularly ugly case in which they may have contributed rather a lot to hanging the wrong man'? I would like to be sure of that before I say it. I'd like to be even more sure that there is a better answer than that.”

“And is there?”

He let out a sigh. “I don't think so. But I'm not going to say anything until I know for certain, and can prove it. Has anyone replied to Abercorn?”

“Victor did yesterday. It was rather neat, actually. He explained why Special Branch business is secret, and anyone who read it would see Abercorn as being irresponsible. But people tend to see what they want to. Narraway is playing to reason—Abercorn to panic. Panic usually wins. I'm sorry.”

Pitt did not argue. She was right. He read Abercorn's letter and appreciated exactly what he was doing, fanning the indignation and the fear at the same time. He could also understand it. Saying “Everything is under control, leave it to me” doesn't soothe any anger or grief. It sounds like the indifference of someone who is not himself in any danger.

Charlotte was watching him, waiting for his response.

“I know,” he conceded. “There's little I would like more than to clear the police of any wrong, in Lezant's death or anything else beyond ordinary errors now and then. But I can't.”

She did not reply, as if waiting for him to go on. It was a relief to share it all with her. He had not realized how much until he began to tell her. His tea went cold and he did not notice.

When he had finished she looked sad, a pity in her face.

“From what Alexander says, it was probably Ednam who shot Tyndale,” Pitt finished. “But they all had to cover it up and blame Lezant.”

“And Lezant is dead, and Alexander probably a mass murderer, at least in the eyes of the law,” Charlotte added. “Who is Tyndale? Could he have been an opium dealer?”

Pitt stood up. “I'm not sure. I'm going to see his family. I don't suppose I'll learn much, but I have to try.”

She nodded and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek as he turned and went toward the hall, and the front door.

P
ITT HAD RECEIVED
T
YNDALE'S
address from one of his men, and he caught a hansom in Russell Square, giving the driver instructions. Then he sat back and considered what he would say to Tyndale's widow. There was very little about her in the notes from the original case. Perhaps the poor woman had been too shocked by her sudden and pointless bereavement to say anything. Ednam had left no description. Pitt wondered if not speaking to her sooner was an oversight that could matter.

He also thought about Josiah Abercorn. If Charlotte was correct and he was busy courting public support, he would find a great deal of it. The bombing had stirred up a powerful undercurrent of fear. Most people were frightened by the specter of uncertainty, disorder, and panic in the streets. There were more and more immigrants in London, and they were easy to identify. They looked different, sounded different. Too many of them were poor, and willing to work harder than other people, for less money. They also ate different food and seemed to worship different gods. They were an easy focus for the fear that displayed itself as anger.

Was Abercorn feeding that fear, and hoping it would in turn feed him? It was despicable, but he certainly would not be the first, or the last, to use it for his own ends.

And perhaps he was also quite genuinely afraid that social upheaval was already awake and restive. Worse could follow: violence imported from Europe, where revolution had been suppressed, speech restricted, and there was poverty and overcrowding so bad it seemed to suffocate the breath in your throat.

His work at Special Branch had necessitated Pitt talking to a lot of foreigners, many from Russia and the countries lying on its borders. Their desperation was in their faces, in the threadbare clothes they wore, the food they ate, the odd, sometimes colorful phrases they used as they tried to become used to English and its eccentricities.

He thought of the peaceful countryside of his youth, to some boring and bare of idea or adventure. Now it seemed like a place of lost peace. The world was changing too rapidly, like a train careering toward the horizon, out of control, threatening to crash.

He arrived at the Tyndale house, alighted, and paid the driver. He stood on the pavement and stared around him as the hansom moved away. It was a quiet neighborhood, and a little shabby. A million people lived in houses like these, outwardly much the same, inside each one unique, with the possessions and the record of one family, perhaps several generations of it.

He walked up to the door of number fifty-seven and knocked. As he stepped back, so as not to threaten whoever opened it, he noticed that the bricks needed repointing in half a dozen places. A slate in the roof was loose, but well away from the door. If it fell it would land harmlessly in the garden, in among the perennial flowers, which were now neatly cut back, ready to grow again next year.

The door opened and a maid looked out curiously. She was young, not more than fifteen or sixteen. She reminded him of Gracie, when he and Charlotte had first married. One young girl was all the domestic help they could afford. He found himself smiling at the memory.

“Yes, sir? Can I 'elp yer?” she asked.

“Good morning. My name is Commander Pitt, of Special Branch. Will you please ask Mrs. Tyndale if she can spare me a little of her time? It is important.”

It took the maid a moment to grasp what he had said, but after the initial amazement, she nodded, dropped an awkward curtsy, and asked him in. She left him in a rather chilly parlor, and went off very swiftly to fetch her mistress.

Pitt looked around. One could tell a great deal about both past and present from the parlor of a family home, or, in wealthier houses, from the morning room. It was usually a mixture of what one wished people to believe was part of one's ordinary life: the books, the pictures, the ornaments, the best furniture; and also the things one thought well of, but did not actually find comfortable: straight-backed chairs, vases given as gifts by relatives one could not afford to offend, books one ought to have read but never would.

Mrs. Tyndale came in five minutes later. She was a slender woman with a grave, interesting face and a streak of white across the front of her dark hair. When she spoke, her voice was husky, and had a faint foreign accent he could not place. Instantly she shattered all his preconceptions.

“Good morning, Commander,” she introduced herself. “I am Eva Tyndale. What can I do for you?”

He answered her quite candidly. “I apologize for intruding on you, but recent events have obliged me to look into police conduct at the time of your husband's death. I am sorry to have to raise the matter again. This should have been done at the time, but it wasn't.”

She raised fine, black eyebrows. “Recent events?”

“The death of three policemen and injury of two more in the bombing at Lancaster Gate.”

“Oh. I see.” She made a very slight gesture with one hand, inviting him to sit down. “I have no idea how I can help. I did read enough about it to realize that they were the same men who investigated the shooting of my husband. I had assumed it was coincidence. Presumably they often work together, and their job is a dangerous one. But how does my husband's death concern Special Branch? He was killed by accident, by a young man addicted to opium. Why is Special Branch involved in that?”

“Because there is a possibility that the two events are connected,” Pitt answered levelly. “If not in fact, then in someone's imagination.”

“My husband was there purely by mischance.” She sat in the chair opposite him, her hands folded gently in her lap, very white against the black of her dress. She was not beautiful, but there was an intensity of character in her face that held his attention, and he found it pleasing. He regretted having to ask this of her. It had to be painful.

“Mr. Tyndale did not normally pass that way?” he asked.

“Seldom. He had come home and gone out again, to look for our dog, which had chased a cat and disappeared.” She took a deep breath and quite openly steadied her voice, keeping her self-control with difficulty as memory of that night returned. “He never came back. But the dog came home an hour or two later. It has an absurdity about it, doesn't it? Life can be both tragic and ridiculous at the same time.”

“Indeed. The police record says very little about him…” he began.

A bitterness made her face bleak for an instant, then she mastered it. “They asked a great deal at the time, but all in an effort to find out if he could have been the dealer in opium their trap was set to catch. Apparently that man never came…if he existed at all. The young man was arrested and charged with shooting my husband to death.” She twisted her hands in her lap, just a tiny movement. “He denied it. I didn't know whether to believe him or not. I can think of no reason in the world why he would shoot James. Or the drug seller either, for that matter.” She gave Pitt a small, sad smile. “I would have thought it far more likely he would shoot one of the policemen, or even more than one, and then make his escape. Wouldn't you?”

“Yes,” Pitt admitted. “But then I am on the scene a couple of years too late. I understand your husband dealt in books, Mrs. Tyndale?”

“Yes, he sold rare books and manuscripts,” she replied.

Pitt had already looked around the room and seen that a once very comfortable style of life had suffered a little since Tyndale's death. There was a slight shabbiness, obvious from cushions worn and not replaced, net curtains carefully mended, the loose slate on the roof, old paint here and there, a cracked paving stone in the garden. How wide a tragedy can spin its web.