Treachery at Lancaster Gate (27 page)

“What did you charge him with?” Bradshaw asked.

“Murder. Three policemen are dead.”

Bradshaw sat down very slowly. He looked exhausted, as if he were facing defeat after a long battle. “Why now? Why couldn't you have waited?” It was a cry of despair, not accusation.

“Because he was trying to be arrested,” Pitt replied, sitting down in the chair opposite the desk. “He let off the second bomb because we took too little notice of the Lezant case after the first. I couldn't afford to leave him free to do it again.”

“Are you so sure, Pitt?”

“Yes, I am. He left his monogrammed handkerchief for me at Craven Hill.”

Bradshaw put his elbows on the desktop and his head in his hands. “Oh God! But you're still going to have to let him go.”

“Why? He's guilty, and he doesn't deny it. He refused to have his father's lawyer represent him.”

“He's out of his mind.” Bradshaw's voice dropped even lower. “Opium addiction does that to you in the later stages. It's…a very slow and terrible death.”

Pitt heard the pain in Bradshaw's voice; saw the beaten, aching slump in his shoulders.

He stared beyond Bradshaw at the photograph in the alcove, the one of his lovely wife, who looked so happy. It would be cruel, inexcusable to ask if she was the addict he referred to. Was she still alive? Disintegrating in front of him, like Alexander Duncannon? Had she also suffered some agonizing disease from which there was no escape but death?

“Sir,” Pitt began almost gently, “I had to arrest him. If I didn't, he'd have blown up something else, and there might be other people dead. We were lucky last time. He merely destroyed an empty building.”

Bradshaw raised his head and stared at Pitt.

Pitt did not say anything more.

Bradshaw pushed his hand through his hair. “I thought you were going to say that Josiah Abercorn was crucifying us in the papers, and we have to do something.”

Pitt did not often swear, but he felt like it now—except that to give in to fury was just the reaction men like Abercorn counted on. It was an admission of defeat.

“By-election coming up soon, is there?” he said bitterly.

Bradshaw looked at him. “I suppose it's obvious, isn't it? There are times when I hate politicians, Lords or Commons.”

“ ‘A plague on both your houses,' ” Pitt replied with a twisted smile. “Do you still want me to release Duncannon?”

Bradshaw's voice was very quiet, and he looked away, as though the words were forced out of him. He did not meet Pitt's eyes. “Yes. But put a watch on him. For God's sake don't let him blow up anything more.”

Bradshaw stood up, moving stiffly, as though his body ached. “Was there police corruption at the time of the Lezant case?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. Ednam and his immediate men, at the least. Probably more,” Pitt replied.

Bradshaw winced as if he had felt a sudden stab of pain, and there were tears in his eyes. “Let Alexander go anyway.”

Pitt did not reply.

P
ITT KEPT HIS WORD
to Jack. He went straight from Bradshaw's office to Vespasia and Narraway's home. He considered speaking to Narraway alone, then realized how foolish that was. Vespasia might well know more rumor about Josiah Abercorn than Narraway did, certainly more personal gossip, which frequently was the first step toward the truth, however unwelcome.

He sat beside the fire in Vespasia's great sitting room.

“Highly ambitious,” Narraway answered Pitt's questions. “And a man who likes to owe no one anything, so if he has accepted favors, and few people attain high office without, he will be as quick to pay them off as he can.”

“Godfrey Duncannon?” Pitt asked.

“I doubt it. I've never known Godfrey to act except in his own ultimate interest.”

“You don't like him,” Pitt observed and saw Vespasia smile.

“Not a lot,” Narraway admitted. “But he is exceptionally competent, and I know nothing to his discredit. He's just…chilling.”

“Invulnerable,” Vespasia said quietly.

Both Pitt and Narraway looked at her curiously.

“You do not like a man who is invulnerable,” she said to Narraway.

A shadow passed across Narraway's eyes, a moment's hurt.

“Do I always have to have power?” he asked very softly.

She reached over and put her slender fingers on his arm.

“Not at all, my dear. It is not his weakness you need; it is the humility it brings, and the understanding of others. Without such things he is no use to any of us, ultimately, least of all himself.”

Narraway put his hand over hers, and said nothing.

Pitt knew he had witnessed a very private moment, of both pain and joy. He had never imagined such raw vulnerability in Narraway, or imagined him so intensely human after all.

Vespasia looked back at Pitt. “Godfrey married Cecily for her money, you know. There was a very great deal of it, and he has multiplied it many times.”

“Are you sure?”

“On both counts. I am perfectly sure. The enlarging of her fortune, now his, is common knowledge, but you can easily check it, if you wish.”

“No…that he married Cecily for her money. Does that have anything to do with Abercorn?”

Vespasia's smile was extremely sad. “Of course it has, Thomas. It was Abercorn's mother Godfrey Duncannon jilted to do it.”

Pitt and Narraway both stared at her, and neither of them spoke.

T
ELLMAN HUGGED HIS DAUGHTER
so tightly she giggled, then gave a little squeak of protest. He let her go, reluctantly. For him Christina was still a kind of miracle, and her laughter touched him so deeply he was a little embarrassed by it.

He tickled her gently, and pulled faces at her, just to hear her laugh again. He kissed Gracie softly and more lingeringly than he had done for some time, then he went out of the front door and walked off down the road without looking back at them. Perhaps they were not at the window any longer, but if he turned round and saw them, he would remember all the things that mattered to him, and he might lose his resolve to follow the story of Ednam's corruption to the very end.

If Lezant was innocent, what were all the things that followed from that? It was what Pitt was thinking, which was why they had quarreled. Tellman had refused to follow that path of thought because of where it would lead. It was time to face the truth.

He crossed the street and carried on along the icy pavement, his collar turned up against the wind, although he was so deep in thought he was barely aware of it.

Why would Lezant have taken a gun? He bought opium regularly. It was an arrangement both he and the supplier needed. Neither of them would jeopardize it. Tellman wished the police had been able to find the supplier. There were plenty of records of Ednam trying at the time, but whoever it was had been too careful and too clever for them.

Or had Ednam not tried at all, because he did not need to? Was it possible that he knew? That was a hideous thought. Tellman racked his brain for some reason why it could not be true. He found none.

If protecting the seller of opium was Ednam's real corruption, it would explain why they had never found the man—why, in fact, the seller had not turned up at the arranged place at all that fateful day. Ednam had warned him before the ambush was ever laid!

But why had Ednam, or any of his men, brought a gun? Who had they meant to shoot? Not the dealer. Then it could only be either Alexander or Lezant. Or did they fear some third person turning up, and then mistook Tyndale for him?

Neither Lezant nor the supplier would have wanted a confrontation. Had they known of it they would simply have chosen another place—or waited for a better time, even a different day.

Damn Ednam!

The first thing to do was look more closely at the exact record of the gun, or even better, to find it in the evidence of the case. An exact description of it would be necessary, its make, caliber, and so on. Then he could check back through all records to see if such a gun had ever been taken into police possession as evidence. Guns were rare in towns, especially handguns. Shotguns were common enough in the countryside. Most farmers had at least one, more likely several.

At the station he was greeted with some irritation by Whicker.

“What is it now?” he said, looking up at Tellman standing in front of him. His face was pinched and his skin had the pallor of a man who had lost too much sleep and shaved with more haste than care.

“I need to see the gun Lezant used to shoot Tyndale,” Tellman replied.

Whicker's anger was instant. “Whatever for?” he demanded. “Damn waste of time. Haven't you got anything useful to do? How about finding the bloody lunatic who killed three of our best men? Or is that too much for you?”

“I want to do more than catch him,” Tellman replied grimly, keeping hold of his temper with some effort. “I want a clear chain of evidence right from beginning to end. Isn't that what you want?”

Whicker was taken aback. Obviously he had not expected a complete and slightly aggressive answer. It caught him off balance.

“Thank you,” Tellman said, as if Whicker had agreed. It was neatly done, but it gave him no comfort. He did not like being at odds with another man in the force. They should be on the same side.

The sergeant at the evidence room made heavy weather of it. He did not like men from other stations reexamining old cases. Had Tellman not outranked him, he would have questioned what he wanted it for. As it was, he moved with unnecessary deliberation while Tellman shifted from one foot to the other and finally paced the floor. He took a full half hour to report that it appeared to have been mislaid. He could not say when, or by whom, and smiled at Tellman as if that were an achievement.

Tellman felt his temper slipping. If he lost it he would have given victory to the sergeant.

“Then I'll have to make do with second best,” he said levelly. “Look at your records and tell me when it was first logged in, who by, and connected with what crime.”

“I don't know that I can do that, sir. Take me a long time. I got other things to do.” He looked at Tellman blandly.

“Then you'd better get on your knees, praying that it doesn't turn up in another crime, hadn't you!” Tellman snapped back. “Since it was last in your keeping, you'll be the first on our list of suspects.”

The blood ebbed out of the sergeant's face like a receding tide. “Things get lost! People take 'em out an' don't bring 'em back!”

“Didn't give it away to someone, did you? Sell it, maybe?” Tellman suggested.

“Of course I didn't!” There was now a fine sheen of sweat on the sergeant's skin. “You can't say that!”

“Then show me the records,” Tellman insisted. “Unless you've been told not to by someone? Who would that be? Ednam's dead. Who else needs to cover it up?”

The sergeant blanched. “I'll get what we 'ave.” Before Tellman had to argue any further, the man turned away from the counter where they had been speaking and disappeared into another room.

Tellman waited a full quarter of an hour before the sergeant came back, carrying two large ledgers in his arms. He set them down on the countertop.

“There you are, sir. You'll find them all under the correct dates.” He clearly was not going to assist any further, so Tellman took them from him and started to search for himself. He knew the date of Tyndale's death, so the reference was not difficult to find. The gun was logged in with an accurate description of its make, caliber, and the fact that it was empty of bullets at the time it was repossessed by the officers in charge.

Tellman made a note of the details, and then started to look backward in the inventory for any guns taken into evidence and held for any length of time. It was a tedious and very time-consuming task because the ledger was full of property of all sorts. However, although there were a large number of weapons, mostly knives or cudgels of various sorts, there were relatively few guns.

It took him almost two hours before he found another gun exactly like the one that Lezant had apparently used, the same make, the same caliber, only this one had been fully loaded. The bullets had been taken out by the sergeant when it was put away.

“Do you remember this?” Tellman asked him.

“No, sir. Can't 'ave been me on duty then,” he said blandly.

“Looks like your signature here,” Tellman pointed out. “Looks like your writing and your name.”

The sergeant's face was a careful study in blank insolence. If he was trying to disguise the feeling in any way, he failed.

“You asked if I remember, an' I don't! Yer ought to leave that alone, Mr. Tellman. You're one of us, or yer was! Yer didn't ought ter do this.”

Tellman felt cold, and profoundly vulnerable. He found his voice husky when he spoke. “What is it you're asking me to forget, Sergeant? That a gun and bullets went missing from property, and turned up later in a murder committed by Dylan Lezant? And no one here knows how it got from here into his possession?”

“Mistakes 'appen.” He stared at Tellman with a flat, angry expression. “An' five men are dead, or as close to as matters,” he went on. “ 'Ow'd yer like to 'ave yer face so burned yer own mother wouldn't know yer? Or lose one o' yer arms?” He looked Tellman up and down. “Still find that uniform fits yer, do yer? Still think yer got the right ter wear it?”

Tellman's hands were shaking.

“Yes, Sergeant, I do. Ednam's gone, and no one else is going to risk his neck covering for you.” He pushed the ledgers back across the counter, then turned and walked out.

Outside in the street there was a very light snow falling and it was bitterly cold, more than Tellman remembered from when he'd arrived.

The next thing to follow up was the timing of the tip regarding the drug purchase. How had Ednam known where it would be, when, and who would be involved? To take other men with him, he had to have a story to account for how he had learned the information.

The inquiry led him eventually to a Sergeant Busby, who, under considerable pressure, admitted that he had owed Bossiney a favor for some time: a mistake overlooked. He had mentioned information to Bossiney about an upcoming drug sale, but might have forgotten to tell all the appropriate superiors as well. Perhaps the information had lost its way somehow? He was no longer certain exactly where it had originated.

Tellman did not press him any further. There were lies within lies. What had happened to the written reports? No one knew. Perhaps in the haste and shock of Lezant shooting at them, things here and there had been lost. Busby defied Tellman to prove any different.

L
ATE IN THE EVENING
when the snow had stopped and an icy wind sliced in from the east, Tellman did what he had dreaded he must. He went to see Bossiney at his home.

The hospital had released him, but they had warned Tellman that he was still in a very bad state.

It would be a long time before he returned to work, if ever. Even then, it could only be some kind of desk duty, where the public would not see his face.

Tellman found him sitting beside his own fire, dressed in a nightshirt and a thick jacket to keep him warm. Even so he was rigid, as if knotted against some cold no one else in the stuffy room could feel. Bossiney's wife, small and frail-looking, left them alone as soon as she had received a nod from her husband that she should do so.

Tellman took the other chair and forced himself to look at Bossiney's face. It was scarred hideously, and still inflamed so that his right eye was almost invisible. How could Tellman inflict further pain on him by asking questions about past wrongs? There was too much suffering altogether. Newman and Hobbs were dead, and now Ednam too. And, of course, Tyndale and Lezant. Nothing anybody said was going to alter that.

For that matter, Alexander Duncannon was destined to die no matter what happened. If he wasn't hanged, the opium would kill him, only more slowly. Did the truth matter so much? It would hurt deeply and endlessly, regardless of his acts.

“What do you want?” Bossiney asked him.

Tellman took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His heart was hammering in his chest as if he had been running.

“The drug sale that went wrong.” He cleared his throat. “When Tyndale was shot…”

Bossiney stared at him from his one good eye. His face was so badly disfigured it was impossible to read any expression in it.

Tellman began again. “The drug dealer that didn't turn up. Did you ever get him?”

“No,” Bossiney answered. “Why do you care now?” Part of his mouth was scarred, but it did not slur his speech.

Tellman chose his words carefully. “I don't, except that I'm wondering who gave you the information that set up the operation in the first place.”

“Don't know,” Bossiney replied. “I'd say ask Ednam, but he's dead, isn't he!”

There was something in his answer, not the words but a change in the tensions in his body, even in his twisted face, that made Tellman believe he was lying, if not in total then at least in part.

“Yes, you do,” he said. “Nobody sets up a five-man operation like that unless there's pretty good information about it. It wasn't just a petty sale. Five of you! And armed!” He was taking a chance and he knew it. He hated doing it. These were his own men, not the enemy! Friends, more than that, allies. “You were expecting something hard and dangerous.”