Treachery at Lancaster Gate (15 page)

“The man I mentioned in connection to the Lezant case,” Pitt said slowly. “His name is Alexander Duncannon. His father is Godfrey Duncannon.”

Tellman stared at him, slowly grasping the enormity of what he had said. “And do you believe his story now?” he asked a little huskily. He wanted him to deny it.

“I still don't know. As I said, I believe Alexander thinks he is right.” Pitt chose his words with care. “Whether he wants to because he can't think his friend was guilty, or whether he has to blame someone other than himself for getting away when his friend didn't—”

“Getting away?” Tellman interrupted. “He was there?” He remembered the account of Lezant's arrest had said there were two men, but the other one had escaped.

“So he says, but I'm not sure he even remembers. He says Lezant didn't have a gun, but all that means is that he doesn't remember him having one, or he didn't know he had.”

“Or he's chosen to forget!”

“Or that. But it doesn't matter now—”

“Doesn't matter!” Tellman's voice was high and sharp. “It doesn't matter if the police lied about evidence to convict an innocent man and see him hanged for a crime they knew damn well he didn't commit? Then, for God's sake, what does matter?” He could feel the desperate helplessness rise up inside him again until he could hardly breathe.

Pitt was silent for a moment. “From what you tell me about Ednam and those he leads…led…they were not above bending evidence, misusing money, telling the occasional lie to get what they thought was a bigger truth. They might have been right in some cases, and wrong in others. Perhaps they reached the point where the truth was so blurred they lost sight of it altogether. They believed what they wanted to.” His smile was bitter. “Like Alexander…maybe.”

“And Duncannon placed the bomb in Lancaster Gate to make us pay attention? Now? The Lezant case was over two years ago,” Tellman pointed out. “And there was no record of him having fought for Lezant at the time in the files.” He knew as he said it that that meant little. It was still all possible…or not. He also knew before Pitt spoke again that they were going to have to look into it a lot further, before the Lancaster Gate case suddenly solved itself and brought chaos, disbelief, and violence on all of them.

W
HEN
T
ELLMAN RETURNED TO
his own station he found a message waiting for him to report that afternoon to Commissioner Bradshaw. He was not aware of having done anything wrong, and yet he found his hands sweating. What had he missed? Did Bradshaw expect a result already?

It was a beautiful office, elegant, the furniture antique and worn smooth and comfortable by generations of men who'd held command and on whom it sat easily. Bradshaw, with his gracious office, his smooth hair, and his well-cut clothes, fitting him as only a personally tailored suit can, seemed to be placed by birth and education above the anxieties of the ordinary man. But was he?

“Yes, sir?” Tellman said politely.

“Sit down, Tellman,” Bradshaw waved his hand toward a chair with slender legs and a delicately carved mahogany back. His own chair was roomier, the seat leather-padded.

Tellman obeyed. Even if he preferred standing, one did not argue with the police commissioner.

“Sad thing about Ednam's death,” Bradshaw said gravely. “Poor man can't even defend himself now. We've got to do something about the rumors that the press is beginning to stir up. I suppose it was inevitable someone would stir up trouble! Whicker tells me you were onto that yesterday and the day before…” He had not phrased it as a question, but he left it hanging in the air. His face was furrowed.

“Yes, sir,” Tellman replied. “I need to be in a position where I can say I've looked into it. If I don't, they'll leap on it, sooner or later.” Silently he thanked Pitt for forcing him to. “I hate doing it, sir. It's as if I think there's something to it, but the rumormongers will twist it if I don't.”

“Yes, yes, I know.” Bradshaw nodded. “Rotten business altogether. Pitt tells me he has no leads from Special Branch, no anarchist groups they can pinpoint, except to know who sold the dynamite, but not what happened to it after that. Damned stuff seems to be for sale to God knows who, once a thief gets hold of it.”

“Yes, sir. I've been working with Commander Pitt. Seems most of the anarchists he knows about are more or less accounted for.”

Bradshaw looked up at him. “Are you suggesting there are others he doesn't know about?” His voice was impossible to read. Was he hoping there were, so it would take the attention away from the police? Or afraid there were, and they were all on the edge of more violence, and perhaps worse?

Tellman thought about it for a moment. Loyalty said he should deny it. Loyalty to whom? To Pitt, with whom he had worked for years? Or to his own force, the police? Pitt had been willing to blame the police, and so far as Tellman knew, had not even looked into the competence or honor of his own men.

No, that was unfair. Tellman would not know whether he had or not. He might have torn them apart! It was the evidence. Alexander Duncannon was blaming police for Lezant's death, not Special Branch.

“It's a possibility, sir,” he replied, still sitting upright in the carved-backed chair. It offered more beauty than comfort. But nothing would have made him comfortable in this interview. “But unlikely, I think,” he added.

Bradshaw nodded slowly, turning it over in his mind. He looked miserable, as if something were worrying him so deeply he was having trouble concentrating on Tellman.

Tellman began to be concerned that there was important information that Bradshaw knew and he did not. Could it be about Pitt? Or about the police?

Tellman noticed in a small alcove in the bookcase a framed photograph of a woman, more than a decade younger than Bradshaw, maybe even two decades. A daughter? A wife? It was possibly an old picture. Its color was soft, as if a little faded over time from sitting in the light. The woman was beautiful, soft-featured, her hair falling a trifle out of its pins. It was an informal picture, and she was smiling. There was an innocence about her that was instantly appealing, something in her that awoke a gentleness in him. She looked young, unaware of what would hurt her.

He moved his gaze. He should not be looking at her. It was a very personal photograph. One day he would like to have enough money to be able to pay someone really good to take a photograph of Gracie, looking happy like that, quite unstudied. He would have it on his desk, or somewhere that he could see it all the time.

Bradshaw had said something, and he had missed it. He must pay attention.

“…anything that makes sense,” Bradshaw added. “We must give the newspapers something, or they'll make things up. What did you find when you looked into Ednam's records? Who is this Anno Domini Pitt told me of, the informer that led the men to the house in Lancaster Gate? What grounds did they have for believing him? Can we at least say that much? Is he a suspect, this informer? He has to be. Why haven't we found him yet?”

“We're looking, sir, but no one in the general neighborhood seems to have any idea who he is.”

“So this man could be anyone, possibly a serious political threat?” Bradshaw looked suddenly afraid, as if the whole issue had ballooned into a new and far more serious crime.

“No, sir. But not an ordinary petty thief or scam artist. And we can't ask Ednam now, poor…man. But every other tip this informer has given them has proved genuine.”

“To set Ednam up?” Bradshaw asked grimly.

“Perhaps. But then again, maybe someone was setting the informer up. Sir…”

He already had Bradshaw's attention. He must continue now, get it over with…or lie.

“Sir, I found a degree of sloppiness, inaccuracy, and lying to cover petty theft, in Ednam's station.” He chose his words carefully. “Quite a bit of unnecessary violence in making arrests. One or two people pushed into changing their evidence when it got to court, or even taking it out altogether. It won't look good if a journalist gets wind of it, sir.” He drew in his breath to go on, then changed his mind. He was already talking too much. He felt awkward in this quiet room where there was a decanter with a silver label around the neck on the side cabinet, and an ashtray for cigars.

Bradshaw nodded, looking at Tellman all the time.

“I see. Thank you for the warning. For the time being, Inspector Tellman, keep it to yourself. The more I look into this thing, the worse it gets. Keep the report off paper, for the moment. Tell me anything else you discover. And you'd better be quick about it. I won't mince words. Your job hangs on how well you manage to keep control of the rumors. I'll have no choice but to replace you, if you can't do it.”

“Yes, sir.” Tellman stood up, but felt the room sway around him. His job! How could he keep this from Gracie? She would be worried sick, even if she did everything she could to hide it from him. And she would!

He must do better than this. He stiffened his shoulders and looked down at Bradshaw in his padded chair.

“We have a suspect, sir, but we need to make certain he is the right man before we tell anyone at all, as it will cause a certain amount of concern among some people. I will report directly to you, sir.”

“Who is it?” Bradshaw asked, in spite of Tellman's saying that he would not divulge the name.

“Need to be certain, sir,” Tellman replied. He met Bradshaw's gaze without the slightest flicker.

Eventually Bradshaw blinked, and then gave a grim smile.

“Very well, I expect to hear from you soon. You may go.”

“Thank you, sir.”

E
MILY WAS DRESSED IN
cream and gold, colors she did not often wear, but this gown was the height of sophistication, slender, rich, and up to the minute in its styling, especially about the shoulders. She knew it flattered her even before she left her dressing room, but admiration from a number of men, and a burning curiosity from women, reaffirmed this to her now as she and Jack were attending yet another party where the edges of politics and vast business empires interacted.

Again, of course, Sir Donald Parsons, Josiah Abercorn, Godfrey Duncannon, and many others were gathered. Another major clause in the contract had been successfully negotiated and they were here both to celebrate and to prepare for the next step. It was beginning to look possible that soon they might complete enough of it to take a few days' break from negotiations, maybe even go to the country in time for New Year's.

Emily was at the edge of a conversation, half listening. Her eyes were on Godfrey Duncannon, elegant, courteous, always appearing to be interested. She wondered how he achieved it. He must have been bored almost to sleep, and yet he was smiling at everyone, nodding now and then as if he approved.

Where was Cecily? No doubt listening dutifully to someone. Emily's eyes swept around the room, trying to recall what color Cecily was wearing. She saw a figure in a bronze and black gown, striking, almost wintry, but beautiful. Her dark head was bent, the light of the chandelier striking fire from the jewels in her hair.

She straightened up, and Emily realized it was Cecily. As Cecily turned away from the people she was with, Emily saw the tension in her face. Was it Emily's imagination, or was Cecily even more troubled than before? Why? Something to do with her son, or her husband? Or possibly it was something completely different.

Emily was drawn back into the conversation around her.

“How interesting,” she lied smoothly. She had no idea what they were discussing, but that seemed an innocuous enough thing to say. Everybody wanted to be thought interesting.

Still she glanced at Cecily when she could. Once she observed her talking to Josiah Abercorn and watched them discreetly for some moments. Abercorn was immaculately dressed, with almost too much care, as he had been each time she had seen him. There was no ease in it. She knew nothing to his discredit and yet she understood exactly why Cecily stood as far from him as she could without being discourteous, and why there was a rigidity to the line of her body, as if he made her uncomfortable. Was that very slight self-consciousness in him something she was aware of too? Did he have any idea? He was smiling as he spoke to her, but Emily was much too far away to have the faintest idea what the conversation might be about.

Cecily nodded agreement in the conversation, and moved a step back from Abercorn.

He gave a self-deprecating shrug, a slight gesture of one hand, and took a half-step forward, maintaining the former distance between them.

For a moment Emily thought Cecily was going to move back again, even excuse herself and walk away altogether. Was the conversation about the contract? Something she feared would hurt Godfrey? Emily already knew that Godfrey's reputation and possibly something of his future might suffer if the contract failed now that he had so publicly allied himself with it.

Was that what Cecily was worried about? Abercorn knew the details of the contract; maybe he was warning her, and she wished to be alone to consider what it might mean to her husband. But surely Abercorn was for the contract. Or was it that his intense support came at a price? Could it be one that Godfrey was unwilling to pay?

Emily should learn more about Abercorn, for Jack's sake if nothing else. He was instrumental in the legal drafting of the contract, she knew. And Jack had also said he was politically ambitious, and he had very considerable private means. Emily could see, however, that he lacked the grace of one born to privilege, and his arrogance was one of achievement, not of birth.

Like Cecily, Emily herself had not had to be concerned about money for a long time. But restricted circumstances—even moving to a smaller house, maintaining fewer servants, entertaining less often—were far less damaging to happiness than the feeling that one was a failure. She could remember with painful clarity how Jack had suffered when his previous hopes had been dashed. He knew it was a misjudgment, or at least in part it was. Most of Emily's attempts to convince him otherwise only made it worse. It was the fact of loss that mattered, not always its degree.

Is that what Cecily was worried about? Not the reality of failure but the injury it did to the mind? Emily could see Duncannon, the public man now, thick, iron-gray hair gleaming as he inclined his head to listen to some diamond-tiaraed woman. He looked superbly confident.

But Cecily knew the private man, the one who might sit up alone half the night with a decanter of whisky, then go to bed alone to grieve over the broken image of what he had dreamed himself to be.

Emily looked about, wondering who she should ask about Abercorn. Someone who would be discreet, yet tell her at least something of what she needed to know, and accurately. Such people were few.

How would she explain her wish to know?

Then she remembered: Jack had told her he was thinking of inviting him to take a government office. It would be important. Nothing unfortunate was known of Abercorn, but one could not be too careful. He was not married, so the question arose, had he ever been? What was his…behavior? One did not wish details, only assurances.

She had heard such inquiries made before. She knew the questions, and knew how to phrase them.

But then why was she doing this, and not Jack himself?

The answer came to that also…
Between women, my dear! We are so much more observant, don't you think?

And far more likely to pick up the gossip that might, when unwrapped, come very close to the truth.

Now who to choose? Who would be certain not to take the nature of her inquiries straight back—or, for that matter, indirectly back—to Abercorn himself.

Of course! Lady Parsons. Emily thought not much would escape her discerning eye, even if it did not pass her carefully guarded lips.

While pretending to listen to someone's wedding arrangements, she looked around the room and after several minutes saw Lady Parsons some distance away in a silver-gray gown that did not suit her at all. She would have been much better in a warmer color.

Walking across the room, avoiding meeting the eyes of anyone she knew too well to pass by, she considered how frank to be with Lady Parsons. The judgment should be exactly right. She must not compliment her gown. If Lady Parsons had any idea how it appeared Emily might be suspected of sarcasm, or mockery.

In the moment their glances met, Emily decided on total candor.

“Good evening, Mrs. Radley,” Lady Parsons said with a flicker of amusement in her pale blue eyes. “You look as if you have business yet to accomplish.”

Pretense would now be absurd. “Good evening, Lady Parsons,” Emily replied. “I am beginning to feel that there is always business to be done. The moment I think I have discharged it all, and am free simply to enjoy myself, something else arises.”

“Really?” Now Lady Parsons was quite openly amused. “If it is your duty to try to persuade me of the virtues of this famous contract, so I may influence my husband's objections to it, I shall try not to be discourteous in discouraging you. But, my dear, we would be far better employed in discussing something of interest. I know what you are going to say, and I believe you know what I will reply. May we consider it accomplished, and move on?”

Emily smiled back at her without the least need to pretend. “I had already taken that liberty,” she replied. “I came for a completely different purpose.”

“How very sensible. What is it?” Lady Parsons inquired.

“A little information…”

“From me?”

“I think you will put a little less varnish on the truth than most people. And you will have made it your business to know…at least as much as is available,” Emily explained, wondering if she was being too rash, and whether Jack would be furious with her. But then she had no intention of telling him, at least not until it was necessary.

“I am intrigued,” Lady Parsons admitted. “What can it be that I know and you do not?”

“My husband is in a position to offer an advancement to Josiah Abercorn. I am concerned that his judgment may be overgenerous, but possibly it is my own prejudice speaking to me. I find myself unable to learn much about Mr. Abercorn's life. I hear only praise for his professional acumen, and his charitable work.”

“And you wish to know more?”

“Wouldn't you? If your husband's reputation were involved?”

Lady Parsons's eyes opened wide. “Indeed I would. And I would need precision in the answer…which I cannot give you. I dislike him intensely. He dislikes and is trying to discredit my husband because we are on opposing sides of the contract with the Chinese. It is for a free port there. I daresay you know? No—I see you did not!”

“Not in detail,” Emily said evasively.

Lady Parsons laughed. “Ah, my dear! Not so well fielded. Your eyes gave you away. Still—the information. Josiah Abercorn is a man of elusive background. Apparently his father died before Josiah was born. His mother remained a widow and raised him alone. A woman of unquestionable virtue, she managed to find sufficient means to give him an education. He later received a scholarship. He is undoubtedly brilliant in certain areas.”

“But self-made,” Emily pointed out. This was something to be praised, and yet in many people's eyes it also carried a certain stigma, an implication of awkwardness, a lack of culture. Could that be what made Abercorn tentative at times? A memory of childhood exclusion, the scholarship boy, the boy without a father, almost without a heritage.

Suddenly her slight irritation with him turned to sympathy, and a degree of respect. She had been born into the gentry and married into the aristocracy. She had carried social place only by being extremely pretty and quick-witted enough to learn how to use charm and intelligence. But confidence makes many things easy.

Lady Parsons was regarding her with interest, waiting for the next question.

“He has never married, I'm told. Is that true?” Emily said.

“So I believe.” Lady Parsons's mouth twitched in a slight, ironic smile, not without pity. “I daresay he was not considered good enough by the parents of the young woman he considered good enough for him. Something of a dilemma…” She let the words trail, leaving Emily to finish them as she chose.

“There is still time,” Emily observed. “He looks no more than his midthirties, at the outside. Quite a suitable age for a man to marry. Perhaps he does not care to.” She imagined his childhood memories, and perhaps a sense of loss he was not yet ready to risk facing again. Some wounds ran very deep.

“Many things are possible,” Lady Parsons agreed. “I don't care for the man myself. There is something in him that I find…closed off. But had I walked his path, perhaps I would be a good deal less sanguine myself. Have I been of assistance?”

Emily gave her the widest smile. “You have explained a great deal, and without once descending to gossip. I thank you.”

“I am delighted,” Lady Parsons responded drily. “Perhaps when this interminable contract is finished, we may go out to luncheon one day? Or possibly visit a gallery, or some such?”

“Most certainly,” Emily agreed, and turned the conversation to something quite trivial.

Emily caught up with Cecily maybe a quarter of an hour later.

“It might be over by Christmas, don't you think?” Emily said with as much warmth as she could.

Cecily looked at her with a moment's blankness.

“At least the main part of it,” Emily elaborated. “Just details to tidy up. Then we could take a long weekend…”