Southampton Row

CHAPTER

TWELVE

The next morning was one of the worst in Pitt’s life. He had finally gone to sleep holding on to his gratitude that at least Charlotte, the children and Gracie were safe. He awoke with them pictured in his mind and found himself smiling.

Then memory returned and he knew that Francis Wray was dead, possibly by his own hand, alone and in despair. He could remember him so clearly sitting at the tea table, apologizing for having no cake or raspberry jam to offer, and giving Pitt the precious greengage instead, with such pride.

Pitt lay on his back staring up at the ceiling. The house was silent. It was shortly after six, two hours before Mrs. Brody would come. He could think of nothing to get up for, but his mind would not let him go back to sleep. This was Voisey’s revenge, and it was perfect. Had Wetron known he was helping to accomplish it for him when he had sent Tellman to prompt Pitt to go back to Teddington a second time and ask around the village?

Wray was the perfect victim, a bereaved and forgetful old man, too honest to guard his tongue in his hatred of what was to him a sin against God in the calling up of the dead. Voisey would certainly have known the story of the young woman, Penelope, who had lost her child and in her grief sought a spirit medium who had used her, duped her, taken her money and then been caught in a cheap fraud. After all, it had happened in the very village where his sister lived! A situation too ideal to pass by.

Perhaps it was even Octavia Cavendish who had left the tract on Maude Lamont in Wray’s house. Simple enough to do, and right where Pitt would see it. They had both been led like lambs to the slaughter . . . and in Wray’s case it was literal. In Pitt’s it would be slower, more exquisite. He would suffer and Voisey would watch, taking his pleasure sip by sip.

It was stupid lying here thinking about it. He got up quickly, washed, shaved and dressed, then went downstairs in the silence to make himself a cup of tea and feed Archie and Angus. He did not feel like eating.

What would he tell Charlotte? How could he explain to her yet another disaster in their fortunes? His mind was almost numb with pain at the thought.

He was not aware of time as he sat letting his tea go cold, before finally standing up, fishing in his pockets to see what change he had, and going out to buy a newspaper.

It was still not yet eight o’clock, a calm summer morning, the light pale through the haze of the city, but the sun already high. It was the middle of summer, and the nights were short. There were many people up and busy, errand boys, delivery carts, peddlers looking for early business, maids banging around in the areaways as they put out rubbish, bossed around the bootboys and scullery maids, or told the tweenies what to do and how to do it. Every now and again he heard the hard thwack of someone beating a rug and saw a fine cloud of dust rise in the air.

There was a newsboy on the corner, the same one he knew from every other day, but this time there was no smile, no greeting.

“Yer’ll not be wantin’ it, I should think,” he said grimly. “I’m surprised, I’ll say that for yer. Knew yer was a rozzer, for all yer live in a nice area ’n all. Never thought yer’d ’ound an old man ter ’is death. That’ll be tuppence, if yer please.”

Pitt held the money and the newsboy took it without a word, half turning his back as soon as the exchange was made.

Pitt walked home without opening the paper. Two or three other people passed him. None of them spoke. He had no idea whether they would have normally. He was too dazed to think.

Once inside he sat down at the kitchen table again and spread the paper open. It was not in the front pages—they were dominated by the election, as he had expected them to be—but as soon as he was past that, on page 5, it was there at the top, in the middle.

We are deeply sorry to report the death of the Reverend Francis W. Wray, discovered at his home in Teddington yesterday. He was seventy-three years old, and was still grief-stricken at the recent death of his beloved wife, Eliza. He leaves no children, all having died in their early years.

The police, in the person of Thomas Pitt, lately relieved of his command of the Bow Street station, and with no acknowledged authority, called upon Mr. Wray several times, and spoke to other residents in the area, asking them many intrusive and personal questions regarding Mr. Wray’s life and beliefs and his recent behavior. He denied that this was in his so-far-unsuccessful pursuit of the murder in Southampton Row, Bloomsbury, of the spirit medium and conductor of séances, Miss Maude Lamont.

After Mr. Pitt’s latest enquiries in the village he visited Mr. Wray in his home, and a later caller found Mr. Wray in a state of extreme distress, as if he had been reduced to weeping.

The next morning Mr. Wray’s housekeeper, Mary Ann Smith, found Mr. Wray dead in his armchair, leaving no letter, but a book of poetry marked at the verse by the late Matthew Arnold which appears his tragic, despairing farewell to a world he could no longer endure.

The doctor was called, and gave his opinion that the cause of death was poison, most likely of the type that creates damage to the heart. Speculation has occurred that it might have been something from the wide variety of plants within Mr. Wray’s garden, because it is known that he did not leave home after Mr. Pitt’s call.

Francis Wray had an outstanding academic career . . .

It then went on to list the achievements of Wray’s life, followed by tributes from a number of prominent people, all of whom mourned his death and were shocked and grieved by the manner of it.

Pitt closed the paper and made himself another cup of tea. He sat down again, nursing his tea between his hands, trying to think exactly what he had said to the people in Teddington that could have gone back so quickly to Wray, and how it could possibly have hurt him so deeply. Had he really been guilty of such crass clumsiness? Certainly he had said nothing to Wray himself. The distress Octavia Cavendish had seen was the grief for his wife . . . but of course she could not know that, nor in the circumstances would she be likely to believe it. No one would. That Wray had grieved for his wife only added to Pitt’s sin.

How could he fight Voisey now? The election was too close. Aubrey Serracold was losing ground, and Voisey gaining it with each hour. Pitt had made not the slightest mark in Voisey’s success. He had watched it all happen and had about as much effect on it as a member of the audience has on a play on the stage in front of him, visible, audible, but totally beyond his reach.

He did not even know which one of her three clients had killed Maude Lamont. All he felt certain of was that the motive had been the blackmail she was exercising over them because of their different fears: Kingsley that his son had died a coward’s death; Rose Serracold that her father had died insane, and the truth or falsity of that was still unknown; and the man represented by the cartouche, and Pitt had no idea who that was or what his vulnerability might be. Nothing he had heard from Rose Serracold or Kingsley shed any light on it. There was not even a suggestion. Those already dead could in theory know anything at all. It could be a family secret, a dead friend betrayed, a child, a lover, a crime concealed, or simply some foolishness that would embarrass by its intimacy. All it had to be was sufficient for the knowledge of it to be worth paying a price to keep hidden.

Perhaps if he started at the other end of the reasoning it would make more sense? What was the price? If it was connected with Voisey, then it was something that provided fuel in his campaign for power. He had all the help he needed in his own speeches, his funds, the issues to address. What could help him was to undermine Serracold. That is what he had had Kingsley do. His own supporters were already won; the victory lay in turning those who would be natural Liberals, holding the balance of power. Who had attacked Serracold to any effect . . . who that one would not have expected?

Reluctantly, he picked up the newspaper again and looked through the political commentary, the letters to the editor, the reports of speeches. There were plenty praising and blaming candidates on both sides, but most of them were general, aimed more at party than individual. There were several barbed comments about Keir Hardie and his attempt to create a new voice for the workingman.

Underneath one such Pitt found a personal letter criticizing the immoral and potentially disastrous views of the Liberal candidate for Lambeth South and praising Sir Charles Voisey, who stood for sanity rather than socialism, the values of thrift and responsibility, self-discipline and Christian compassion rather than laxity, self-indulgence and untried social experiment which took away the ideals of worth and justice. It was signed by Reginald Underhill, Bishop in the Church of England.

Of course Underhill was entitled to political opinions, and to express them as fiercely as he wished, like any other man, regardless of whether they were logical, or even honest. But was he doing so from his own conviction or because he was being blackmailed into it?

Except what reason could there possibly be for a bishop of the church ever to have consulted a spirit medium? Surely, like Francis Wray, he would have abhorred the very idea.

Pitt was still considering the possibility when Mrs. Brody arrived. She said good morning to him civilly enough, then stood moving her weight from one foot to the other, obviously embarrassed.

“What is it, Mrs. Brody?” he asked. He was in no mood to care about a domestic crisis today.

She looked miserable. “I’m sorry, Mr. Pitt, but arter wot’s in the papers this mornin’, I can’t keep on comin’ ter do for yer. Me ’usband says it in’t right. There’s plenty o’ work goin’ ’round about, an’ ’e says I gotta find another place. Tell Mrs. Pitt I’m very sorry, like, but I gotta do like ’e says.”

There was no point in arguing with her. Her face was set in unhappy defiance. She had to live with her husband, whatever her own opinions. She could walk away from Pitt.

“Then you’d better go,” he said flatly. He took half a crown out of his pocket and put it on the table. “That’s what I owe you for this week so far. Good-bye.”

She did not move. “I can’t ’elp it!” she accused.

“You have made your decision, Mrs. Brody.” He stared at her with equal anger, all the hurt and helplessness boiling up inside him. “You have worked here for over two years, and you have decided to believe what is written in the newspapers. That’s an end of the matter. I’ll tell Mrs. Pitt that you left without notice. Whether she gives you a character or not is her decision. But then as you are believing ill of her by inference because she is my wife, I doubt that as my wife her recommendation would be of much value to you anyway. Please close the front door as you leave.”

“It in’t my doing!” she said loudly. “I don’t go out ter some poor old man an’ ’ound ’im ter ’is death!”

“You think I suspected him without grounds?” he asked, his own voice louder than he had meant it to be.

“That’s wot it says!” She stared back at him.

“Then if that is sufficient for you, you had better judge me equally without grounds, and leave. As I said, please make sure the front door is closed behind you. It is the kind of day when anyone might come in off the street with ill will. Good-bye.”

She snorted loudly, picked up the money off the table, then swiveled on the heel of her boot and went marching down the passage. He heard the front door bang loudly, no doubt so he would entertain no question as to whether she had left.

It was another miserable quarter of an hour before the doorbell rang. Pitt very nearly ignored it. It rang again. Whoever it was did not intend to accept refusal lightly. It rang a third time.

Pitt stood up and walked the length of the passage. He opened the door, ready to defend himself. Cornwallis stood on the step looking miserable but resolute, his face set grimly, eyes meeting Pitt’s.

“Good morning,” he said quietly. “May I come in?”

“What for?” Pitt asked less graciously than he meant. He would find criticism from Cornwallis harder to take than from almost any other man. He was surprised and a little frightened by how vulnerable he felt.

“Because I’m not going to talk to you standing here on the step like a peddler!” Cornwallis said tartly. “I’ve no idea what to say, but I’d rather try to think of something sitting down. I was so damned angry when I read the newspapers I forgot to have any breakfast.”

Pitt almost smiled. “I’ve got bread and marmalade, and the kettle’s on. I’d better stoke the stove. Mrs. Brody’s just given her notice.”

“The daily?” Cornwallis asked, stepping inside and closing the door behind him as he followed Pitt back down the passage.

“Yes. I’ll have to start fetching for myself.” In the kitchen he offered tea and toast, which Cornwallis accepted, making himself reasonably comfortable sitting on one of the hard-backed chairs.

Pitt stoked the stove with coal and poked it until it was burning brightly, then put a slice of bread on the toasting fork and held it to brown. The kettle started to whistle gently on the hob.

When they had a piece of toast each and the tea was brewing, Cornwallis began to talk.

“Did this man Wray have anything to do with Maude Lamont?” he asked.

“Not so far as I know,” Pitt replied. “He had a hatred of spirit mediums, especially those who give false hope to the bereaved, but so far as I know not to Maude Lamont in particular.”

“Why?”

Pitt told him the story of the young woman in Teddington, her child, her consulting of the spirit medium at the time, the violence of her grief and then her own death.

“Could it have been Maude Lamont?” Cornwallis asked.

“No.” Pitt was quite certain. “When that happened she could not have been more than about twelve years old. There’s no connection, except the one Voisey created to trap me. And I did everything to help him.”

“So it would seem,” Cornwallis agreed. “But I’m damned if I’m going to let him get away with it. If we can’t defend ourselves, then we must attack.”

This time Pitt did smile. Surprise and gratitude welled up inside him that Cornwallis should so fully and without question take his part. “I wish I knew how,” Pitt answered. “I have been considering the possibility that the real man behind the cartouche was Bishop Underhill.” He was startled to hear himself say it aloud, and without fear that Cornwallis would dismiss it as absurd. Cornwallis’s friendship was the only decent thing in the day. He knew inside himself that Vespasia would react similarly. He was relying on her to help Charlotte in what would be a very difficult time to bear—not only for herself, both in her anger and inability to help, and her pain for him, but also for the cruelty the children would endure from school friends, even people in the street, barely knowing why, only that their father was hated. It was something they had never known before and would not understand. He refused to think about it now. Terrible enough when he had to, no need to anticipate the pain when he could do nothing about it.

“Bishop Underhill,” Cornwallis repeated thoughtfully. “Why? Why him?”

Pitt told him his line of reasoning based upon the assistance the Bishop had given Voisey.

Cornwallis frowned. “What would take him to a spirit medium?”

“I’ve no idea,” Pitt replied, too lost in his own unhappiness to catch the emotion in the other man’s voice.

Further discussion was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell again. Cornwallis stood up immediately and went to answer it without giving Pitt the opportunity. He returned a few moments later with Tellman behind him, looking like the chief mourner at a funeral.

Pitt waited for one of the other two to speak.

Tellman cleared his throat, then sank back into a wretched silence.

“What did you come for?” Pitt asked him. He heard his voice edgy and accusing, but it was beyond his control.

Tellman looked at him, glaring. “Where else would I be?” he challenged. “It was my fault! I told you to go to Teddington! You’d never have heard of Wray if it weren’t for me!” His face was filled with anguish, his body rigid, his eyes hot.

Pitt saw with a rush of surprise that Tellman really did blame himself for what had happened. He was scalded with a shame too deep to find words. At another time, if Pitt were hurting even a little less himself, he would have been moved by Tellman’s loyalty, but now his own fear was too deep. It all stemmed back to his evidence before Whitechapel. If only he hadn’t been so sure of himself, so pigheaded in giving evidence because he wanted his idea of justice served!

He had been right, of course, but that was not going to help now.

“Who told you about Francis Wray?” Cornwallis asked Tellman. “And for heaven’s sake sit down. We’re standing around as if we were at the graveside. The battle is not over yet.”

Pitt wanted to believe that, but there was no rational hope that he could grasp.

“Superintendent Wetron,” Tellman answered. He glanced at Pitt.

“Why?” Cornwallis persisted. “What reason did he give? Who suggested Wray to him? He didn’t know him himself, so who told him about Wray? Who made the connection between Wray and the unknown man who visited Maude Lamont?”

Absentmindedly, Pitt thought how Cornwallis had grown in his knowledge of detection. He looked at Tellman.

“He never said,” Tellman replied, his eyes widening. “I did ask him, but somehow he never really answered. Voisey? It must have been.” There was a thin thread of hope in his voice. “All the information about Wray came from Superintendent Wetron, so far as I know.” His mouth tightened. “But if he believes in Voisey, or . . . or maybe he is Inner Circle himself?” He said it with disbelief, as if even now the thought of his superior’s being one of that terrible society was too monstrous to be more than a bad idea, something to be said and discarded.

Pitt thought of Vespasia. “When we disgraced Voisey we may have fractured the Inner Circle,” he said, looking from Cornwallis to Tellman and back again. Tellman knew all about the Whitechapel matter; Cornwallis knew something, but there were still large gaps in his knowledge, although even as Pitt watched him he saw his understanding leap forward. He asked no questions.

“Fractured?” Tellman said slowly. “You mean like in two parts?”

“At least,” Pitt answered.

“Voisey and someone else?” Cornwallis’s eyebrows rose. Wetron?”

Tellman’s sense of decency was outraged. “Oh no! He’s a policeman!” But even as he protested he was entertaining the idea. He shook his head, pushing it away. “A small member, maybe. People do, to get on, but . . .”

Cornwallis chewed his lip. “It would make a lot of sense. Someone with a great deal of power, a very great deal, had you dismissed from Bow Street a second time,” he said to Pitt. “Perhaps it was Wetron? After all, he was the one who took charge from you. Superintendent of Bow Street is a very nice place for the head of the Inner Circle.” He looked rueful, even for an instant aware of fear. “There’ll be no end to his ambition.”

No one laughed, and no one denied it.

“He’s an ambitious man,” Tellman said very seriously.

Cornwallis leaned forward a little across the table. “Could they be rivals?”

Almost as if he had spoken it aloud, Pitt knew what he was thinking. It was the first spark of real hope, wild as it was. “Use it?” he asked, almost afraid to put words to it.

Cornwallis nodded very slowly.

Tellman stared at them, his face pale. “One against the other?”

“Can you think of anything else?” Cornwallis asked him. “Wetron is ambitious. If he thinks he can challenge Voisey for leadership of half the Inner Circle, and I think we can assume he is the one who led the breakaway, if not at first, then at least by the time it achieved its independence, then he is very ambitious indeed. And he cannot be fool enough to think Voisey will forgive him for it. He will have to live the rest of his life watching his back. If you know you have an enemy, better make a preemptive strike. If you believe you can do it effectively, finish your man.”

“How?” Pitt asked. “Tie Voisey in to the Southampton Row murder?” The idea strengthened as he was speaking. “There must be a continuous connection: Voisey goes to Maude Lamont with social connections, money, whatever it is she wants, and in return she blackmails certain of her clients to speak out against Voisey’s opponent in the election, Aubrey Serracold. Which in turn helps Voisey.”

“Ties up,” Tellman agreed. “Voisey to Maude Lamont to her clients, who do what she tells them, which helps Voisey. But we can’t prove it! Maude Lamont was the link, and she’s dead.” He took in a deep breath. “Just a minute! Did the blackmail stop? Did they stop helping Voisey?” That question was asked of Pitt.

“No,” he said. “No. So Maude didn’t do the blackmailing, she just provided the information as to where they were vulnerable.” Then the chill returned. “But we found no connection to Voisey. We searched all her papers, letters, diaries, banking accounts, everything. There is no trace of a link between them. But then he wouldn’t leave one. He’s far too clever for that. For a start, she could have used it herself!”

“You are looking at the wrong enemy,” Cornwallis said with a rising note of excitement in his voice. It was almost as if he was reliving one of his battles at sea, lining up the opposing ship to fire the broadside that would hole her below the waterline. “Wetron! We shouldn’t aim at either one, but make them attack each other.”

Tellman scowled. “How?”

Pitt felt a leap of triumph again and turned to stifle it in case it flared up out of control, and the darkness afterwards was too deep to bear.

“Wetron is an ambitious man,” Cornwallis said again, but this time with a new intensity. “If he could solve the Southampton Row murder in a spectacular way, personally taking the credit for it, it would enhance his position, make him strong enough no one could challenge him in Bow Street, and perhaps build a rung higher in the ladder.”

The next major step up would be Cornwallis’s own job. Pitt felt a tug of emotion that Cornwallis could not have been unaware of such a risk, and yet looking at him leaning his elbows on the kitchen table, there was not a shadow of hesitation in him.

“Find Cartouche!” Cornwallis said. “If it was Wetron who worked out who he was, and trapped him, and forced from him the secret of the blackmail, perhaps even to implicate Voisey—which might be possible with Rose Serracold being one of the other victims and Kingsley the third.”

“Dangerous . . .” Pitt warned, but the blood was beginning to beat in his pulses and he felt alive again, quickened inside, and something like hope at the edge of his mind.

Cornwallis smiled very slightly, more a baring of the teeth. “He used Wray. Let us use him again. The poor man is beyond being hurt anymore. Even his reputation is ruined if they bring in a verdict of suicide. His life will be rendered almost meaningless in the sense he valued.”

A black rage hardened in Pitt at that thought. “Yes, I should very much like to use Wray,” he said between clenched jaws. “No one knows what I said to him, or he to me. And since I cannot prove I did not threaten him, neither can they deny anything I say he told me!” He too leaned forward across the table. “He had no idea who Cartouche was, but no one else knows that. What if I say that he did, and he told me, and that it was Cartouche’s identity which so distressed him?” His mind was racing now. “And that Maude herself knew, in spite of all his precautions? And she left a note of it somewhere hidden in her papers? We searched the house, but we did not understand what we saw. Now, with Wray’s information, we will . . .”

“Then Cartouche will come to look for it and destroy it . . . if he knows!” Tellman finished. “Except how will we make sure he hears? Will Wetron tell him? Wetron doesn’t know who he is, or he’d . . .” He stopped, confused.

“Newspapers,” Cornwallis replied. “I’ll make sure the newspapers print it, tomorrow. The case is still headlines because of Wray’s death. I can make Cartouche think he has to get back Maude Lamont’s notes on him or he’ll be exposed. It doesn’t matter what his secret is.”

“What are you going to tell Wetron?” Tellman asked, frowning. He was puzzled, but the eagerness to act burned in him. His eyes were bright.

“You are,” Cornwallis corrected. “Report back to him, as you ordinarily would, that the circle is about to be completed: Voisey through money to Maude Lamont through blackmail to Kingsley and Cartouche, to destroy Voisey’s opponent, back to Voisey, and that you are about to get the proof. Then he will call the press. But he must believe it, or they won’t print it.”

Tellman swallowed, and nodded slowly.

“Wray will still be buried as a suicide,” Pitt said, and found even putting words to it painful. “I . . . I find it hard to believe that he would . . . not after he had endured his grief and . . .” But he could imagine it. No matter how brave one was, there were some pains that became unendurable in the darkest moments of the night. Maybe he could manage most of the time, when there were people around, something to do, even sunlight, the beauty of flowers, anyone else who cared. But alone in the dark, too tired to fight anymore . . .

“He was deeply loved and admired.” Cornwallis was struggling to find a better answer himself. “Perhaps he will have friends in the church who will use influence to see that he is never named as such.”

“But you didn’t hound him!” Tellman protested. “Why would he give in now? It’s against his faith!”

“It was some kind of poison,” Pitt told him. “How could he do that by accident? And it wasn’t natural causes.” But another thought was stirring in his mind, a wild possibility. “Perhaps Voisey wasn’t using a perfect chance given him? Perhaps he murdered Wray, or at least caused him to be murdered? His revenge was only complete if Wray was dead. With Wray miserable, haunted by gossip and fear, violated, I appear a villain. But if he is dead that is far better. Then I am irredeemable. Surely Voisey would not hesitate at the final act? He didn’t in Whitechapel.”

“His sister?” Cornwallis said with genuine horror. “He used her to poison Wray?”

“She may have had no idea what she was doing,” Pitt pointed out. “And there was virtually no chance of her getting caught. As far as she knew, she was no more than a witness to my cruelty to an old and vulnerable man.”

“How do we prove it?” Tellman said, thin-lipped. “Us knowing it is no good! It only adds to the flavor of his victory if we actually know what happened and still can’t do a damn thing about it!”

“An autopsy,” Pitt said. It was the only thing that seemed an answer.

“They’d never do it.” Cornwallis shook his head. “No one wants it. The church will be afraid it would prove suicide, which they’ll do all they can to protect him from, and Voisey will be afraid it will prove murder, or at least raise the question.”

Pitt stood up. “There’ll be a way. I’ll make one. I’ll go to see Lady Vespasia. If anyone can force the issue, she will know who it is and how to find him.” He looked at Cornwallis, then at Tellman. “Thank you,” he said with sudden overwhelming gratitude. “Thank you for . . . coming.”

Neither of them answered, each in his own way confused for words. They did not seek or want gratitude, only to help.

Tellman went straight back to Bow Street. It was a quarter past ten in the morning. The desk sergeant called out to him, but he barely heard. He went straight up the stairs to Wetron’s office, which had once been Pitt’s. It was extraordinary to think that had been only a few months ago. Now it was an alien place, the man in it an enemy. That idea had come easily. He was startled to realize that it had taken no effort of mind to accommodate it.

He knocked, and after a few moments heard Wetron’s voice telling him to come in.

“Good morning, sir,” he said when he was inside and the door closed behind him.

“Morning, Tellman.” Wetron looked up from his desk. At first sight he seemed an ordinary man, middle height, mousy coloring. Only when you looked at his eyes did you realize the strength in him, the undeviating will to succeed.

Tellman swallowed. He began the lie. “I saw Pitt this morning. He told me what he actually said to Mr. Wray, and why Wray was so distressed.”

Wetron looked up at him, his face bleak. “I think the sooner you dissociate yourself, and this police force, from Mr. Pitt, the better, Inspector. I shall issue a statement to the newspapers that he no longer has anything whatever to do with the Metropolitan Police, and we take no responsibility for his actions. He’s Special Branch’s problem. Let them get him out of this, if they can. The man’s a disaster.”

Tellman stood rigid, the fury inside him ready to explode, every injustice he’d ever seen like a red haze inside him. “I’m sure you’re right, sir, but I think you ought to know what he learned before you do that.” He ignored Wetron’s impatience, signaled in his flicking fingers and the crease between his brows. “It seems Mr. Wray knew who the third visitor was at Maude Lamont’s the night she was murdered.” He took a shaky breath. “Because it was someone of his acquaintance. Another churchman, I think.”

“What?” Now he had Wetron’s entire attention, even if not his belief.

Tellman met his eyes without flinching. “Yes sir. Apparently, there’s something in the woman’s notes, Miss Lamont I mean, which could prove it, now we know who she meant.”

“What is it, man?” Wetron demanded. “Don’t stand there talking in riddles!”

“That’s it, sir. Mr. Pitt can’t be sure until he sees the papers in Miss Lamont’s home.” He hurried on before Wetron could interrupt him again, forcing his voice to rise as if in excitement. “It’ll still be hard to prove it. But if we were to tell the newspapers that we have the information . . . of course, we don’t need to mention Mr. Pitt, if you don’t think it’s a good idea . . . then whoever this man is, and he is probably the one who killed her, then he may very well betray himself by going to Southampton Row.”

“Yes, yes, Tellman, you don’t need to spell it out for me!” Wetron said sharply. “I understand what you are suggesting. Let me give it some thought.”

“Yes sir.”

“We’ll keep Pitt out of it, I think. You should go to Southampton Row. After all, it’s your case.” He made the point deliberately, watching Tellman’s face.

Tellman made himself smile. “Yes sir. I don’t know why Special Branch got involved with it at all. Unless, of course, it was because of Sir Charles Voisey?”

Wetron sat very still. “What has it to do with Voisey? You’re not imagining the man implicated by the cartouche was Voisey, are you?” There was heavy ridicule in his tone, and the curl of his smile was bitter, tinged with mockery and regret.

“Oh no, sir,” Tellman said quickly. “We’re pretty sure that Maude Lamont was blackmailing at least some of her clients, certainly the three that were there the night she was killed.”

“Over what?” Wetron asked carefully.

“Different things, but not for money, for certain behavior in the present political campaign that was helpful to Sir Charles Voisey.”

Wetron’s eyes widened.

“Indeed? That’s a rather odd accusation, Tellman. I suppose you are aware of exactly who Sir Charles is?”

“Yes sir! He’s a most distinguished appeal court judge who is now standing for a seat in Parliament. He was recently knighted by Her Majesty, but I don’t know exactly what for, except word has it that it was something remarkably brave.” He said it with reverence, and watched Wetron’s lips tighten and the muscles stand out cord-hard on his neck. Perhaps Lady Vespasia was right?

“And has Pitt got some reason to believe all this?” Wetron asked.

“Yes sir.” Tellman kept his voice perfectly level, not too assured. “There is some very definite connecting link. It all makes a lot of sense. We’re that far from it!” He held up his finger and thumb about an inch apart. “We just need to flush this man out, and then we can prove it. Murder’s a very nasty crime indeed, any way you want to look at it, and this one especially. Choked the woman. Looks like he put his knee in her chest and forced this stuff down her throat until she died.”

“Yes, you don’t need to be graphic, Inspector,” Wetron said tartly. “I’ll call the press and tell them. You get on with finding the proof you need.” He bent to the paper he had been reading before he was interrupted. It was dismissal.

“Yes sir.” Tellman stood to attention, then turned on his heel. He did not breathe a sigh of relief, or allow his body to let go of the tension and shiver until he was halfway down the stairs again.