Betrayal at Lisson Grove (Treason at Lisson Grove)

PITT RETURNED TO LISSON Grove knowing that he had no allies there except probably Stoker, and that the safety of the queen, perhaps of the whole royal house, depended upon him. He was surprised, as he walked up the steps and in through the doorway, how intensely he felt about his responsibility. There was a fierce loyalty in him, but not toward an old woman sitting in lonely widowhood in a house on the Isle of Wight, nursing the memories of the husband she had adored.

It was the ideal he cared about, the embodiment of what Britain had been all his life. It was the whole idea of unity greater than all the differences in race, creed, and circumstance that bound together a quarter of the earth. The worst of society was greedy, arrogant, and self-serving, but the best of it was supremely brave, it was generous, and above all it was loyal. What was anybody worth if they had no concept of a purpose greater than themselves?

This was very little to do with Victoria herself, and most certainly nothing to do with the Prince of Wales. The murder at Buckingham Palace was very recent in his mind. He could not forget the selfishness of the prince, his unthinking arrogance, and the look of hatred he had directed at Pitt, nor should he. Soon the prince would be King Edward VII, and Pitt’s career as a servant of the Crown would rest at least to some degree in his hands. Pitt would have wished him a better man, but his own loyalty to the throne was something apart from any personal disillusionment.

All his concentration now was bent on controlling Austwick. Whom did he dare to trust? He could not do this alone, and he must force himself not to think of Charlotte or Vespasia, or even of Narraway, except insofar as they were allies. Their danger he must force from all his conscious thoughts. One of the burdens at the core of leadership was that you must set aside personal loyalties and act in the good of all. He made himself think of how he would feel if others in command were to save their own families at the cost of his, if Charlotte were sacrificed because another leader put his wife’s safety ahead of his duty. Only then could he dismiss all questions from his mind.

As he passed along the familiar corridors he had to remind himself again not to go to his old office, which was now occupied by someone else, but to go back to the one that used to be Narraway’s, and would be again as soon as this crisis was past. As he closed the door and sat at the desk, he was profoundly glad that he had retrieved Narraway’s belongings and never for a moment behaved as if he believed this was permanent. The drawings of trees were back on the walls, and the tower by the sea, even the photograph of Narraway’s mother, dark and slender as he was, but more delicate, the intelligence blazing out of her eyes.

Pitt smiled for a moment, then turned his attention to the new reports on his desk. There were very few of them, just pedestrian comments on things that for the most part he already knew. There was no information that changed the circumstances.

He stood up and went to find Stoker rather than sending for him, because that would draw everyone’s attention to the fact that he was singling him out. Even with Stoker’s help, success would be desperately difficult.

“Yes, sir?” Stoker said as soon Pitt had closed the door and was in front of him. He stared at Pitt’s face, as if trying to read in it what he was thinking.

Pitt hoped that he was a little less transparent than that. He remembered how he had tried to read Narraway, and failed, at least most of the time.

“We know what it is,” he said quietly. There was no point in concealing anything, and yet even now he felt as if he were standing on a cliff edge, about to plunge into the unknown.

“Yes, sir …” Stoker froze, his face pale. On the desk, still holding the paper he had been reading, his hands were stiff.

Pitt took a breath. “Mr. Narraway is back from Ireland.” He saw the relief in Stoker’s eyes, too sharp to hide, and went on more easily, a darkness sliding away from him also. “It seems we are right in thinking that there is a very large and very violent plan already begun. There is reason to believe that the people we have seen together, such as Willy Portman, Fenner, Guzman, and so on, intend to attack Her Majesty at Osborne House—”

“God Almighty!” Stoker gasped. “Regicide?”

Pitt grimaced.

“Not intentionally. We think they mean to hold her ransom in return for a bill to abolish the hereditary power of the House of Lords—a bill that of course she will sign before, I imagine, her own abdication …”

Stoker was ashen. He looked at Pitt as if he had turned into some nightmare in front of his eyes. He swallowed, then swallowed again. “And then what? Kill her?”

Pitt had not taken it that far in his mind, but perhaps it was the logical end, the only one they could realistically live with. In the eyes of Britain, and most of the world, as long as Victoria was alive she would be queen, regardless of what anyone else said or did. He had thought things could not get worse, but in one leap they had.

“Yes, I imagine so,” he agreed. “Narraway and Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould have gone to Osborne, to do what they can, until we can send reinforcements to deal with whatever we find.”

Stoker half rose in his seat.

“But not until we know whom we can trust,” Pitt added. “The group must be small enough to be discreet. If we go in with half an army it will be far more likely to provoke them to violence immediately. If they know they are cornered and cannot escape, they’ll hold her for ransom—their freedom for her life.” He felt his throat tighten as he said it. He was fighting an enemy of unknown size and shape. Moreover, elements of it were secret from him, and lay within his own men. For a moment he was overwhelmed. He had no idea even where to begin. Every possibility seemed to carry its own failure built into it.

“A few men, well armed and taking them by surprise,” Stoker said quietly.

“That’s our only hope, I think,” Pitt agreed. “But before we do that, we need to know who is the traitor here in Lisson Grove, and who else is with him. Otherwise they may sabotage any effort we make.”

Stoker’s hand on the desk clenched into a fist. “You mean you think there’s more than one?”

“Don’t you?”

“I don’t know.” Stoker pushed his hand through his hair, scraping it back off his forehead. “God help me, I don’t know. And there’s no time to find out. It could take us weeks.”

“It’s going to have to take us a lot less than that,” Pitt replied, pulling out the hard-backed chair opposite the desk and sitting on it. “In fact we must make a decision by the end of today.”

Stoker’s jaw dropped. “And if we’re wrong?”

“We mustn’t be,” Pitt told him. “Unless you want a new republic born in murder, and living in fear. We’ll start with who set up the fraud that got rid of Narraway and made it all connect up with Ireland, so he would be in an Irish prison when all this happened.”

Stoker took a deep breath. “Yes, sir. Then we’d better get started. And I’m sorry to say this, but we’ll have to consider whoever Gower worked with as well, because getting you out of the way has to be part of it.”

“Of course it has,” Pitt agreed. “But Gower worked with me, and I reported to Narraway.”

“That’s the way it looked to all of us,” Stoker agreed. “But it can’t be what it was. I’ll get his records from the officer who keeps all the personal stuff. We’ll have to know who he worked with before you. You don’t happen to know, do you?”

“I know what he said,” Pitt replied with a twisted smile. “I’d like to know rather more than that. I think we’d better take as close a look as we can at everyone.”

They spent the rest of the day going through all the records they could find going back a year or more, having to be discreet as to why.

“What are you looking for, sir?” one man asked helpfully. “Perhaps I can find it. I know the records pretty well.”

Pitt had his answer prepared. “It’s a pretty serious thing that we were caught out by Narraway,” he replied grimly. “I want to be sure, beyond any doubt at all, that there’s nothing else of that kind, in fact nothing at all that can catch us out again.”

The man swallowed, his eyes wide. “There won’t be, sir.”

“That’s what we thought before,” Pitt told him. “I don’t want to leave it to trust—I want to know.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Can I help … or …” He bit his lip. “I see, sir. Of course you can’t trust any of us.”

Pitt gave him a bleak smile. “I don’t mind your help, Wilson. I need to trust all of you, and equally you need to trust me. It was Narraway who embezzled the money, after all, not one of the juniors here. But I have to know who helped him, if anyone, and who else might have had similar ideas.”

Wilson straightened up. “Yes, sir. Is anyone else allowed to know?”

“Not at the moment.” Pitt was taking a chance, but time was growing short, and if he caught Wilson in a lie, it would at least tell him something. In fact perhaps fear would be a better ally than discretion, as long as that too was used secretly.

He loathed this. At least in the police he had always known that his colleagues were on the same side as he. He had not realized then how infinitely valuable that was. He had taken it for granted.

By the middle of the afternoon, they had found the connection between Gower and Austwick. They discovered it more by luck than deduction.

“Here,” Stoker held out a piece of paper with a note scrawled across the bottom.

Pitt read it. It was a memorandum of one man, written to himself, saying that he must see Austwick at a gentlemen’s club, and report a fact to him.

“Does this matter?” he asked, puzzled. “It’s nothing to do with socialists or any kind of violence or change, it’s just an observation of someone that turned out to be irrelevant.”

“Yes, sir,” Stoker agreed. “But it’s this.” He handed another note with something written on the bottom in the same hand. Gave the message on Hibbert to Gower to pass on to Austwick at the Hyde Club. Matter settled.

The place was a small, very select gentlemen’s club in the West End of London. He looked up at Stoker. “How the devil did Gower get to be a member of the Hyde Club?”

“I looked at that, sir. Austwick recommended him. And that means that he must know him pretty well.”

“Then we’ll look a lot more closely at all the cases Gower’s worked on, and Austwick as well,” Pitt replied.

“But we already know they’re connected,” Stoker pointed out.

“And who else?” Pitt asked. “There are more than two of them. But with this we’ve got a better place to start. Keep working. We can’t afford even one oversight.”

Silently Stoker obeyed. He concentrated on Gower while Pitt looked at every record he could find of Austwick.

By nine o’clock in the evening they were both exhausted. Pitt’s head thumped and his eyes felt hot and gritty. He knew Stoker must feel the same. There was little time left.

Pitt put down the piece of paper he had been reading until the writing on it had blurred in front of his vision.

“Any conclusions?” he asked.

“Some of these letters, sir, make me think Sir Gerald Croxdale was just about on to him. He was pretty close to putting it together,” Stoker replied. “I think that might be what made Austwick hurry it all up and act when he did. By getting rid of Narraway he shook everybody pretty badly. Took the attention away from himself.”

“And also put him in charge,” Pitt added. “It wasn’t for long, but maybe it was long enough.” The last paper he had read was a memorandum from Austwick to Croxdale, but it was a different thought that was in his mind.

Stoker was waiting.

“Do you think Austwick is the leader?” he asked. “Is he actually a great deal cleverer than we thought? Or at any rate, than I thought?”

Stoker looked unhappy. “I don’t think so, sir. It seems to me like he’s not making the decisions. I’ve read a lot of Mr. Narraway’s letters, and they’re not like this. He doesn’t suggest, he just tells you. And it isn’t that he’s any less of a gentleman, just that he knows he’s in charge, and he expects you to know it too. Maybe that wasn’t how he spoke to you, but it’s how he did to the rest of us. No hesitation. You ask, you get your answer. I reckon that Austwick’s asking someone else first.”

That was exactly the impression Pitt had had: a hesitation, as if checking with the man in control of the master plan.

But if Croxdale was almost on to him, why was Narraway not?

“Who can we trust?” he asked aloud. “We have to take a small force, no more than a couple of dozen men at the very most. Any more than that and we’ll alert them. They’ll have people watching for exactly that.”

Stoker wrote a list on a piece of paper and passed it across. “These I’m sure of,” he said quietly.

Pitt read it, crossed out three, and put in two more. “Now we must tell Croxdale and have Austwick arrested.” He stood up and felt his muscles momentarily lock. He had forgotten how long he had been sitting, shoulders bent, reading paper after paper.

“Yes, sir. I suppose we have to?”

“We need an armed force, Stoker. We can’t go and storm the queen’s residence, whatever the reason, without the minister’s approval. Don’t worry, we’ve got a good enough case here.” He picked up a small leather satchel and put into it the pages vital to the conclusions they had reached. “Come on.”

————

AT OSBORNE, CHARLOTTE, VESPASIA, and Narraway were kept in the same comfortable sitting room with the queen. One terrified lady’s maid was permitted to come and go in order to attend to the queen’s wishes. They were given food by one of the men who kept them prisoner, and watched as they availed themselves of the necessary facilities for personal relief.

The conversation was stilted. In front of the queen no one felt able to speak naturally. Charlotte looked at the old lady. This close to her, with no distance of formality possible, she was not unlike Charlotte’s own grandmother, someone she had loved and hated, feared and pitied over the years. As a child she had never dared to say anything that might be construed as impertinent. Later, exasperation had overcome both fear and respect, and she had spoken her own mind with forthrightness. More recently she had learned terrible secrets about that woman, and loathing had melted into compassion.

Now she looked at the short, dumpy old lady whose skin showed the weariness of age, whose hair was thin and almost invisible under her lace cap. Victoria was in her seventies, and had been on the throne for nearly half a century. To the world she was queen, empress, defender of the faith, and her numerous children had married into half the royal houses of Europe. However, it was not the responsibility to her country that wore her down; it was the bitter loneliness of widowhood.

Here at Osborne, standing looking out of the upstairs window across the fields and trees in the waning afternoon light, she was a tired old woman who had servants and subjects, but no equals. She would probably never know if any of them would have cared a jot for her if she were a commoner. The loneliness of it was unimaginable.

Would they kill her, those men in the hallway with guns and violent dreams of justice for people who would never want it purchased this way? If they did, would Victoria mind so very much? A clean shot through the heart, and she would join her beloved Albert at last.

Would they kill the rest of them too: Narraway and Vespasia, and Charlotte herself? What about all the servants? Or did the hostage-takers consider the servants to be ordinary people like themselves? Charlotte was sure the servants didn’t think anything of the sort.

Charlotte had been sitting quietly on a chair at the far side of the room. On a sudden impulse she stood up and walked over toward the window. She stopped several feet short of the queen. It would be disrespectful to stand beside her. Perhaps it was disrespectful to stand here at all, but she did so anyway.

The view was magnificent. She could even see a bright glint of sunlight on the sea in the distance.

The hard light picked out every line on Victoria’s face: the marks of tiredness, sorrow, ill temper, and perhaps also the inner pain of emotional isolation. Was she afraid?

“It is very beautiful, ma’am,” Charlotte said quietly.

“Where do you live?” Victoria asked.

“In London, in Keppel Street, ma’am.”

“Do you like it?”

“I have always lived in London, but I think I might like it less if I had the choice of living where I could see something like this, and just hear the wind in the trees, instead of the traffic.”

“Can you not be a nurse in the country?” Victoria asked, still staring straight ahead of her.

Charlotte hesitated. Surely this was a time for the truth? It was only conversation. The queen did not care in the slightest where she lived. Any answer would do. If they were all to be shot, what sort of an answer mattered? An honest one? No, a kind one.

She turned and looked quickly at Vespasia.

Vespasia nodded.

Charlotte moved half a step closer to the queen. “No, ma’am. I’m afraid I’m not a nurse at all. I told the man at the door that I was in order for them to allow me in.”

Victoria twisted her head to stare at Charlotte with cold eyes. “And why was that?”

Charlotte found her mouth dry. She had to lick her lips before she could speak. “My husband is in Special Branch, ma’am. Yesterday he became aware what these men planned to do. He returned to London to get help from among those we can trust. Lady Vespasia, Mr. Narraway, and I came here to warn you, hoping we were in time. Clearly we were not, but now that we are here, we will do all we can to be of help.”

Victoria blinked. “You knew that those … creatures were here?” she said incredulously.

“Yes, ma’am. Lady Vespasia realized that the man pretending to be a gardener was actually taking the heads off the petunias. No real gardener would do that.”

Victoria looked beyond Charlotte to Vespasia, still at the far side of the room.

“Yes, ma’am.” Vespasia answered the unspoken question.

Narraway moved at last. He came forward, bowed very slightly, just an inclination of his head. “Ma’am, these men are violent and we believe they are seeking reform of all hereditary privilege in Europe—”

“All hereditary privilege?” she interrupted. “You mean …” Her voice faltered. “… like the French?” From the pallor of her face she had to be thinking of the guillotine, and the execution of the king.

“Not as violently as that, ma’am,” Narraway told her. “We believe that when they are ready they will ask you to sign a bill abolishing the House of Lords …”

“Never!” she said vehemently. Then she gulped. “I do not mind dying so much, for myself, if that is what they have in mind. But I do not wish it for my household. They have been loyal, and do not deserve this repayment. Some of them are … young. Can you negotiate … something … that will spare them?”

“With your permission, ma’am, I will attempt to prevaricate long enough for help to arrive,” he replied.

“Why does Special Branch not call in the army or, at the very least, the police?” she asked.

“Because if they come in with force, these people may react violently,” he explained. “They are tense now. In their own way they are frightened. They know the cost of losing. They will certainly be hanged. We cannot afford to panic them. Whatever we do, it must be so stealthy that they are unaware of it. Everything must appear normal, until it is too late.”

“I see,” she said quietly. “I thought I was being brave when I said Here we die. It looks as if I was more accurate than I intended. I will remain here in this room, where I have been so happy in the past.” She gazed out of the window. “Do you suppose heaven is like that, Mr.… what is your name?”

“Narraway, ma’am. Yes, I think it may well be. I hope so.”

“Don’t humor me!” she snapped.

“If God is an Englishman, ma’am, then it certainly will be,” he said drily.

She turned and gave him a slow, careful look. Then she smiled.

He bowed again, then turned away and walked to the door.

Outside in the landing he saw one of the armed men halfway down the stairs.

The man must have caught the movement in the corner of his vision. He spun around, raising the gun.

Narraway stopped. He recognized Gallagher from Special Branch photographs, but he did not say so. If any of them realized who he was they might shoot him, on principle.

“Get back there!” Gallagher ordered.

Narraway stood where he was. “What do you want?” he asked. “What are you waiting for? Is it money?”

Gallagher gave a snort of contempt. “What do you think we are—bloody thieves? Is that as far as your imagination goes? That’s all your sort thinks of, isn’t it! Money, all the world’s money, property. You think that’s all there is, property and power.”

“And what’s yours?” Narraway asked, keeping his voice level, and as emotionless as he could.

“Get back in there!” Gallagher jerked the gun toward the upstairs sitting room again.

Again Narraway remained where he was. “You’re holding Her Majesty hostage, you must want something. What is it?”

“We’ll tell you that when we’re ready. Now unless you want to get shot, get back in there!”

Reluctantly Narraway obeyed. There was an edge of fear in Gallagher’s voice, a jerkiness in his movements that said he was as tight as a coiled spring inside. He was playing for the highest stakes he could imagine, and this was the only chance they would have. This was win, or lose it all.

Back in the sitting room Vespasia looked at Narraway the moment the door was closed.

“They’re waiting for something,” he said quickly. “Whoever it is here, he’s not in charge. Someone will come with a proclamation for Her Majesty to sign, or something of the sort.” He gritted his teeth. “We may be here for some time—this has been put to the prime minister—if they are arguing this thing in the cabinet. We’ll have to keep our heads. Try to keep them calm, and possibly even convince them they have a hope of success. If they lose that, they may just kill us all. They’ll have nothing to lose.” He looked at her white face. “I’m sorry. I would prefer not to have had to tell you that, but I can’t do this alone. We must all stay steady—the household staff as well. I wish I could get to them to persuade them of the need for calm. One person in hysterics might be enough to panic them all.”

Vespasia rose to her feet a trifle unsteadily. “Then I will ask this lunatic on the stairs for permission to go and speak with the household staff. Perhaps you will be good enough to help me persuade him of the necessity. Charlotte will manage here very well.”

Narraway took her arm, holding it firmly. He turned to Victoria.

“Ma’am, Lady Vespasia is going to speak with your staff. It is imperative that no one loses control or behaves with rashness. I shall try to persuade the men who hold us hostage to permit her to do this, for all our sakes. I am afraid we may be here for some little time.”

“Thank you.” Victoria spoke more to Vespasia than to Narraway, but the comment included them both.

“Perhaps they could serve everyone food?” Charlotte suggested. “It is easier to be busy.”

“An excellent idea,” Vespasia agreed. “Come, Victor. If they have any sense at all, they will see the wisdom of it.”

They went to the door, and he held it open for her.

Charlotte watched them go with her heart pounding and her stomach clenched tight. She turned to Victoria, who was staring at her with the same fear bright in her eyes.

Out on the landing there was still silence … no sound of gunfire.

————

A LITTLE BEFORE MIDNIGHT Pitt and Stoker sat in a hansom cab on its way to the home of Sir Gerald Croxdale. With them in the satchel was the main evidence to prove Austwick’s complicity in the movement of the money that had made Narraway appear guilty of theft and had resulted in the murder of Mulhare. Also included were the reports of the leading revolutionary socialists prepared to use violence to overthrow governments they believed to be oppressive, who were now gathered together in England, and had been seen moving south toward Osborne House and the queen. Also, of course, were the names of the traitors with Special Branch.

It took nearly five minutes of ringing and knocking before they heard the bolts drawn back in the front door. It was opened by a sleepy footman wearing a coat over his nightshirt.

“Yes, sir?” he said cautiously.

Pitt identified himself and Stoker. “It is an extreme emergency,” he said gravely. “The government is in danger. Will you please waken the minister immediately.” He made it a request, but his tone left no doubt that it was an order.

They were shown to the withdrawing room. Just over ten minutes later Croxdale himself appeared, hastily dressed, his face drawn in lines of anxiety. As soon as he had closed the door, he spoke, looking from Pitt to Stoker and back again.

“What is it, gentlemen?”

There was no time for any more explanation than necessary to convince him. “We have traced the money that was placed in Narraway’s account,” Pitt said briefly. “It was Charles Austwick behind it, and the consequent murder of Mulhare, and also behind Gower’s murder of West. Far more important, we know the reason for both. It was to place Austwick in charge of Special Branch, so no one else would notice the violent radical socialists coming into Britain, men who have been idealogical enemies until now, suddenly cooperating with one another and all moving down toward the Isle of Wight.”

Croxdale looked startled. “The Isle of Wight? For God’s sake, why?”

“Osborne House,” Pitt said simply.

“God Almighty! The queen!” Croxdale’s voice was all but strangled in his throat. “Are you sure? No one would … why? It makes no sense. It would unite the world against them.” He waved one hand and shook his head, as if to push away the whole idea.

“Not to kill her,” Pitt told him. “At least not to start with, perhaps not at all.”

“Then what?” Croxdale peered at him as if he had never really seen him before. “Pitt, are you sure you know what you are talking about?”

“Yes, sir,” Pitt said firmly. He was not surprised Croxdale doubted him. If he had not seen the proof himself he would not have believed it. “We traced the money that was supposed to go to Mulhare. The information he gave was very valuable. He gave up Nathaniel Byrne, one of the key men responsible for several bombings in Ireland and in London. Very few people knew that, even in Special Branch, but Austwick was one of them. Narraway arranged the payment so Mulhare could escape. That was a condition of his giving the information.”

“I knew nothing about it!” Croxdale said sharply. “But why would Austwick do such a thing? Did he take some of it himself?”

“No. He wanted Narraway out of Special Branch, and me too, in case I knew enough of what Narraway had been working on to piece it together.”

“Piece what?” Croxdale said sharply. “You haven’t explained anything yet. And what has this to do with socialist violence against the queen?”

“Passionate idealism gone mad,” Pitt answered. “Hold the queen for ransom to abolish the House of Lords, and then probably to abdicate. The end of rule by hereditary privilege, then likely a republic, with only elected representation of the people.”

“Good God.” Croxdale sank into the nearest armchair, his face ashen, his hands shaking. “Are you certain, man? I can’t act on this without absolute proof. If I have to mount a force of armed men to take Osborne House, I’d better be bloody sure I’m doing the right thing—in fact the only thing. If you’re wrong, I’ll end up in the Tower, and it’ll be my head on the block.”

“Mr. Narraway is already at Osborne, sir,” Pitt told him.

“What?” Croxdale sat up with a jerk. “Narraway’s in …” He stopped, rubbing his hand over his face. “Do you have proof of all this, Pitt? Yes or no? I have to explain this to the prime minister before I act: immediately, tonight. I can have Austwick arrested—I’ll do that first, before he gets any idea that you know what he’s done. I’ll do that now. But you must give me more than your word to take to the prime minister.”

“Yes, sir.” Pitt indicated the case he had with him. “It’s in here. Reports, instructions, letters. It takes a bit of piecing together, but it’s all there.”

“Are you certain? My God, man, if you’re wrong, I’ll see you go down with me!” Croxdale rose to his feet. “I’ll get it started. There’s obviously no time to waste.” He walked slowly from the room, closing the door behind him.

Stoker was standing where he had been throughout the conversation. There was a very slight frown on his face.

“What is it?” Pitt asked.

Stoker shook his head. “I don’t know, sir.”

Pitt had the case in his hand with the papers. Why had Croxdale not asked to see them, at least check over them? With the possibility of treachery inside Special Branch, and his belief earlier that Narraway himself was a thief, why had he not asked to see it? Pitt was known to be Narraway’s man. In his place, Pitt would have been skeptical, at the very least.

“Do you think he suspected Austwick all along?” Stoker asked.

“Of what? If he was part of setting up the forgeries to blame Narraway, then he was part of the plot to attack the queen. If Croxdale knew that, then he’s part of it too.” As he spoke the pieces fell together in his mind. Austwick was reporting to someone else, they were certain of that. Croxdale himself?

Then he remembered something else: Croxdale had said he did not know about Austwick sending the money for Mulhare—but Croxdale had had to countersign it. It was too large an amount for one signature alone.

He turned to Stoker. “He’s going to get rid of Austwick, and blame him for all of it,” he said. “Then the queen.”

Stoker was hollow-eyed in the lamplight; Pitt knew he must look the same. Could they possibly be right? The price would be total ruin if they were wrong. And ruin for the country if they were right, and did nothing.

Pitt nodded.

Stoker went to the door and opened it very quietly, not allowing the latch to click back. Pitt came behind him. Across the hallway the study door was ajar and there was a crack of light across the dark floor.

“Wait till he comes out,” Stoker said under his breath. “I’ll get over the far side, in the other doorway. You hold his attention, I’ll be behind him. Be prepared. He’ll fight.”

Pitt could feel his heart pounding so hard his whole body must be shaking with it. Had his promotion gone to his head? He was doing the wildest thing of his life, perhaps throwing away everything he had in a gesture that in the light of day would look like the act of a madman, or a traitor. He should wait, act with moderation, ask someone else’s opinion.

What if Stoker was the traitor, and deliberately provoking Pitt to this? What if he was Austwick’s man, about to arrest the one person who stood in their way?

What if it were all a plan to ruin Special Branch? Discredit it into oblivion?

He froze.

Ahead of him Stoker tiptoed across the hall to stand, little more than a shadow, in the doorway next to the study, where Croxdale would have his back to him when he came out to go back to Pitt.

The seconds ticked by.

Was Croxdale speaking to the prime minister? What could he tell him over a telephone? Would he have to go and see him in person in order to raise a force of men to relieve Osborne House? No—this was an emergency, no time to argue, or plead a case. Was he arranging to have Austwick arrested?

The study door opened and Croxdale came out. Now was the time for decision, as Croxdale walked across the unlit hall, before he reached the sitting room door.

Pitt stepped forward. “Sir Gerald, Austwick is not the leader in the attempted coup.”

Croxdale stopped. “What the devil are you talking about? If there’s somebody else, why in God’s name didn’t you tell me before?”

“Because I didn’t know who it was,” Pitt said honestly.

Croxdale was in the shadow, his face all but invisible. “And now you do?” His voice was soft. Was it in disbelief, or understanding at last?

“Yes,” Pitt said.

Stoker moved silently forward until he was a yard behind Croxdale. He had deliberately chosen an angle from which he cast no shadow.

“Indeed. And who is it?” Croxdale asked.

“You,” Pitt answered.

There was total silence.

Croxdale was a big man, heavy. Pit wondered if he and Stoker would be able to take him, if he fought back, if he called for the footman who must be waiting somewhere. Please God he was in the kitchen where he would only hear a bell. But he would not go back to bed while his master was up and there were visitors in the house.

“You made a mistake,” Pitt pointed out, as much to hold Croxdale’s attention from any slight sound Stoker might make as for any reasoning.

“Really? What was that?” Croxdale did not sound alarmed. In seconds he had regained his composure.

“The amount of money you paid Mulhare.”

“He was worth it. He gave us Byrne,” Croxdale replied, the contempt undisguised in his voice. “If you were up to your job, you would know that.”

“Oh, I do know it,” Pitt answered, keeping his eyes on Croxdale so he did not waver even once and glance at Stoker behind him. “The point is not whether Mulhare was worth it, it is that that amount had to be authorized by more than one man. It has your signature on it.”

“What of it?” Croxdale asked. “It was a legitimate payment.”

“It was used to get rid of Narraway—and you said you didn’t know anything about it,” Pitt reminded him.

Croxdale brought his hands out of his pockets. In the left one there was a small gun. The light from the sitting room behind Pitt gleamed on the metal of the barrel as Croxdale raised it.

Pitt swung around as if Stoker were behind him, just as Stoker slammed into Croxdale, kicking high and hard at his left elbow.

The gun flew in the air. Pitt lunged for it, just catching it as it arced over to his left.

Croxdale swung around and grabbed at Stoker, twisting his arm and turning him so he half fell and Croxdale had him in a stranglehold.

“Give me back the gun, or I’ll break his neck!” Croxdale said in a grating voice, just a little high-pitched.

Pitt had no doubt whatever that he would do it. The mask was off: Croxdale had nothing to lose. Pitt looked at Stoker’s face, which was already turning red as his neck was crushed by Croxdale’s hold. There was no choice. Stoker was still only half in front of Croxdale, but slipping forward and sideways. A minute more and he would be unconscious and form a perfect shield. He aimed the gun and cocked the trigger.

Pitt shot Croxdale in the head, making a single wound.

Croxdale fell backward. Stoker, sprayed with blood, staggered and collapsed onto the floor. Pitt was alarmed by his own accuracy, though the distance to his target had been short enough. Of course he was surprised; he had never shot a man to death before.

He dropped the gun and held out his hand, hauling Stoker to his feet again.

Stoker looked at the gun.

“Leave it!” Pitt said, startled to find his voice almost level. “The minister shot himself when he realized we had proof of his treason. We didn’t know he had a gun, so we weren’t able to prevent him from doing it.” Now he was shaking, and it took all his control to keep even reasonably steady. “What the hell did you think you were doing?” he snarled at Stoker suddenly. “He would have killed you, you fool!”

Stoker coughed and rubbed his hand over his throat. “I know that,” he said huskily. “Just as well you shot him, or I’d have been the one on the floor. Thank you, sir.”

Pitt was about to tell Stoker that he was incompetent to have allowed Croxdale to grasp hold of him like that. However, with a shock like a physical blow, he realized that Stoker had done it on purpose, risking his own life to force Pitt to shoot Croxdale. He stared at him as if seeing him for the first time.

“What could we have done with him, sir?” Stoker said pragmatically. “Tie him up here, for his servants to find and let go? Take him with us, in a hansom cab or one of us stay and sit—”

“All right!” Pitt cut in. “Now we have to get to the Isle of Wight and rescue the queen—and Narraway and Lady Vespasia, and my wife.” His mind raced, picturing the men he knew were going to be there: violent, fanatical men like Portman, Gallagher, Haddon, Fenner, and others with the same distorted idealism, willing to kill and to die for the changes they believed would bring a new era of social justice.

Then another idea came to him. “If he had Austwick arrested, where would he be taken to? Quickly?”

“Austwick?” Stoker sounded confused.

“Yes. Where would he be now? Where does he live, do you know? How can we find out?”

“Kensington, sir, not far from here,” Stoker replied. “It’d be the Kensington police—if Croxdale really called anyone.”

“If he didn’t, we will,” Pitt said, now knowing exactly what he was going to do. “Come on, we’ve got to hurry. We don’t know who Croxdale actually spoke to. It won’t have been the prime minister.” He started toward Croxdale’s study.

“Sir!” Stoker said, bewildered.

Pitt turned. “If one of the servants comes down, tell him Sir Gerald shot himself. Do what you can to make it look right. I’m going to call the Kensington police.” In Croxdale’s study there was no time to search. He picked up the receiver and asked the operator to connect him, as an emergency. Perhaps Croxdale had done the same.

As soon as they answered he identified himself and said that there had been a practical joke suggested concerning the arrest of Mr. Austwick. It should be disregarded.

“Are you sure, sir?” the man at the other end said doubtfully. “We’ve ’ad nothing ’ere.”

“Mr. Austwick lives in your area?” Pitt had a sudden sinking in the pit of his stomach.

“Oh yes, sir.”

“Then we’d better make certain he’s safe. What is his address?”

The man hesitated a moment, then told him. “But we’ll send men there ourselves, sir, if you’ll pardon me, seein’ as ’ow I don’t really know ’oo you are.”

“Good. Do that,” Pitt agreed. “We’ll be there as soon as I can get a cab.” He replaced the receiver and went to find Stoker. The other man was waiting by the front door, anxiously moving his weight from one foot to the other.

“Right, find a hansom,” Pitt told him.

“We’ll have to walk as far as the main road,” Stoker warned, opening the door and slipping out with immense relief. They strode along at as rapid a pace as possible, short of breaking into a run.

It was still several minutes before they found a cab. They gave Austwick’s address, with orders to make the best speed possible.

“What are we going to do with Austwick, sir?” Stoker asked. He had to raise his voice above the clatter of the hooves and the rattle and hiss of wheels over the cobbles.

“Get him to help us,” Pitt replied. “They’re his men down there. He’s the one person who might be able to call them off without an all-out shooting battle. We won’t have achieved much in capturing them if they kill the queen in the process.” He did not mention Narraway or Vespasia, or Charlotte.

“Do you think he’ll do that?” Stoker asked.

“It’s up to us to persuade him,” Pitt said grimly. “Croxdale’s dead, Narraway’s alive. I doubt the queen will sign anything that reduces the power or dignity of the Crown, even in fear of her life.”

Stoker did not reply, but in the light of the next street lamp they passed, Pitt saw that he was smiling.

When they reached Austwick’s house there were police outside it, discreetly, well in the shadows.

Pitt identified himself, showing them his new warrant card, and Stoker did the same.

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said smartly. “How can we help, sir?”

Pitt made an instant decision. “We are going to collect Mr. Austwick, and we are all going to travel to Portsmouth, as rapidly as possible.”

The sergeant looked bemused.

“Use Austwick’s telephone. Hold the night train,” Pitt told him. “It’s imperative we get to the Isle of Wight by morning.”

The sergeant came to attention. “Yes, sir. I’ll … I’ll call immediately.”

Pitt smiled at him. “Thank you.” Then he nodded to Stoker. They went to the front door of Austwick’s house and knocked hard and continuously until a footman in his nightshirt opened it, blinking and drawing in breath to demand an explanation.

Pitt told him sharply to step back.

The man saw the police beyond Pitt, and Stoker at his elbow, and did as he was told. Ten minutes later Austwick was in the hall, hastily dressed, unshaven, and very angry.

“What the hell is going on?” he said furiously. “Do you know what time it is, man?”

Pitt looked at the long-case clock at the far side of the hall. “Coming up to quarter to two,” he answered. “And we must make Portsmouth by dawn.”

Austwick paled visibly, even in the dim light of the hall with its main chandelier unlit. If anything could tell Pitt that he knew of Croxdale’s plan, it was the fear in his face now.

“Croxdale is dead,” Pitt said simply. “He shot himself when we faced him with his plans. It’s all over. Narraway’s back. He’s at Osborne now, with the queen. You’ve got two choices, Austwick. We can arrest you now, and you’ll be tried as a traitor. You’ll hang, and your family will never live it down. Your grandchildren, if you have any, will still carry the stigma of your name.” He saw Austwick’s horror, but could not afford to pity him. “Or you can come with us and call off your men from Osborne,” he went on. “You have two minutes to choose. Do you wish to hang as a traitor, or come with us, to live or die as a hero?”

Austwick was too paralyzed with fear to speak.

“Good,” Pitt said decisively. “You’re coming with us. I thought you’d choose that. We’re going for the night train to Portsmouth. Hurry.”

Stoker grasped Austwick by the arm, holding him hard, and they stumbled out into the night.

They half heaved him into the waiting hansom, then sat with one on either side of him. Two uniformed police followed in another cab, ready to clear traffic if there should be any and to confirm that the night train was held.

They raced through the streets in silence toward the river and the railway station beyond, where they could catch the mail train to the coast. Pitt found his fists clenched and his whole body aching with the tension of not knowing whether the sergeant he had instructed had been able to hold the train there. It could only have taken a telephone call from Austwick’s house to his own police station, and then a call from there to the railway. What if the stationmaster on night duty did not believe them, or realize the urgency of it? What if he was simply incompetent for such a crisis?

They swayed and lurched along the all-but-deserted streets, then over the river at the Battersea Bridge, and sharp west along the High Street. One moment he was desperate that they were going too slowly, the next, as they slewed around a corner, that they were going too fast and would tip over.

At the station they leapt out, Pitt wildly overpaying the driver because he could not wait for change. They ran into the station, dragging Austwick with them. The sergeant showed his warrant card and shouted at the stationmaster to direct them to the train.

The man obeyed with haste, but was clearly unhappy about it all. He looked at Austwick’s ashen face and dragging feet with pity. For a moment Pitt feared he was going to intervene.

The train was waiting, the engine belching steam. A very impatient guard stood at the door of his van, his whistle in one hand ready to be raised to his lips.

Pitt thanked the sergeant and his men, happy to be able to give them some idea of how intensely grateful he was. He made a mental note to commend the sergeant if they survived the night. He was doubly glad that his own reputation was such that his appreciation was a blessing, not a curse.

As soon as they were in the guard’s van, the whistle blew. The train lurched forward like a horse that had been straining at the bit.

The guard was a small, neat man with bright blue eyes.

“I hope all this is worth it,” he said looking at Pitt dubiously. “You’ve a lot of explaining to do, young man. Do you realize you have kept this train waiting ten minutes?” He glanced at his pocket watch and then replaced it. “Eleven minutes,” he corrected himself. “This train carries the Royal Mail. Nobody holds us up. Not rain nor floods nor lightning storms. And here we stood around the platform for the likes of you.”

“Thank you,” Pitt said a little breathlessly.

The guard stared at him. “Well … nice manners are all very good, but you can’t hold up the Royal Mail, you know. While it’s in my care, it belongs to the queen.”

Pitt drew in his breath to reply, and then the irony of the situation struck him. Smiling, he said nothing.

They continued on to the rear carriage and found seats. Stoker remained next to Austwick, as if he feared the man might make a run for it, although there was nowhere for him to go.

Pitt sat silently trying to make the best plans possible for when they arrived. They would have to commandeer a boat—any sort would do—to get them across the narrow strip of water to the Isle of Wight.

He was still thinking of it when about fifteen minutes into the journey the train slowed. Then, with a great panting of steam, it stopped altogether. Pitt shot to his feet and went back to the guard’s van.

“What’s the matter?” he demanded. “Why have we stopped? Where are we?”

“We stopped to put off the mail, o’ course,” the guard said with elaborate patience. “That’s what we came for. Now you just go an’ sit down in your seat and be quiet, sir. We’ll be on our way when we’re ready.”

“How many places do you stop?” Pitt asked. His voice was louder and harsher than he meant it to be, but it was sliding out of his control.

The guard stood very straight, his face grim.

“Every place where we got to pick up mail, or set it down, sir. Like I said, that’s what we do. Jus’ you go an’ sit back down, sir.”

Pitt pulled out his warrant card and held it for the guard to see. “This is an emergency. I’m on the queen’s business, and I need to get to the Isle of Wight by sunrise. Drop off the mail on the way back, or let the next train through pick it up.”

The guard stared at Pitt with both pride and disgust. “I’m on the queen’s business too, sir. I carry the Royal Mail. You’ll get to Portsmouth when we’ve done our job. Now, like I said, go an’ sit down an’ we’ll get on with the mail. Ye’re just holding us up, sir, an’ I won’t have that. You’ve caused enough trouble already.”

Pitt felt exasperation well up inside him so he could almost have hit the man. It was unfair; the guard was doing his duty. He had no idea who Pitt was, other than some kind of policeman.

Could Pitt tell him any part of the truth? No. He would find himself held in charge as a lunatic. He could prove nothing, and it would only delay them even more. With a chill he remembered his helplessness on his last train ride, the horror and absurdity of it—and Gower’s mangled body on the tracks. Thank God, at least he had not seen it.

He returned to the carriage and sat down in his seat.

“Sir?” Stoker said.

“We have to stop at all the stations,” Pitt answered, keeping his voice level this time. “Without telling him the truth I can’t persuade him not to.” He smiled lopsidedly. “It’s the Royal Mail. Nothing stands in its way.”

Stoker started to say something, then changed his mind. Everything he meant to express was in the lines of his face.

The journey seemed achingly slow. None of them spoke again until finally they pulled into Portsmouth station as the dawn was lightening the eastern sky. Austwick caused no trouble as they went through the barely wakening streets and found a large rowing boat to take them across the water.

There was a brisk wind and the sea was choppy, the wave caps translucent, almost mirroring the high, rippling clouds shot through by the rising wind. It was hard work, and they were obliged to bend their backs to make headway.

They landed, shivering, at the wharf and set off toward Osborne House, which was just in sight above the tangle of the still-bare trees. They walked as fast as they could, since there was no one around from whom to beg or hire any kind of transport.

The sun was above the horizon and glittering sharp in a clear morning when they approached the boundaries. The rolling parkland and the splendid stone mansion were spread before them, broad and magnificent, as if still sleeping in the hushed land, which was silent but for the birdsong.

Pitt had a moment of terrible doubt. Was this whole thing no more than a vast nightmare, without reality at all? Had they misunderstood everything? Was he about to burst in on the queen and make the ultimate fool of himself?

Stoker strode forward, still gripping Austwick by the arm.

Nothing at Osborne stirred. Surely there had to be a guard of some sort, whatever the circumstances, even if the entire conspiracy was Pitt’s delusion?

As they reached the gate, a man stepped forward. He was in livery, but it fitted him poorly. He stood straight, but not like a soldier. There was an arrogance in his eyes.

“You can’t come in here,” he said curtly. “This is the queen’s house. You can look, of course, but no farther, understand?”

Pitt knew his face. He tried to remember his name, but it eluded him. He was so tired his vision swam a little. He must stay alert, keep his mind sharp, his judgment steady. He was a little behind Austwick, so he pushed him hard in the small of the back.

“It’s all right, McLeish,” Austwick said, his voice shaky and a little rough. “These gentlemen are with me. We need to come in.”

McLeish hesitated.

“Quickly,” Pitt added. “There are others behind us. It’ll all be over in an hour or two.”

“Right!” McLeish responded, turning on his heel and leading the way.

“Ask about the queen!” Pitt hissed at Austwick. “Don’t slip up now. Hanging is not a nice way to die.”

Austwick stumbled. Stoker yanked him up.

Austwick cleared his throat. “Is Her Majesty still all right? I mean … I mean, will she be able to sign papers?”

“Of course,” McLeish answered cheerfully. “Three people turned up unexpectedly. We had no choice but to let them in, or they’d have gone away and raised the alarm. A man and two women. But they’re no trouble. It’s all going well.”

They were nearly at the front doors.

Austwick hesitated.

The sun was dazzling through a break in the trees. There was no sign of life inside, no sound, but then the weight of the doors would have muffled anything.

Someone must have been watching. The door opened and a heavyset man stood barring the way, a shotgun hanging on his arm.

Austwick stepped forward, his head high. His voice cracked at first, then gained strength.

“Good morning, Portman. My name is Charles Austwick. I represent Gerald Croxdale and the socialist people of Britain.”

“About damn time you turned up!” Willy Portman said sharply. “Have you got the documents?”

“We’re taking them to the queen,” Pitt said quickly. “Get everybody in. It’s nearly over.” He tried to put some excitement in his voice.

Portman smiled. “Right. Yes!” He raised his arm with the gun in it, giving a salute of victory.

Stoker stepped forward and hit him as hard as he could, with all the force of his weight. He caught him in the vulnerable point of the solar plexus, driving him backward and inside. Portman doubled up in agony, the gun flying from his hand. Stoker spun around and picked it up.

Austwick stood as if paralyzed.

Pitt started up the stairs as another man came out of the servants’ quarters with a gun at the ready.

Narraway emerged onto the landing and struck the man at the top of the stairs, sending him pitching forward and down, his gun flying out of his grasp. He landed at the bottom, his neck broken.

The man in the hall raised his gun and aimed at Pitt.

Austwick stepped in front of him. There was the roar of an explosion and Austwick collapsed slowly, crumpling to the ground in a sea of blood.

Stoker shot the man with the gun.

Narraway came down the stairs and picked up the gun from the man at the bottom.

“There are five more,” he said calmly. “Let’s see if we can get them without any further bloodshed.”

Pitt looked at him. Narraway sounded totally in control, but his face was haggard, hollow-eyed. There was a rough edge to his voice as if he held it level with an effort that cost him all he had.

Pitt glanced at Stoker, who was now armed with the gun that had killed Austwick.

“Yes, sir,” Stoker said obediently, and set off toward the servants’ quarters.

Narraway looked at Pitt. He smiled very slightly, but there was a warmth in his eyes Pitt had never seen before, even in the best of their past triumphs. “Would you like to go up and tell Her Majesty that order is restored?” he said. “There will be no papers to sign.”

“Are you … all right?” Pitt asked. Suddenly he found he cared very much.

“Yes, thank you,” Narraway replied. “But this business is not quite finished yet. Is that Charles Austwick on the floor?”

“Yes,” Pitt answered. “I think it might be better all around if we say he died giving his life for his country.”

“He was the head of this God damn conspiracy,” Narraway said between his teeth.

“Actually he wasn’t,” Pitt told him. “Croxdale was.”

Narraway looked startled. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. He more or less admitted it.”

“Where is he?”

“Dead. We’ll say he took his own life.” Pitt found he was shivering. He tried to control it, and couldn’t.

“But he didn’t?”

“I shot him. He had Stoker by the neck. He was going to break it.” Pitt passed him on the stairs.

“I see,” Narraway said slowly. He broke into a companionable smile. “Croxdale underestimated you, didn’t he?”

Pitt found himself blushing. Embarrassed, he turned and went on up the stairs. At the top he crossed the landing and knocked on the door.

“Come!” a quiet voice commanded.

He turned the handle and went inside. Victoria was standing in the middle of the room, Charlotte to one side of her, Vespasia to the other. As Pitt looked at them, the emotion welled up inside him until he felt the tears of relief prickle in his eyes. His throat was so tight the words were difficult to say.

“Your Majesty.” He cleared his throat. “I am pleased to inform you that Osborne House is now back in the hands of those to whom it belongs. There will be no further trouble, but I would advise you to remain here until a little clearing up has been done.”

Vespasia’s face was radiant with relief, all the past weariness slipping from her.

Charlotte smiled at him, too happy, too proud even to speak.

“Thank you, Mr. Pitt,” Victoria said a trifle hoarsely. “We are most obliged to you. We shall not forget.”