Treachery at Lancaster Gate

Chapter 13

It was long after midnight when Pitt finally got to bed. There had been six police cornering and attacking Tellman, all of them from Ednam’s old station. Three of them were dead, a fourth not expected to survive.

Pitt’s arm was sore where the bullet had grazed the flesh, and the hospital had stitched it and bound it up for him. All his concern had been for Tellman, who was lucky he had not bled to death. Jack also had needed careful stitching and bandaging, and had gone home in some pain.

Gracie had shown up at the hospital white-faced and clinging onto her self-control with a desperation she could not hide. Charlotte had gone to stay with her now, and would be back when she judged that Gracie was all right on her own. Pitt missed her, but he never for an instant questioned the decision-not that Charlotte had asked his permission. She had informed him, with the assumption that he would wish it as much as she did.

Still, he was lonely and sore when he fell into a restless sleep.

He woke several times in the night, jerked into consciousness as if by some loud noise. But the house was silent.

When he finally awoke to a gray daylight it was nearly nine o’clock. His head was pounding and his arm was stiff and on fire. It took him a moment to remember why, and then as he saw the empty place beside him in the bed, and the white bandage, he remembered.

Before washing or shaving, he put on his dressing robe and went downstairs to the telephone. He called the hospital and, as soon as he was connected, he asked about Tellman. He was told that he was in a lot of pain, and very weak from loss of blood but he was expected to recover fully, in time.

That was all he needed to know. Tellman would recover.

In the kitchen Daniel and Jemima were both still at the table and both stood up as soon as he came in.

“Are you all right, Papa?” Jemima said anxiously. “You look…”

“Awful,” Daniel finished for her.

Pitt thanked them wryly, and assured them that he was all right. Minnie Maude came in from the pantry, looked him up and down, and decided he needed quiet and some breakfast. She was right, and for once he did not argue. He wrote a note and gave it to Daniel, with his cab fare, and told him to take it to Charlotte, to assure Gracie that he had telephoned the hospital and been told that Tellman was doing well.

It was going to be a long, tedious morning, with a lot of paperwork to give exact accounts of what had happened in the alley, before the home secretary, or anyone else, could ask for them or misinform the newspapers. Minnie Maude was right: he needed a good breakfast.

After dinner, when Pitt was thinking of going to bed, Narraway called. He walked into the parlor as Minnie Maude directed, and looked at Pitt ruefully.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” he said, but it was impossible to tell from his expression whether that was sympathy or merely an observation. “It’ll take a while to heal,” he added. “Thank God poor Tellman’s going to survive.” He sat down in Charlotte’s chair and crossed his legs.

“If you want whisky, it’s over there.” Pitt indicated the decanter.

“Not yet, thank you,” Narraway replied.

Pitt’s heart sank. He could tell from Narraway’s face that he came with bad news. “What is it?” He wanted a quick blow, rather than drawn out tension, however well intended.

“Alexander Duncannon will face trial,” Narraway replied.

“I know that,” Pitt said tartly. “You didn’t come over here in the mud and ice to tell me something we all know. What’s the real reason?”

“Abercorn is trained in criminal law, did you know that?”

“No.” Pitt was surprised. “What does that matter? I know he’s behind a lot of the heat to get justice for the police. He’s been playing to the gallery all the time since the bombing. I presumed it was for political advantage. He’ll give the prosecution all the help he can. I expected that, didn’t you?” He looked at Narraway more closely. “Godfrey Duncannon can afford the very best lawyers in the country. And whatever he feels about his son, for his own sake, he’ll pay to defend him. Politically he can hardly afford to do anything else.”

“Quite,” Narraway agreed. “Probably with a defense of insanity, due to opium addiction.”

“That’s foreseeable,” Pitt agreed. It bothered him. It was a miserable end to Alexander’s brave and desperate attempt to salvage Lezant’s name and find some justice. He wouldn’t find the mere deaths of Ednam, Hobbs, and Newman sufficient. That was no more than vengeance.

Narraway was watching him, as if he could see the thought behind his eyes.

“Alexander won’t like it,” Pitt said. “But if he’s being defended as insane, his lawyer won’t allow him to testify, and even if he did, it would carry no weight.” He wanted to say more, to give words to his sense of injustice on Alexander’s behalf, as if he himself had been injured by the failure. An innocent man had been hanged, deliberately, and the one friend who knew it had been beaten by the system and his own terrible frailty. And now, even if the insanity plea succeeded, Alexander would escape the rope but die a miserable death in an asylum, alone, in pain and defeated.

Pitt was exhausted and feeling beaten. His muscles, even his bones, ached. Whatever he said would sound like a cry of his own failure-to be frank, his own vulnerability.

Narraway was watching him, his eyes almost black in the shadows from the lamplight, his face touched with both pity and anger.

“Abercorn is going to prosecute it himself,” Narraway said quietly.

“What?” Pitt thought he must have misheard. His mind was playing tricks on him.

Narraway smiled bleakly. “That’s why I mentioned that Abercorn has kept his criminal law qualifications current. Never know when they’ll come in useful.”

Pitt swore with more pent-up rage than he had felt in a long time. It startled him how profound his anger was.

“So have I.” Narraway said it as if that also surprised him.

Pitt forced his attention back. “So have you what?”

“Paid my dues and kept my right to practice law,” Narraway answered mildly. “It’s always a good thing to have.”

Pitt was stunned. “I never knew you had…” He let the words tail off. Of course he had not known. There were loads of things he did not know about Narraway, in fact about most of his life. He knew he had been in the army at the time of the mutiny, in his youth. He must have come back to England and gone to university after that? Law was a hard discipline as well, but perhaps the two were in some way aligned?

“What has that to do with Abercorn, or his case?” he asked, feeling stupidly confused.

“If Abercorn prosecutes Alexander Duncannon, then if I can obtain Alexander’s approval, I shall defend him,” Narraway replied.

Pitt was stunned. He must have misunderstood.

“Why? What can you do that the best lawyer his father can pay wouldn’t do, and do it better?”

“Rather ungraciously put,” Narraway said with a flash of amusement. “But if my plan works, then I can expose the police corruption, and plead some merciful outcome for Alexander, in a hospital rather than an asylum.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Pitt refused to allow himself to hope.

“Then he’ll probably be hanged,” Narraway replied, his voice tight. “Which on the whole might be more merciful than the asylum.”

“With a guilty verdict,” Pitt said bitterly.

“It will be a guilty verdict anyway,” Narraway told him very softly. “It’s what he wants…isn’t it?”

Pitt agreed silently, just a tiny nod and little more than an expression in the eyes.

Narraway stood up and went to the decanter. He poured whisky for each of them, then returned to his seat and continued to explain.

Jack Radley had spent all of the previous day in bed. His wound had been stitched and bandaged and he seemed to be recovering without more than a very slight fever and a lot of pain. He was still shaken enough by the whole event to be very willing to stay at home, most of the time in the sitting room by the fire, wrapped in a heavy dressing gown over his nightshirt. The effort of dressing properly caused considerable pain, wrenching his wound. He was stiff, and it still bled sufficiently for him to be aware that it must be kept bandaged.

He let Emily help him, and was glad of her attention. He was surprised that occasionally he felt a little dizzy.

Normally he had excellent health. He was not used to being so miserable, or so handicapped in all his usual pursuits. It was a sobering thought. It turned his mind to Alexander Duncannon, who was in pain all the time, and knew that it would always be so. How did he bear it?

Thinking of Alexander inevitably forced him to think also of Godfrey.

He looked across the warm, firelit room to where Emily was sitting in her chair while he lay sideways on the couch, his feet up. The light was soft on her face, kind to the few lines of anxiety that were just visible on her fair skin. Her hair looked almost gold in its warmth. He had always liked the way it curled.

He knew what she really wanted to know was if the shooting incident was going to affect his career, but she did not wish to commit herself to saying so. It was not the money that mattered. She had enough to keep them both in the fashion they wished. It was what the loss of his position would do to his self-esteem, his vanity.

Did that matter? Compared with the grief the Duncannons would face? Not much. Emily and the children were safe. So was Jack, in essence. The tear in his arm hurt, but it would heal. He would not be crippled by it. It was up to him whether he let the wound to his vanity cripple him.

What wound exactly? He had obeyed the instruction given him regarding the contract. He had been loyal to Godfrey Duncannon, which was a matter of principle rather than emotion. He had not particularly liked him, but that was irrelevant. He had found him a colder man than he affected to be. No laughter or pain seemed to take his attention for long, or even divert his energy from his task. He was unfailingly polite, but he never apologized. He expressed his thanks, but stiffly, with satisfaction rather than pleasure.

Jack had also learned slowly that Godfrey was more ambitious than he appeared at first. But then many in government were like that. It was part of the job to seem affable. It was even more important to be as hard and as resilient as steel underneath. And clever; one must always be clever.

Then the thought that had been on the edge of his mind for weeks forced its way in: was he actually in the right job? It was the first time he had truly allowed the idea into his mind. He had once believed this job was the answer to what he would do with his life; it suited his charm, his judgment and ease with people, and the degree of leisure and choice that wealth gave him.

As a member of Parliament he would earn Emily’s respect and the public’s acceptance as a man of some purpose.

The fire crackled and sank a little. He should ring the bell and have the footman fetch more wood.

Emily was watching him. Had she any idea what was racing through his mind?

“I shall go to visit Cecily tomorrow,” she said with a rueful smile. “I imagine many of her friends will not. I hope you don’t mind?” It was a question, but he had an absolute conviction that, now that he was better, she would do whatever he said.

“Could I persuade you not to?” he asked with a smile.

“Only if you gave me a reason so strong I couldn’t argue against it. Do you want to?” She glanced at the fire, and then back at him.

“No. I think you should go. Tell me, Emily…do you like Godfrey?”

She stood up, crossed to the bellpull and tugged it. As soon as the footman came she requested more wood, and perhaps a little coal as well. It was a bitter evening. The footman obeyed, taking the scuttle with him.

“Do you?” Jack insisted as soon as the door was closed.

“Pardon?” she asked innocently.

“Do you like Godfrey Duncannon?” he repeated.

“Not very much,” she admitted.

“Why? I want to know.”

“I haven’t got a sensible answer. I think he’s-cold.”

“That’s a sensible answer. Does Cecily love him?”

Emily shrugged. She always did that with great elegance.

“I don’t know. I think she once did.” She did not add anything, but he knew she was thinking that that could happen to anyone, and probably did to many. The danger had brushed by them too, just months ago: the drifting apart, the taking for granted, the small faults becoming more important, the loss of laughter, the protests remembered rather than forgiven.

Did Jack forget that Emily, like Cecily Duncannon, had brought the money to the marriage? Most of the time. When he remembered it, it was with a sense of obligation, the need to live up to it. Did Godfrey feel the same?

Did Emily ever wonder how much the money was Jack’s reason, and the love a well-played act? It wasn’t! But did he make sure enough that she knew that?

“You should go and see her,” he said. “Please do. And find a way to say how sorry I am about all of this.”

“Thank you.” She smiled at him suddenly. “I didn’t want to argue with you about it.”

“But you would have done?” he said with a smile, to rob the words of any sting.

She smiled even more sweetly. “Yes.”

She had not asked him how the case coming to trial would affect his future. It could be another failure, tying his name to one more man of importance who had come to a spectacular crisis in his career, albeit not of his own fault. Was it bad luck? Or Jack’s misjudgment? Should he give thought to some other career where his skills were better employed? For now, he would say nothing. He smiled back at Emily, and tried to ease himself into a more comfortable position. He was fortunate to be so little injured. He could easily have been killed in that alley. If the shot had been only a few inches further to the right…It was time to think rather more deeply.

Emily went to the Duncannon house with considerable misgiving. She had no idea whether Cecily would receive her or not. She had brought a note to leave if she was refused entrance. There was so little to say that it seemed rather ridiculous, but friendship required that she not take the easy escape of claiming that she did not know what to say. There were all kinds of tragedies for which there were no adequate words, nothing that healed the pain. But one did not leave people alone, regardless.

It was a cold morning with a bitter wind from the east that cut through woolen coats and even fur collars, as if it were straight off the North Sea, which it probably was. She was relieved when the door was opened. A blank-faced butler took a moment to recognize her, and then pulled the door wide and stepped backward to invite her in.

“Mrs. Duncannon is in the morning room, ma’am,” he said gravely. The pallor of his face suggested that he knew they were on the eve of tragedy. “If you will excuse me a moment, I will see if she is well enough to receive you.” Without waiting for Emily’s reply, he closed the front door and walked smartly across the wide hallway and knocked on one of the doors. A moment later he returned to take Emily into the morning room where Cecily Duncannon was waiting.

“Emily. How kind of you…” Cecily began, then faltered into an awkward silence. She looked ravaged, her skin pale, dark rings around her eyes as if she were bruised. She seemed beaten physically as well as emotionally. All her old vitality was gone. Perhaps that had been nervous energy anyway, bringing nothing more than the strength needed to keep the pains of reality just beyond reach. Emily had not understood it at the time, but now it seemed so clear. Cecily had known for a while now that this day, or a day like it, was always going to come. What courage it must have taken to seize the time before, and live it to the full. Were it Emily’s own son, Edward, could she have found the strength to do that?

She walked over to Cecily and took both her hands, holding them gently, as if they too would bruise at a touch.

“If you would rather have privacy, please let me know. Don’t pretend for anyone else’s sake,” she said gently. “But if you prefer not to be alone, then I am here for as long as you wish.”

The tears spilled over Cecily’s cheeks and blinking was no help, no disguise. She took a shuddering breath, waiting a moment until she was sufficiently composed to speak.

“Thank you. I…I think I would like you to stay, a little while. Our barrister, Sir Robert Cardew, is in the study with Godfrey. I have no idea what they will do, but Godfrey says Sir Robert is the very best, not just articulate, and of course brilliant with the law, but wise. He will know what will be best for Alexander, in the long term.”

Emily felt a ripple of alarm, cold and frightening. There was no “long term” for Alexander. Did Cecily not know that? She must! Emily had seen it in her face, in her eyes, in unguarded moments. It had been there, and then gone again, mastered by good manners and duty.

Maybe Godfrey really meant the long term for himself. Was that an unworthy thought? If it were Edward in such terrible trouble, would Emily be able to think of Jack, in the long term? And of Evangeline, an innocent inheritor of the stigma that would attach itself to the family?

“Of course,” she said quietly. “You must take whatever advice you think wisest.”

At that moment the door opened and Godfrey Duncannon came in, followed immediately by a man of not dissimilar appearance. He was not quite as tall, but had thick, perfectly barbered iron-gray hair and was immaculately dressed. They both stopped when they saw Emily.

A flash of anger crossed Godfrey’s face but he masked it quickly.

“Good morning, Mrs. Radley,” he said coolly. He introduced Sir Robert Cardew, explaining that Emily was a friend of Cecily, who had no doubt come to offer her sympathies and was about to leave.

“I am sure you will appreciate that we are grateful for your concern, but we have urgent family business to discuss.” He turned to Cecily and the shadow of annoyance was back in his face. Or perhaps it was a disguise for fear. Men such as he would never admit to being afraid; they could not afford to. Enemies and rivals understood fear, and used it. Emily felt a moment’s intense pity for him. Perhaps Cecily was too hurt to be any use, any support at all for him in this. Alexander was his only son also!

She bit back the response she had wanted to make.

“Of course,” she agreed, and then turned to Cecily. “If there is anything I can do, please let me know. Perhaps there are letters to write, errands you wish, or simply to go somewhere with company.”

“Thank you,” Cecily said quickly. “But there is no need to leave now. You have barely arrived…”

“Cecily!” There was sharpness in Godfrey’s voice that was unmistakable.

Cecily stared back at him, terror in her eyes.

It was Cardew who intervened. “Mrs. Duncannon, we have discussed the situation thoroughly and reached what I can assure you is the best plan of action. There is a very good chance that we may be able to prove beyond reasonable doubt that Alexander is not fully responsible for his actions. If we succeed, he will be placed in a secure asylum where he will be well treated, and if your husband deems it wise, you will be able to visit him from time to time.” He smiled at her; but it seemed more out of kindness than encouragement. “I will do everything I can to see that that is the nature of the trial. I advise you to consider allowing your husband to attend the actual trial in your place. It would be bound to distress you.”

Cecily stared at him with distinct chill. “Thank you for your concern, Sir Robert, but I will attend. I imagine Mrs. Radley will accompany me, to make sure I do not attract attention by fainting at an unsuitable moment.” She was standing close enough to Emily to touch her arm lightly, and for Emily to return the pressure.

Cardew looked taken aback, and then uncomfortable. He glanced at Godfrey.

“We will see,” Godfrey said firmly. “Thank you very much.” He reached for the bell to summon the butler to show Cardew out.

As soon as he was gone Godfrey looked at Emily.

“You will excuse us.” It was an order, and only just the right side of abruptness.

“Of course.” Emily was reluctant to leave. She knew by the way Cecily gripped her arm that she did not wish to be left, but in the face of such a clear dismissal she could hardly remain.

The situation was broken by the return of the butler looking distinctly uncomfortable. He hesitated awkwardly.

“Mrs. Radley is leaving,” Godfrey told him.

“Sir, Lord Narraway has arrived and insists upon speaking with you. He…he encountered Sir Robert Cardew on the doorstep, sir.”

“For God’s sake! What does he want?” Godfrey snapped. He was exasperated, but he knew he could not afford to offend Narraway, who was now a figure of immeasurable importance in the House of Lords-immeasurable literally, because no one knew for certain exactly what secrets he had been privy to when he had been head of Special Branch, only that some of them were deemed to be very dark indeed.

“To speak with you, sir,” the butler replied unhappily.

Godfrey straightened his shoulders, and considered for a moment, without looking at either Emily or his wife. “Show him in,” he said curtly.

Cecily looked puzzled, but Emily knew, in an instant of complete understanding, that Godfrey presumed Narraway would not say anything of a personal nature with the two women present. Emily had a strong feeling that he was mistaken.

Narraway came in. He was, as Cardew had been, immaculately dressed, but he was slenderer, and an inch or two shorter. However, there was an air of confidence in him, of controlled energy, that made him dominate the room.

“Good morning,” he said politely, including both women in his glance. He did not seem at all surprised to find Emily there. “I apologize for calling unannounced. I understand it is inconvenient, but it is necessary. I am sure that Sir Robert Cardew has told you that Josiah Abercorn is going to lead the prosecution in the opening trial of your son.”

“Of course,” Godfrey snapped. “I cannot imagine you have come here to tell me something of so little concern to you.” His manner was ice cold.

Cecily seemed frozen, hanging onto Emily’s arm as if for actual, physical support.

“Of course not,” Narraway agreed. “What you will be unaware of, since it has only been agreed this morning, is that I am going to represent Mr. Alexander Duncannon-”

“No, sir, you are not!” Godfrey was furious. “I don’t give a damn who you are, or were. I have engaged Sir Robert Cardew to defend my son. There is nothing further to be said. Good day.”

Narraway raised his eyebrows very slightly. “It is your son who is on trial, Mr. Duncannon. He is of age, and may engage anyone he chooses to represent him. He has chosen me.”

Godfrey was white to the lips. “He is of unsound mind, as you well know. He is not competent to choose who will represent him. You are not even a lawyer. How dare you misrepresent yourself in this manner? It is despicable. Get out of my house, sir, before I have you thrown out!”

For a moment Emily was afraid the passion, the fear, and the rage were going to descend into violence.

Narraway smiled, although it was perhaps more a baring of his teeth.

“I am as licensed to practice law as Mr. Abercorn is. But you must do as you think appropriate, Mr. Duncannon. I am informing you as a courtesy. It is fortunate that Mrs. Radley is a witness to it, although of course I have lodged the necessary papers.”

“I shall not pay you a penny!” Godfrey replied grimly. “Mrs. Radley is also a witness to that. You may call on any others you wish. You will only make a spectacle of yourself. I cannot imagine what you hope to gain by this, but I promise you, it will be nothing.”

“I do not require payment, Mr. Duncannon. Not everything is done for money, at least not by all of us. I have not and shall not ask you for anything whatever. I am defending Alexander, with his consent, because I believe I can bring to pass a certain justice that Sir Robert Cardew cannot. I do not require your consent in this. I am telling you because you have the right to know, not to interfere. Good day, sir. Mrs. Duncannon. Emily, perhaps it would be a good time for you to take your leave also.” With a very slight bow of his head to Cecily, he turned and walked out into the hall.

Godfrey used an expletive he would not normally have used in front of women.

Cecily said absolutely nothing.

Emily squeezed her arm very gently, then turned also and went after Narraway.

She caught up with him on the front doorstep where he had hesitated, apparently waiting for her. She did not bother with niceties. The wind was bitterly cold and both their carriages were waiting at the curb, horses restless.

“What are you doing?” she demanded. A year ago she would have held him in too much awe to have been so abrupt, but since he had married Vespasia she had seen a far more human and vulnerable side to him, to her great liking. “Can you really help Alexander?”

“He is beyond anyone’s help,” he said with startling gentleness. “He will not live a great deal longer. But I believe I can do as he wishes, and save his reputation both as a man of sanity and of loyalty to his friend, who was innocent of the crime for which he was hanged. Then Alexander will not have given his life for nothing.”

She nodded, emotion overwhelming her. “Please let me know if I can help.”

“You can be with Cecily Duncannon,” he replied. “It will be hard for her, and I doubt her husband will be of much comfort.”

The contract had not been signed, and perhaps now it never would be. There was nothing any of them could do about it, and she found that she did not care enough to make an issue of it. It must be won or lost on its own merits.

“Of course,” she agreed.

He smiled, and waited a moment or two for her to accept the assistance of her coachman. Then he walked briskly over to his own coach and climbed in.

The trial of Alexander Duncannon began late in the morning of the third Monday in January 1899. He was accused of the murder of three policemen and the attempted murder and serious injury of two more. They were all named.

Charlotte sat in the body of the courtroom between Vespasia and Jack. Emily was with Cecily Duncannon, as she had promised she would be. Godfrey might be called as a witness, and much to his displeasure, could not be present. He was still furious with Narraway but he had exhausted all avenues of objection to his representing Alexander and there was nothing further he could do.

Pitt could not attend, because he was naturally the chief witness for the prosecution. He also had no choice in the matter.

They all maintained silence, not because it was appropriate, or good manners, but because there was no longer anything left to say.

All the initial court procedures were carried out. They seemed to go on for ages before finally Abercorn called his first witness. He did it with tremendous gravity, making sure that every eye in the room was on Bossiney as he walked slowly, with help from the usher, up to the witness stand. He climbed the steps one at a time, drawing his left foot up to the next step, then the other level with it, clinging onto the rail.

Finally he reached the top and turned to the court. There were gasps from the jury and the crowded gallery.

Charlotte felt her stomach turn and the sweat break out on her body at the sight of his ravaged face, the scars still red, twisted, and hideous.

Even the judge, Lord Justice Bonnington, was pale-faced.

Abercorn stepped forward and looked up at the stand with awe. He listened while Bossiney swore to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but, and gave his name and police rank.

Charlotte glanced at Vespasia. What could Narraway, or anyone, do against this horror? No one would forget this.

“Wait,” Vespasia whispered. “We are a long way from the end, my dear.” She did not look toward Narraway at the defense table, only at Abercorn as he stood in the center of the court, like a gladiator in the arena.

“Constable Bossiney, we can all see the terrible burns that have altered your face irreparably. How much more of your body do they cover?” Abercorn’s voice was clear but gentle.

The judge frowned, but he did not interrupt.

If Narraway felt any disgust at such an extraordinary beginning, it did not register in his calm, grave expression.

“All down my right side, sir,” Bossiney answered. “Far as my knee.”

“I imagine the pain of it was beyond description,” Abercorn observed.

“Yes, sir,” Bossiney agreed.

The judge looked at Narraway to see if he objected. There had been no question in Abercorn’s remark, but Narraway did not protest.

“Did you have any mark or disfigurement before the explosion and the fire at Lancaster Gate?” Abercorn asked.

“No, sir,” Bossiney answered.

“How did you come to be there?” Abercorn went on, his voice light and courteous, as if it were possible that anyone in the room did not already know.

“I was on duty. Information had come in to the station that there was going to be a big sale of opium, sir. We wanted to catch the dealers.”

“Just so,” Abercorn agreed. “And where did this information come from? I assume it must have been a source you considered reliable?”

“Yes, sir. The source’s information had been accurate on several occasions.”

“Regarding the illegal sale of opium?” Abercorn pronounced the word carefully, so no one should miss it.

“Yes, sir,” Bossiney agreed.

“Did you know the name of this informer?”

“No, sir. Just signed his letters Anno Domini or A.D.” As if involuntarily, Bossiney glanced up at the dock where Alexander Duncannon was sitting.

“The same person each time?” Abercorn reinforced the impression.

“Looked like it, sir.”

Vespasia shifted very slightly in her seat. Charlotte knew why. Bossiney was answering every question carefully, as Abercorn had schooled him, never overstating anything. He would be very difficult to catch out. She wondered how Narraway thought he was going to do it. It must be decades since he had stood up in court to defend anyone. Did he really have any idea what he was doing? She glanced at Vespasia, and met her eyes. Vespasia read her anxiety perfectly, and mirrored it for an instant in her own expression, before she very carefully replaced it with a look of complete assurance. But Charlotte knew now that it was a mask, and that it hid fear.

“How many of you went to the house in Lancaster Gate?” Abercorn continued.

“Five of us, sir.”

“And who were they?”

“Inspector Ednam, Sergeant Hobbs, Sergeant Newman, Constable Yarcombe, and me,” Bossiney replied.

“Sergeant Newman and Sergeant Hobbs were killed at the site, and Inspector Ednam later died of his wounds, is that correct?” Now Abercorn looked very grave. His voice was somber and he stood stiffly, almost to attention. He might have been at the funeral now.

No one in the room stirred.

Bossiney’s expression was unreadable because of the damage to his face, but his voice was thick with emotion.

“Yes, sir.”

“Could you describe the house when you arrived, Constable, as well as you can?”

Bossiney did so in some detail. Again Charlotte had the distinct feeling that he had been told exactly how much to say-enough to make it real so the jury could imagine it, smell the staleness in the air, hear the silence, but not enough to lose their attention. It frightened her that Abercorn was so skilled, so very much in control.

“Thank you.” Abercorn nodded.

Narraway said nothing at all. He did not even move in his seat.

Charlotte’s body was tense, her hands locked together in her lap.

“What happened, as far as you can recall?” Abercorn prompted.

Bossiney described the shock of the explosion, the earsplitting noise, the violence, confusion, and above all the unbearable pain, then nothing, just darkness. He used simple words, none that were not part of his ordinary language. Nothing he said sounded coached or rehearsed.

The horror of Bossiney’s description filled the room. Somewhere in the gallery a woman was crying. Emily was sitting close to Cecily Duncannon, who was holding onto her as if she were drowning.

Charlotte could not even imagine what she must be feeling. She wanted to scream at Abercorn to get on with his questions, and not to let them all sit here imagining the nightmare. But of course that was exactly what he was doing. That was what this was all for: to foster the horror, the fear that somehow it could happen to anyone here; to suggest that as long as people like Alexander were free, nobody was safe.

It was the judge who broke the silence.

“Have you anything more for the witness, Mr. Abercorn?”

“No, my lord,” Abercorn said quietly. “I think we have asked enough of him.” He walked slowly to his chair and sat down.

“Mr. Narraway?” the judge asked, and then corrected himself. “I beg your pardon, Lord Narraway.”

Narraway rose to his feet. “No, thank you, my lord. I believe Constable Bossiney has told us all he knows that is relevant.” He sat down again.

The judge looked startled. Abercorn was confused, uncertain whether to be triumphant or alarmed.

The judge adjourned the court for luncheon.

Charlotte, Vespasia, and Jack walked the short distance to the nearest public house seeking a good, hot meal. They did so in silence, wrapped up against the wind. Vespasia did not mention whether she had been to such an establishment before, but she looked around curiously only once. They all had more pressing weights on their minds than the chatter of the other diners, many of whom had also come from one of the nearby courts or offices.

They spoke briefly of Tellman, and his slow but steady recovery. Vespasia particularly asked after Gracie, and Charlotte smiled for the first time that day as she recounted how Gracie was completely in control and Tellman was for once doing exactly as she told him.

“Perhaps he at last realizes how much she loves him?” Vespasia suggested.

“I think so,” Charlotte agreed. “And he is allowing himself to admit that his family means more to him than anything else.”

Vespasia smiled back, and resumed eating a kind of meal to which she was totally unaccustomed.

Abercorn began the afternoon’s testimony by calling Constable Yarcombe. He was better recovered than Bossiney, but he still walked a trifle out of balance for having less than half an arm on one side. He also told of being lured to the house in Lancaster Gate, of how they all were prepared to find a major drug deal in progress, confident that the informer who had previously been so reliable would be so again.

He described the house much the way Bossiney had, but carefully using different words, as if they had not compared notes. Again it was enough to convey that he knew the place, but the account was not swamped in enough detail that any of it could be contradicted.

He spoke of the explosion with some distress, both for his colleagues who were killed and for the searing pain he had felt. When Abercorn asked him, he spoke highly of Ednam.

“Yes, sir, ’e were a fine man. Knew ’im for years, I did. Very brave, ’e were. Very fair. It were a terrible thing that ’e died of ’is injuries. Mind, the pain of it, there were days I wished I ’ad.”

There was an audible murmur of sympathy around the gallery. Charlotte saw one of the jurors muttering something, and then looking up at Alexander, who sat white-faced and stiff. But he was no stranger to pain. He had lived with it since his own accident, and would for the rest of his life. But of course the jury did not know that-and was it relevant to anything? Narraway had not pleaded insanity for Alexander. Why not? Surely the opium he had been prescribed, and then became addicted to, could have driven him mad? And madness was about the only defense for this.

Charlotte wondered what on earth Narraway was doing, and whether Thomas had any idea at all how appallingly this was going. It could hardly be worse.

But when Yarcombe came to the end of his evidence, and Narraway could have done something, again he declined to ask him anything at all.

The ripple of amazement around the court was tinged with anger, even contempt.

And contempt was written clearly on Abercorn’s aggressive face. He looked across once to where Cecily Duncannon sat and there was victory already in his eyes.

Charlotte wished she could somehow hurt him, take some weapon and hit him so hard with it that the pleasure in him would vanish forever. She knew that was ridiculous and childish. It was not really he who was at fault. He was only doing what he was supposed to. But she hated him for enjoying it. And he was! Staring at him, at the shine on his face, she was certain of it. This was a victory against Godfrey Duncannon, because Alexander was his son and he had what should have been Abercorn’s. Godfrey had abandoned Abercorn’s mother for Cecily, and left her to the pain of difficult birth and no one to support her. Perhaps, like Alexander, she too had turned to opium or some other drug. Where would that have left Abercorn as a child?

She turned her attention back to the trial. Abercorn could do nothing now except proceed. If Narraway had hoped to knock his confidence by behaving so extraordinarily, he was not succeeding.

Abercorn called the senior fireman who had attended the blaze after the explosion. His account was exact, harrowing, but with the expert detail that held the attention of everyone in the court. There was a horrible fascination in the power of fire to cause all-consuming destruction. Here, safely in the courtroom, the fear created a frisson of excitement.

Abercorn thanked the fireman and turned to Narraway.

Narraway rose to his feet. “Thank you, my lord,” he said to the judge. “I cannot think of anything this witness has left out, or indeed of anything that could be interpreted other than as he has done.”

“You’ve nothing to ask?” the judge said incredulously.

“Nothing, my lord, thank you.”

The jurors looked at one another, puzzled, even disconcerted.

There was a murmuring in the body of the court.

Charlotte turned to Vespasia, and then wished that she had not. The concern in her eyes was unmistakable. Charlotte reached out and put her hand gently on Vespasia’s and felt her fingers tighten in response.

Abercorn spent the rest of the afternoon calling one expert witness after another. Most moving were the doctors, especially the one who described the pain of those who had survived. The police surgeon described the causes of death of Newman and Hobbs. He also stated that Ednam’s injuries were the primary cause of his death, although it occurred a little later.

Again Narraway had nothing to say.

“Surely, Lord Narraway, you have some purpose here?” the judge said in complete exasperation. “You are hardly giving your client any kind of defense at all! Are you hoping for a mistrial, sir? You cannot claim incompetence. You are perfectly capable of mounting some sort of defense, or I would not have permitted you to undertake it. Do you wish to be replaced?”

“No, thank you, my lord,” Narraway said a little stiffly, as if his neck ached and his throat were dry. “I have not questioned the witnesses so far because I do not believe their evidence is in error or in any way incomplete. I will have questions later. I do not believe it is in my client’s interest to waste the court’s time over issues that are not in doubt.”

“Very well. But you had better begin soon, or I shall be obliged to find a more…competent counsel for Mr. Duncannon.”

“I am engaged, my lord,” Narraway said with a sudden flare of passion. “Believe me, I am!”

Charlotte gripped Vespasia’s hand harder, and found her eyes filling with tears of relief.

Pitt knew it was inevitable that Abercorn should call him as a main witness against Alexander Duncannon. He had spent a good deal of time with Narraway and knew what he had planned, as well as both the chances and the risks. He was not surprised when, the day after he finished with the other expert testimony, Abercorn called him in for a final discussion before putting him on the stand.

At seven o’clock in the morning Pitt was very reluctantly having breakfast with Abercorn at his home. It was a large, elegant house off Woburn Square. This was an excellent neighborhood, quiet and exclusive, wealthy long enough to wear it with ease.

Abercorn ate well. The sideboard held silver dishes of scrambled eggs, sausages, bacon, mushrooms, deviled kidneys, and kippers. There were racks of fresh toast, and there was butter and several kinds of marmalade. Graceful silver pots held tea and hot water, matching the silver cruet sets and the monogrammed knives, forks, and napkin rings.

Abercorn himself was dressed in a suit obviously tailored for him and a quality of shirt Pitt would have felt was extravagant for himself, with a family to support, but he admired it nonetheless. He did wonder why Abercorn had not married yet, or if perhaps he had, and tragedy of some sort had robbed him of his wife and the possibility of children.

In a brief visit to Abercorn’s study the last time he was here, in earlier preparation, Pitt had noticed the portrait of an elderly woman, dressed in the fashion of some thirty years earlier. And in spite of the ravages of pain, her features bore a noticeable resemblance to Abercorn’s. Pitt had assumed it was his mother.

“Sorry for calling you out so early,” Abercorn said almost as soon as the food was served and they began to eat. “But this is crucial. I think we already have the jury completely. It has all gone perfectly so far.”

Pitt knew this from Charlotte, but he intended to make no mention of that.

Abercorn took another large mouthful of deviled kidneys. He had separated them on his plate-a generous helping. They were apparently a favorite and he meant to indulge himself. Pitt wondered how long he had had his wealth. There was something in him, almost indefinable, a relish, that made Pitt aware that Abercorn was not born to such plenty. He still savored it, just enough to see.

“Narraway did absolutely nothing,” Abercorn went on. “I thought at first that he would be a dangerous opponent, but the more I watch him, the more I am coming to believe that he is totally out of his depth. I don’t know why he took the case on at all…” He hesitated, watching Pitt closely.

Pitt did not reply. He sat waiting as if he expected Abercorn to explain.

“You know the man!” Abercorn said impatiently. “Is he really empty, a paper tiger?”

Pitt was conscious that he must judge his reply exactly, not only his choice of words but the precise facial expression that accompanied them.

“He’s made mistakes,” he began. “Misjudgments. But then so has everyone. Sometimes it’s not the errors you make but how you recover from them that mark the difference between failure and success.”

“I don’t intend to give him the opportunity to recover,” Abercorn said tersely. “So far he’s said nothing. Why do you suppose that is?”

Pitt smiled to rob the reply of any suggestion of sarcasm. “Possibly you’ve made no mistakes he could exploit? The evidence of the actual crime seems very clear cut.”

“Indeed, it is,” Abercorn agreed. “But I expected him to say something.” He frowned. “How long is it since he actually practiced law?”

“I didn’t know he ever had, until he told me a couple of weeks ago,” Pitt admitted. “And I didn’t ask him. I gathered it was a very long time ago.”

“I looked.” Abercorn nodded. “I found no trace of his ever appearing in court at all. But he is certainly qualified. Why on earth does he want to defend Duncannon? Do you know?”

It was the first question to which Pitt had to answer with a direct lie. He disliked doing it, but he had no choice.

“I imagine it could have something to do with Godfrey Duncannon. The government is very keen that the contract should be accomplished successfully.”

A shadow crossed Abercorn’s face and then was gone. “I agree that the timing is appalling, and I dislike doing the opposition’s job for them. But the attack on our police force is even more serious than this contract. They are our first line of defense against anarchy and the total chaos of civil disorder.

“The whole of Europe is in civil disorder and within the next ten or fifteen years, at the outside, we will be in chaos if we do not gain some control. Socialism is rising in Russia, Germany, France. The Balkans are on the brink of war. Who is to hold onto order, if not us?”

Pitt did not answer. Everything Abercorn said was true.

“We must not, cannot let down those who rely on us,” Abercorn went on. “Three men are dead and two more fearfully injured. Bossiney was a fine witness. His disfigurement made a lasting impression on the jury. They’ll have nightmares about that for a long time. I’ll have that face in my dreams for years.” He winced, for a moment not making any attempt to hide his emotion.

Pitt felt a moment’s complete unity with him. Bossiney would carry that for the rest of his life. Whatever he had done in complicity with Ednam, it was a monstrous punishment. But it did not justify the crime of hanging Lezant, nor did it assuage Alexander’s pain.

“What is it you wished to discuss?” he asked.

Abercorn brought his attention back to the present. “Ah…yes. Just details. Attitude perhaps more than facts. They seem to be clear enough.” He looked at Pitt earnestly. “I know exactly what I am going to ask you. You are my main witness, beyond the facts already established. Narraway has to cross-question you, or he has done nothing at all. I want to make sure he cannot rattle you. He must know you well. He was your superior for several years.” He left the remark in the air between them, forcing Pitt to respond.

“I believe I know what you mean,” Pitt said slowly. “But if you are plain, then there can be no misunderstanding. We have already gone over the evidence. I shall be precise in answering your questions.”

“And brief,” Abercorn added, still watching Pitt closely. “Don’t offer anything I haven’t asked for.”

At another time Pitt might have smiled. He had given evidence more times than Abercorn had even been in a courtroom. But there was nothing easy, final, or to be taken for granted in this.

“I won’t,” he promised. He must be careful. He did not like Abercorn, and yet his dislike of him was baseless and probably unfair. His loyalty to Narraway was deep, and his loyalty to what he believed to be right was even deeper. He knew exactly what Narraway meant to do-at least he thought he did. Narraway had been very careful not to tell him in so many words.

Abercorn stared at him, weighing, measuring, and judging. Pitt had a strong sense of the man’s power and his acute understanding of others that had brought him from obscurity, poverty even, to a place where he was rich and very widely respected. He was almost certainly headed for the next step up the ladder to a political career of some distinction.

If Abercorn won this case it would be seen as a victory in the crusade for the ordinary man, the policeman on the beat who protected people’s houses, families, even their lives, against crime and disorder. A place in Parliament, even in government, was not unlikely, for Josiah Abercorn, to be a springboard for government office, even, eventually, a ministry, such as the Home Office, with all its power to change the law and life of the nation. It would be foolish to take him lightly.

Pitt had at last learned not to fill other men’s silences with words he would rather not say. He ate his breakfast, without enjoyment.

“Narraway must have some plan,” Abercorn said at last. “You know the man. More to the point, he knows you! Is he going to try to trip you? What does he imagine he can do that Godfrey Duncannon has allowed him to represent the family? I have a powerful feeling that there is something I don’t know! What is it, Pitt?”

Pitt was startled. “What makes you think that?” He was playing for time, studying Abercorn’s face, the tension in his body as he sought to probe Pitt’s thoughts. Was this what the meeting was really about? “How well do you know Alexander Duncannon?” he asked. It was a thought that had only just occurred to him, and probably it was irrelevant.

Abercorn’s expression was extraordinary: a mixture of a terrible humor, bitter and deep; a satisfaction as if tasting something delicate, determined not to gulp it; and a pain that was almost overwhelming.

“Alexander?” Abercorn said with his eyebrows raised. “Our paths have seldom crossed. Why do you ask?”

Pitt shrugged, aware now that they were playing a complicated game with no rules to it. “Looking for what it could be that we don’t know,” he answered.

“Why did Godfrey allow Narraway to do this?” Abercorn held his fork in the air, the next mouthful for once ignored.

“Perhaps it was Alexander’s decision?” Pitt suggested, knowing that it was.

“Why? Cardew was to be his lawyer. He would have been excellent. He would at least have put up a battle.”

“But would he have won?” Pitt asked.

Abercorn pursed his lips doubtfully. “Insanity, perhaps. Narraway hasn’t even put it forward. God knows why. It’s all there is.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t think it would work?”

“Nothing’s going to work!” Abercorn said with a sudden rush of emotion. His big broad hand was clenched on his knife, his face was flushed with a wave of color. “He’s guilty!”

“Yes, he is,” Pitt agreed. He felt as if the room stifled him. He thought of Alexander bent double with pain, the sweat pouring off his face, his shirt soaked with it. He wanted justice for Lezant. He would die for it. He was going to die anyway. The opium would see to that.

Could Narraway bring about that justice?

There was something Pitt had missed, some connection. He racked his brain, but the pieces still did not fit, not quite.