Treachery at Lancaster Gate (4 page)

“I know. And make damn sure you're not one of them!”

Stoker smiled a little uncomfortably. He knew what Pitt was referring to. Almost two years ago, on an earlier case, he had met a woman named Kitty Ryder. In searching for her he had become fascinated, and when he had at last met her he had fallen in love. Now he had plucked up the courage to ask her to marry him, and the wedding was set. She knew what he did to earn his living, and that the dangers were considerable. She understood and did not complain. Nevertheless, Pitt was determined that Stoker would go to his wedding alive and well, and on time.

“No, sir,” Stoker agreed. “I know better than to rush it.”

P
ITT CAME HOME LATE
and had barely finished his evening meal when the doorbell rang. Charlotte answered it; when she returned to the kitchen, she was not alone, as Pitt had expected, but with a woman of striking appearance. She was in her fifties, at least ten years older than Charlotte, but beautiful in a quiet way, which seemed to grow more intense the longer one looked at her.

Pitt rose to his feet.

“I'm sorry,” the visitor said. “I see this is an extremely inconvenient hour, but I would not have come had I thought I would find you in at any other time.”

From another woman the remark would have seemed strange, but Isadora Cornwallis was the wife of the previous Assistant Commissioner of Police, the man who had been Pitt's superior when he was at Bow Street. Cornwallis and Pitt had been more than just colleagues; there was a trust between them, established through heavy and hard-fought battles. Side by side they had faced some bitter enemies. One of the worst had been Isadora's brother. She had shared grief with both Cornwallis and Pitt, and found a very deep love with Cornwallis. Although at first it had seemed hopeless, because she was still married, her husband had died, leaving her free to follow her heart.

“I'm afraid that's true,” he agreed. “Would you like a cup of tea?” He glanced at the clock on the dresser. “Or a glass of sherry?” Then he wondered if they even had sherry. It was not something they drank unless they had company, which was rare enough. “If we have it,” he added.

“Tea would be excellent,” she accepted.

Charlotte shook her head at Pitt, as if she was surprised he had not taken as much for granted.

“I'll bring it through to the parlor,” she said quickly.

He knew that Isadora would not have come without good reason. He searched her face for a moment for signs of grief or fear, and found none. Had Cornwallis been ill it would have been written there in her demeanor, however she might seek to disguise it.

In the parlor the curtains were drawn against the winter night. The fire was long settled in hot coals in the grate, filling the room with warmth.

Isadora sat down in the armchair opposite Pitt's, and he took his own.

“I have come to give you some information that I regret deeply having to pass on, but it may have something to do with the bombing at Lancaster Gate. I give it to you in confidence and trust that you will treat it accordingly, and act on it only if things should prove to be as I fear.”

“Of course.” He was uncertain what she could possibly know that might have to do with the bombing. Were it anything of a police nature then it would be Cornwallis who would know. Surely she was not going to tell him something indiscreet, even secret? It was beyond his imagination that she should betray her husband's trust.

She began as if the whole subject distressed her. There was a tension in her voice and her hands were stiff on her lap, her usual grace completely absent.

“I assume that you have learned very little so far?” It was a tentative question. Clearly she did not know how much she could ask without being told, albeit courteously, that it was confidential to Special Branch.

“Nothing at all as to who it might be,” he answered honestly. “The only avenue of approach we have is to find out how the dynamite was obtained. That is very probably through one of the usual sources for any anarchist.”

“Are you certain it is an anarchist behind this?” she said very seriously. Something in her tone caused a chill to grip him. It was as if the temperature in the room had dropped.

“No,” he answered. “I don't see any anarchist purpose in killing our police in this manner. When it comes to foreign groups, we tolerate them here because they are where we can see them. We have moderately good relationships with the countries they come from. Our own homegrown anarchists are more trouble, but so far major bombings are not their style. Sabotage, insurrection, and strikes are more useful to them. Why do you ask?” He sounded impatient. He had not meant to, but he was tired and still heavily weighed down with grief.

Isadora was measuring her words very carefully. “Of course it is likely that anarchists provided the bomb, or at the very least, the materials for it,” she said. “But it seems possible that the motive was not political, in the sense of seeking a change in the entire system of government…”

“I assume you don't have any specific evidence, or you would not hesitate to say.” He leaned forward a little. “But tell me what you suspect. I will take it as an observation, a suggestion only.”

She took a deep breath and let it out very slowly, giving herself time.

“There is a young man whose family I know moderately well. They are, socially, in an important position.”

With difficulty Pitt forced himself not to interrupt and urge her to reach the point. He found his hands clenching.

“His name is Alexander Duncannon. About four years ago,” she went on, “I don't know the exact date; he had a bad riding accident. His back was injured and he took some time to recover. The injury still causes him considerable pain. But I think the most severe legacy of the event was an addiction to the opium he was given in hospital during the worst of it.” She was obviously finding it difficult to tell him, not for lack of understanding but because in a sense she was betraying what might have been perceived as a confidence, or at the best, information gained in an unspoken trust.

“He is still taking opium?” Pitt tried to make the narrative easier.

“I think so. He does not mention it, but I have seen him in differing moods, and with the anxiety and constant unease that accompanies such…addiction…”

“If it is for pain, then I presume his doctor prescribes it for him,” Pitt said, keeping his tone matter-of-fact.

Isadora shifted. “He did. But I am not sure that is still the case, or if it is, if it is in the amounts he wishes.”

Pitt was uncomfortably aware that Isadora's story, like that of the police being lured to the Lancaster Gate house, seemed to center on opium.

“Are you afraid that he is buying opium himself, illegally?” he asked. It had not been made public that the raid had been intended to capture dealers in drugs. Did Isadora know somehow? Cornwallis could have told her; it was possible he had heard through a friend on the force or an old colleague, despite the fact that he was no longer assistant commissioner. “Does your husband know you have come to see me?” he asked.

She winced. “No. And he is not aware of Alexander's…frailty. I prefer that it remains so. I have no obligation to act regarding opium. I can assume that it is legally prescribed and not inquire. He might feel that he could not.”

Pitt was puzzled. “But you came to tell me? I don't understand.”

She was quick. “You seized on the opium when I mentioned it,” she said. “Did the bombing have something to do with opium?”

“Is that not why you mentioned Duncannon and his addiction in the first place?” he countered.

She smiled ruefully. “Don't play with me, Mr. Pitt. I was well used to it with my brother, and with my first husband. I came to you, even though it is difficult for me, because Alexander is a charming, intelligent but unstable young man, who has a passionate hatred for the police. It amounts to an obsession, a crusade against them. He has made no secret of it, but I think many people assume it to be merely part of his rather eccentric style of living, perhaps an attempt to be accepted by the company he chooses to keep, possibly even as a rather desperate form of rebellion against his father, who is a wealthy and formidable man who once had high expectations of his only son.”

“He hates the police?” Pitt sat back, surprised by this new information. “Does he have sympathy with anarchist connections?” It was not unusual for young men of wealth and privilege to have sympathies with the poor, and aspirations to see the politics changed. They saw it as a just cause on whose behalf to rebel.

“No,” Isadora said simply. “A dear friend of his was convicted and hanged a couple of years ago. Alexander did everything he could to save his friend, certain that he was innocent. He failed, and Dylan Lezant went to the gallows. Alexander never really got over it. He believes that a large proportion of the police are deeply corrupt, and they are being shielded by other police for reasons of their own.”

“Do you believe him?” he asked.

She had not expected anything quite so direct. It was clear from the sudden widening of her eyes.

“I believe it is what he thinks,” she answered slowly.

Pitt remembered the Lezant case. He recalled with another chill that that, too, was to do with a drug arrest that had gone wrong. Lezant had been arrested after he shot a totally innocent man who merely happened to be passing.

“I recall the case.” Pitt nodded. “Tragic. Lezant was also addicted, wasn't he?”

“Yes, but as I said, Alexander was still certain that he was innocent.”

“So who shot the bystander?”

She shook her head very slightly. “Alexander believed Lezant's story that it was the police themselves.”

Pitt was startled.

“Why would they do that, for heaven's sake?”

“Carelessness…panic,” she said. “But then they had to blame someone else, because they shouldn't have had guns with them anyway. I know what you think: He was a young man who was devoted to his friend, perhaps the one person who understood his addiction and did not blame him. He believed what he had to, to preserve his own emotional values and possibly even to justify the battle he put up to save Lezant from the rope—and failed. Who knows all the reasons why we do things?”

He could not argue with her. “So you think Alexander could have placed the bomb that blew up the Lancaster Gate house, killing two policemen and critically injuring three more? Is that not…extreme?”

“Yes, it is,” she agreed. “And I very much hope that I am totally mistaken. Believe me, I debated long and deeply whether I should even mention it to you. It seems disloyal to my friend. Maybe it is worse than that. I am not certain John would approve. I suppose that is obvious, since I have not told him.” Now her face was pinched with a painful memory. “But I know that people you have loved, that you have known all your life, can be quite different from what you have supposed. Why would you even entertain the idea that they are really strangers to you, full of passions that you did not dream of?”

He knew now that she was speaking of her brother, who would have been willing to see her blamed for a crime she had not committed. She would never know if he would even have seen her hanged for it without speaking out to save her with the truth.

The shadow of that time was there in the room. What did she recall of it now? It had been years ago and it had been Pitt who had saved her. It was also Pitt who had caused the downfall of her brother, and his death, in another case after that. So much old pain. And yet Isadora had come to him now with this, not choosing to look aside, not even choosing to confide in Cornwallis, the husband she loved so deeply, because he had once been assistant commissioner of the very police they were speaking of.

Was that because she trusted Pitt to face the truth, whatever the cost?

“I'll speak to Mr. Duncannon tomorrow,” he promised. “Where can I find him?”

She had wanted him to say just this; it was the reason she had come. And yet now she also looked stricken. The die was cast. It was too late to change her mind.

With stiff fingers she opened her reticule and passed him a small piece of paper. On it was written the address of the flat in which Alexander Duncannon lived. He was of the social class and income that did not necessitate any occupation, except whatever he chose with which to pass his time.

“When might I find him there?” he asked.

“I would try about ten o'clock in the morning,” she answered. “I don't imagine he will be an early riser. Later, and he might have gone out. He has friends.”

“Thank you. I certainly will not mention your name when I talk to him,” Pitt promised.

She hesitated for a moment, at a loss for words herself. Then she gave a brief smile and allowed him to escort her to the door and the street, where her carriage was waiting.

P
ITT FOUND
A
LEXANDER
D
UNCANNON
not at his flat but at an art exhibition three blocks away from the Autonomy Club. The man at the door told him who he was. Apparently he came often. A dark, slender young man. He looked about twenty-five. He was standing alone in front of a large painting of a country scene. Laborers stood with scythes in hand. The August sun shone out of a clear blue sky onto the golden cornfield. A few scarlet poppies burned bright at the margins.

Pitt had grown up in the country. This looked idyllic, and quite unreal to him. It had a kind of beauty, but it was set back from the smell of the earth, the relentless heat of harvesttime, the ache of backs too long bent.

“Do you like it?” he asked.

The softness of Alexander's youth was in his cheeks when he turned, but there were hard shadows around his eyes. He was clearly familiar with pain. He smiled, suddenly and charmingly. It lit his face. “No,” he said with candor. “Do you? Or have you not looked at it long enough?”