Long Spoon Lane (39 page)

It made exciting reading. The outrage at such an abuse of power shone through it, lighting it with emotion and humanity. It was obviously a story that would unfold through the next days, perhaps weeks. Every reader would be purchasing the newspapers hot off the stands to follow it.

Denoon’s paper carried it also, but with a more subdued note, sounding bewildered that such a tragedy could have come to pass. Surely it would be explained soon, and put right. It must be a single instance of criminality. That was the only credible explanation.

Even so, Tanqueray’s bill to arm the police and give them greater power must be delayed. It was intolerable to allow a man such as Simbister to be in charge of an armed force.

“It will be a short respite,” Narraway said grimly. “Without proof that it’s connected to Wetron as well, it can be passed over as a single corrupt man leading astray one station.”

Gracie had put on the kettle, and it was beginning to blow a light breath of steam. She stood with her back to it, having glanced at Tellman and met his eyes in a short moment of understanding. The cups were sitting on the kitchen table, a jug of milk from the pantry, a bowl of sugar if anyone wanted it, and the tea caddy had been brought down ready.

“It seems Sir Charles is a hero once again,” Vespasia said drily. She was sitting on one of the hardback chairs.

Charlotte was standing by the dresser with its blue and white china. She was too tense to sit. She gave a sharp bark of laughter. “I wish we could think of a way to turn this against him too!” She was referring to the time they had outwitted him over Mario Corena’s death.

Narraway looked at her. His expression was curious, unreadable. There was emotion in his face, but it was impossible to tell what it was. “I think he has turned our wit upon us this time,” he said, first to her, but in a sense to all of them. If he thought that it was Pitt who had given him the opportunity, it was not implied, even in the tone of his voice. “I think he has used Special Branch as his cat’s paw to pull out his prizes, then take them from us at exactly the right time.”

“There must be something we can do!” Charlotte protested. She looked from one to the other of them. “If we haven’t any power or any weapons, can’t we turn their own against them somehow?”

Narraway stared at her. A tiny thread of a smile touched the corners of his mouth, but it was amusement, there was no joy in it.

Vespasia understood, Charlotte could see it in her eyes. She was a woman also, and grasped exactly the train of thought. If you are clever enough, know your opponent well enough, weakness can be turned into strength.

“Let us list everything we know of them,” she said aloud. “Some combination of things may occur to us.” She looked at Tellman. “Sergeant, you have worked for Wetron since Thomas left Bow Street. You must have made observations and formed judgments about him. What does he wish for? What might he fear? Is there anyone he cares about, other than himself? Anyone whose good opinion he either values or requires?”

When Tellman had recovered from his initial surprise that she should ask him, he thought hard. It was not his usual way of addressing a problem, and needed a little mental adjustment.

They all waited. The kettle boiled and Gracie made the tea, setting the pot on the table so it could brew before it was poured.

“Power,” Tellman answered, uncertain if that was what Vespasia wanted.

“Glory?” she asked.

He was taken aback.

Pitt thought of covering for him, then bit his tongue.

“Does he like to be admired, loved?” Vespasia elaborated.

“I don’t think so,” Tellman answered. “I reckon he prefers if we’re afraid of him. He likes to be safe. He’s always playing careful.”

“A brave man?” she said softly, a razor’s edge of sarcasm in her voice, as if with a fine blade it cut almost without pain, until too late.

Tellman smiled very slightly. “No, Lady Vespasia, I don’t think so. I don’t think he wants to meet his enemies face-to-face.”

Narraway nodded fractionally. He did not interrupt.

“If he is a coward,” Vespasia said, pursing her lips slightly, “that may be of use to us. Cowards can be rattled, provoked into acting rashly, if they are given little time, and made to feel threatened.” She turned to Pitt. “Is Sir Charles also a coward, Thomas?”

He knew his answer without having to weigh it. “No, Aunt Vespasia, he’d meet you face-to-face, if need be. In fact, I think he would rather enjoy it.”

“Because he expects to win,” Vespasia stated. “But he wants revenge, yes?”

It was a rhetorical question, and they all knew it.

“Yes,” Pitt said ruefully.

“Does Wetron know that?” Vespasia asked, turning again to Tellman.

“I think so,” he answered.

“If not, we could always tell him,” Charlotte put in.

Narraway looked at her sharply, his brow furrowed.

“If we wanted to,” she added quickly.

Gracie simplified the whole thing in a sentence. “Yer mean, like, set ’em at each other?” She poured the tea.

Vespasia smiled at her. “Admirably succinct,” she said. “Since we appear to have no weapons, and they have, then we must use theirs, or let them win—a thought that sticks in my throat.”

Narraway looked at Pitt, then at Vespasia. “Wetron has created a network of corruption where the police of several stations—we don’t know the size of it yet—extort money from the ordinary people of their areas, using certain members of the criminal classes to do the ugliest of the work. As for example, Jones the Pocket. With the proceeds of this Wetron finances his empire. He has raised public feeling, with the help of men like Edward Denoon and his newspaper, to the pitch where they are willing, indeed eager, to arm the police and increase their power without giving any serious thought to the possibilities for abuse. The time for such legislation is ripe now, the bombings and the murder of Magnus Landsborough have seen to that.”

Pitt understood, and he saw it in Charlotte also, and Vespasia. Tellman was frowning.

Narraway continued. He very pointedly did not look at Charlotte, as if he were afraid to meet her eyes.

“Apparently Voisey has the proof to destroy Wetron by connecting him irrevocably with Simbister and the Scarborough Street bombing, and the blackmail of Piers Denoon with the murder of Magnus.” He faced Pitt. “Voisey still has this?”

“Yes,” Pitt said unhappily. “We have the blackmail statements, but Voisey has the evidence that proves complicity in the Scarborough Street bombing. At least he said he has.”

“Do you believe him?”

Pitt hesitated. “Yes.”

Vespasia set down her cup. “Surely the point is, can Wetron afford to disbelieve him?”

A flash of appreciation lit Narraway’s face. “Precisely, Lady Vespasia. If Wetron knows this, he cannot afford to allow Voisey to remain. Voisey is hungry to regain his old leadership and have his revenge upon the man who usurped him. He believes he has destroyed Pitt. He will now be turning his attention to Wetron, and he will lose no time.”

“Wetron may know that, but, equally, he may not,” Pitt pointed out. “His mind may be directed towards ensuring the bill goes through Parliament. And for all he says otherwise, perhaps Voisey would actually like it to, then quietly step into Wetron’s place in the Inner Circle, and see that one of his own allies is appointed in Wetron’s position, to keep on, far more discreetly, with the extortion. The bombing will stop and there’ll be a big show of catching anarchists and trying and executing them. The people who have power will be satisfied, and Voisey will reap Wetron’s reward. And be a hero. And make an advance towards being power minister one day.”

Tellman had said little since coming in. Vespasia regarded him now, knowing that he was the only one in a position to tell Wetron all these things, and assumed that he realized the urgency. She saw in his thin, tense face that he understood it. Perhaps he also understood the danger, but what about the moral ambiguity? Wetron and Voisey were both killers. If any of them here in this room were going to interfere in their rivalry, to what degree were they necessarily implicit in the result?

She looked at Victor Narraway, and saw what she thought was a conflict in his face. A decisive, almost ruthless, part of his nature, used to the bitter choices of command, seemed to be warring with something softer, and immeasurably more vulnerable.

Pitt saw it too, she knew that. What she had not expected was the understanding in his eyes, a moment’s pity, as if they were equals in something.

Gracie sensed it in the air, the glances, the stiffness of bodies, and was afraid. Instinctively she swiveled to Tellman. “A’ yer gonner tell ’im, Samuel?” Her voice was a little shaky, caught in her throat.

He looked at her gently, but there was no wavering in him. “There’s no one else who can do it,” he told her. “He won’t hurt us. I didn’t do it, at least not that he knows,” he added ruefully.

“Don’ be so daft!” she snapped. “ ’E knows ’ose side yer on! ’E don’ care about provin’ it, ’e in’t gonna charge yer, ’e’ll jus’ feel like flattenin’ someone, an’ you’ll be ’andy.” She turned to Pitt. “Mr. Pitt, yer gotta stop ’im. It ain’t fair! Yer can’t…”

“It’s dangerous for everyone,” Narraway cut across her. “Sergeant Tellman is the only one Wetron will believe. The alternative is to let Voisey win. And remember, Miss Phipps, if he does, he has still not taken his vengeance on this family.” His gesture included her. “He will discover soon enough that Pitt is still alive, and there will be no one to stop him then.”

Gracie glared at him, her protest dying on her lips.

“It’ll be all right,” Tellman assured her. “And we’ve got no choice. We can’t leave Voisey with that kind of power. Mr. Narraway’s right, next he’ll come for us.”

She smiled at him bleakly, pride and fear in her eyes, her lips pressed so tight it was impossible to see if they trembled.

Narraway nodded at Tellman. “I can’t order you to, Sergeant, but, as you say, you are the only one of us who can do it.”

“Yes, sir,” Tellman acknowledged.

Vespasia stared at Narraway. “And when Wetron has disposed of Voisey, in whatever manner he decides—or he is inadequate to the task, and Voisey dispenses of him—what do you intend we shall do with the survivor?”

“That depends upon which one of them it is,” he replied.

“That is not an answer, Mr. Narraway.” Vespasia said it quite lightly, but her stare was inflexible.

He smiled. “I know.”

Pitt moved his position slightly.

Vespasia turned to look at him. “Thomas?”

“Wetron cannot afford to have Voisey tried,” he answered her, but he was speaking to all of them. “He’ll find a way to protect himself and get rid of Voisey at the same time. Don’t assume it won’t be violent.”

Vespasia looked at Charlotte, concerned for her, and saw the anxiety in her face. Then she looked at Narraway. He understood it. If he had deliberately avoided saying so, then it was for that softer part of him she had seen for an instant, and not recognized.

Narraway spoke to Tellman. “Report to Pitt immediately,” he said. “But don’t stay your hand because of it. Remember the dead in Scarborough Street, if you’re tempted towards mercy.”

Vespasia saw the distaste in Tellman. “Don’t think of Scarborough Street,” she amended. “They are already dead, or crippled. Think of the next street, and the one after.”

Tellman filled his mind with that, and they parted soon after. He went out into the street and walked briskly along a couple of blocks to Tottenham Court Road, where he took the first hansom to Bow Street. If he gave himself time to think about it, he might lose the spontaneity, the high pitch of emotion he felt after sitting in the kitchen at Keppel Street. And as they had said, there was no time to lose.

He went in through the doors, past the duty sergeant with no more than a word, and up the stairs to Wetron’s office. He had not asked anyone if he were in because he was not certain yet if he wanted anyone to know what he intended.

He knocked on Wetron’s door. The answer was quick and impatient.

Tellman went in. “Good morning, sir,” he said without hesitation, closing the door behind him. His voice was tight and a little high.

Wetron was standing at the window. He turned around, and saw Tellman with irritation. There was anxiety in his face, but an oblique kind of triumph also. “Morning, Sergeant. I’m sorry to hear about Pitt. Never liked the man, but I know you had a kind of loyalty.”

Tellman’s mind raced. Wetron must have been told that Pitt was dead. He had three choices—deny it, accept it as if he knew also, or pretend complete ignorance—and almost three seconds to decide which served his interests best. “Sir?” He played for time. He could not afford even the slightest mistake.

“Pulled out of the river this morning,” Wetron said, watching him with malicious pleasure. “Seems the anarchists got him.”

“Oh, that.” Suddenly Tellman could see what he wanted to do. He had the chance to seize this as a weapon. “Looks a bit like Mr. Simbister trying to defend himself, doesn’t it? Last throw, as you might say.”

Wetron’s skin flooded with color. For an instant he was uncertain. He wanted to lose his temper and shout at Tellman, hurt him by playing on his grief. Then better judgment prevailed; he weighed his own needs and spoke calmly.

“You are aware of Simbister’s corruption?”

“Just what I saw in the newspapers this morning, sir,” Tellman replied. “I know rather more about Sir Charles Voisey.”

“Indeed?” Wetron raised his eyebrows. “How is that, Sergeant? I am not aware of any of your investigations taking you to ask questions about a member of Parliament.”

Tellman shivered. It would be so easy to be overconfident, to say too much, or the wrong things. Now was the time for truth. “No, sir,” he said meekly. “I’m courting the Pitts’ housekeeper, sir. I happened to be there this morning.”

“And yet you appear entirely indifferent to Pitt’s death!” Wetron said in amazement. “Is there an entire dimension to your character of which I am unaware?”

“Not so far as I know, sir. Mr. Pitt was in good health. I don’t know if some poor soul who looks like him was pulled out of the river. I should think, sir, frankly, that it is more likely Sir Charles told you a deliberate lie.” He relaxed a little. “From what I know, sir, from Mrs. Pitt, and my own observation, it seems Sir Charles has some personal hatred towards you. He is the one behind Mr. Simbister’s fall, if you want to put it that way.”