Treachery at Lancaster Gate (31 page)

“Of course,” she agreed.

He smiled, and waited a moment or two for her to accept the assistance of her coachman. Then he walked briskly over to his own coach and climbed in.

T
HE TRIAL OF
A
LEXANDER
Duncannon began late in the morning of the third Monday in January 1899. He was accused of the murder of three policemen and the attempted murder and serious injury of two more. They were all named.

Charlotte sat in the body of the courtroom between Vespasia and Jack. Emily was with Cecily Duncannon, as she had promised she would be. Godfrey might be called as a witness, and much to his displeasure, could not be present. He was still furious with Narraway but he had exhausted all avenues of objection to his representing Alexander and there was nothing further he could do.

Pitt could not attend, because he was naturally the chief witness for the prosecution. He also had no choice in the matter.

They all maintained silence, not because it was appropriate, or good manners, but because there was no longer anything left to say.

All the initial court procedures were carried out. They seemed to go on for ages before finally Abercorn called his first witness. He did it with tremendous gravity, making sure that every eye in the room was on Bossiney as he walked slowly, with help from the usher, up to the witness stand. He climbed the steps one at a time, drawing his left foot up to the next step, then the other level with it, clinging onto the rail.

Finally he reached the top and turned to the court. There were gasps from the jury and the crowded gallery.

Charlotte felt her stomach turn and the sweat break out on her body at the sight of his ravaged face, the scars still red, twisted, and hideous.

Even the judge, Lord Justice Bonnington, was pale-faced.

Abercorn stepped forward and looked up at the stand with awe. He listened while Bossiney swore to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but, and gave his name and police rank.

Charlotte glanced at Vespasia. What could Narraway, or anyone, do against this horror? No one would forget this.

“Wait,” Vespasia whispered. “We are a long way from the end, my dear.” She did not look toward Narraway at the defense table, only at Abercorn as he stood in the center of the court, like a gladiator in the arena.

“Constable Bossiney, we can all see the terrible burns that have altered your face irreparably. How much more of your body do they cover?” Abercorn's voice was clear but gentle.

The judge frowned, but he did not interrupt.

If Narraway felt any disgust at such an extraordinary beginning, it did not register in his calm, grave expression.

“All down my right side, sir,” Bossiney answered. “Far as my knee.”

“I imagine the pain of it was beyond description,” Abercorn observed.

“Yes, sir,” Bossiney agreed.

The judge looked at Narraway to see if he objected. There had been no question in Abercorn's remark, but Narraway did not protest.

“Did you have any mark or disfigurement before the explosion and the fire at Lancaster Gate?” Abercorn asked.

“No, sir,” Bossiney answered.

“How did you come to be there?” Abercorn went on, his voice light and courteous, as if it were possible that anyone in the room did not already know.

“I was on duty. Information had come in to the station that there was going to be a big sale of opium, sir. We wanted to catch the dealers.”

“Just so,” Abercorn agreed. “And where did this information come from? I assume it must have been a source you considered reliable?”

“Yes, sir. The source's information had been accurate on several occasions.”

“Regarding the illegal sale of opium?” Abercorn pronounced the word carefully, so no one should miss it.

“Yes, sir,” Bossiney agreed.

“Did you know the name of this informer?”

“No, sir. Just signed his letters Anno Domini or A.D.” As if involuntarily, Bossiney glanced up at the dock where Alexander Duncannon was sitting.

“The same person each time?” Abercorn reinforced the impression.

“Looked like it, sir.”

Vespasia shifted very slightly in her seat. Charlotte knew why. Bossiney was answering every question carefully, as Abercorn had schooled him, never overstating anything. He would be very difficult to catch out. She wondered how Narraway thought he was going to do it. It must be decades since he had stood up in court to defend anyone. Did he really have any idea what he was doing? She glanced at Vespasia, and met her eyes. Vespasia read her anxiety perfectly, and mirrored it for an instant in her own expression, before she very carefully replaced it with a look of complete assurance. But Charlotte knew now that it was a mask, and that it hid fear.

“How many of you went to the house in Lancaster Gate?” Abercorn continued.

“Five of us, sir.”

“And who were they?”

“Inspector Ednam, Sergeant Hobbs, Sergeant Newman, Constable Yarcombe, and me,” Bossiney replied.

“Sergeant Newman and Sergeant Hobbs were killed at the site, and Inspector Ednam later died of his wounds, is that correct?” Now Abercorn looked very grave. His voice was somber and he stood stiffly, almost to attention. He might have been at the funeral now.

No one in the room stirred.

Bossiney's expression was unreadable because of the damage to his face, but his voice was thick with emotion.

“Yes, sir.”

“Could you describe the house when you arrived, Constable, as well as you can?”

Bossiney did so in some detail. Again Charlotte had the distinct feeling that he had been told exactly how much to say—enough to make it real so the jury could imagine it, smell the staleness in the air, hear the silence, but not enough to lose their attention. It frightened her that Abercorn was so skilled, so very much in control.

“Thank you.” Abercorn nodded.

Narraway said nothing at all. He did not even move in his seat.

Charlotte's body was tense, her hands locked together in her lap.

“What happened, as far as you can recall?” Abercorn prompted.

Bossiney described the shock of the explosion, the earsplitting noise, the violence, confusion, and above all the unbearable pain, then nothing, just darkness. He used simple words, none that were not part of his ordinary language. Nothing he said sounded coached or rehearsed.

The horror of Bossiney's description filled the room. Somewhere in the gallery a woman was crying. Emily was sitting close to Cecily Duncannon, who was holding onto her as if she were drowning.

Charlotte could not even imagine what she must be feeling. She wanted to scream at Abercorn to get on with his questions, and not to let them all sit here imagining the nightmare. But of course that was exactly what he was doing. That was what this was all for: to foster the horror, the fear that somehow it could happen to anyone here; to suggest that as long as people like Alexander were free, nobody was safe.

It was the judge who broke the silence.

“Have you anything more for the witness, Mr. Abercorn?”

“No, my lord,” Abercorn said quietly. “I think we have asked enough of him.” He walked slowly to his chair and sat down.

“Mr. Narraway?” the judge asked, and then corrected himself. “I beg your pardon, Lord Narraway.”

Narraway rose to his feet. “No, thank you, my lord. I believe Constable Bossiney has told us all he knows that is relevant.” He sat down again.

The judge looked startled. Abercorn was confused, uncertain whether to be triumphant or alarmed.

The judge adjourned the court for luncheon.

Charlotte, Vespasia, and Jack walked the short distance to the nearest public house seeking a good, hot meal. They did so in silence, wrapped up against the wind. Vespasia did not mention whether she had been to such an establishment before, but she looked around curiously only once. They all had more pressing weights on their minds than the chatter of the other diners, many of whom had also come from one of the nearby courts or offices.

They spoke briefly of Tellman, and his slow but steady recovery. Vespasia particularly asked after Gracie, and Charlotte smiled for the first time that day as she recounted how Gracie was completely in control and Tellman was for once doing exactly as she told him.

“Perhaps he at last realizes how much she loves him?” Vespasia suggested.

“I think so,” Charlotte agreed. “And he is allowing himself to admit that his family means more to him than anything else.”

Vespasia smiled back, and resumed eating a kind of meal to which she was totally unaccustomed.

A
BERCORN BEGAN THE AFTERNOON'S
testimony by calling Constable Yarcombe. He was better recovered than Bossiney, but he still walked a trifle out of balance for having less than half an arm on one side. He also told of being lured to the house in Lancaster Gate, of how they all were prepared to find a major drug deal in progress, confident that the informer who had previously been so reliable would be so again.

He described the house much the way Bossiney had, but carefully using different words, as if they had not compared notes. Again it was enough to convey that he knew the place, but the account was not swamped in enough detail that any of it could be contradicted.

He spoke of the explosion with some distress, both for his colleagues who were killed and for the searing pain he had felt. When Abercorn asked him, he spoke highly of Ednam.

“Yes, sir, 'e were a fine man. Knew 'im for years, I did. Very brave, 'e were. Very fair. It were a terrible thing that 'e died of 'is injuries. Mind, the pain of it, there were days I wished I 'ad.”

There was an audible murmur of sympathy around the gallery. Charlotte saw one of the jurors muttering something, and then looking up at Alexander, who sat white-faced and stiff. But he was no stranger to pain. He had lived with it since his own accident, and would for the rest of his life. But of course the jury did not know that—and was it relevant to anything? Narraway had not pleaded insanity for Alexander. Why not? Surely the opium he had been prescribed, and then became addicted to, could have driven him mad? And madness was about the only defense for this.

Charlotte wondered what on earth Narraway was doing, and whether Thomas had any idea at all how appallingly this was going. It could hardly be worse.

But when Yarcombe came to the end of his evidence, and Narraway could have done something, again he declined to ask him anything at all.

The ripple of amazement around the court was tinged with anger, even contempt.

And contempt was written clearly on Abercorn's aggressive face. He looked across once to where Cecily Duncannon sat and there was victory already in his eyes.

Charlotte wished she could somehow hurt him, take some weapon and hit him so hard with it that the pleasure in him would vanish forever. She knew that was ridiculous and childish. It was not really he who was at fault. He was only doing what he was supposed to. But she hated him for enjoying it. And he was! Staring at him, at the shine on his face, she was certain of it. This was a victory against Godfrey Duncannon, because Alexander was his son and he had what should have been Abercorn's. Godfrey had abandoned Abercorn's mother for Cecily, and left her to the pain of difficult birth and no one to support her. Perhaps, like Alexander, she too had turned to opium or some other drug. Where would that have left Abercorn as a child?

She turned her attention back to the trial. Abercorn could do nothing now except proceed. If Narraway had hoped to knock his confidence by behaving so extraordinarily, he was not succeeding.

Abercorn called the senior fireman who had attended the blaze after the explosion. His account was exact, harrowing, but with the expert detail that held the attention of everyone in the court. There was a horrible fascination in the power of fire to cause all-consuming destruction. Here, safely in the courtroom, the fear created a frisson of excitement.

Abercorn thanked the fireman and turned to Narraway.

Narraway rose to his feet. “Thank you, my lord,” he said to the judge. “I cannot think of anything this witness has left out, or indeed of anything that could be interpreted other than as he has done.”

“You've nothing to ask?” the judge said incredulously.

“Nothing, my lord, thank you.”

The jurors looked at one another, puzzled, even disconcerted.

There was a murmuring in the body of the court.

Charlotte turned to Vespasia, and then wished that she had not. The concern in her eyes was unmistakable. Charlotte reached out and put her hand gently on Vespasia's and felt her fingers tighten in response.

Abercorn spent the rest of the afternoon calling one expert witness after another. Most moving were the doctors, especially the one who described the pain of those who had survived. The police surgeon described the causes of death of Newman and Hobbs. He also stated that Ednam's injuries were the primary cause of his death, although it occurred a little later.

Again Narraway had nothing to say.

“Surely, Lord Narraway, you have some purpose here?” the judge said in complete exasperation. “You are hardly giving your client any kind of defense at all! Are you hoping for a mistrial, sir? You cannot claim incompetence. You are perfectly capable of mounting some sort of defense, or I would not have permitted you to undertake it. Do you wish to be replaced?”

“No, thank you, my lord,” Narraway said a little stiffly, as if his neck ached and his throat were dry. “I have not questioned the witnesses so far because I do not believe their evidence is in error or in any way incomplete. I will have questions later. I do not believe it is in my client's interest to waste the court's time over issues that are not in doubt.”

“Very well. But you had better begin soon, or I shall be obliged to find a more…competent counsel for Mr. Duncannon.”