Treachery at Lancaster Gate (29 page)

From the other side of the alley, Stoker fired at the heavyset man and he went down immediately.

The fog cleared for a moment. Four figures appeared at the far end of the alley and there were several more shots fired. A bullet struck the wall next to Pitt and sent up fragments that stung his cheek.

Pitt shot back. He was now almost certain that it was Tellman in the doorway, standing awkwardly as if he had been hit.

The men at the far end of the alley were inching forward. There was no cover except the alcove of doorways, no more than six or eight inches deep.

Stoker fired two more shots, which were answered immediately.

Four men. Was that all? Could there be a fifth, or even a sixth, moving around behind them?

“Watch your back!” Pitt called out to warn Jack and Stoker. “May be more behind us.”

Jack swore, his voice a little high as if his throat were closing up, but he turned sideways to look. He was just in time. He knocked into Pitt's shoulder to send him sharply to the right, almost losing his balance, as another volley of shots rang out, all close around them. One actually tore the sleeve of Pitt's coat.

Jack let out a sharp cry, muffled instantly. His breathing became rapid, turned to gasps for a moment, then steadied again.

“You hit?” Pitt asked, his heart pounding.

“Not badly,” Jack replied. “Just my arm.” He raised his own gun and shot back, three times. There was a cry as the man behind them staggered and fell.

Ahead there was a shout of rage and three men at the far end charged forward.

Pitt fired at them until his gun was empty. Tellman crumpled and slid down the doorpost into a huddle on the ground.

Pitt reloaded and went forward, shooting at the men ahead. He aimed for their bodies; there was no choice. All he could think of was Tellman, wounded, perhaps bleeding to death. Between all three of them they probably had only a few rounds left. Every shot must count.

One of the men coming toward them floundered and fell facedown on the cobbles, his gun clattering over the stones.

Stoker and Jack were both firing.

Another man fell. For an instant his police uniform was clearly visible. What the hell had they come to that they were killing one another in a fog-bound alley?

Then another thought forced its way into Pitt's understanding. If anyone had heard the gunfire and called the police, they would see Pitt, Stoker, and Jack—three men in civilian clothes—firing on police in uniform! Tellman would be in uniform, but who was to say they had not shot him too! Not Tellman if he were dead! Was this what had happened to Lezant? Who was to say what had happened and who had shot whom? Only the survivors!

Pitt raised his gun and shot straight at the man ahead of him. It was as if he were a boy again, on the estate, shooting pheasants. You aimed for a clean kill. He squeezed the trigger. Handguns had little aim, not like a rifle. But they were close to each other, just a few yards.

The man went down.

One of the men shouted, “Don't shoot! I give up!” And the next moment his gun clattered on the stones.

The other man hesitated. A shot from Stoker crackled a yard from him.

“I give up!” he shouted, a high-pitched sound in the dark and the fog. Then his gun too fell to the ground.

Jack stood holding his gun in his good hand while Stoker ran forward and cuffed both men with their own manacles.

Pitt hurried over to Tellman. He was crumpled up, but definitely still breathing, although his face was creased with pain and there seemed to be a lot of blood on his arms and chest.

“Hang on,” Pitt said as gently as his own ragged breath would allow. “Let me see.”

Tellman relaxed a little, allowing Pitt to look at his wounds, but the fear did not leave his face.

There was shouting behind them now, and a clatter of horses' shod feet on the stones.

Stoker was yelling but Pitt could not make out the words.

Someone came up behind him.

“Let me see,” he said firmly. “Need to get him to a hospital.” He put his hand on Pitt's shoulder. “You've done all you can. I'm a doctor. Let me see!”

Then there were more people, other police from somewhere. The gunshots had been heard and help sent for.

Jack was beside Pitt. In the lamplight his face looked pale. There was blood on his sleeve and his coat was ruined, but he looked relieved, almost happy.

Two men were lifting Tellman. Pitt followed them to a cab, then turned to help Stoker explain to the sergeant who seemed to be in charge.

“Special Branch,” he said simply. “Sorry about this. It's about the Lancaster Gate bombing…”

“Yes, sir. Good job done, then. Now get into the cab and let's take you all to hospital.”

Pitt did not answer. There was nothing he could say that was adequate, and his arm was burning like hell where the bullet had torn the skin. It was nothing, barely even a decent flesh wound. All that mattered was whether Tellman would make it.

I
T WAS LONG AFTER
midnight when Pitt finally got to bed. There had been six police cornering and attacking Tellman, all of them from Ednam's old station. Three of them were dead, a fourth not expected to survive.

Pitt's arm was sore where the bullet had grazed the flesh, and the hospital had stitched it and bound it up for him. All his concern had been for Tellman, who was lucky he had not bled to death. Jack also had needed careful stitching and bandaging, and had gone home in some pain.

Gracie had shown up at the hospital white-faced and clinging onto her self-control with a desperation she could not hide. Charlotte had gone to stay with her now, and would be back when she judged that Gracie was all right on her own. Pitt missed her, but he never for an instant questioned the decision—not that Charlotte had asked his permission. She had informed him, with the assumption that he would wish it as much as she did.

Still, he was lonely and sore when he fell into a restless sleep.

He woke several times in the night, jerked into consciousness as if by some loud noise. But the house was silent.

When he finally awoke to a gray daylight it was nearly nine o'clock. His head was pounding and his arm was stiff and on fire. It took him a moment to remember why, and then as he saw the empty place beside him in the bed, and the white bandage, he remembered.

Before washing or shaving, he put on his dressing robe and went downstairs to the telephone. He called the hospital and, as soon as he was connected, he asked about Tellman. He was told that he was in a lot of pain, and very weak from loss of blood but he was expected to recover fully, in time.

That was all he needed to know. Tellman would recover.

In the kitchen Daniel and Jemima were both still at the table and both stood up as soon as he came in.

“Are you all right, Papa?” Jemima said anxiously. “You look…”

“Awful,” Daniel finished for her.

Pitt thanked them wryly, and assured them that he was all right. Minnie Maude came in from the pantry, looked him up and down, and decided he needed quiet and some breakfast. She was right, and for once he did not argue. He wrote a note and gave it to Daniel, with his cab fare, and told him to take it to Charlotte, to assure Gracie that he had telephoned the hospital and been told that Tellman was doing well.

It was going to be a long, tedious morning, with a lot of paperwork to give exact accounts of what had happened in the alley, before the home secretary, or anyone else, could ask for them or misinform the newspapers. Minnie Maude was right: he needed a good breakfast.

A
FTER DINNER, WHEN
P
ITT
was thinking of going to bed, Narraway called. He walked into the parlor as Minnie Maude directed, and looked at Pitt ruefully.

“Hurts, doesn't it?” he said, but it was impossible to tell from his expression whether that was sympathy or merely an observation. “It'll take a while to heal,” he added. “Thank God poor Tellman's going to survive.” He sat down in Charlotte's chair and crossed his legs.

“If you want whisky, it's over there.” Pitt indicated the decanter.

“Not yet, thank you,” Narraway replied.

Pitt's heart sank. He could tell from Narraway's face that he came with bad news. “What is it?” He wanted a quick blow, rather than drawn out tension, however well intended.

“Alexander Duncannon will face trial,” Narraway replied.

“I know that,” Pitt said tartly. “You didn't come over here in the mud and ice to tell me something we all know. What's the real reason?”

“Abercorn is trained in criminal law, did you know that?”

“No.” Pitt was surprised. “What does that matter? I know he's behind a lot of the heat to get justice for the police. He's been playing to the gallery all the time since the bombing. I presumed it was for political advantage. He'll give the prosecution all the help he can. I expected that, didn't you?” He looked at Narraway more closely. “Godfrey Duncannon can afford the very best lawyers in the country. And whatever he feels about his son, for his own sake, he'll pay to defend him. Politically he can hardly afford to do anything else.”

“Quite,” Narraway agreed. “Probably with a defense of insanity, due to opium addiction.”

“That's foreseeable,” Pitt agreed. It bothered him. It was a miserable end to Alexander's brave and desperate attempt to salvage Lezant's name and find some justice. He wouldn't find the mere deaths of Ednam, Hobbs, and Newman sufficient. That was no more than vengeance.

Narraway was watching him, as if he could see the thought behind his eyes.

“Alexander won't like it,” Pitt said. “But if he's being defended as insane, his lawyer won't allow him to testify, and even if he did, it would carry no weight.” He wanted to say more, to give words to his sense of injustice on Alexander's behalf, as if he himself had been injured by the failure. An innocent man had been hanged, deliberately, and the one friend who knew it had been beaten by the system and his own terrible frailty. And now, even if the insanity plea succeeded, Alexander would escape the rope but die a miserable death in an asylum, alone, in pain and defeated.

Pitt was exhausted and feeling beaten. His muscles, even his bones, ached. Whatever he said would sound like a cry of his own failure—to be frank, his own vulnerability.

Narraway was watching him, his eyes almost black in the shadows from the lamplight, his face touched with both pity and anger.

“Abercorn is going to prosecute it himself,” Narraway said quietly.

“What?” Pitt thought he must have misheard. His mind was playing tricks on him.

Narraway smiled bleakly. “That's why I mentioned that Abercorn has kept his criminal law qualifications current. Never know when they'll come in useful.”

Pitt swore with more pent-up rage than he had felt in a long time. It startled him how profound his anger was.

“So have I.” Narraway said it as if that also surprised him.

Pitt forced his attention back. “So have you what?”

“Paid my dues and kept my right to practice law,” Narraway answered mildly. “It's always a good thing to have.”

Pitt was stunned. “I never knew you had…” He let the words tail off. Of course he had not known. There were loads of things he did not know about Narraway, in fact about most of his life. He knew he had been in the army at the time of the mutiny, in his youth. He must have come back to England and gone to university after that? Law was a hard discipline as well, but perhaps the two were in some way aligned?

“What has that to do with Abercorn, or his case?” he asked, feeling stupidly confused.

“If Abercorn prosecutes Alexander Duncannon, then if I can obtain Alexander's approval, I shall defend him,” Narraway replied.

Pitt was stunned. He must have misunderstood.

“Why? What can you do that the best lawyer his father can pay wouldn't do, and do it better?”

“Rather ungraciously put,” Narraway said with a flash of amusement. “But if my plan works, then I can expose the police corruption, and plead some merciful outcome for Alexander, in a hospital rather than an asylum.”

“And if it doesn't?” Pitt refused to allow himself to hope.

“Then he'll probably be hanged,” Narraway replied, his voice tight. “Which on the whole might be more merciful than the asylum.”

“With a guilty verdict,” Pitt said bitterly.

“It will be a guilty verdict anyway,” Narraway told him very softly. “It's what he wants…isn't it?”

Pitt agreed silently, just a tiny nod and little more than an expression in the eyes.

Narraway stood up and went to the decanter. He poured whisky for each of them, then returned to his seat and continued to explain.

J
ACK
R
ADLEY HAD SPENT
all of the previous day in bed. His wound had been stitched and bandaged and he seemed to be recovering without more than a very slight fever and a lot of pain. He was still shaken enough by the whole event to be very willing to stay at home, most of the time in the sitting room by the fire, wrapped in a heavy dressing gown over his nightshirt. The effort of dressing properly caused considerable pain, wrenching his wound. He was stiff, and it still bled sufficiently for him to be aware that it must be kept bandaged.

He let Emily help him, and was glad of her attention. He was surprised that occasionally he felt a little dizzy.

Normally he had excellent health. He was not used to being so miserable, or so handicapped in all his usual pursuits. It was a sobering thought. It turned his mind to Alexander Duncannon, who was in pain all the time, and knew that it would always be so. How did he bear it?

Thinking of Alexander inevitably forced him to think also of Godfrey.

He looked across the warm, firelit room to where Emily was sitting in her chair while he lay sideways on the couch, his feet up. The light was soft on her face, kind to the few lines of anxiety that were just visible on her fair skin. Her hair looked almost gold in its warmth. He had always liked the way it curled.

He knew what she really wanted to know was if the shooting incident was going to affect his career, but she did not wish to commit herself to saying so. It was not the money that mattered. She had enough to keep them both in the fashion they wished. It was what the loss of his position would do to his self-esteem, his vanity.

Did that matter? Compared with the grief the Duncannons would face? Not much. Emily and the children were safe. So was Jack, in essence. The tear in his arm hurt, but it would heal. He would not be crippled by it. It was up to him whether he let the wound to his vanity cripple him.

What wound exactly? He had obeyed the instruction given him regarding the contract. He had been loyal to Godfrey Duncannon, which was a matter of principle rather than emotion. He had not particularly liked him, but that was irrelevant. He had found him a colder man than he affected to be. No laughter or pain seemed to take his attention for long, or even divert his energy from his task. He was unfailingly polite, but he never apologized. He expressed his thanks, but stiffly, with satisfaction rather than pleasure.

Jack had also learned slowly that Godfrey was more ambitious than he appeared at first. But then many in government were like that. It was part of the job to seem affable. It was even more important to be as hard and as resilient as steel underneath. And clever; one must always be clever.

Then the thought that had been on the edge of his mind for weeks forced its way in: was he actually in the right job? It was the first time he had truly allowed the idea into his mind. He had once believed this job was the answer to what he would do with his life; it suited his charm, his judgment and ease with people, and the degree of leisure and choice that wealth gave him.

As a member of Parliament he would earn Emily's respect and the public's acceptance as a man of some purpose.

The fire crackled and sank a little. He should ring the bell and have the footman fetch more wood.

Emily was watching him. Had she any idea what was racing through his mind?

“I shall go to visit Cecily tomorrow,” she said with a rueful smile. “I imagine many of her friends will not. I hope you don't mind?” It was a question, but he had an absolute conviction that, now that he was better, she would do whatever he said.

“Could I persuade you not to?” he asked with a smile.

“Only if you gave me a reason so strong I couldn't argue against it. Do you want to?” She glanced at the fire, and then back at him.

“No. I think you should go. Tell me, Emily…do you like Godfrey?”

She stood up, crossed to the bellpull and tugged it. As soon as the footman came she requested more wood, and perhaps a little coal as well. It was a bitter evening. The footman obeyed, taking the scuttle with him.