Southampton Row

CHAPTER

THIRTEEN

Pitt returned immediately to Vespasia, this time writing a note which he handed to the maid, then he waited in the morning room. He believed Vespasia was one person who would refrain from judging his part in Wray’s death, but he could not bring himself to assume it before he had seen her. He waited, pacing the floor, his hands sweating, his breath ragged.

He spun around when the morning room door opened, expecting the maid to tell him either that Lady Vespasia would see him or that she would not. But it was Vespasia herself who was there. She came in and closed the door behind her, shutting out the servants and, from the look on her face, the rest of the world.

“Good morning, Thomas. I assume you have come because you have some plan of battle, and a part in it for me? You had better tell me what it is. Are we to fight alone, or do we have allies?”

Her use of the plural was the most heartening thing she could have said. He should never have doubted her, regardless of what the press wrote or what the odds against them might be. It was not modesty on his part, it was lack of faith.

“Yes, Captain Cornwallis and Inspector Tellman.”

“Good, and what are we to do?” She sat down in one of the large rose-pink morning room chairs and indicated another for him.

He told her the plan, such as it was, which they had formulated around his kitchen table. She listened in silence until he had finished.

“An autopsy,” she said at last. “That will not be easy. He was a man not only revered but actually loved. No one, apart from Voisey, will wish to see him named a suicide, even though that is already the assumption. I imagine the church will endeavor to leave the exact verdict open, and at least tacitly assume some kind of misadventure, in the belief that the less that is said the sooner it will be forgotten. And there is considerable discretion and kindness in that.” She looked at him very steadily. “Are you prepared for the discovery that he did, in fact, take his own life, Thomas?”

“No,” he said honestly. “But nothing I feel about it is going to alter the truth, and I think I need to know it. I really don’t believe he took his own life, but I admit it is possible. I think Voisey contrived his death, using his sister, almost certainly without her knowledge.”

“And you believe an autopsy will indicate that? You may be right. Anyway, as you will no doubt agree, we have little else.” She rose to her feet stiffly. “I do not have the influence to force such a thing myself, but I believe Somerset Carlisle does.” The faintest smile flickered over her face and lit her silver-gray eyes. “You no doubt remember him from that farcical tragedy in Resurrection Row among the thugs.” She did not go on to mention his bizarre part in it. It was something neither of them would forget. If any man on earth would be willing to risk his reputation for a cause in which he believed, it was Carlisle.

Pitt smiled back, for a moment memory erasing the present. Time had bleached the horror from those events and left only the black humor, and the passion which had compelled that extraordinary man to act as he had.

“Yes,” he agreed with fervor. “Yes, we’ll ask him.”

Vespasia rather liked the telephone. It was one of several inventions to have become generally available to those with the means to afford it, and it was reasonably useful. In a mere quarter of an hour she was able to ascertain that Carlisle was at his club in Pall Mall—where, of course, ladies were not admitted—but that he would leave forthwith and go to the Savoy Hotel, where he would receive them as soon as they arrived.

Actually, with the state of the traffic as it was, and the time of the day, it was almost an hour later when Pitt and Vespasia were shown into the private sitting room that Carlisle had engaged for the purpose. He rose to his feet the instant they were shown in, elegant, a little gaunt now, his unusual eyebrows still giving his face a faintly quizzical look.

As soon as they were seated and appropriate refreshments had been ordered, Vespasia came straight to the point.

“No doubt you have read the newspapers and are aware of Thomas’s situation. You may not be aware that it has been carefully and extremely cleverly arranged by a man whose intense desire is to be revenged for a recent very grave defeat. I cannot tell you what it was, only that he is powerful and dangerous, and has managed to salvage from the wreck of his previous ambition a new one only slightly less ruinous to the country.”

Carlisle asked no questions as to what it might be. He was well acquainted with the need for absolute discretion. He regarded Pitt levelly for several moments, perhaps seeing the weariness in him and the marks of the despair so close under the surface. “What is it you want from me?” he asked very seriously.

It was Vespasia who answered. “An autopsy of the body of the Reverend Francis Wray.”

Carlisle gulped. For an instant he was thrown off balance.

Vespasia gave a tiny smile. “If it were easy, my dear, I should not have needed to ask for your assistance. The poor man is going to be regarded as a suicide, although of course the church will never permit it to be said in so many words. They will speak of unfortunate accidents, and bury him properly. But people will still believe he took his own life, and that is necessary to the plan of our enemy, otherwise his revenge upon Thomas fails to have effect.”

“Yes, I see that,” Carlisle agreed. “No one can have driven him to suicide unless there is believed to have been one. People will assume the church is concealing it as a matter of loyalty, which will probably be the truth.” He turned to Pitt. “What do you believe happened?”

“I think he was murdered,” Pitt replied. “I doubt there was an accident which timed itself to the hour to suit their purposes. I don’t know if an autopsy will prove that, but it is the only chance we have.”

Carlisle thought in silence for several minutes, and neither Pitt nor Vespasia interrupted him. They glanced at each other, and then away again, and waited.

Carlisle looked up. “If you are prepared to abide by the result, whatever it is, I believe I know a way to persuade the local coroner that it must be done.” He smiled a little sourly. “It will entail a certain elasticity of the truth, but I have shown a skill in that area before. I think the less you know about it, Thomas, the better. You never had any talent in that direction at all. In fact, it worries me more than a little that Special Branch is desperate enough to employ you. You are the last man cut out to succeed in this kind of work. I heard you may have been drafted merely to give them a more respectable face.”

“In that case they have failed spectacularly,” Pitt replied with a considerable edge to his voice.

“Nonsense!” Vespasia snapped. “He was dismissed out of Bow Street because the Inner Circle wanted one of their own men there. There is nothing subtle or devious about it at all. Special Branch was simply available, and not in a position to refuse.” She rose to her feet. “Thank you, Somerset. I assume that as well as the necessity for this autopsy, you are also aware of the urgency? Tomorrow would be good. The longer this slander against Thomas is around, the more people will hear it and the work of undoing it will become a great deal more difficult. Also, of course, there is the matter of the election. Once the polls close there are certain things it becomes very difficult to abrogate.”

Carlisle opened his mouth, and then closed it again. “You are utterly reliable, Lady Vespasia,” he said, rising also. “I swear you are the only person since I was twenty who can totally wrong-foot me, and you never fail to do it. I have always admired you, but it completely escapes me why I also like you.”

“Because you have no desire to be comfortable, my dear,” she replied without hesitation. “More than a month or two and you become bored.” She smiled at him, utterly charmingly, as if she had given him a great compliment, and extended her hand for him to kiss, which he did with grace. Then she took Pitt’s arm and, with head high, walked out into the corridor and the main foyer.

They were about halfway across when Pitt quite clearly saw Voisey excuse himself from a group of passersby and walk towards them. He was half smiling, supremely confident. Pitt knew from his face that he had come to taste victory, to savor it and roll it around his tongue. He had very possibly arranged to be here precisely for that purpose. What was revenge worth if you did not see your enemy’s pain? And in this instance he not only had Pitt, he had Vespasia as well.

Voisey could never have forgiven her for the crucial part she had played, not only in the Whitechapel defeat, but in using all her influence to gain him his knighthood. Perhaps ruining Pitt was as much to hurt her as it was to hurt him? And now he could watch them both.

“Lady Vespasia,” he said with extreme courtesy. “What a pleasure to see you. How loyal of you to take Mr. Pitt to luncheon so publicly at this unfortunate time. I do admire loyalty, and the more expensive it is, the more valuable.” Without waiting for her to reply, he turned to Pitt. “Perhaps you will be able to find a position away from London. I would advise it after your recent unfortunate behavior with poor Francis Wray. Somewhere in the country? If your wife and family have taken a liking to Dartmoor, perhaps that would do? Although Harford is much too small to require a policeman. It is barely a village, more of a hamlet, a mere two or three streets, and very isolated up there on the edge of Ugborough Moor. I doubt they have ever seen a crime, let alone a murder. It was murder you specialized in, wasn’t it? Still, I suppose that might change.” He smiled, turned to Vespasia, and then continued on his way.

Pitt stood frozen, the cold running through him like a tide, drowning from the inside. He was barely aware of the room around him, even of Vespasia’s hand on his arm. Voisey knew where Charlotte was! He could reach out at any time and destroy her. Pitt’s heart contracted inside him. He could barely breathe. He heard Vespasia’s voice from a long way off, her words indistinct.

“Thomas!”

Time had no meaning.

“Thomas!” The grip tightened on his arm, fingers digging into him. She spoke his name for the third time.

“Yes . . .”

“We must leave here,” she said firmly. “We are beginning to draw attention to ourselves.”

“He knows where Charlotte is!” He turned to look at her. “I’ve got to get her away! I’ve got to—”

“No, my dear.” Her hand held on to him with all her strength. “You have got to stay here and fight Charles Voisey. If you are here then his attention will remain here. Send that young man, Tellman, to take Charlotte and your family somewhere else, as discreetly as possible. Voisey needs to win the election, and he also needs to guard himself against your effort to find out the truth of Francis Wray’s death, and to watch and see what you learn about the man you have named as Cartouche. If Voisey is indeed connected with Maude Lamont’s death, he cannot afford to delegate that to someone else. You already know that he does not trust anyone to hold that power over him of having known the ultimate secret.”

She was right, and when Pitt’s mind cleared again and he faced reality, he knew it also. But there was no time to waste. He must find Tellman immediately and be sure that he would go to Devon. Even as the thoughts were in his mind he put his hand into his pocket to see what money he had. Tellman would need his rail fare to Devon and back again, certainly. And he would need money to move the family also, and to find a new and safer place for them. They could not come back to London yet. He had no idea when that would be. It was impossible to plan that far ahead, or to see how he could even make it safe for them.

Vespasia understood the gesture, and the need. She opened her reticule and took out all the money she had. He was startled how much it was, nearly twenty pounds. With the four pounds, seventeen shillings he had, plus a few odd pennies, it would be enough.

Wordlessly, she passed it to him.

“Thank you,” he accepted. This was no time for pride or burden of gratitude. She must know that he felt it more profoundly than could be conveyed.

“My carriage,” she directed. “We must find Tellman.”

“We?”

“My dear Thomas, you are not leaving me in the Savoy penniless to find my own way home while you go pursuing the cause!”

“Oh, no. Do you . . .”

“No, I do not,” she said decisively. “You may require every penny. Let us proceed. We also should use every minute. Where will he be? What is his most urgent task? We have not time to search half of London for him.”

Pitt disciplined his mind to remember exactly what Tellman had been sent to do. First he would have gone to Bow Street to speak with Wetron. That might have taken no more than an hour, at the most, unless Wetron were not there. Then, since ostensibly his greatest concern was the identity of Cartouche, he would have done something to appear to be following that. Pitt had not mentioned Bishop Underhill to Tellman. It was only a deduction based upon the Bishop’s attacks against Aubrey Serracold.

“Where to?” Vespasia enquired as he handed her up into her carriage and then climbed in after her and sat down.

He must answer with something. Would Tellman have told anyone in Bow Street where he was going? Perhaps not, but it was a chance he should not overlook. “Bow Street,” he replied.

When they got there he excused himself and went straight to the desk sergeant. “Do you know where Inspector Tellman is?” he asked, trying to keep the panic out of his voice.

“Yes sir,” the man replied immediately. It was clear in his face that he had seen the newspapers and his concern was genuine, and more than that, sympathetic. He had known Pitt many years, and he believed what he knew, not what he read. “’E said as ’e were goin’ ter see some o’ that spirit medium’s other clients. ’E said as if yer was ter come by for any reason an’ ask, sir, as I was ter tell yer where ’e wos.” He regarded Pitt anxiously and produced a list of addresses written on a sheet torn from a notebook.

Pitt gave a prayer of thanks for Tellman’s intelligence, then thanked the desk sergeant so sincerely the man colored with pleasure.

Back in the carriage, weak with mounting relief, he showed the paper to Vespasia and asked her if she would rather be taken home before he began to follow the trail.

“Certainly not!” she said briskly. “Please get on with it!”

Tellman had already checked on Lena Forrest’s story of visiting her friend in Newington and found that she had indeed been there, although Mrs. Lightfoot had only the vaguest ideas of time. Now he was retracing his steps with Maude Lamont’s other clients simply in the vague hope of learning something more about her methods which might lead him to Cartouche. He had little expectation of success, but he must appear to Wetron to be following it with urgency. Previously he had regarded Wetron as no more than the man who had replaced Pitt, by chance more than design. He resented him for it, but knew that it was not Wetron’s fault. Someone had to take the position. He did not like Wetron; his personality seemed to be calculating and too remote from the emotions of anger and pity that Tellman was used to in Pitt. But then whoever it had been would not have pleased him.

Now he suddenly perceived Wetron in an entirely different way. He was not a colorless career officer; he was a dangerous enemy to be regarded in an acutely personal light. Any man who could rise to leadership in the Inner Circle was brave, ruthless and extremely ambitious. He was also clever enough to have outwitted even Voisey, or he would be no threat to him. Only a fool would leave any act or word unguarded.

Therefore, Tellman set about appearing to pursue Cartouche, after having left a list of the places he would be with the desk sergeant, in case Pitt should want him for anything to do with the real issues that mattered.

He was listening to a Mrs. Drayton recounting her last séance, which had produced manifestations so dramatic as to astound Maude Lamont herself, when the butler interrupted them to say that a Mr. Pitt had called to see Mr. Tellman and the matter was so urgent that he regretted it could not await their convenience.

“Send him in,” Mrs. Drayton said before Tellman could excuse himself to leave.

The butler naturally obeyed, and a moment later Pitt was in the room looking white-faced and hardly able to keep still.

“Really completely remarkable, Mr. Tellman,” Mrs. Drayton said enthusiastically. “I mean, Miss Lamont had not expected such a display herself! I could see the amazement in her face, even fear.” Her voice rose with excitement. “It was at that moment that I absolutely, truly knew she had the power. I confess I had wondered once or twice before if it could have been faked, but this wasn’t. The look in her eyes was proof to me.”

“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Drayton,” Tellman said rather abruptly. It all seemed terribly unimportant now. They had found the lever on the table, a simple mechanical trick. He stared at Pitt, knowing that something of great and terrible urgency had happened.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Drayton,” Pitt said, his voice husky. “I am afraid I require Inspector Tellman to undertake something else . . . now.”

“Oh . . . but . . .” she began.

Pitt probably had no intention of dismissing her, but he was beyond the point of patience. “Thank you, Mrs. Drayton. Good day.”

Tellman followed him outside and saw Vespasia’s carriage at the curb, and the glimpse of her profile inside.

“Voisey knows where Charlotte and the family are.” Pitt could contain himself no longer. “He named the village.”

Tellman felt the sweat break out on his body and his chest tighten until he could hardly breathe. He cared about Charlotte, of course he did, but if Voisey sent anyone after Charlotte it would mean Gracie would be hurt as well, and it was the thought of that which filled his mind and drenched him with horror. The idea of Gracie hurt, crushed . . . the specter of a world without her was so terrible he could not bear it. It was as if happiness would never again be possible.

He heard Pitt’s voice as if from miles away. He was holding out something in his hand.

“I wish you to go down to Devon, today, now, and take them somewhere safe.”

Tellman blinked. It was money Pitt was giving him. “Yes!” he said, grasping it. “But I don’t know where they are!”

“Harford,” Pitt replied. “Take the Great Western as far as Ivybridge. From there it’s only a couple of miles to Harford. It’s a small village. Ask and you’ll find them. You’d better take them to one of the nearby towns, where you’ll be anonymous. Find lodgings where there are lots of other people. And . . . stay with them, at least until after the election results for Voisey. It won’t be very long.” He knew what he was asking, and what it might cost Tellman when Wetron found out, and he asked anyway.

“Right,” Tellman agreed. It did not even occur to him to question it. He took the money, then climbed into the carriage beside Vespasia, and as soon as Pitt was in also, they drove to the railway terminus for the Great Western. With the briefest farewell, Tellman was on his way to purchase his ticket and get onto the next train.

It was a nightmare journey simply because it seemed to take forever. Mile after mile of countryside rattled past the windows of the carriage. The sun began to sink in the west and the late-afternoon light deepened, and still they were nowhere near their destination.

Tellman stood up and stretched his cramped legs, but there was nothing to do except sway, adjusting his weight and balance, watch the hills and valleys steepen and then flatten out again, then sit down and wait longer.

He had not stopped to pack clean shirts or socks or linen. In fact, he did not even have a razor, a comb, or a toothbrush. None of that mattered; it was just easier to think of the small things than of the larger ones. How would he defend them if Voisey sent someone to attack them? What if when he got there they were already gone? How would he find them? That was too terrible to bear, and yet he could not drive it from his thoughts.

He stared out of the window. Surely they were in Devon by now? They had been traveling for hours! He noticed how red the earth was, quite unlike the soil around London that he was used to. The land looked vast, and in the distance ahead, even in high summer, there was something forbidding about it. The tracks stretched over the graceful span of a viaduct. For a moment the sheer daring of having built such a thing amazed him. Then he realized the train was slowing, they were reaching a station.

Ivybridge! This was it. At last! He threw the door open and almost tripped in his haste to reach the platform. The evening light was long, shadows stretching two and three times the length of the objects that cast them. The horizon to the west burned in a blaze of color so brilliant it hurt his eyes to look at it. When he turned away he was blinded.

“Can I help you, sir?”

He blinked and swiveled around. He was facing a man in the extremely smart uniform of a stationmaster, and who obviously took his position with great seriousness.

“Yes!” Tellman said urgently. “I have to get to Harford as soon as possible. Within the next half hour. It is an emergency. I must hire a vehicle of some sort, and have the use of it for a day at least. Where can I begin?”

“Ah!” The stationmaster scratched his head, setting his cap crooked. “What sort of a vehicle would you be wanting, sir?”

Tellman could barely contain his impatience. It took a monumental effort not to shout at the man. “Anything. It’s an emergency.”

The stationmaster seemed to remain unmoved. “In that case, sir, Mr. Callard down at the end of the road.” He pointed helpfully. “He might have something. Otherwise there’s old Mr. Drysdale up the other way, ‘bout a mile and a half. He has the odd dray, or the like, that he can sometimes spare.”

“Something faster than that would be better, and I haven’t time to walk in both directions to find it,” Tellman replied, trying to keep the panic and the temper out of his voice.

“Then you’d best walk to the left, down that way.” The stationmaster pointed again. “Ask Mr. Callard. If he doesn’t have anything, he’ll maybe know someone who does.”

“Thank you,” Tellman called over his shoulder as he already began moving away.

The road was downhill slightly, and he strode out as fast as he could, and kept up the pace. When he reached the yard it took him another five minutes to locate the proprietor, who seemed as unmoved by any sense of haste as the stationmaster had been. However, the sight of Vespasia’s money drew his attention, and he found he did have a fairly light cart, still capable of carrying half a dozen people, and a good enough horse to pull it. He took an exorbitant deposit, which Tellman resented, until he realized that he had no idea how or when he was going to return the vehicle, and that his skill at driving it was absolutely minimal. In fact, even climbing up onto the seat was awkward, and he heard Callard muttering under his breath as he turned away. Tellman very gingerly encouraged the horse to move, and then guided the cart out of the yard and along the road he had been told led to the village of Harford.

Half an hour later he was knocking on the door of Appletree Cottage. It was dark and he could see the lights on through the cracks in the curtains at the window. He had met no one else on the road except one man in a dray cart, from whom he had asked directions. Now he stood on the step, acutely aware of the intense darkness around him, the sharp smell of the wind off the open stretch of the moor he could no longer see away to the north. It was no more than a denser black against the occasional stars. It was a different world from the city, and he felt alien to it, at a loss to know what to do or how to cope. There was no one else to turn to. Pitt had entrusted him with rescuing the women and children. How on earth was he going to be equal to it? He had no idea what to do!

“Who is it?” a voice demanded from behind the door.

It was Gracie. His heart leaped.

“It’s me!” he shouted, then added self-consciously, “Tellman!”

He heard bolts withdrawn and the door open with a crash, showing a candlelit interior with Gracie standing in the doorway and Charlotte just behind her, the poker from the fireplace hanging loosely in her hand. Nothing could have told him more vividly that something had frightened them far more than the mere knocking on the door of a stranger.

He saw the fear and the question in Charlotte’s face.

“Mr. Pitt’s all right, ma’am,” he said in answer to it. “Things are hard, but he’s quite safe.” Should he tell her about Wray’s death and all that had happened? There was nothing she could do about it. It would only worry her when she should be concerned with herself, and escaping from here. And should he even tell them how urgent that was? Was it his job to protect them from fear, as well as actual physical danger?

Or would lying by omission make them act less urgently? He had thought about that on the train, and vacillated one way and then the other, making up his mind, and as quickly unmaking it.

“Why are yer ’ere, then?” Gracie’s voice cut across his thoughts. “If nothin’s wrong, why aren’t yer in the city doin’ yer job? ’Oo killed the ghosty woman? Yer get that all sorted?”

“No,” he answered, moving inside to allow her to close the door. He looked at her pale, set face and the rigidity of her body inside her hand-me-down country dress, and he had to fight to keep the emotion down, stop it from tightening his throat until he couldn’t get the words out. “Mr. Pitt’s working on it. There’s been another death he needs to prove isn’t suicide.”

“So why aren’t yer doin’ summink about it, too?” Gracie was far from satisfied. “Yer look like summink the cat drug in. Wot’s the matter wif yer?”

He could see she was going to fight him all the way. It was infuriating, and yet so characteristic of her he felt tears sting his eyes. This was ridiculous! He should not allow her to do this to him!

“Mr. Pitt isn’t satisfied this is a safe place for you,” he said tartly. “Mr. Voisey knows where you are, and I’m to take you somewhere else straightaway. There’s probably no danger, but best be safe.” He saw the fear in Charlotte’s face and knew that for all Gracie’s bravado, they were just as aware as Pitt that the danger was real. He swallowed. “So if you’ll get the children up and dressed we’ll go tonight, while it’s dark. Doesn’t stay long, this time of year. We need to be well out of the area in three or four hours, because it’ll be daylight by then.”

Charlotte stood motionless. “Are you sure Thomas is all right?” Her voice was sharp, edged with doubt, her eyes wide.

If he told her, it would relieve Pitt from having to try to find a way when they finally got back to London. And perhaps it would ease her physical fear for him. Voisey would never damage him now, he was too precious alive, to watch him suffer.

“Samuel!” Gracie demanded sharply.

“Well, he is and he isn’t,” he replied. “Voisey’s made it look like it was Mr. Pitt’s fault that this man committed suicide, and he was a churchman, very well liked. Of course it wasn’t, and we’ll get to prove it . . .” That was a pretty wild piece of optimism. “But for now the newspapers are giving him a hard time. But will you please go and get the children up, and put your things into cases, or whatever you brought them in. We haven’t got time to stand here and argue it out!”

Charlotte moved to obey.

“I suppose I’d better pack up the kitchen,” Gracie said, darting Tellman a fierce look. “Well, don’t just stand there! Yer look as starved as an alley cat! Come ’ave a slice o’ bread an’ jam while I pack up wot we got. No sense leaving it ’ere! An’ yer can carry it out ter wotever kind o’ cart yer got out there. Wot ’ave yer got, anyway?”

“It’ll do,” he answered. “Make me a slice, and I’ll eat it on the way.”

She shivered, and he noticed that her hands were clenched, knuckles white.

“I’m sorry!” he said with a wave of feeling so intense his voice was husky. “There’s no need to be afraid, Gracie. I’ll look after you!” He reached out to touch her, a stab of physical memory bringing back the moment he had kissed her when they were following after Remus in the Whitechapel affair. “I will!”

She looked away from him and sniffed. “I know yer will, yer daft ’aporth,” she said savagely. “An’ all of us! One-man army, y’are. Now do summink useful an’ get these things inter a box an’ take ’em out to yer cart, or wotever it is. An’ wait! Put that light out ’afore yer open the door!”

He froze. “Is someone watching you?”

“I dunno! But they could be, couldn’t they?” She started to take things out of the cupboards and put them into a wicker laundry basket. In the dim candlelight he saw two loaves of bread, a large pot of butter, a leg of ham, biscuits, half a cake, two jars of jam, and other tins and boxes he couldn’t name.

When the basket was full enough he shaded the candle with his hand, opened the door, and then, blowing out the flame and picking up the basket, he stumbled his way to the cart, several times barely missing tripping over the uneven path.

Fifteen minutes later they were all sitting wedged in, Edward shivering, Daniel half asleep, Jemima sitting awkwardly between Gracie and Charlotte, her arms gripped tightly around herself. Tellman urged the horse forward and they began to move, but the feeling was extremely different from when he had driven in. Now the cart was heavily laden and the night was so black it was hard to know how even the horse could find its way. He also had very little idea where they were going. Paignton was the obvious place, the first that anyone Voisey employed would think to look. Perhaps the opposite direction was equally obvious? Maybe there was somewhere off to the side? Where else was there a station? By train they could go anywhere! How much money had he left? They had to pay for lodgings and food as well as tickets.

Pitt had said a town, somewhere with lots of people. That meant Paignton or Torquay. But back at the Ivybridge station they would be remembered all standing together waiting for the first train. The stationmaster would be able to tell anyone who asked exactly where they went.

As if reading his thoughts, even in the dark, Gracie spoke. “Where are we goin’, then?”

“Exeter,” he said without hesitation.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because it isn’t really a holiday place,” he replied. It seemed as good an answer as any other.

They drove in silence for a quarter of an hour. The darkness and the weight of the cart made them slow, but he could not urge the horse any more. If it slipped, or went lame, they were lost. They must be over a mile from Harford and the cottage by now. The road was not bad and the horse was finding its way with more ease. Tellman began to relax a little. None of the difficulties he had feared had come to pass.

The horse pulled up abruptly. Tellman nearly fell off the seat, and saved himself only by grabbing hold of it at the last moment.

Gracie stifled a shriek.

“What is it?” Charlotte said sharply.

There was someone on the road ahead of them. Peering forward, Tellman could just make out the dark shape in the gloom. Then a voice spoke quite clearly, only a yard or so away.

“Now, where are you going at this time o’ the night? Mistress Pitt, isn’t it? From Harford way? You shouldn’t be out at this hour. Get lost, you will. Or have an accident.” It was a man’s voice, deep and with a lift of sarcasm to it.

Tellman heard Gracie gasp with fear. The fact that the man had used Charlotte’s name meant that he knew them. Was it intended as a threat? Was he the watcher who had told Voisey where they were?

The horse shook its head as if someone were holding its bridle. The darkness prevented Tellman from seeing. He hoped it also prevented the man from seeing him. How did he know who they were? He must have been watching and ridden ahead, knowing they would come this way. If he had seen Tellman go to the cottage door and then carry the boxes out, then it meant he had been there all the time. He had to be Voisey’s man. He had come ahead of them here into this lonely stretch of road between Harford and Ivybridge to catch them where there was no one to see, or to help. And there was no one—except Tellman. Everything rested with him.

What could he use for a weapon? He remembered packing a bottle of vinegar. It was half empty, but there was enough in it still to give it weight. But he daren’t ask Gracie for it aloud. The man would hear him. And he did not know how she had stacked the basket!

He leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Vinegar!”

“Wha . . . oh.” She understood. She slid back a little and started feeling for the bottle. Tellman made some move himself to cover the sounds, climbing off the box and slithering down the side of the cart until his feet touched the ground. He felt his way around to the back, hand over hand on the rough wood, and was coming around on the other side when he made out in the gloom the figure of a man ahead of him. Then he felt a smooth weight against his forearm and Gracie’s breath on his cheek. He took the vinegar bottle from her hand. He could see the dark shape of Charlotte, with her arms around the children.

“It’s you again!” Gracie’s voice came clearly from just beside him, but she was speaking to the man at the horse’s head, drawing his attention. “Wot yer doin’ out ’ere in the middle o’ the night, then? We’re goin’ ’cos we got a family emergency. Yer got one, too, ‘ave yer?”

“That’s a shame,” the man replied, the expression in his voice impossible to read. “Going back to London, then?”

“We never said we come from London!” Gracie challenged him, but Tellman could hear the fear in her, the slight quiver, the higher pitch. He was only a yard away from the man now. The vinegar bottle was heavy in his hand. He swung it back, and as if he had caught the movement in the corner of his eye, the man swiveled and shot out his fist, sending Tellman sprawling backwards onto the ground, the vinegar bottle flying out of his grasp and rolling away on the grass.

“Oh, no you don’t, mister!” the man said, his voice suddenly altered to a vicious anger, and the next moment Tellman felt a tremendous weight on top of him, knocking the air out of his lungs. He was no match for the man in strength and he knew it. But he had grown up in the streets and the instinct to survive was above almost everything else; the only thing greater was the passion to protect Gracie . . . and of course Charlotte and the children. He kneed the man in the groin and heard him gasp, then poked at his eyes with stiff fingers, or at any piece of flesh he could reach.

The fight was short, intense and absolute. It was only moments later that his hands reached the unbroken vinegar bottle and he finished the job, cracking the man over the head with it and laying him senseless.

He scrambled to his feet and staggered around to where the other horse was standing with a dogcart pulled across the track, and led it off onto the side. Then he ran back and with difficulty in the dark, took the bridle of their own horse and led it past, before climbing up onto the box again and urging it forward as fast as it was capable of going. The east was already fading a little ahead of them and dawn would not be far away.

“Thank you,” Charlotte said quietly, holding a shivering Jemima close to her and Daniel by the other hand. Edward was clinging on at the farther end. “I think he has been watching us almost since we got here.” Charlotte did not add anything further, or mention Voisey’s name, or the Inner Circle. It was in all their minds.

“Yes,” Gracie agreed, a quiet pride in her voice and in the stiff, square-shouldered way she sat. “Thank you, Samuel.”

Tellman was bruised, his blood was beating so hard he was dizzy, but above all he was astounded by the savagery which had driven him. He had behaved like something primitive and it was exhilarating, and frightening.

“You’re going to stay in Exeter until the election is over and we know whether Voisey has won or lost,” he answered.

“No, I think I shall return to London,” Charlotte contradicted. “If they are blaming Thomas for this man’s death then I should be there with him.”

“You’re to stay here,” Tellman said flatly. “That’s an order. I’ll send a telephone message to Mr. Pitt to say as you’re all right and safe.”

“Inspector Tellman, I . . .” she began.

“It’s an order,” he said again. “Sorry, but that’s the end of it.”

“Yes, Samuel,” Gracie murmured.

Charlotte tightened her arms around Jemima and said nothing more.