Treachery at Lancaster Gate (8 page)

When had that started? He thought back to being a boy, only briefly. There were too many things about it he preferred to forget. He was not that person anymore. He wasn't hungry, scared, runny-nosed, scabby-kneed, always feeling on the outside. He was a grown man with a purpose. He had been that for years, ever since he had joined the police, part of an army for good, someone who belonged.

Now he was an inspector himself, a rank he would never have imagined reaching, even a few years ago. It was his duty to protect the police from attack—from inside or out. Without loyalty they lost their greatest shield, and weapon. And you could not expect loyalty from men to whom you would not give it. It was when it was costly that it counted.

And he owed it to Gracie and his little girl. And the new baby coming. That might be a son! Someone who would want to follow in his footsteps, be like him.

He stood up, leaving the last few inches of his ale, paid his bill, and walked out into the thickening mist.

G
RACIE WAS MORE AWARE
of the gravity of the situation than Tellman knew. The next morning, after he had left for work, she left her child sleeping quietly in the early winter sun, in the care of the woman who came and did the heavy cleaning. She had several of her own children, and would know exactly what to do, or not do.

Gracie caught the omnibus to Russell Square, and then walked along to Keppel Street. Of course she did not know if Charlotte was in, but there was only one way to find out. She was sufficiently early to make it very likely. She needed advice, and there was no one else anywhere who would be wiser, or more generous, in giving it.

She was fortunate. Charlotte was still at home. She had planned to go out but changed her mind the minute Gracie had appeared.

“My errand is of no importance at all,” she assured Gracie. “You are an excellent excuse to avoid it. Come in and have a cup of tea.”

“It's too early for elevenses,” Gracie said a little awkwardly. This was not really a social call. Her reason for coming was important, and urgent. Tea was a pleasantry that did not matter.

Charlotte looked at her gravely. “Something is wrong. What can I do?”

Instead of the kitchen where Gracie had worked all her years from thirteen to well over twenty, Charlotte led her into the parlor, and closed the door behind them.

“Sit down, and tell me,” she directed, then took the seat that was usually Pitt's and offered her own to Gracie.

Gracie had been worrying about how to word it all the way here on the bus, but now suddenly it was easy. The years disappeared and it was as if they were back in the old days, when they had faced all kinds of cases together and Gracie had been part of the family, free to give her opinion like anyone else. Even Lord Narraway and Lady Vespasia had listened to her…sometimes.

“Samuel's been looking at all these police what was hurt in the bombing,” she said earnestly. “He doesn't tell me much, but I know 'im. He's found bad things. I know that because 'e says nothing. If it was all right, he'd say so.” She looked down at her hands, which were very small, but very strong. “Samuel thinks the police are kind o' heroes. Like King Arthur, all sworn to protect the innocent.” She sighed. “But yer gotta believe in something ter keep on going back all the time, an' fighting against fear, an' doubt an'…an' just giving up. We all got our fairy stories. He's a dreamer inside, you know. 'E thinks they're all as straight as 'e is. But they in't. I know that.”

“I know it too,” Charlotte agreed. “But if he accepted that, then he might not have the loyalty he does, and it's that which makes him special and able to keep going even in the hardest cases.”

Gracie said nothing. Now, suddenly, it was not so easy. She had not come here for comfort; she needed to have a plan of some sort, something practical, if it all went bad.

She looked up at Charlotte. “Wot if they was bombed because they was crooked? On the take, like?”

Charlotte could remember very clearly what Thomas had said about the bombing, and how those specific policemen had been lured to the Lancaster Gate house—and about Isadora Cornwallis's suspicion of Alexander Duncannon, though she could not share that with Gracie.

“If anyone had proof of stealing, or lying, wouldn't they try to report it to police higher up, who would stop it themselves?” she asked slowly. “You could do that without any damage to yourself. If necessary you might be able to write an anonymous letter, if you were afraid of reprisals.”

“I thought o' that,” Gracie answered. “It must be that there's police 'igher up protecting them.” She shook her head. “I wish I could protect 'im from finding out the bad ones are bad enough to 'ave been the reason for this.” She looked at Charlotte, studying her face, wanting to see that Charlotte could prove her fears ungrounded.

It was several more moments before Charlotte answered. “They have to find the corruption, if it's there,” she said, biting her lip. “And then they will discover where the deepest loyalties are. Choices between right and wrong are easy. It's the ones where you have to decide between two rights, or two wrongs that hurt, and maybe you never know which would have been the better.”

“The police are going to say it should be to yer mates on the force,” Gracie said. “The ones as 'ave watched for yer when yer was tired, a bit slow, made a mistake, or could 'ave been knifed if they 'adn't been there. If yer don't know which side yer mates are on, nobody's going ter fight. Samuel says then, if ye're going into a dark alley an' yer don't know what's in front of yer, yer gotta be sure as hell what's behind yer.”

Charlotte did not argue. Gracie could see the conflict in her face.

“I know,” Charlotte agreed. “And yet if the police don't keep honor to the truth but choose to protect those of them that lie, or twist evidence, steal little things here and there, take bribes to look the other way, what happens to the rest of us?” She shivered. “It's like a building that's got woodworm in the joists and rafters. One wormhole's nothing: ten thousand and the whole thing caves in on your head.”

“So wot are we gonna do?” Gracie at last said the unavoidable.

For an instant there was a spark of dark humor in Charlotte's eyes at her automatic inclusion, and then it vanished. This was too serious for any kind of laughter.

“I don't think there's anything you really can do,” Charlotte answered. “If there is, I've never found it.”

Surprise flickered across Gracie's face, as if she had never considered Pitt vulnerable in the same way.

Charlotte threw away the last vestige of doubt. “You should look after your family. I will visit my sister, who knows all kinds of people, and ask her to find out what she can. Who knows how high up this may go?”

Gracie bit her lip. “An' if it does?”

“I'm not sure. But an idea of the truth is the only place to begin.”

Gracie smiled a little lopsidedly. “Thank you.”

I
T WAS AN ICY
morning and Pitt was later arriving at Lisson Grove than he had intended. A dray had slid on the ice in Marylebone Road and everything was held up. It had given him the chance to read his morning newspaper in the hansom, not an enjoyable experience, but necessary.

Stoker was waiting for him, his face pink from the bite of the wind, and his expression dark.

“That missing dynamite from Bessemer's,” he said as soon as Pitt came in the door. “It was the foreman who took it, but he's not much help. Either he's scared witless of whoever he sold it to or he really doesn't know. Either way, it's bound to be anarchists raising funds by selling it on.”

“Any idea from other sources who bought it?” Pitt asked without much hope. He pulled out his chair and sat down, looking at the pile of notes already on his desk.

“An Italian called Pollini, who sold it to someone whose name he doesn't know and whose description could fit half the anarchists in Europe. Most of them are in London anyway. The reports are on your desk. I've looked at them, and I can't see anything useful…at least not in regard to the Lancaster Gate business. Got a good line in one or two other cases. It's stirred up the pot a bit, and all kinds of things are coming to the surface. We should be able to tie up the Lansdowne affair.”

“Good.” Pitt gave a brief smile, took the newspaper out of his pocket where he had slipped it, and dropped it into the bin.

“Did you read the leaders?” Stoker asked unhappily.

“Yes. Most of the demands are worded as looking for justice, but what it really means is revenge on those who attacked the police,” Pitt replied. “I saw a piece by the lawyer Josiah Abercorn. He's riding a wave of popularity by defending the police, the ordinary man, people's defense against the rise of crime, and so on. I can understand it. The police are our symbol of safety. We resent their interference at times. They can be pompous, authoritarian, full of self-importance, but in the end they are the barrier against violence, loss of property, general chaos. They separate the order we rely on from the barbarism that lies beyond: danger and unreason. To attack them is to attack all of us.”

“That's pretty well what all the papers are saying,” Stoker agreed. “Least the better ones. Suppose you read that too?”

“I didn't, actually,” Pitt replied. “I was looking mainly at the foreign news. I don't think this has much to do with anarchists, but I wanted to see if there was anything political of importance, anything happened we should know about.”

“I've looked at the main reports, sir. I'm pretty sure it's just hot air, the usual people ranting on. In fact, from what our blokes are saying, the serious anarchists are upset about the bombing. Stirs everybody up, and some people who used to tolerate them are getting resentful. Got a few of them turned out of their lodgings, even refused in some of the places where they like to eat…coffee shops, and the like. Makes people nervous.”

“Interesting,” Pitt said thoughtfully. “Sounds as if there's no agreement among them, anyway. But we still have to be as certain as we can that there are no new groups that we've missed. I need reports from all the men we have embedded in those we know of. Let's get it on paper, and see if everything is accounted for.”

Stoker looked at him, alarm in his eyes.

Pitt stiffened. “Do you know of any other certain way to connect everything up so we can see the pattern of it? We need to be as sure as we can that there isn't something we're missing, because we're so used to seeing what we know.”

“We'll need some help.” Stoker gave in reluctantly. “Who do you trust enough, sir? Whoever it is will end up learning all the embedded men's names.” He shook his head. “Are you sure you want that? Only takes one word let slip, to someone you think you can trust. We're none of us perfect, sir.” He came as close as he could to telling Pitt he was wrong.

Pitt bit back the retort in his mind. Stoker was right: he was not suggesting someone would let information slip out through betrayal, but through stress, exhaustion, and the loneliness of not being able to tell even those closest to you what you were doing, what you knew that was frightening, pitiful, or even funny. The pressure of silence could put strain on all kinds of emotions.

And of course there was also the unfairness of telling people more than they needed to know. Secrets slipped could cost another man's life. Each man's own secrets were enough to carry.

“You're right,” he conceded. “We'll work with what we have, and then ask questions to fill in the blanks, if there are any. Send Blake for a pot of tea.”

I
T TOOK THE WHOLE
of the day before they were satisfied that as close as it was possible to tell, they hadn't found any incidents that deviated from familiar patterns. They saw no new or unexplained behaviors among the groups already known to exist in London. No one had suddenly made contact with lots of people; there were no unusual meetings, no more travel than normal.

It was not a profitless exercise, however, because several things emerged. There was some old information that could be discarded and a few new ideas noted to follow up on.

“Next job is to look more thoroughly at the victims,” Pitt said wearily, when they finally locked all the papers and notes away.

“Don't think Ednam's going to make it,” Stoker said quietly. “If you need to see him again I think it's too late. He's slipped into a coma. The nurse said they'd do everything they could for him, but he's not responding. Maybe there's worse inside him than they know. Bossiney's holding his own, but those burns aren't going to heal much. The scars'll be there forever—poor devil. Yarcombe's very quiet, but his fever's down, and the stump of his arm is healing.”

Pitt said nothing. He had thought Ednam would make it, and maybe Yarcombe would not. But Ednam was older, and he had been more seriously burned. The shock to his body must have been worse than Pitt had appreciated. He had not particularly liked the man, but he knew nothing to his discredit. If he died there was going to be a whole new outcry against the bomber. No doubt Abercorn, and men like him, would climb on the bandwagon to call for more and swifter action.

Could one man have planned this bombing and carried it out? Yes, if he was careful and clever.

Pitt tidied up, read the last reports, then an hour later he locked up the office and walked out into the wind and the rain. The ice was gone from the pavements and they were awash from the downpour. If the wind blew the clouds away it would freeze hard by morning, lethal as oiled glass.

The lamps had been lit long ago and shone like fitful moons in a long loop around the curve of the street. It was wet and bitter, yet it had its own kind of beauty, man's beacon masts into an unknown distance. As he passed each one and left it behind him the next one loomed into sight.

He wished he could see further ahead in the case. Perhaps he was not investigating the victims carefully enough? Were they just faceless police as far as the bomber was concerned? Did he regard all police as tokens of a government, an order he hated? Could the whole abomination be something to divert Special Branch's attention from a different attack? Something more long-lasting, more deeply injurious to the country?

Was it a practice run for a larger attack on an iconic building such as the Houses of Parliament, or even Buckingham Palace? Whitehall? Or in another country altogether? Tomorrow he would have Stoker contact all the foreign officials they knew and see if anything tied in with French or Spanish plots.

He turned the corner but kept on walking. He was stiff after sitting all day bent over papers. The cold air cleared his head and the rain was easing off.

He splashed through another puddle at the edge of the road as he crossed it, his mind whirling with unanswered questions.

Was this a matter of terrorism at all, or just a particularly horrible murder? Was one of the men an intended victim and the others were killed collaterally, just to mask the motive for the one? What kind of a lunatic bombs five men to be sure of injuring one?

Maybe he lacked the perception and the overall vision and experience to figure this out, the type of experience that Narraway had had. That had been his fear all day—that he was in a job too big for him. He was a policeman, a detective who had solved complex and fearful murders. But he was not a politician, a spymaster, a man who instinctively understood treason and betrayal, as Narraway had.

Had someone slowly and carefully infiltrated Special Branch so Pitt could be misled, blinded by what he thought was his own understanding? He wished he could believe that was impossible.

When he finally stopped a hansom and requested it to take him to Keppel Street, he was so tired he was afraid he might go to sleep in the cab and have to be roused. He climbed in and sat back gratefully, but his mind would not leave the subject alone.

H
E ARRIVED HOME, TOOK
off his wet coat, hat, and boots and was very soon sitting beside the fire with a slice of bacon-and-egg pie and a second cup of tea. Still he could not let go of the knots in his shoulders, or the need to keep on trying to unravel tangles in his mind.

This was one case he could discuss with Charlotte because it was totally public anyway. It was talked of on every street corner by everyone from messenger boys to washerwomen, and probably over every garden fence, and over glasses of whisky at every gentlemen's club.

It was she who broached the subject.

“Gracie came to see me,” she remarked. “She's going to have another child.”

He smiled. It was the first good news he had heard since the bombing. “Excellent! Can I congratulate Tellman, or am I not supposed to know?”

“I would prefer that you didn't, at least not just yet,” she said gravely. “That wasn't what she came about.”

“Oh…what was it?” The warmth inside him drained away.

“She's afraid for Samuel. He's such an idealist she thinks it's going to hurt him very much if he discovers real corruption in the police,” she answered. The gas lamps shed a warmth over her face, a softness, but it did not hide the anxiety in her eyes. She did not need to put into words her need for a reply, or that comfort would be a denial, not a help.

“I know,” he admitted. “But there's nothing we can do but look more thoroughly. We've exhausted every avenue regarding known anarchists. If there's an unknown group then that's what they are: unknown to us, invisible. We've pieced together every fragment of information we have.” He would not tell her about the sources, the informers, domestic and foreign, or his own men long embedded in anarchist cells. “Which is a great deal. There are no incidents unconnected, nothing that suggests a movement we don't know about.” He said that with a degree of confidence.

But she knew him too well. “So if it is anarchists, then there is a movement that has managed to remain invisible.” She spoke the fear aloud: “And you think Victor would have seen it?” Charlotte had learned a little more tact over the years, but she could still cut with surgical precision when she wanted to. She met his eyes without a flicker. “Have you got rid of all the men in Special Branch that he had? Isn't there someone left that you can be absolutely sure of?”

Did she really think that of him? “No! Of course not!” he said a little sharply. “I haven't got rid of any of them. Two left: one for injury, the other because he retired. He was nearly seventy! A very wise man, and I was sorry to lose him.”

She smiled quickly. “Then why would they suddenly miss something as important as a new movement in anarchy, or nihilism, or general desire for social change?”

“They wouldn't,” he agreed, moving in the chair to ease his locked muscles. “Of course they wouldn't.” He didn't want her to realize how irrational he had been, how far he had allowed the anxiety to eat into him, so he did not admit how much he had needed that sharp restoration of sanity.