Treachery at Lancaster Gate

Chapter 2

In the morning Pitt dressed in old clothes and deliberately took on an even more casual appearance than usual. He made a point of not shaving. He set out early, while Charlotte was still occupied upstairs, so she would not see him and guess what he was going to do. There was no point in worrying her unnecessarily.

Later he would find out how the injured men were doing, he resolved as he closed the front door behind him and walked along the icy pavement toward Tottenham Court Road. There were newspaper sellers out already and all the headlines were about the bombing in Lancaster Gate. Some cried out for justice, many for revenge. The reports were all laced with fear, just as Charlotte had said.

He crossed over into Windmill Street. It was a risk going to the Autonomy Club himself. Usually he had less memorable-looking men frequent the place, build up an identity, and pass unnoticed. Now he felt as if he did not have the time for such slow-yielding efforts.

He reached the door and went in. There was a bar, and a restaurant that served good, inexpensive food. He could have breakfast here while he observed and listened.

He entered the restaurant with no more than a glance from the half-dozen or so men sitting, staring into their coffee or beer. Some were talking quietly to each other, others ate in silence. Two had pamphlets they were reading. As usual, most of what conversation there was, was in French. It seemed to be the language of international passion and reform. At Narraway’s instruction, he had managed to learn enough to understand most of what was said and on rare occasions to join in. Oddly enough, he found himself gesticulating with his hands in a way he never did when speaking English. It seemed to fill in some of the gaps when he could not think of the word he wanted.

The owner of the place, who lived there with his family, came over to the corner table where Pitt sat, and bade him good morning in French.

Pitt replied, and asked for coffee and whatever form of bread was available. He did not like coffee, but to have ordered tea would have marked him out as indelibly English, a stranger, and memorable. He did not want to be remembered. He was just one more scruffy, dispossessed, and angry man who could find no place in ordinary society.

Two more people came in, a man and a woman speaking Italian, which he did not understand. The man had a grim expression on his face and crossed himself two or three times in a sign of piety and resignation.

They were joined by another man, who was heavily bearded and had high cheekbones. He first spoke in a language Pitt could not identify; then they all reverted to French.

They mentioned the explosion and the deaths several times, and shook their heads in bewilderment. They seemed to have no idea who was responsible.

Pitt’s coffee and bread came, and he paid for it, fishing for pennies in his pocket.

He remained for another hour as the place filled up. Finally a small, dark-complexioned man came in, glanced around, then saw Pitt. After speaking casually to a few other people, he sank down in the seat opposite Pitt, asking permission in heavily accented French.

“Bad business,” he said, shaking his head from side to side. He spoke very quickly now, watching for the proprietor to approach him and take his order. “Surprise, eh? Don’t you think so, monsieur?”

“It surprised me,” Pitt agreed.

“Pity about that,” the man commiserated. “Think it surprised everyone.”

“That’s odd.” Pitt took a sip of his coffee. He disliked the flavor, and it was no longer hot. “You’d think someone would know.”

The proprietor hovered by, and Pitt’s companion looked round, exchanged a few words as if they were long familiar, then gave his order for coffee. He did it as smoothly and comfortably as if he ate here every day. Only after the proprietor returned with his drink did he turn back to Pitt. “You would, wouldn’t you?” he agreed, as if there had been no break in their conversation.

They sat in silence for several minutes, as two strangers might, while they drank their coffee. Both were listening intently to the babble of conversation around them.

“I’ve nothing to tell you,” the man said finally, looking at the scarred tabletop. “But if I ever have, I’ll do it.”

“Sales,” Pitt mumbled. He was referring to dynamite, and his companion knew that.

“Some,” he said. “Here and there. Not enough for that, that I know of. I’ll look.”

“Be careful,” Pitt warned.

The man shrugged and did not reply. He pulled his coat collar up higher and shambled toward the door.

Pitt waited a few minutes, then stood up and walked between the tables without glancing to either side. He went out into the street, where it was fractionally warmer than before and beginning to rain. He went round the corner to Charlotte Street, to a small grocery store called La Belle Epicerie. This was another favorite place for anarchists, run by a passionate and generous sympathizer.

Pitt waited in the queue, listening and passing the time of day. The bombing in Lancaster Gate was mentioned and greeted with indignation by a large man with a beard and crumbs on the front of his coat.

“Damn fool!” he said angrily.

A much smaller man next to him took exception. “Not for you to criticize,” he snapped back. “At least he’s doing something, which is more than you are!”

“Something stupid,” the bearded man retorted. “Nobody even knows who it is! Could have been gas mains blowing up, for all the public knows. Fool!”

“That’s only because you don’t know who it is,” the small man sneered.

“And I suppose you do?” a third man joined in.

“Not yet! But we will,” the small man said, as if he were certain. “He’ll tell us…when he’s ready. Maybe after he’s blown up a few more bloody police.”

Pitt kept his temper and a calm face, as if the man were speaking of blowing up some derelict building rather than human beings, men he had known and worked with. “Gets the attention,” he murmured.

The bearded man glared at him. “You want attention, then? That what you want? You in your nice warm coat!”

Pitt glared back at him. “I want change!” he said equally aggressively. “You think it’s going to come some other way?”

The small man smiled at him, showing broken teeth. A customer was served and left with a paper bag in his hands. The queue moved forward.

Pitt went on and kept appointments that in more usual circumstances Stoker would have kept. He needed to do this himself. He was haunted by the fact that he had seen no warning of this bombing. What sort of a person would do such a thing? If it had not been an anarchist protest, then what? What conceivable purpose was there in killing these policemen?

“Nothing,” Jimmy said as they sat over yet another pint of ale in one of the dockside public houses. It was narrow and crowded, straw on the floor, steam rising from rain-sodden coats. The smell of beer and wet wool filled the air. Jimmy was a long-time informer, a lean man, almost graceful, were it not for one slightly withered hand, which he carried always at an odd angle.

“Don’t believe you, Jimmy,” Pitt said quietly. “It was yesterday morning. Somebody’s said something. I want to know what.” He had known Jimmy for years, and getting information out of him was like pulling teeth, but in the end it was usually worth the trouble.

“Nothing useful,” Jimmy replied, his dark eyes watching Pitt’s face.

Pitt knew the game. He also knew that Jimmy wanted to tell him something, and he would stay here until he did. “Who says?” he asked.

“Oh…one feller and another.”

“Who says it’s not useful?” Pitt persisted. “We’ll get to who told you in time.”

“No we won’t!” Jimmy looked alarmed.

“Why not? Unreliable?”

“Don’t try that one!” Jimmy warned, shaking his head. “You’re sunk, Mr. Pitt. This Special Branch in’t good for yer. Yer used ter be a gentleman!” It was an accusation, made with much sorrow.

Pitt was unmoved.

“What have you heard? Two policemen are dead, and the other three are gravely injured. This information could be of the utmost importance, and I can promise you, if I don’t find whoever it is did it, I’m going to go on looking, and that’s going to get unpleasant.”

Jimmy seemed affronted. “There’s no need for that, Mr. Pitt.”

“Get on with it.”

“Yer won’t like it,” Jimmy warned. Then he looked again at Pitt’s face. “All right! Yer won’t find a whole lot o’ help coming because there’s talk o’ them police being bent, on the take, like.”

“You don’t bomb buildings to get at police on the take,” Pitt said carefully, watching Jimmy’s eyes. “You find proof of it and turn them in. Unless, of course, they’ve got something on you?”

“Turn them in, right? Who to?” Jimmy asked with disgust. “Yer lost the wits yer was born with, Mr. Pitt. They’re bent all the way up, or as high up as I’m likely to get.”

Pitt felt his chest tighten and the smell of beer was suddenly sour.

“Revenge bombing?” he said with disbelief.

Jimmy’s voice was heavy with disapproval. “Course not. In’t you listenin’ at all? I dunno what it’s for. But nobody’s weepin’ a lot o’ tears over a few coppers getting blown up. Not like they would if it was butchers or bakers or ’ansom cab drivers. Nobody’s going ter take risks ter find out for yer.”

Pitt frowned. “Doesn’t make a lot of sense, Jimmy. You give information about a sale of opium to the police, someone will go, but you can’t know in advance who it will be. Revenge is personal. If you kill the wrong ones, then the right ones will come after you. You’ve tipped your hand.”

Jimmy shrugged. “Think wot yer like, Mr. Pitt. Some o’ them coppers is as bent as a dog’s ’ind leg. I’m tellin’ yer.”

“You’ll have to do more than tell me, you’ll have to prove it.”

“I’m stayin’ out of it!” Jimmy said fervently, and lifted up his beer, avoiding Pitt’s eyes.

Pitt shook his head, paid the bill, and went outside into the rain.

He arrived back at Lisson Grove a couple of fruitless hours later. He was followed within fifteen minutes by Stoker, who looked as cold and fed up as Pitt felt, his face bleached with tiredness.

“Nothing?” Pitt guessed as Stoker closed the door.

“Nothing I like,” Stoker replied, walking across the short space to the chair opposite Pitt’s desk and sitting down in it. “We have a reasonable chance of tracing the dynamite, but it might take time, so that if he comes from the Continent he could well be back there by then. But he could be within a day anyhow.”

“Anything to suggest it’s a foreign anarchist, though?”

“No. To be honest, sir, it sort of smells more like a homegrown one with a grudge.” Stoker watched Pitt’s expression carefully as he said the words, waiting for his reaction.

“Then you’d better start looking more closely at those anarchists we know,” Pitt conceded. “Something’s changed, and we’ve missed it. Any ideas?”

Stoker drew in a deep breath, and let it out. “No, sir. Frankly, I haven’t. We’ve got men in all the cells we know about, and they’ve heard nothing beyond the usual complaining about pay, conditions, the vote, the trains, just the usual. Everybody hates the government, and thinks they could do it better themselves. Most of them hate people who’ve got more money than they have, until they get more money. Then they hate the taxes.”

“Something different-anything,” Pitt said quietly. “Any change or shift in pattern, someone new, someone old leaving…”

Stoker looked exhausted. There were deep lines in his bony face.

“I’m looking, sir. I’ve got every man hunting, but if they ask too many questions they’ll be under suspicion, sir. Then we’ll get nothing, except maybe some more good men killed.”

“I know. And make damn sure you’re not one of them!”

Stoker smiled a little uncomfortably. He knew what Pitt was referring to. Almost two years ago, on an earlier case, he had met a woman named Kitty Ryder. In searching for her he had become fascinated, and when he had at last met her he had fallen in love. Now he had plucked up the courage to ask her to marry him, and the wedding was set. She knew what he did to earn his living, and that the dangers were considerable. She understood and did not complain. Nevertheless, Pitt was determined that Stoker would go to his wedding alive and well, and on time.

“No, sir,” Stoker agreed. “I know better than to rush it.”

Pitt came home late and had barely finished his evening meal when the doorbell rang. Charlotte answered it; when she returned to the kitchen, she was not alone, as Pitt had expected, but with a woman of striking appearance. She was in her fifties, at least ten years older than Charlotte, but beautiful in a quiet way, which seemed to grow more intense the longer one looked at her.

Pitt rose to his feet.

“I’m sorry,” the visitor said. “I see this is an extremely inconvenient hour, but I would not have come had I thought I would find you in at any other time.”

From another woman the remark would have seemed strange, but Isadora Cornwallis was the wife of the previous Assistant Commissioner of Police, the man who had been Pitt’s superior when he was at Bow Street. Cornwallis and Pitt had been more than just colleagues; there was a trust between them, established through heavy and hard-fought battles. Side by side they had faced some bitter enemies. One of the worst had been Isadora’s brother. She had shared grief with both Cornwallis and Pitt, and found a very deep love with Cornwallis. Although at first it had seemed hopeless, because she was still married, her husband had died, leaving her free to follow her heart.

“I’m afraid that’s true,” he agreed. “Would you like a cup of tea?” He glanced at the clock on the dresser. “Or a glass of sherry?” Then he wondered if they even had sherry. It was not something they drank unless they had company, which was rare enough. “If we have it,” he added.

“Tea would be excellent,” she accepted.

Charlotte shook her head at Pitt, as if she was surprised he had not taken as much for granted.

“I’ll bring it through to the parlor,” she said quickly.

He knew that Isadora would not have come without good reason. He searched her face for a moment for signs of grief or fear, and found none. Had Cornwallis been ill it would have been written there in her demeanor, however she might seek to disguise it.

In the parlor the curtains were drawn against the winter night. The fire was long settled in hot coals in the grate, filling the room with warmth.

Isadora sat down in the armchair opposite Pitt’s, and he took his own.

“I have come to give you some information that I regret deeply having to pass on, but it may have something to do with the bombing at Lancaster Gate. I give it to you in confidence and trust that you will treat it accordingly, and act on it only if things should prove to be as I fear.”

“Of course.” He was uncertain what she could possibly know that might have to do with the bombing. Were it anything of a police nature then it would be Cornwallis who would know. Surely she was not going to tell him something indiscreet, even secret? It was beyond his imagination that she should betray her husband’s trust.

She began as if the whole subject distressed her. There was a tension in her voice and her hands were stiff on her lap, her usual grace completely absent.

“I assume that you have learned very little so far?” It was a tentative question. Clearly she did not know how much she could ask without being told, albeit courteously, that it was confidential to Special Branch.

“Nothing at all as to who it might be,” he answered honestly. “The only avenue of approach we have is to find out how the dynamite was obtained. That is very probably through one of the usual sources for any anarchist.”

“Are you certain it is an anarchist behind this?” she said very seriously. Something in her tone caused a chill to grip him. It was as if the temperature in the room had dropped.

“No,” he answered. “I don’t see any anarchist purpose in killing our police in this manner. When it comes to foreign groups, we tolerate them here because they are where we can see them. We have moderately good relationships with the countries they come from. Our own homegrown anarchists are more trouble, but so far major bombings are not their style. Sabotage, insurrection, and strikes are more useful to them. Why do you ask?” He sounded impatient. He had not meant to, but he was tired and still heavily weighed down with grief.

Isadora was measuring her words very carefully. “Of course it is likely that anarchists provided the bomb, or at the very least, the materials for it,” she said. “But it seems possible that the motive was not political, in the sense of seeking a change in the entire system of government…”

“I assume you don’t have any specific evidence, or you would not hesitate to say.” He leaned forward a little. “But tell me what you suspect. I will take it as an observation, a suggestion only.”

She took a deep breath and let it out very slowly, giving herself time.

“There is a young man whose family I know moderately well. They are, socially, in an important position.”

With difficulty Pitt forced himself not to interrupt and urge her to reach the point. He found his hands clenching.

“His name is Alexander Duncannon. About four years ago,” she went on, “I don’t know the exact date; he had a bad riding accident. His back was injured and he took some time to recover. The injury still causes him considerable pain. But I think the most severe legacy of the event was an addiction to the opium he was given in hospital during the worst of it.” She was obviously finding it difficult to tell him, not for lack of understanding but because in a sense she was betraying what might have been perceived as a confidence, or at the best, information gained in an unspoken trust.

“He is still taking opium?” Pitt tried to make the narrative easier.

“I think so. He does not mention it, but I have seen him in differing moods, and with the anxiety and constant unease that accompanies such…addiction…”

“If it is for pain, then I presume his doctor prescribes it for him,” Pitt said, keeping his tone matter-of-fact.

Isadora shifted. “He did. But I am not sure that is still the case, or if it is, if it is in the amounts he wishes.”

Pitt was uncomfortably aware that Isadora’s story, like that of the police being lured to the Lancaster Gate house, seemed to center on opium.

“Are you afraid that he is buying opium himself, illegally?” he asked. It had not been made public that the raid had been intended to capture dealers in drugs. Did Isadora know somehow? Cornwallis could have told her; it was possible he had heard through a friend on the force or an old colleague, despite the fact that he was no longer assistant commissioner. “Does your husband know you have come to see me?” he asked.

She winced. “No. And he is not aware of Alexander’s…frailty. I prefer that it remains so. I have no obligation to act regarding opium. I can assume that it is legally prescribed and not inquire. He might feel that he could not.”

Pitt was puzzled. “But you came to tell me? I don’t understand.”

She was quick. “You seized on the opium when I mentioned it,” she said. “Did the bombing have something to do with opium?”

“Is that not why you mentioned Duncannon and his addiction in the first place?” he countered.

She smiled ruefully. “Don’t play with me, Mr. Pitt. I was well used to it with my brother, and with my first husband. I came to you, even though it is difficult for me, because Alexander is a charming, intelligent but unstable young man, who has a passionate hatred for the police. It amounts to an obsession, a crusade against them. He has made no secret of it, but I think many people assume it to be merely part of his rather eccentric style of living, perhaps an attempt to be accepted by the company he chooses to keep, possibly even as a rather desperate form of rebellion against his father, who is a wealthy and formidable man who once had high expectations of his only son.”

“He hates the police?” Pitt sat back, surprised by this new information. “Does he have sympathy with anarchist connections?” It was not unusual for young men of wealth and privilege to have sympathies with the poor, and aspirations to see the politics changed. They saw it as a just cause on whose behalf to rebel.

“No,” Isadora said simply. “A dear friend of his was convicted and hanged a couple of years ago. Alexander did everything he could to save his friend, certain that he was innocent. He failed, and Dylan Lezant went to the gallows. Alexander never really got over it. He believes that a large proportion of the police are deeply corrupt, and they are being shielded by other police for reasons of their own.”

“Do you believe him?” he asked.

She had not expected anything quite so direct. It was clear from the sudden widening of her eyes.

“I believe it is what he thinks,” she answered slowly.

Pitt remembered the Lezant case. He recalled with another chill that that, too, was to do with a drug arrest that had gone wrong. Lezant had been arrested after he shot a totally innocent man who merely happened to be passing.

“I recall the case.” Pitt nodded. “Tragic. Lezant was also addicted, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, but as I said, Alexander was still certain that he was innocent.”

“So who shot the bystander?”

She shook her head very slightly. “Alexander believed Lezant’s story that it was the police themselves.”

Pitt was startled.

“Why would they do that, for heaven’s sake?”

“Carelessness…panic,” she said. “But then they had to blame someone else, because they shouldn’t have had guns with them anyway. I know what you think: He was a young man who was devoted to his friend, perhaps the one person who understood his addiction and did not blame him. He believed what he had to, to preserve his own emotional values and possibly even to justify the battle he put up to save Lezant from the rope-and failed. Who knows all the reasons why we do things?”

He could not argue with her. “So you think Alexander could have placed the bomb that blew up the Lancaster Gate house, killing two policemen and critically injuring three more? Is that not…extreme?”

“Yes, it is,” she agreed. “And I very much hope that I am totally mistaken. Believe me, I debated long and deeply whether I should even mention it to you. It seems disloyal to my friend. Maybe it is worse than that. I am not certain John would approve. I suppose that is obvious, since I have not told him.” Now her face was pinched with a painful memory. “But I know that people you have loved, that you have known all your life, can be quite different from what you have supposed. Why would you even entertain the idea that they are really strangers to you, full of passions that you did not dream of?”

He knew now that she was speaking of her brother, who would have been willing to see her blamed for a crime she had not committed. She would never know if he would even have seen her hanged for it without speaking out to save her with the truth.

The shadow of that time was there in the room. What did she recall of it now? It had been years ago and it had been Pitt who had saved her. It was also Pitt who had caused the downfall of her brother, and his death, in another case after that. So much old pain. And yet Isadora had come to him now with this, not choosing to look aside, not even choosing to confide in Cornwallis, the husband she loved so deeply, because he had once been assistant commissioner of the very police they were speaking of.

Was that because she trusted Pitt to face the truth, whatever the cost?

“I’ll speak to Mr. Duncannon tomorrow,” he promised. “Where can I find him?”

She had wanted him to say just this; it was the reason she had come. And yet now she also looked stricken. The die was cast. It was too late to change her mind.

With stiff fingers she opened her reticule and passed him a small piece of paper. On it was written the address of the flat in which Alexander Duncannon lived. He was of the social class and income that did not necessitate any occupation, except whatever he chose with which to pass his time.

“When might I find him there?” he asked.

“I would try about ten o’clock in the morning,” she answered. “I don’t imagine he will be an early riser. Later, and he might have gone out. He has friends.”

“Thank you. I certainly will not mention your name when I talk to him,” Pitt promised.

She hesitated for a moment, at a loss for words herself. Then she gave a brief smile and allowed him to escort her to the door and the street, where her carriage was waiting.

Pitt found Alexander Duncannon not at his flat but at an art exhibition three blocks away from the Autonomy Club. The man at the door told him who he was. Apparently he came often. A dark, slender young man. He looked about twenty-five. He was standing alone in front of a large painting of a country scene. Laborers stood with scythes in hand. The August sun shone out of a clear blue sky onto the golden cornfield. A few scarlet poppies burned bright at the margins.

Pitt had grown up in the country. This looked idyllic, and quite unreal to him. It had a kind of beauty, but it was set back from the smell of the earth, the relentless heat of harvesttime, the ache of backs too long bent.

“Do you like it?” he asked.

The softness of Alexander’s youth was in his cheeks when he turned, but there were hard shadows around his eyes. He was clearly familiar with pain. He smiled, suddenly and charmingly. It lit his face. “No,” he said with candor. “Do you? Or have you not looked at it long enough?”

Pitt smiled back. “How long do I need to look at it in order to like it?” he asked.

Alexander was amused. “I don’t know, but longer than I have. What do you not like about it? It’s pretty enough…isn’t it?”

Pitt decided in that moment to engage him in an honest conversation. “Is that what you think it should be, pretty?” he asked.

“You don’t like pretty pictures?” He took him up on the challenge instantly and-from the grace of his posture and the sudden life in his eyes-with pleasure.

Pitt gave it consideration. “No, I think I don’t. At least not if it is at the expense of the real. Artifice has its own kind of ugliness.”

Now Alexander was eager, his eyes alight.

“Do you know the place?”

“Not recognizably.”

Alexander laughed. “Touche,” he said cheerfully. “But are you familiar with what it is meant to be? What it was, before it was sentimentalized?”

“Many like it, yes,” Pitt admitted, for a moment caught back in a memory so sharp it was almost physical.

“Funny. I don’t.” Alexander shrugged. “And yet I know it’s wrong. Perhaps anyone can develop a distaste for the artificial, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I agree.” Long ago, before graduating to murder cases, Pitt had dealt with theft, especially of fine art. He had learned a lot more about it than he had expected to, and found it gave him great pleasure. He need not tell this young man who he was, not just yet. Special Branch was not police. No such disclosure was required. “It is an emotional lie,” he added.

Now he had Alexander’s complete attention. “How perceptive of you, Mr….?”

“Pitt.” There was no escaping giving his name without just the kind of dishonesty he had spoken of. “Thomas Pitt.”

“Alexander Duncannon.” He held out his hand.

Pitt shook it. “There has to be something better here, surely?” he asked. “What do you like?”

“Ah! Let me show you something lovely,” Alexander responded. “It’s very small, but quite beautiful.” He turned away and began walking rather unevenly toward the next room.

Pitt followed, interested to see what the young man would like.

Alexander stopped in front of a small pencil drawing of a clump of grass depicted in intense detail. Every blade was perfectly drawn. In the heart of it was a nest of field mice. He stared at Pitt, waiting for his verdict.

Pitt looked at the picture for several moments. He was uncomfortable. Alexander had shown him something that was truly beautiful. His appreciation of it revealed some part of himself. He was not going to break the silence. He would wait until Pitt delivered an equally honest answer.

“That’s real,” Pitt said sincerely. “I almost expect them to move. I can smell the dry earth and hear the wind whisper in the grass.”

Alexander did not hide his pleasure. For a moment in time they stood side by side and looked at the drawing. Then Pitt dragged his attention from the tiny lives caught both by a man’s pencil and by his heart, and thought again of bombs, burning wreckage, and dead police.

“Wonderful,” he said quietly, “how a man can catch something so small, and make it eternal. Thank you for showing me.”

“Worth it, isn’t it?” Alexander replied, his thin face alight. “The whole trip, just to have seen that. Life’s full of small things that matter passionately. Absurd-a man that doesn’t, and mice that do.”

“You say that as if you had someone particular in mind?” Pitt prompted, wondering if he was speaking of Lezant.

Suddenly the pain was back in Alexander’s face, and with it a startling bitterness. “Too many,” he replied. “People dead, who shouldn’t be. People alive who do only harm.”

Pitt felt faintly deceitful in broaching the subject, but perhaps this young man had nothing to do with the Lancaster Gate bombing either. He would be pleased if that proved to be so.

“Indeed,” he said quietly, looking at the next painting, a rather flat still life with flowers. “Anarchists, for example. Destroy everything and create nothing.”

Alexander did not reply for several moments.

Pitt was about to speak again.

“Sometimes it’s only the destroyers who get noticed,” Alexander answered then. “Everybody remembers the man or men who assassinate a president that oppresses his people and puts to death hundreds of the poor who dare to protest. Who’s going to remember the man who drew the mice? Are you?”

Pitt felt a moment’s embarrassment. He had been too absorbed in the drawing to look for the artist’s name.

“No,” he admitted. “Who was he?”

Alexander smiled, a wide, flashing radiance that was instantly gone as the darkness swept back in again. “Actually it was a woman. Mary Ann Church.”

“And the anarchists?” Pitt said.

Now Alexander’s face was shadowed and his body tense, visibly so, even under his beautifully cut jacket. “I wouldn’t tell you, even if I knew.”

Pitt did not hide his surprise.

Alexander shrugged. “Well, perhaps if I knew, and they got the wrong people, and were going to hang them, I would,” he amended. “Justice is a very big thing, kind of ugly and beautiful at the same time. Like that tiger over there!” He pointed vaguely.

Pitt searched the paintings on the far wall.

“I can’t see a tiger.”

“That’s rather my point,” Alexander replied. “There are some more nice things in here, if you look. I must go.” He turned and walked away, and as Pitt watched him he was aware of a considerable limp, as if the young man’s back gave him constant pain.

Pitt looked at the mice, tiny, pulsing with life, and now immortal, at least in the mind.

Tellman came to Pitt’s office late, just as Pitt was thinking of going home. Tellman looked tired and his lean face was pinched with unhappiness. He stood stiffly in front of Pitt’s desk. He would not sit down until he had been given permission. It was as if he were making a statement that he did not belong here. He had an overcoat on, but no gloves, and Pitt noticed that his hands were red from the cold air outside.

“Tea?” Pitt offered. These days he had someone who would make it for him and bring it.

“I’ve little to report,” Tellman replied. “Not be here long enough to take tea. But thank you…sir.”

“Yes, you will. Please sit,” Pitt told him, pulling the bell cord for someone to come. As soon as they did, he asked for tea, and biscuits as well.

Reluctantly Tellman took off his coat and hung it on the coat stand by the door, then sat down.

“Haven’t got anything very helpful yet, sir,” he repeated. “Been to all our usual informers, and nobody seems to have anything. Sorry, but it looks as if you’ve got a new and very bad sort of anarchist in the city. Might have got the dynamite from one of the quarries inland a bit. Bessemer and Sons is missing a noticeable amount. A dozen sticks or more. Reported it unwillingly. Didn’t want to look as incompetent as it seems they are. Somebody’s head will roll for that. Probably the foreman’s.”

“Any idea who took it?” Pitt asked. It could be a lead, and so far the only certain direction in which to look.

“Working on it,” Tellman replied.

The tea with biscuits came, and Pitt thanked the man as he left.

Tellman glanced at the teapot reluctantly, but could not resist the fragrant steam and the suggestion of warmth. He took a biscuit and bit into it, clearly suddenly hungry.

“You find anything?” he asked with his mouth full.

“I’m not sure,” Pitt replied. He looked at Tellman’s tired, unhappy face, and knew that he was still deeply shocked by the violence of the bombing. Of course policemen were killed in the line of duty every now and then, and there were traffic accidents, even train wrecks where the casualties were appalling. Buildings burned, bridges collapsed, sometimes floods caused terrible damage. But this was deliberate, created by human imagination and intent, and directed specifically at police, men that Tellman knew.

“Not sure?” Tellman said with surprise. He put his mug down, no longer warming his hands on it. “What do you mean?”

“Isadora Cornwallis came to see me, privately, so this is confidential,” Pitt told him. “If she chooses to tell her husband that’s up to her. I don’t want it getting back to him through police gossip. I’m telling you it was she simply so that you know what I learned was not lightly given, or something I can afford to ignore.” He watched Tellman’s expression to be certain he understood.

“What does she know about anarchy?” Tellman pursed his lips, doubt in his face.

“Some anarchists come from privileged backgrounds,” Pitt told him. “They aren’t all peasants or laborers with a pittance to live on.”

Tellman stared at him, waiting.

“She is acquainted with a young man of excellent family who has a profound grudge against the police, many of whom he believes are corrupt,” he continued. “He also has possible connections with anarchists. Only philosophically, so far as we know, but he might know where to go to purchase dynamite, possibly stolen from a quarry such as Bessemer and Sons, who you say are presently missing about a dozen sticks.”

Tellman put his hands back around the mug. “What’s his complaint about the police? Thinks he’s above having to accept order and behave himself?”

“It’s a great deal more serious than that. At least, he believes it is.”

“Like what?” Tellman said sharply.

“Like police accidentally shooting someone and then blaming an innocent man, Dylan Lezant, and seeing him hang for it.”

“Oh, yes?” Tellman sneered. “And who says Lezant was innocent? His good friend the anarchist sympathizer?”

Pitt put down his own tea. “They were good friends, it’s true. And what actually happened doesn’t matter, Tellman. If this young man thinks that’s what happened, then that’s what he’s going to act on.”

“That’s what he says,” Tellman argued. “Have you any reason to believe this man of yours isn’t just an ordinary bomber who thinks he can terrify us into doing whatever political madness he wants?” There was an edge of challenge in his voice, as if Pitt had deliberately suggested there were some justification for the murder of the policemen.

Pitt measured his reply carefully, but he felt his own anger rise, even though he understood Tellman’s grief. He had seen those broken bodies himself.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t know if he had anything to do with it. I’m telling you that we can’t rule him out as a possibility.”

“What’s his name?” Tellman asked.

“I’ll deal with it, for the time being.”

Tellman froze, the color flushing up his cheeks. “You don’t trust me to tread softly with this young gentleman of yours?” His voice was strained, his jaw tight. “I’m an inspector, Commander Pitt. I’m just as capable and used to speaking to quality as you are, even if I’m not married to a lady. And maybe I appreciate the ordinary policemen, like those in the hospital, or the morgue, a bit more than you do.” He put his mug down and rose to his feet. “I answer ultimately to the police commissioner, not to their lordships in Parliament. I’ll find the man that set that bomb, whoever’s son he is.”

Pitt was momentarily taken aback. He had not been sensitive to just how deeply Tellman had been hurt by the bombing, or, to tell the truth, to how profound his loyalty was to the force. There was an element of truth to the insinuation that Pitt’s identity had changed when he left the police and joined Special Branch. He’d had no choice, if he was to succeed in his new position.

Pitt remained seated. “You may prefer then that I don’t tell you in future, should there be anything further to this lead. If that is the case, then I shall have to take it directly to Bradshaw. But I would rather not. He doesn’t know the dead men personally; you do.”

Tellman looked confused. He had made something of a fool of himself, and he was now aware of it, but unwilling to step back.

“I suppose you’d better keep me informed,” he said unhappily. “Somebody has to fight for the men. God knows, two of them are dead and more could follow.” He met Pitt’s eyes defiantly. “I’m not going to let them be murdered, blown apart, burned and crippled, then when they can’t speak for themselves, blamed for it as well.”

Pitt hesitated only a moment. If he allowed Tellman to get away with that insult, something would be lost between them.

“Is that what you are suggesting I am going to do, Inspector Tellman?” he asked quietly.

Long tense seconds of silence hung in the room before Tellman answered.

“That possibility won’t arise…sir,” he said. He gave a curt nod and walked out.

Pitt leaned back in his chair feeling acutely miserable. He had had no choice but to inform Tellman of the general situation, because it could be part of the case. In fact, at the moment it was the only lead they had. But he had not handled it well.

His last visitor of the day was completely unexpected, and did not come to Special Branch in Lisson Grove, but was waiting for Pitt when he finally arrived home at Keppel Street. He had barely got through the front door and hung his wet coat on the rack in the hall when Charlotte came out of the parlor. He knew the instant he saw her face that something was disturbing her.

She smiled, but there was a warning in her eyes. She came forward and kissed him gently, just a moment of sweetness he would dearly like to have clung on to, but she pulled away.

“Jack has come to see you,” she said almost under her breath. “There is something about which he is deeply concerned. I’ll leave you to talk to him in the parlor. The fire is burning up well and there is sherry, if you want to pour him a little. I’ll be in the kitchen.” And after a moment of meeting his eyes again, she turned and went down the corridor and around the short corner into the kitchen.

Pitt opened the parlor door and felt the warmth of the familiar room close around him. It was quiet, full of pictures of the family, ornaments they had collected over the years. The picture over the mantel was a good reproduction of a Vermeer painting of a quiet harbor with sailing vessels and Dutch quayside buildings against a gentle sky.

The curtains over the French doors to the garden were drawn, keeping out the winter.

Jack Radley stood near the mantelshelf, handsome, well dressed as always. Whether he was at his ease or not, he always managed to look it. He had a natural grace. He straightened up as Pitt came in and closed the door.

“Sorry to call without warning,” Jack said. His smile was slight, and worried.

Pitt went over to the decanter on the side table and without asking poured two glasses of sherry. He did not particularly like it, and he took less for himself, but it gave him time to order his thoughts. Jack Radley was the second husband of Charlotte’s younger sister, Emily. He had begun as a remarkably handsome and charming young man about town with good breeding and absolutely no money. The fortune was Emily’s, inherited from her first husband, Lord Ashworth.

But Jack had taken his opportunities very seriously. He had worked hard to become a member of Parliament, fighting for a seat on his merit rather than accepting a safe one where he could afford to be idle. He had earned his present position in the Foreign Office. In fact, he had been extremely unfortunate not to be in an even higher one. A misjudgment, a loyalty betrayed, had robbed him of a position his diligence warranted.

He sipped his sherry. “Thanks. Rotten night. Feels like January already. I’m sorry to disturb you. You must be frantic with this appalling bombing.” It sounded like a casual remark, but Pitt knew it was not. Jack was becoming politically adept. Beneath the charm, he seldom wasted words.

“Indeed,” Pitt nodded. “I imagine you would much prefer to be at home with Emily. So what brings you here?”

Jack smiled sincerely this time. “Can’t waste time playing diplomatic games with you, can I, Thomas? Very well. To the point. I heard you spoke to Alexander Duncannon today. Whether it has anything to do with this bombing at Lancaster Gate or not, people will assume that it has. That has to be taking all your time and attention right now.”

“Of course. Yes, I went to see Duncannon. Why does that concern you?”

“Are you aware of who his father is?”

“No. Nor do I care.”

“Then you had better begin caring.” Jack’s smile had vanished and his face was marked with concern. There were lines Pitt had not noticed before around his eyes and mouth.

“Why?” Pitt said levelly.

Jack kept his temper with difficulty. “Thomas, don’t pretend you are naive. You’ve been in high office long enough to know that things are seldom that simple. I’m not asking you to lie, or to let a guilty man go, or arrest an innocent one-just wait a few days-a week maybe…”

“Wait for what?” Pitt asked.

“Until a certain contract of major importance has been negotiated,” Jack replied. “I can’t exaggerate how much it matters. It is with a provincial government in China, concerning the establishment of a free port on the China Sea. The boost to trade will be immeasurable. In Britain thousands of people will benefit. The work it will promote will make them richer and safer-once this contract is signed. That’s all I can tell you, so please don’t push me for more.”

“Why on earth should I hold up the investigation of a bombing because of that?” Pitt asked curiously. “I don’t see any connection.”

“Godfrey Duncannon is the only man who has the skills and the connections to negotiate it successfully. If his son is under investigation, or there is even a suggestion of it, it will handicap him enough to jeopardize the whole matter. The Chinese don’t trust us easily, which after the Opium Wars is hardly surprising! I wouldn’t trust us.”

“Replace him with someone else,” Pitt said. “Let him advise them from somewhere where he isn’t seen. They can report to him, and he can put his knowledge there, without anyone knowing.”

Jack lost patience. “For God’s sake, Thomas! It’s his standing, his reputation, his charm that matters! Of course we’ve got other people who could be schooled to say and do the right things. I could do it myself, with a bit of guidance. But I don’t have Godfrey’s personal connections. He’s spent a lifetime making friends, building up a network of obligations and debts of honor and gratitude within China. That sort of thing takes time, which we haven’t got if we go back to the beginning.”

Pitt hesitated.

“We need Duncannon,” Jack insisted. “I’ve no idea if his son has anything to do with the case or not. It’s possible he could have got himself caught up on the fringes. Solve it without his help. Or leave it a week or two until the treaty is sealed. Please!”

“I’m not sure that I can,” Pitt said slowly, searching for words as he went. “If the rest of the investigation comes back to him, I can’t tell the police not to question him.”

Jack’s face was tense, his voice hard-edged. “What can he tell you? That someone he spoke to bragged that he knows where to get dynamite? You’ll get that through another source. Don’t tell me you only follow up one man. You must have men in every cell of anarchists worth bothering with. Even I know about the Autonomy Club. You must know of a dozen other such places. Alexander Duncannon might be the easiest source for you to question, and the safest. He’s a damaged young man in plain sight, and you can go and find him without having to look. He had a bad accident and is still vulnerable. Leave him alone, Thomas. Get the same information somewhere else.”

Pitt saw the anxiety in Jack’s face and knew there was far more that he was unable to say. But was it because of the contract that he could not go into detail, or was it his own stake in the matter? Jack had made too many serious errors of judgment over the last few years. He had done no more than any other man in his place might have, but the results had been on the brink of catastrophic. Treason and murder had been involved. Jack was a diplomat, not a member of Special Branch. He had trusted people everyone else had also seen as above suspicion, and been wrong, but he had been close to these men; had worked hand in glove with them. It was Pitt who had learned the truth, and put together the pieces that formed a far different picture.

But as it was, Jack would be seen, at least by some, as being easily fooled, with flawed judgment, not safe to promote to higher office. Was that what troubled him this time? He could not afford to be closely allied to another man stained by scandal, let alone mass murder.

“He hasn’t given me any information,” Pitt said. “He is a possible suspect…”

“In bombing the house in Lancaster Gate?” Jack asked incredulously. “Don’t be absurd!” But even as he said it, his voice wavered minutely. “Why on earth would he do such a thing? He has unsuitable friends, that’s all. He’s young. Twenty-three or -four. I had some unsuitable friends at that age. Didn’t you? No, I suppose you didn’t. You were probably walking the beat in some domestic suburb and helping old ladies across the road.” There was anger in him now. Or was it fear?

“Probably,” Pitt agreed. “Whereas you were helping the young ones.”

Jack blushed very faintly. He had moved from one country house to another, as a cheerful, handsome, and hugely entertaining guest. He had never intended to marry any of the highly eligible young ladies. He would not have been acceptable to their families because he had no money with which to support them. But everybody liked having him as a guest. He made them laugh, he flattered them, he was nice to everyone. He dressed beautifully and rode a horse with skill and grace. He was wise enough never to drink more than he could hold and had more sense than to sleep with the wife of anyone who mattered. In fact he was discreet enough never to damage anyone’s reputation at all. They were not skills everyone possessed.

“Perhaps I deserve that.” He gave Pitt a rueful look. “Please, Thomas, I’m asking you.”

“I’ll try,” Pitt conceded. “And certainly I will be discreet about questioning Duncannon. That’s as far as I can go.”

“Thank you.” Jack nodded, a faint smile touching his lips at last. He picked up his sherry, turning the glass slowly and letting the firelight sparkle from the cut edges of the crystal.

Pitt raised his as well, but it was a gesture, an agreement.