Treachery at Lancaster Gate (32 page)

“I am engaged, my lord,” Narraway said with a sudden flare of passion. “Believe me, I am!”

Charlotte gripped Vespasia's hand harder, and found her eyes filling with tears of relief.

P
ITT KNEW IT WAS
inevitable that Abercorn should call him as a main witness against Alexander Duncannon. He had spent a good deal of time with Narraway and knew what he had planned, as well as both the chances and the risks. He was not surprised when, the day after he finished with the other expert testimony, Abercorn called him in for a final discussion before putting him on the stand.

At seven o'clock in the morning Pitt was very reluctantly having breakfast with Abercorn at his home. It was a large, elegant house off Woburn Square. This was an excellent neighborhood, quiet and exclusive, wealthy long enough to wear it with ease.

Abercorn ate well. The sideboard held silver dishes of scrambled eggs, sausages, bacon, mushrooms, deviled kidneys, and kippers. There were racks of fresh toast, and there was butter and several kinds of marmalade. Graceful silver pots held tea and hot water, matching the silver cruet sets and the monogrammed knives, forks, and napkin rings.

Abercorn himself was dressed in a suit obviously tailored for him and a quality of shirt Pitt would have felt was extravagant for himself, with a family to support, but he admired it nonetheless. He did wonder why Abercorn had not married yet, or if perhaps he had, and tragedy of some sort had robbed him of his wife and the possibility of children.

In a brief visit to Abercorn's study the last time he was here, in earlier preparation, Pitt had noticed the portrait of an elderly woman, dressed in the fashion of some thirty years earlier. And in spite of the ravages of pain, her features bore a noticeable resemblance to Abercorn's. Pitt had assumed it was his mother.

“Sorry for calling you out so early,” Abercorn said almost as soon as the food was served and they began to eat. “But this is crucial. I think we already have the jury completely. It has all gone perfectly so far.”

Pitt knew this from Charlotte, but he intended to make no mention of that.

Abercorn took another large mouthful of deviled kidneys. He had separated them on his plate—a generous helping. They were apparently a favorite and he meant to indulge himself. Pitt wondered how long he had had his wealth. There was something in him, almost indefinable, a relish, that made Pitt aware that Abercorn was not born to such plenty. He still savored it, just enough to see.

“Narraway did absolutely nothing,” Abercorn went on. “I thought at first that he would be a dangerous opponent, but the more I watch him, the more I am coming to believe that he is totally out of his depth. I don't know why he took the case on at all…” He hesitated, watching Pitt closely.

Pitt did not reply. He sat waiting as if he expected Abercorn to explain.

“You know the man!” Abercorn said impatiently. “Is he really empty, a paper tiger?”

Pitt was conscious that he must judge his reply exactly, not only his choice of words but the precise facial expression that accompanied them.

“He's made mistakes,” he began. “Misjudgments. But then so has everyone. Sometimes it's not the errors you make but how you recover from them that mark the difference between failure and success.”

“I don't intend to give him the opportunity to recover,” Abercorn said tersely. “So far he's said nothing. Why do you suppose that is?”

Pitt smiled to rob the reply of any suggestion of sarcasm. “Possibly you've made no mistakes he could exploit? The evidence of the actual crime seems very clear cut.”

“Indeed, it is,” Abercorn agreed. “But I expected him to say something.” He frowned. “How long is it since he actually practiced law?”

“I didn't know he ever had, until he told me a couple of weeks ago,” Pitt admitted. “And I didn't ask him. I gathered it was a very long time ago.”

“I looked.” Abercorn nodded. “I found no trace of his ever appearing in court at all. But he is certainly qualified. Why on earth does he want to defend Duncannon? Do you know?”

It was the first question to which Pitt had to answer with a direct lie. He disliked doing it, but he had no choice.

“I imagine it could have something to do with Godfrey Duncannon. The government is very keen that the contract should be accomplished successfully.”

A shadow crossed Abercorn's face and then was gone. “I agree that the timing is appalling, and I dislike doing the opposition's job for them. But the attack on our police force is even more serious than this contract. They are our first line of defense against anarchy and the total chaos of civil disorder.

“The whole of Europe is in civil disorder and within the next ten or fifteen years, at the outside, we will be in chaos if we do not gain some control. Socialism is rising in Russia, Germany, France. The Balkans are on the brink of war. Who is to hold onto order, if not us?”

Pitt did not answer. Everything Abercorn said was true.

“We must not, cannot let down those who rely on us,” Abercorn went on. “Three men are dead and two more fearfully injured. Bossiney was a fine witness. His disfigurement made a lasting impression on the jury. They'll have nightmares about that for a long time. I'll have that face in my dreams for years.” He winced, for a moment not making any attempt to hide his emotion.

Pitt felt a moment's complete unity with him. Bossiney would carry that for the rest of his life. Whatever he had done in complicity with Ednam, it was a monstrous punishment. But it did not justify the crime of hanging Lezant, nor did it assuage Alexander's pain.

“What is it you wished to discuss?” he asked.

Abercorn brought his attention back to the present. “Ah…yes. Just details. Attitude perhaps more than facts. They seem to be clear enough.” He looked at Pitt earnestly. “I know exactly what I am going to ask you. You are my main witness, beyond the facts already established. Narraway has to cross-question you, or he has done nothing at all. I want to make sure he cannot rattle you. He must know you well. He was your superior for several years.” He left the remark in the air between them, forcing Pitt to respond.

“I believe I know what you mean,” Pitt said slowly. “But if you are plain, then there can be no misunderstanding. We have already gone over the evidence. I shall be precise in answering your questions.”

“And brief,” Abercorn added, still watching Pitt closely. “Don't offer anything I haven't asked for.”

At another time Pitt might have smiled. He had given evidence more times than Abercorn had even been in a courtroom. But there was nothing easy, final, or to be taken for granted in this.

“I won't,” he promised. He must be careful. He did not like Abercorn, and yet his dislike of him was baseless and probably unfair. His loyalty to Narraway was deep, and his loyalty to what he believed to be right was even deeper. He knew exactly what Narraway meant to do—at least he thought he did. Narraway had been very careful not to tell him in so many words.

Abercorn stared at him, weighing, measuring, and judging. Pitt had a strong sense of the man's power and his acute understanding of others that had brought him from obscurity, poverty even, to a place where he was rich and very widely respected. He was almost certainly headed for the next step up the ladder to a political career of some distinction.

If Abercorn won this case it would be seen as a victory in the crusade for the ordinary man, the policeman on the beat who protected people's houses, families, even their lives, against crime and disorder. A place in Parliament, even in government, was not unlikely, for Josiah Abercorn, to be a springboard for government office, even, eventually, a ministry, such as the Home Office, with all its power to change the law and life of the nation. It would be foolish to take him lightly.

Pitt had at last learned not to fill other men's silences with words he would rather not say. He ate his breakfast, without enjoyment.

“Narraway must have some plan,” Abercorn said at last. “You know the man. More to the point, he knows you! Is he going to try to trip you? What does he imagine he can do that Godfrey Duncannon has allowed him to represent the family? I have a powerful feeling that there is something I don't know! What is it, Pitt?”

Pitt was startled. “What makes you think that?” He was playing for time, studying Abercorn's face, the tension in his body as he sought to probe Pitt's thoughts. Was this what the meeting was really about? “How well do you know Alexander Duncannon?” he asked. It was a thought that had only just occurred to him, and probably it was irrelevant.

Abercorn's expression was extraordinary: a mixture of a terrible humor, bitter and deep; a satisfaction as if tasting something delicate, determined not to gulp it; and a pain that was almost overwhelming.

“Alexander?” Abercorn said with his eyebrows raised. “Our paths have seldom crossed. Why do you ask?”

Pitt shrugged, aware now that they were playing a complicated game with no rules to it. “Looking for what it could be that we don't know,” he answered.

“Why did Godfrey allow Narraway to do this?” Abercorn held his fork in the air, the next mouthful for once ignored.

“Perhaps it was Alexander's decision?” Pitt suggested, knowing that it was.

“Why? Cardew was to be his lawyer. He would have been excellent. He would at least have put up a battle.”

“But would he have won?” Pitt asked.

Abercorn pursed his lips doubtfully. “Insanity, perhaps. Narraway hasn't even put it forward. God knows why. It's all there is.”

“Perhaps he doesn't think it would work?”

“Nothing's going to work!” Abercorn said with a sudden rush of emotion. His big broad hand was clenched on his knife, his face was flushed with a wave of color. “He's guilty!”

“Yes, he is,” Pitt agreed. He felt as if the room stifled him. He thought of Alexander bent double with pain, the sweat pouring off his face, his shirt soaked with it. He wanted justice for Lezant. He would die for it. He was going to die anyway. The opium would see to that.

Could Narraway bring about that justice?

There was something Pitt had missed, some connection. He racked his brain, but the pieces still did not fit, not quite.

W
HEN THE TRIAL RESUMED,
Pitt took the stand immediately. He climbed the steps, faced the court, and swore to his name, rank, and occupation. He was aware of Alexander in the dock, white-faced and motionless. He knew that Cecily would be in the front seats of the gallery, with Emily beside her, somewhere that Alexander could see her.

Pitt glanced at Charlotte once; she was sitting with Vespasia. Then he turned all his concentration on Abercorn as he stepped forward and began what was intended to be his cornerstone of the prosecution.

“My lord,” Abercorn addressed the judge, “I shall not ask Commander Pitt more than necessary about the terrible carnage he saw when he arrived at Lancaster Gate on the day of the bombing. We already know exactly what happened from the two victims who survived that atrocity. Nothing could be more immediate or more accurate than their accounts. We have heard from the firemen, from the ambulance men, and from the hospital doctors. We need no more retelling of the horror and the pain.”

He gestured toward Pitt on the stand. “What I will ask Commander Pitt to tell you is how he investigated the crime, how he put together all the evidence and came to the inevitable and terrible conclusion that Alexander Duncannon was responsible for it. He, and he alone, did this thing. I have no doubt whatever that you will reach the same conclusion.” He gave a very slight bow, a tiny gesture of courtesy, and then he looked up directly at Pitt.

“This must have been extraordinarily distressing for you, Commander,” he began, his voice filled with sympathy. “You will have seen many disasters, many crimes, but these men whose shattered corpses you found were fellow police officers! Men exactly as you were yourself only a few years ago.”

Pitt thought of Newman's body hunched up, broken. He could smell the charred flesh as if it had been moments since it had happened. His throat was so tight it was hard to speak. The question had come without warning, and he knew Abercorn had done this on purpose. It was brilliant theater. He appreciated it and hated him for it at the same moment. Please God Narraway would be as good at it when it was his turn.

“Yes,” he agreed.

“Did you actually know any of the victims?” Abercorn asked.

There was silence in the courtroom. No one even fidgeted. Pitt was aware that the jurors were all watching him minutely, enthralled, and he had barely begun. He hated it. Everything depended upon him.

“Yes, I had heard the names of all of them, and I knew Newman and Hobbs personally,” he answered.

“It must have been terrible for you,” Abercorn dwelt on it for a moment, allowing the imagery to sink in. He did not leave it long enough for Narraway to object that it was not a question. “After you had seen the bodies,” he continued, “and made sure the survivors had been taken to hospital, and that the fires were out and the structure of the building, what was left of it, was safe to examine, what did you do next?”

“Looked for passersby, possible witnesses,” Pitt answered. “Unfortunately we learned very little of value. We also did all we could to find any remnants of the bomb, and to work out from the wreckage exactly where it had been placed.”

“Why? What difference did that make?” Abercorn sounded interested. He was not following the pattern he had discussed with Pitt. Maybe he did not wish it to sound rehearsed.

“The more you know about an explosion, the more likely you are to be able to deduce the ingredients of a bomb, the amount of dynamite used, the container, how it was detonated.”

“What good does that do?”

“There are not many sources of dynamite.” Pitt went on to explain the various types of bomb, how they were constructed and used. Abercorn did not interrupt him, and neither did Narraway. The public in the gallery were watching a drama unfold, whether or not they understood where it was leading.

Abercorn nodded. “The source of this dynamite, Commander—were you able to trace it, in this instance?”

“Yes—”

“Is one lot of dynamite different from another?” Abercorn interrupted.

“Not that you can tell, once it has exploded. But it is very carefully controlled,” Pitt explained. “No one can prevent the occasional theft, especially from quarries where it is used frequently. One doesn't trace the dynamite so much as the men who steal it, sell it, or buy it. They are usually recognizable.”

“And Special Branch knows who deals in stolen dynamite?”

“Yes.” He did not qualify it. How many dealers they did not know was a matter of calculation. Abercorn had insisted that his testimony remain simple. Complication would confuse the jury. Not that Pitt needed telling that.

Abercorn paced two or three steps from the place where he had begun.

“And you traced the thief, the seller, and the purchaser of this particular dynamite?”

“As far as we could.” Carefully, in simple detail, Pitt recounted how they had traced the dynamite from the quarry from which it had been stolen, through the thief, his contacts among the anarchists. No one interrupted him. Narraway sat as if paralyzed. Pitt was careful not to look at him, except momentarily, out of the corner of his eye. He knew Vespasia was beside Charlotte, but he dared not even imagine what she was feeling.

“And it led you to Alexander Duncannon,” Abercorn said, unable to keep the victory out of his voice.

“Not quite. It led us to a description, one that could easily match Alexander Duncannon,” Pitt said.

Abercorn was not quite as comfortable as before. He resumed after walking a little less gracefully back to his original position in front of the witness stand.

“Did you question the accused about the bomb, the explosion, the fire, the deaths, and the appalling injuries, Commander Pitt? Did he deny that he was responsible?”

“Yes, I did question him, and he did not deny it,” Pitt replied.

“So you arrested him?”

“Not at that time. I looked for further proof.”

Abercorn's eyebrows shot up. “Why?”

“He was ill, and I thought perhaps unstable,” Pitt answered. “I wanted to be perfectly sure, independently of his words, that he was actually guilty.” He took a breath. “And of his connections with any possible anarchists.”

“Ill?” Abercorn asked. “Do you mean insane?”

Narraway moved in his seat.

The judge leaned forward.

The jury, as a man, stared at Pitt.

Narraway said nothing.

Someone in the gallery coughed and choked.

“Commander!” Abercorn said loudly.

“I am not a doctor to know the answer to that,” Pitt measured his words carefully. “But it did not seem so to me, then or since.”

Abercorn smiled. “Quite so. Thank you.” He turned away, as if to go back to his seat. Then suddenly he swiveled around and faced Pitt again. “And may we assume that you found all the proof you wished for?”

“Yes.”

“And connections to any anarchists?”

“No, sir, other than the possible purchase of the dynamite.”

“But Alexander did lead a somewhat dissolute lifestyle…such as gave him acquaintance with anarchists, or he would not have known where to purchase dynamite?” Abercorn persisted. It was barely a question, more a conclusion.

“That would seem unarguable,” Pitt agreed.

“Thank you, sir. You have been most helpful.” Abercorn's smile was that of a shark who had just eaten very well. “Your witness, Lord Narraway.”

Narraway rose to his feet and walked gracefully to the center of the floor in front of the witness stand.

“Thank you, Mr. Abercorn. Commander Pitt, your evidence has been commendably clear and concise. Nevertheless, there are a few points I would like to go over, and perhaps make clearer still.”

Pitt waited.

There was a silence so intense that one almost imagined one could hear the creak of stays as women breathed in and out, or the scrape of a boot sole on the floor as a foot moved an inch.

Narraway spoke quietly, as if all emotion were knotted up inside him.

“Your evidence as to the explosion in the house at Lancaster Gate is perfectly clear, and of the appalling injuries to the five policemen who attended the event in pursuit of an opium sale, which apparently never took place. It didn't, did it?”

“No, sir.”

“But you pursued it? You attempted to find out if it had ever been a genuine piece of information?”

Abercorn rose to his feet. “My lord, surely it is clear to Lord Narraway that there was never any such sale intended? It was a feint, a lure to get the police to Lancaster Gate!”

The judge looked at him with an expression of impatience. “I think since we have heard so little from Lord Narraway, we should allow him to make this point.” He turned to Narraway. “Please continue, and if you have a point to make that is pertinent to the issue, then please let us hear it.”

“Yes, my lord.” Narraway looked at Pitt again. “Did you investigate this person known as A.D., and his information, Commander?”

“Yes, sir. It seems that he had supplied information regarding sales of opium on at least three earlier occasions, and on all of them his information had proven correct.”

“What relevance does this have to this case?” Narraway asked innocently.

“I did not appreciate how much at the time,” Pitt admitted. “It was a routine thing to check. But it did occur to me straightaway that since his earlier information had resulted in the arrests of several dealers, the police would expect the same to be true this time and send along a fairly large body of men to effect an arrest. Possibly they would be the same men as on the earlier occasions.”

“Seems reasonable,” Narraway agreed.

Abercorn moved restively in his seat, as if to stand up, and then changed his mind.

“And were they the same men?” Narraway asked Pitt.

“Probably. It wouldn't be difficult to ascertain—”

This time Abercorn rose immediately. “My lord, I object most strenuously to Commander Pitt's assumption. He seems to be suggesting that the dead and injured men were somehow responsible for their own fate. That is beyond appalling! It is inexcusable.”

“Really?” The judge looked surprised. “All I understood from the question was that they could have been a target, the cause of which might have been anything, but the most likely to my mind is revenge, possibly for any of their previous successes. They were very successful in their jobs, I understand?”

“Yes, my lord, but—”

“Your objection is heard, and denied, Mr. Abercorn. Please continue, Lord Narraway. Your point is made.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Narraway's face was almost expressionless, nothing visible in it but concentration. He looked again at Pitt. “So these investigations, which my learned friend had you recount for the court, led you to the conclusion that the officers, both dead and wounded, were deliberately lured to the house in Lancaster Gate where the bomb was detonated?”

“Yes, sir,” Pitt agreed.

“And you discovered what materials were used in the bomb?”

“Yes, sir.”

Again Abercorn was on his feet. “My lord, I am happy to save the court's time by stipulating to all the evidence previously given in his capacity as my own witness for the prosecution. Commander Pitt of Special Branch is an officer Lord Narraway knows very well, and when he retired he personally recommended Pitt to take his place. Is he now suggesting that Commander Pitt is in some way either incompetent or dishonest?”

There was a rustle of movement in the gallery and several audible murmurs of surprise, and dissent.

The judge looked at Narraway questioningly.

A flicker of apprehension shadowed Narraway's face for an instant, and then he banished it. “Not at all, my lord,” he said to the judge. “But as any witness is required to do, he answered only the questions asked him. I would like him to explain a little further, with the court's permission. I have not so far wasted the court's time, my lord…”