Southampton Row

CHAPTER

FIFTEEN

There was little to be salvaged from the ruins of the house on Southampton Row, but the fire engines did at least stop the flames from spreading to the house to the south, or across Cosmo Place to the north.

There was no question that it was the curtains catching fire and the flames spreading to the gas brackets which had caused the first explosion, which had then cracked other gas mains throughout the north part of the house. Gas had leaked out, and as soon as the open flame had reached it, it had made a bomb out of the parlor and its immediate surrounds.

Pitt and Narraway were fortunate to be no more seriously hurt than a few scratches and bruises, and clothing that would never again be fit to wear. It would be late tonight, or even tomorrow morning, before it would be safe for anyone to go into the ruins to look for what was left of Lena Forrest and Bishop Underhill.

And unless there was a connection between Maude Lamont and Voisey in the papers they already had, there was no way in which they could prove such a thing now. Certainly there would be nothing in Southampton Row, nor would Lena Forrest be able to speak again.

“The solution, for what it’s worth,” Narraway said when the firemen had asked them all they wished and were satisfied there was nothing more to add.

Pitt knew what he meant. There was little satisfaction in it, except that of the mind, and perhaps that Rose Serracold was not guilty. But there was none of the connection to Voisey they had hoped for. It was there, but impossible to prove, which made it more acutely painful. Voisey could look at them and know they knew very clearly what he had done, and why, and that he would succeed.

“I’m going to Teddington,” Pitt said after a moment or two as they walked along the footpath out of the way of the horses and the fire engines. “Even if there’s nothing I can prove, I want to know that Francis Wray didn’t kill himself.”

“I’ll come with you,” Narraway said flatly. He gave a thin smile. “Not for your sake! I want to catch Voisey enough to take any chance there is, no matter how slight. But first one of us had better tell Bow Street what’s happened here. We’ve solved their case for them!” He said that with considerable satisfaction. Then he frowned. “Why the devil isn’t Tellman here?”

Pitt was too tired to bother with a lie. “I sent him to Devon to move my family.” He saw Narraway start. “Voisey knew where they were. He told me so himself.”

“Did he get there?”

“Yes.” Pitt said it with infinite satisfaction. “Yes, he did!”

Narraway grunted. There was no comment worth making. The darkness seemed to be gathering on all sides around Pitt, and facile remarks would be worse than useless. “I’ll tell Wetron about this,” he said instead. “You might tell Cornwallis. He deserves to know.”

“I will. And someone has to tell the Bishop’s wife. It will be a while before the firemen get to know who he is.”

“Cornwallis will find someone,” Narraway said quickly. “You haven’t time. And you can’t go looking like that anyway.”

They reached the end of the pavement at the corner of High Holborn. Narraway hailed the first empty hansom that passed.

Isadora returned home after having told Cornwallis about the Bishop’s going to Southampton Row. She arrived in the house feeling miserable and horribly ashamed because the step she had taken was irrevocable. She had made her husband’s secret public, and Cornwallis was a policeman; he could not keep such a thing in confidence.

It was possible the Bishop was actually the person who had killed the unfortunate spirit medium, although the more she thought about it, the less did she actually believe he had done it. But she had not the right to conceal information on the strength of her own beliefs when they were not knowledge. Somebody had killed Maude Lamont, and the other people there that evening seemed equally unlikely.

She had thought she knew her husband, but she had been completely unaware of his crisis of faith, the terror inside him. It could not have arisen suddenly, even if it had seemed so to him. The underlying weakness must have been there for years, perhaps always?

How much do we ever know other people, especially if we don’t really care, not deeply, not with compassion and the effort to watch, to listen, to stretch the imagination and to stop placing self to the front? The fact that he did not know her, or particularly want to, was not an excuse.

She sat thinking all these things, not moving from her chair, not finding anything to comfort herself with or even anything there was purpose in doing until he should return, either with or without the proof he sought.

What would she say to him then? Would she have to tell him that she had been to Cornwallis? Probably. She would not be able to lie to him, to live in the same house, sit across the meal table and make idiotic conversation about nothing, all the time hiding that secret.

She was still sitting doing nothing, her mind consumed in thought, when the maid came to say that Captain Cornwallis was in the morning room and said he must see her.

Her heart lurched, and for a moment she felt so dizzy she could not stand up. So it was Reginald who had killed the medium! He had been arrested. She told the maid that she would come, and then as the girl stood staring at her, she realized she had spoken only in her mind.

“Thank you,” she said aloud. “I shall see him.” Very slowly she stood up. “Please do not interrupt unless I send for you. I . . . I fear it may be bad news.” She walked past the girl and out of the door, across the hall and into the morning room, closing the door behind her before she faced Cornwallis.

At last she looked at him. He was very pale, his eyes fixed as if something had shocked him so profoundly he was slow to react in the most physical sense. He took a step towards her, then stopped.

“I . . . I know of no gentle way to tell you . . .” he began.

The room swam around her. It was true! She had not even really thought it could be, not even a moment ago.

She felt his hands on her arms, holding her, almost supporting her weight. It was ridiculous, but her legs were buckling under her. She staggered back and sank into one of the chairs. He was leaning over her, his face tense with overwhelming emotion.

“Bishop Underhill went to Southampton Row and spoke for some time to the housekeeper, Lena Forrest,” he was saying. “We do not know exactly what was the cause, but there was a fire, and then an explosion which broke the gas lines.”

She blinked. “Is he . . . hurt?” Why did she not ask what really mattered: Is he guilty?

“I am afraid there was another, bigger explosion,” he said very quietly. “They were both killed. There is very little left of the house. I’m so sorry.”

Dead? Reginald was dead? That was the one thing she had not thought of. She should be feeling horror, loss, a great aching hollow inside herself. The pity was all right, but not the sense of escape!

She closed her eyes, not for grief, but so Cornwallis would not see in her the confusion, the great rise of overwhelming relief that she would not have to watch Reginald suffer shame, humiliation, rejection by his fellows, the confusion and pain that would follow. Then perhaps a long and debilitating illness, and the fear of death that would go with it. Instead, death had found him suddenly, with no time for him even to recognize its face.

“Will they ever know the real reason he went there?” she asked, opening her eyes and looking at him.

“I know of no reason why they should,” he replied. “It was the housekeeper who killed Maude Lamont. It seems her sister had had a tragic experience with a medium years ago, and took her own life as a result. Lena never got over it. She believed in Maude Lamont until just recently. At least that is what Pitt explained to me.” He dropped to his knees in front of her, taking her stiff hands in his. “Isadora.”

It was the first time he had used her name.

Suddenly she wanted to weep. It was shock, the warmth of him close to her. She felt the tears flood her eyes and spill over.

For a moment he was at a loss, then he leaned forward and put his arms around her, holding her and allowing her to weep as long as she needed to, safe, very close, his cheek against her hair. And she stayed there long after the shock had worn itself out, because she did not wish to move, and she knew in her heart that he did not, either.

Pitt met Narraway again at the railway station, waiting for the train to Teddington. Narraway had a tight, hard smile on his face, still savoring the satisfaction of telling Wetron the conclusion of the case and handing it to him.

“Cornwallis will tell Mrs. Underhill,” Pitt said briefly. His mind was leaping ahead to the coroner, and the thin thread of hope that in examining Wray’s body he would find something that would show any truth better than the one Pitt feared.

There was little to say on the train journey. Both men had been bruised physically and emotionally by the tragedy of the morning. Pitt at least felt a mixture of compassion and revulsion for the Bishop. Fear was too familiar not to understand it, whether it was of physical pain and then extinction, or of emotional humiliation. But there had been too little in the man to admire. It was a pity without respect.

Lena Forrest was different. He could not approve what she had done. She had murdered Maude Lamont in revenge and outrage, not to save her own life, or anyone else’s, at least not directly. She may have believed it so in her own imagination. They would never know.

But she had planned it with great care and ingenuity, and after carrying it out, had been perfectly willing to allow the police to suspect others.

Still, he felt sorry for the pain she must have endured over the years since her sister’s death. And they had suspected others of having killed Maude Lamont only because there were those she had given real cause to hate and fear her. She was a woman prepared to act with extraordinary cruelty and to manipulate the tragedies of the most vulnerable for her own personal gain.

He would have guessed Cornwallis might have felt similarly. Of Narraway’s thoughts he had no idea at all, and no intention of asking. If after this he was still able to work in London at all, it would be for Narraway. He could not afford anger or contempt for him.

They sat in silence all the way to Teddington, and to Kingston beyond. The noise of the train was sufficient to make conversation difficult, and neither had any desire to discuss either what had passed or what might be to come.

At Kingston they took a hansom from the station to the mortuary where the autopsy had been conducted. Narraway’s position was sufficient to command an almost immediate attention from a highly irritated doctor. He was a large man with a snub nose and receding hair. In his youth he had been handsome, but now his features had coarsened. He regarded the two bruised, filthy men with extreme distaste.

Narraway retained his look with a level stare.

“I can’t imagine what Special Branch wants with the death of an unfortunate old man of such distinction in his life,” the doctor said tartly. “Good thing he has only friends, and no family to be distressed by all this!” He flicked his hand, indicating the room behind him, where presumably autopsies were carried out.

“Fortunately, your imagination, or lack of it, does not matter,” Narraway replied frostily. “We are concerned only with your forensic skill. What was the cause of Mr. Wray’s death, in your opinion?”

“It is not an opinion, it is a fact,” the doctor snapped back at him. “He died of digitalis poisoning. A slight dose would have slowed the heart; this was sufficient to stop it altogether.”

“Taken in what form?” Pitt asked. He could feel his own heart racing as he waited for the answer. He was not certain if he wanted it.

“Powder,” the doctor said without hesitation. “Crushed up tablets, probably, in raspberry jam, almost certainly in a pastry tart. It was eaten very shortly before he died.”

Pitt was startled. “What?”

The doctor looked at him with mounting annoyance. “Am I going to have to say everything again for you?”

“If it matters enough, yes you are!” Narraway told him. He turned to Pitt. “What’s wrong with raspberry jam?”

“He didn’t have any,” Pitt replied. “He apologized for it. Said it was his favorite and he had eaten it all.”

“I know raspberry jam when I see it!” the doctor said furiously. “It was barely digested at all. The poor man died within a very short time of eating it. And it was unquestionably in pastry. You would have to produce some very remarkable evidence, and I cannot imagine what it would be, to make me believe other than that he went to bed with jam tarts and a glass of milk. The digitalis was in the jam, not the milk.” He looked at Pitt with withering disgust. “Although from Special Branch’s point of view, I can’t see why it matters either way. In fact, I can’t see why any of it is even remotely your business.”

“I want the report in writing,” Narraway told him. He glanced at Pitt, and Pitt nodded. “Time and cause of death, specifically that the digitalis which killed him was in the raspberry jam, in pastry. I’ll wait.”

Muttering to himself, the doctor went out of the door, leaving Pitt and Narraway alone.

“Well?” Narraway asked as soon as they were out of earshot.

“He had no raspberry jam,” Pitt insisted. “But Octavia Cavendish came with a basket of food for him just as I was leaving. There must have been raspberry jam tarts in it!” He tried to crush the leap of hope inside himself. It was too soon, too fragile. The weight of defeat was still closed down hard. “Ask Mary Ann. She’ll remember whatever she unwrapped and put out for him. And she’ll tell you there were no jam tarts in the house before that.”

“Oh, I will!” Narraway said vehemently. “I will. And when we have the autopsy report in writing, he can’t go back on it.”

The doctor returned a few moments later, handing over a sealed envelope. Narraway took it from him, tore it open and read every word on the paper inside while the doctor glared at him, offended that he had not been trusted. Narraway looked at him with contempt. He trusted no one. His job depended upon being right to the last detail. A mistake, one thing taken for granted, a single word, could cost lives.

“Thank you,” he said, satisfied, and put the paper in his pocket. He led the way out, Pitt following closely behind.

It was necessary to go to the station to catch the next train back towards London. The first stop would be Teddington, and from there it was only a short distance to Wray’s house.

From the outside it looked just the same, the flowers brilliant in the sun, tended with love but not discipline. The roses still tumbled around the doors and windows and ran riot over the arch above the gate. Pinks spilled over the pathways, filling the air with perfume. For a moment it was hard to remember that Wray was gone from here forever.

And yet there was a blind look to the windows, a sense of emptiness. Or perhaps that was only in his mind.

Narraway glanced at him. He seemed about to say something, then kept silent. They walked one behind the other up the flagstoned path and Pitt knocked on the door.

It was several moments before Mary Ann came. She looked at Narraway, then at Pitt, and her face lit with remembrance.

“Oh, it’s you, Mr. Pitt! It’s nice o’ yer to ’ave come, ‘specially after the rotten, stupid things some folk are saying. Sometimes I give up! Yer know ’bout poor Mr. Wray, o’ course.” She blinked, and the tears welled up in her eyes. “Did yer know as ’e left yer the jam? ’E didn’t actually write it down, like, but ’e said it to me. ‘Mary Ann, I must give Mr. Pitt some more o’ the jam, ’e was so kind to me.’ I meant to, an’ then Mrs. Cavendish came an’ the chance rather slipped away. Yer know the way ’e used to talk.” She sniffed and searched for a handkerchief, blowing her nose hard. “I’m sorry, but I miss ’im summink terrible!”

Pitt was so touched by the gesture, so overwhelmingly relieved that even if Wray had taken his own life, it was not with ill thought towards him, that he felt his throat tighten and a sting in his eyes. He would not betray it by speaking.

“That’s very kind of you,” Narraway spoke for him, whether he sensed the need or simply was accustomed to taking control. “But I think that there may be other claimants to his possessions, even those of the kitchen, and we would not wish you to be in any difficulty.”

“Oh no!” she said with certainty. “There in’t no one else. Mr. Wray left everything to me, an’ the cats, o’ course. The lawyers came and told me.” She gulped and swallowed. “This whole house! Everything! Can you imagine that? So the jam’s mine, except ’e said as Mr. Pitt should ’ave it.”

Narraway was startled, but Pitt saw with surprise a softness in his face, as if he also were moved by some deep emotion.

“In that case, I am sure Mr. Pitt would be very grateful. We apologize for intruding, Miss Smith, but in light of knowledge we now have, it is necessary we ask you certain questions. May we come in?”

She frowned, looking at Pitt, then back at Narraway.

“They are not difficult questions,” Pitt assured her. “And in nothing are you to blame, but we do need to be sure.”

She pulled the door and stepped backwards. “Well, I s’pose yer’d better. Would yer like a cup o’ tea?”

“Yes, please,” Pitt accepted, not bothering to see whether Narraway did or not.

She would have had them wait in the study, where Pitt had met with Wray, but partly from haste, mostly out of revulsion at the idea of sitting where he had talked so deeply with a man now dead, they followed her into the kitchen.

“The questions,” Narraway began, as she put more water in the kettle and opened the damper in the stove to set the flames burning inside again. “When Mr. Pitt was here for tea, the day Mr. Wray died, what did you serve them?”

“Oh!” She was startled and disconcerted. “Sandwiches, and scones and jam, I think. We ’adn’t any cake.”

“What kind of jam?”

“Greengage.”

“Are you sure, absolutely certain?”

“Yes. It was Mrs. Wray’s own jam, ’er favorite.”

“No raspberry?”

“We didn’t ’ave any raspberry. Mr. Wray’d eaten it all. That was ’is favorite.”

“Could you swear to that, before a judge in court, if you had to?” Narraway pressed.

“Yes. ’Course I could. I know raspberry from greengage. But why? What’s ’appened?”

Narraway ignored the question. “Mrs. Cavendish came to visit Mr. Wray just as Mr. Pitt was leaving?”

“Yes.” She glanced at Pitt, then back at Narraway. “She brung him some tarts with raspberry jam in them, an’ a custard pie an’ a book.”

“How many tarts?”

“Two. Why? What’s wrong?”

“And did he eat them both, do you know?”

“What’s wrong?” She was very pale now.

“You didn’t eat one?” Narraway insisted.

“’Course I didn’t!” she said hotly. “She brung them for ’im! What d’yer think I am, to go eating the master’s tarts what a friend come with?”

“I think you are an honest woman,” Narraway answered with sudden gentleness. “And I think that honesty saved your life to inherit a house a generous man wished you to have in appreciation for your kindness to him.” She blushed at the compliment.

“Did you see the book Mrs. Cavendish brought?” Narraway asked.

She looked up quickly. “Yes. It were poems.”

“Was it the book that was found beside him when he died?” Narraway winced very slightly at the baldness of the question, but he did not retreat from it.

She nodded, her eyes filling with tears. “Yes.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes.”

“Can you write, Mary Ann?”

“O’ course I can!” But she said it with sufficient pride that the possibility of her not having been able to was very real.

“Good,” Narraway said with approval. “Then will you please find a paper and pen and write down exactly what you have told us—that there was no raspberry jam in the house that day, until it was brought in by Mrs. Octavia Cavendish, and that she came with two raspberry jam tarts, both of which Mr. Wray ate. Also, if you please, that she brought the book of poetry found beside him. And put the date on it, and sign your name.”

“Why?”

“Please do it, then I shall explain to you. Write it first. It is important.”

She saw something of the gravity in his face, and she excused herself and went to the study. Nearly ten minutes later, after Pitt had taken the kettle off the stove, she returned and offered Narraway a piece of paper very carefully written on and signed and dated.

He took it from her and read it, then gave it to Pitt, who glanced at it, saw that it was wholly satisfactory, and put it away.

Narraway gave him a sharp look but did not demand it back.

“Well?” Mary Ann asked. “You said you’d tell me if I wrote that for you.”

“Yes,” Narraway agreed. “Mr. Wray died as a result of eating raspberry jam that had poison in it.” He ignored her pale face and her gasp of breath. “The poison, to be specific, was digitalis, which occurs quite naturally in the foxglove plant, of which you have several very fine specimens in your garden. It has been supposed by certain people that Mr. Wray took some of the leaves and made a potion which he drank, with the intention of ending his life.”

“He’d never do that!” she said furiously. “I know that, even if there’s some as don’t!”

“No,” Narraway agreed. “And you have been most helpful in proving that to be the case. However, you would be very wise, in your own safety, not to say so to anyone else. Do you understand me?”

She looked at him with fear in her eyes and in her voice. “You’re saying as Mrs. Cavendish gave ’im tarts what was poisoned? Why would she do that? She was real fond of ’im! It don’t make no sense! ’E must ’ave ’ad a ’eart attack.”

“It would be best that you think so,” Narraway agreed. “By far the best. But the jam is very important, so no one ever supposes that he took his own life. That is a sin in his church, and they would bury him in unhallowed ground.”

“That’s wicked!” she cried furiously. “It’s downright vicious!”

“It is wicked,” Narraway said with profound feeling. “But when did that ever stop men who consider themselves righteous from judging others they think are not?”

She swung around to Pitt, her eyes burning. “’E trusted yer! Yer got to see they don’t do that to ’im! You’ve got to!”

“That is what I am here for,” Pitt said softly. “For his sake, and for my own. I have enemies, and as you know, some of them are saying that I was the one who drove him to it. I tell you that so I have not misled you; I never believed he was the man who went to Southampton Row, and I did not even refer to it the last time I was here. The man who visited the spirit medium was called Bishop Underhill, and he is dead too.”

“’E never . . .”

“No. He died by accident.”

Her face creased with pity “Poor man,” she said softly.

“Thank you very much, Miss Smith.” No one could have mistaken Narraway’s sincerity. “You have been of the greatest help. We will take care of the matter from here. The coroner will bring in a verdict of death by misadventure, because I will see to it that he does. If you have any care for your own safety, you will agree to that, regardless to whom you speak or in what circumstances, unless brought to a court of law by me, or by Mr. Pitt, and questioned on the subject under oath. Do you understand me?”

She nodded, swallowing hard.

“Good. Then we shall leave you and be on our way to the coroner.”

“Yer don’t want a cup o’ tea? Anyway, yer got to take your jam,” she added to Pitt.

Narraway looked at the kettle. “Actually, yes, we can stay for tea, just a cup. Thank you. It has been an unusually trying day.”

She glanced at the dirt and the tears in his clothes, and in Pitt’s, but she made no remark. She would have considered it rude. Anyone can fall on hard times, and she knew that very well. She did not judge people she liked.

Pitt and Narraway walked as far as the station together.

“I am going back to Kingston to the coroner,” Narraway announced as they crossed the road. “I can enforce the verdict we wish. Francis Wray will be buried in hallowed ground. However, there is little purpose in proving that Mrs. Cavendish’s tarts poisoned him. She would be charged with murder, on unarguable circumstantial evidence, and I doubt very much that she had the slightest idea of what she was doing. Voisey either gave her the jam, or more probably the tarts themselves, in order to make sure no one else was affected, both for his own safety in case it was traced back to him, and because insofar as he cares for anyone, it is she.”

“Then how in God’s name did he bring himself to use her as an instrument of murder?” Pitt demanded. Such callousness was utterly beyond him. He could not conceive of a rage consuming enough to use any innocent person as a weapon of death, let alone someone you loved, and above all who trusted you.

“Pitt, if you are to be any damned use to me at all, then you must stop imagining everyone else operates on the same moral and emotional plane as you do!” Narraway demanded. “They don’t!” He glared savagely at the footpath ahead of him. “Don’t be so bloody stupid as to think what you would do in a situation! Think what they would do! You are dealing with them . . . not a hundred mirror images of yourself. Voisey hates you with a passion you can’t even think of. But believe it! Believe it every day and every hour of your life . . . because if you don’t, one day you will pay for it.” He stopped and held out his hand, causing Pitt to all but collide with him. “And I will have Mary Ann’s testimony. That, and the autopsy result, are going where even Voisey will never find them. He needs to know that, and he needs to know that if anything happens to you, or to your family, then they will become public, which would be very unfortunate for Mrs. Cavendish, very unfortunate indeed, and ultimately for Voisey himself, whether she were prepared to testify against him or not.”

Pitt hesitated only a moment. It was safety for his family, and bought without compromise, without surrender. He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out Mary Ann’s testimony. If he could not trust Narraway then he had nothing.

Narraway took it and smiled, thin-lipped. “Thank you,” he said with mild sarcasm. He knew Pitt had doubted, for an instant. “I am perfectly happy to have a photograph made of both papers and lodged wherever you wish. The originals must remain where even Voisey can never reach them, and it is best you also do not know where that is. Believe me, Pitt, they will be safe.”

Pitt smiled back. “Thank you,” he accepted. “Yes, a photograph of each would be nice. I daresay, Commissioner Cornwallis would appreciate that.”

“Then he shall have it,” Narraway answered. “Now, catch your train back to the city and see what election results have come in. There should be some by now. I would suggest the Liberal Club. They will have news as fast as anyone, and they put it up in electric lights for all to see. If I didn’t have to speak to the coroner, I’d go myself.” A flicker of pain crossed his face. “I think the fight between Voisey and Serracold may be far closer than we wish, and I won’t call it. Good luck, Pitt.” And before Pitt could answer, he turned and walked smartly away.

Pitt, exhausted, stood in the crowd on the pavement outside the Liberal Club staring up at the electric lights which flashed the latest news of the results. He cared about Jack, but the Voisey-Serracold contest filled his mind, and he refused to let go of the last hope that Serracold could still ride the Liberal tide and win, by however narrow a majority.

The result at the moment was one in which he had no interest, a safe Tory seat somewhere in the north of the city.

Two men were standing a yard or two from him.

“Did you hear?” one of them demanded incredulously. “That fellow got in! Would you believe it?”

“What fellow?” his companion asked irritably.

“Hardie, of course!” the first man replied. “Keir Hardie! Labor Party indeed!”

“You mean he won?” The questioner’s voice was high with disbelief.

“I told you!”

Pitt smiled to himself, although he was not sure what it would mean for politics, if anything. His eyes were fixed on the electric lights, but he began to realize it was pointless. Results were coming in as they were known, but Jack’s seat, or the Lambeth South seat, might already have been declared. He needed to find someone who could tell him. If there were time, he could even get a hansom and go to Lambeth and hear the result in person.

He moved away from the group watching the lights and went to the doorman. He had to wait a moment or two before the man was free to speak to him.

“Yes sir?” he enquired patiently, politely ignoring Pitt’s appearance. Everyone was seeking him tonight and it was a highly satisfying feeling.

“Is there any news on Mr. Radley’s result in Chiswick?” he asked.

“Yes sir, came almost quarter of an hour ago. Close, but ’e’s nicely in, sir.”

Pitt felt a burst of relief warm inside him. “Thank you. What about Lambeth South, Mr. Serracold and Sir Charles Voisey?”

“Don’t know, sir. ’Eard it’s a bit tighter there, but couldn’t say for sure. Might be either way.”

“Thank you.” Pitt stepped back to make room for the next eager enquirer, and hurried to find a cab. Unless he came across an extraordinary traffic jam, he would be able to get to Lambeth’s town hall in less than an hour. He could see the result come in himself.

It was a fine evening, warm and humid. Half of London seemed to be out taking the air, walking or riding, choking the streets. It was ten minutes before he found a free hansom and climbed in, calling to the driver to take him over the river to the Lambeth town hall.

The hansom turned and headed back the way it had come, fighting against the stream. There were lights everywhere, people calling out, the sound of hooves on cobbles and the clash and jingle of harness. He wanted to shout to the driver to hurry, to push his way through, but he knew it was pointless. For his own sake the man would already be doing all he could.

Pitt sat back, forcing himself to be patient. He veered between believing Aubrey Serracold could still win and the sick doubt in his stomach that anyone could beat Voisey. He was too clever, too certain.

They were crossing the Vauxhall Bridge now. He could smell the damp of the river and see the lights reflected from the shore. There were still pleasure boats out, laughter floating on the air.

On the far side there were people in the streets, but a little less traffic. The hansom picked up speed. Perhaps he would be there in time to hear them announce the result. Part of him hoped it would be all over when he got there. Then he could simply be told, and that would be it. Was there anything at all even Narraway could do to curb Voisey’s power if he were to win? Would he end up Lord Chancellor of England one day, perhaps even before the next government was out?

Or would Wetron be the one to stop him?

No—Wetron had neither the skill nor the nerve. Voisey would crush him, when he was ready.

“’Ere y’are, sir!” the cabbie called. “This is as close as I can get!”

“Right!” Pitt scrambled out, paid him and pushed his way through the rest of the traffic to the town hall steps. Inside was full of more people, jostling each other, cramming forward to see.

The returning officer was on the platform. The noise abated. Something was about to happen. The light shone on Aubrey Serracold’s pale hair. He looked stiff, tense, but his head was high. Pitt saw Rose in the crowd, smiling. She was excited, but the fear seemed to have gone from her. Perhaps she had found the answer to the question she had asked Maude Lamont in a far better, more certain way than any medium could give?

Voisey was on the other side of the returning officer, standing to attention, waiting. Pitt realized with a particle of pleasure that he did not yet know if he had won or not. He was not sure.

Hope welled up inside Pitt like a spring, making him gasp.

There was silence in the room.

The returning officer read out the figures, Aubrey first. There was a tremendous shout. It was high. Aubrey flushed with pleasure.

The officer read out Voisey’s figure; it was nearly a hundred higher. The noise was deafening.

Aubrey was white, but he had been born and bred to accept defeat as graciously as victory. He turned to Voisey and offered his hand.

Voisey took it, then that of the returning officer. Then he stepped forward to thank his supporters.

Pitt stood frozen. He should have known, but he had hoped, right to the bitter end he had hoped. Defeat was crushing like a weight in his chest.

The words went on, the cheers. Then at last Voisey left the platform and pushed his way through the crowd. He was bent on savoring the last drop of his victory. He must see Pitt, look at him and be certain he knew.

A moment and he was there, standing in front of him, close enough to touch.

Pitt offered his hand. “Congratulations, Sir Charles,” he said levelly. “In a sense you deserved it. You paid a far higher price than Serracold ever would have.”

The amusement was sharp in Voisey’s eyes. “Indeed? Well, the big prizes do cost, Pitt. That is the difference between the men who reach the top and those who don’t.”

“I imagine you know that Bishop Underhill and Lena Forrest both died in the explosion in Southampton Row this morning?” Pitt went on, standing in front of Voisey, blocking his way.

“Yes. I heard. An unfortunate business.” He was still smiling. He knew he was safe.

“Perhaps you have not yet heard that they performed an autopsy on Francis Wray,” Pitt continued. He saw Voisey’s eyes flicker. “Digitalis poisoning.” He pronounced the words very clearly. “In raspberry jam tarts . . . quite unmistakably. I don’t have the autopsy report myself, but I have seen it.”

Voisey was staring at him incredulously, fighting against belief in what he had heard. A bead of sweat formed on his lip.

“The odd thing is”—Pitt smiled very slightly—“there was no raspberry jam in the house, except in two tarts brought as a gift by a Mrs. Octavia Cavendish. Why on earth she should wish to murder such a gentle and harmless old man, I have no idea. There must be some reason we have not yet discovered.”

There was panic in Voisey’s eyes; his breath was ragged, beyond his control.

“It seems probable,” Pitt said, “that someone who trusted Mrs. Cavendish implicitly enlisted her help with the express purpose of killing Wray in a manner that would look like suicide, regardless of what it might cost her!” He moved his hand very slightly, dismissing the subject. “The reason doesn’t matter . . . let us say it was a complicated scheme of personal revenge. That is as good a story as any.”

Voisey opened his mouth to speak, then gulped air and closed it again.

“We have the coroner’s report,” Pitt continued. “And Mary Ann Smith’s testimony signed and witnessed, and there will be photographs of both kept in separate and extremely safe places, to be made public should anything unpleasant happen to me, or to any member of my family—or, of course, to Mr. Narraway.”

Voisey stared at him, his skin pasty white. “I’m sure . . .” he said between dry lips. “I’m sure nothing will happen to them.”

“Good,” Pitt said with intense feeling. “Very good.” And he stood back for Voisey to pass, unsteadily, ashen-faced, on his way.