Treachery at Lancaster Gate

Chapter 9

This bombing was on Craven Hill, a street not a hundred yards from Lancaster Gate. A weak daylight breaking through the cloud showed what was left of the house, smaller than the first but also apparently unoccupied. The blast had woken neighbors who had called the fire brigade. They must have come very quickly because there was little still burning, although the acrid stench of charred wood was heavy in the air and there was debris all over the garden and the road.

Two fire engines stood in the street, horses uneasy, moving from foot to foot, tossing their heads as if eager to leave. In each case, one man stood by them, talking gently, comforting, encouraging.

Pitt looked along the street. It was a quiet, domestic neighborhood, indistinguishable from Lancaster Gate except the houses were a little smaller. As he watched, he saw a couple of curtains move. He would have been surprised had they not. People were curious, but above all they would be frightened.

Was this the same as the last? Alexander Duncannon again? Or was he wrong about that, and it was anarchists after all?

Pitt turned as the chief fireman approached him.

“Morning, sir,” the fireman said gravely. It was the same man who had attended the first bombing. This was natural, since it was so close.

“Morning,” Pitt replied. “Any casualties?”

“No, thank God,” the fireman replied. “Seems police weren’t called to this. But definitely a bomb. Hell of a blast, so the neighbor said who called us. About an hour ago, just over. Still dark.”

“Single explosion?” Pitt asked him.

“That’s what he said, and looks right, from what we can see. But it’s as safe as we can make it. Look for yourself.”

Pitt followed the fireman, stepping carefully through the rubble and fallen beams, being careful not to touch anything, even accidentally. The firemen could not make it safe without moving things, and he needed to see it undisturbed.

“That’s where the bomb was.” The fireman pointed to what had been the sitting-room fireplace. “Blast went up the chimney, or at least part of it did. Brought them all down, which caved a lot of the roof in. Big chimneys clumped together, these houses. Sweep’s boy could climb from one to another.”

“Best place to plant the bomb?” Pitt thought so, but he wanted the fireman’s professional view as well.

The fireman frowned. “You’d need a long fuse. You wouldn’t want to be near it when it went off, ’cos the whole damn roof could land on you…which it did…fall in, I mean.” He shook his head, staring at the big pile of bricks and stones that rose almost to the ceiling. This obviously had been the main load-bearing wall, with the strength of the central part, and the weight of the chimneys on it. “Take a big charge to do this much damage.”

“How much? Four sticks?”

“About that…high-quality stuff,” the fireman agreed. He turned to look at Pitt. “Any idea who you’re looking for, sir? It’s been empty houses so far, but that could change.”

“I know that.” Pitt did not mean to sound terse, but he knew he did. “Does it look to you like it was the same man as Lancaster Gate? He seems to know exactly where to put it for maximum effect. And this house was clearly unoccupied…but he didn’t call the police…”

“What I’d like to know, sir, is if he wanted to get the police last time, what’s changed so he doesn’t this time, eh?”

“I wish to hell I didn’t know the answer to that,” Pitt told him. “But I think I do. I want to look around a bit further. See if there’s anything else to learn.”

“I’ll come with you.” It was a statement, not an offer.

Pitt nodded acknowledgment. “I don’t intend to move anything.”

“Damn right you don’t! But I’m coming with you anyway.”

They walked carefully through the rest of the downstairs of the house. The stairs were half blown away and the cellar door was blocked by rubble it would be dangerous to move.

It was on the table in the scullery that Pitt found the piece of white cloth. He picked it up carefully. It was a gentleman’s large handkerchief, made of fine lawn and embroidered with initials in one corner. It was high quality, tasteful and expensive. He knew what the initials were before he looked at it. A.D.

“Mistake, sir? Or a message?” the fireman asked.

“A message, I think,” Pitt replied. “I didn’t take the last one seriously enough.”

The fireman took a deep breath, regarded Pitt for a moment, then changed his mind about saying what was on his mind.

Outside again in the street it was lighter, and a small crowd had gathered almost twenty yards away. As Pitt and the fireman came out onto the pavement a man of about sixty broke away from the others and came striding across the road toward Pitt. He was solidly built, with wings of gray at his temples.

“Are you in charge of this, sir?” he said in a voice edged with anger, and perhaps also fear.

“Yes, I am.”

“Then you’d better investigate rather more successfully! Decent people are afraid to go to bed in their own homes. Decent policemen are getting killed doing their jobs, and there’s no justice for them or their families. We’re suspicious of everyone out alone after dark, or with a package in their hands. Some people are saying it’s anarchists, but others are suggesting it’s revenge for police corruption-”

“Where did you get that from?” Pitt interrupted him.

“Irresponsible newspapers,” the man replied, not backing off an inch. “Left wing. Lunatics, some of them. But is it true? Have we got corrupt police?”

Pitt thought rapidly.

“Someone has said we have, but it is only one man making that claim. And yes, he could be the bomber, or just someone trying to take advantage of a tragedy to make his own point,” he answered.

“Well, if you don’t do something, some people are going to start doing it themselves,” the man warned. “And I’m speaking for all of us.” He glanced back at the growing crowd watching him.

The fireman was looking at Pitt also, waiting for him to respond.

Pitt hated this. Being at odds with the very people he was meant to protect was the beginning of true anarchy, the loss of trust, the fear that sowed seeds of chaos.

“It’s one man,” he said very clearly. “And I’m going to see him, now that I have evidence I believe sufficient to charge him. I can’t hold him without it.”

“But-” the man protested.

Pitt stared at him. “Do you want me to have the power to arrest someone without proof, sir? A gentleman…as respectable as you are? He’s not known to the police for any offense at all.”

“Oh…well…just do your job!” The man turned on his heel and walked away, straight through the puddles on the road, and rejoined the still growing crowd.

The fireman nodded. “That’ll hold them for a while. Is it true, that the man you’re after is a gentleman?”

“Yes.” Pitt did not want to give explanations.

“Right, sir. Good luck.”

Pitt thanked him and left. He walked away cold, wet, and deep in thought. There was no escaping the inevitability that this was Alexander Duncannon again, giving a violent reminder that no one had checked into what he believed was police corruption. Pitt found a small cafe open and sat with workmen who were late for duty, and ate a bacon sandwich with a cup of scalding-hot, overstewed tea. The bitter taste of it was oddly welcome. He was anonymous in the crowd, just another tired man with wet hair, hands red with the cold.

Should he send Stoker to see if Alexander was at his flat? If he was in, or not, what would it prove? Unless he had dynamite on the kitchen table, nothing. And this second explosion accounted for all the rest of the dynamite they knew had been stolen. Without proof, arresting Alexander would do more harm than good. Godfrey Duncannon could prevent any further investigation, if he wished to. And given the issue of the contract, he well might. Pitt remembered his promise to Jack the previous evening, but the situation had now changed and he couldn’t just do nothing this morning.

Resolved, Pitt found his way to Alexander’s flat. The door was unlocked, and Alexander was sitting at the kitchen table looking desperately ill. His face was sheened in sweat, his skin was pale, and he was shaking as if he had a raging fever. His shirt was soaked.

He saw Pitt and for an instant his eyes were filled with hope, then he recognized him and the hope died. He slumped forward again with a gasp, his arms wrapped around himself as if some pain within him were almost intolerable.

“Alexander,” Pitt said gently, sitting in the chair next to him at the table. “Do you need a doctor? Can I get you anyone?”

Alexander’s teeth were clenched and he moved very slightly, as if he would rock himself were he able to bear the pain in the bones and muscles if he moved.

“No…” he said through clenched teeth. “There’s nothing…”

“There has to be something…”

Alexander grimaced. “You don’t happen to be carrying a spare twist of opium, do you?” The hope in his voice was for a moment greater than the misery.

Pitt tried to think if he knew anyone who could supply such a thing. The police surgeon? He might carry it in his first-aid kit, for pain. But Pitt would have to explain why he wanted it, and could he?

“Where do you get it normally?” he asked instead.

Alexander looked at him. “So you can arrest him?”

“So I can get you some.”

“And then arrest him. No. He’ll come. He always does. Being late is just a reminder to me of what it’ll cost if I turn him in. A touch of real power…in case I get out of line.” He stood up, bent double, and staggered across the room toward the bathroom and toilet.

Pitt could not help. The least he could give him was privacy-if Alexander even cared about that anymore. Pitt did not often feel violent, but whoever did this to anyone, as a reminder of power, deserved to be beaten till he hurt like this. Right now, Pitt would have liked to be the one to do it to him.

He lingered for a few moments, glancing around the room to see if there were any signs of Alexander having been out very recently. He must have worn a heavy coat to go to Craven Hill. The night was bitter. He stood up and walked over to the cupboard near the door. He pulled it open silently. There was an overcoat on the hanger. He touched the shoulders. The cloth was still wet. Had he been to Craven Hill, or simply to look for more opium? He leaned forward and sniffed, but there was no odor. But the bomber would have left before the blast anyway.

Should he stay in case Alexander collapsed and needed his help even to get back into his room and the chair? Might he be alone and unconscious on the bathroom floor? Or was the supplier waiting until Pitt was gone before he would appear with help? Anything that delayed that, even for minutes, was prolonging the torture.

He would go, and then come back again later, to make certain Alexander was all right. Perhaps he would find a doctor he could trust to be discreet?

He got up and went to the bathroom door just as Alexander opened it and came out. He looked white, but relieved of some of the pain.

“Let me take you to a hospital,” Pitt asked. “They’ll give you something immediately.”

“One dose,” Alexander replied. “What about tomorrow? And the next day?”

Pitt had no answer.

One thing he could do was find out what had really happened in the Lezant case.

Alexander was in no shape to talk to him. Who could he find to tell him, on Christmas Eve?

“I’ll come back and check you’re all right,” he said. What was that worth? Anything?

Alexander tried to smile and muttered a thank you.

Pitt walked down the narrow stairs and out into the rain again. It was cold, but the wind had dropped. He decided he would go see the lawyer who had prosecuted the Lezant case, a Walter Cornard. However, when he reached the office Pitt was told, with some surprise that he should ask, that Mr. Cornard had left for the Christmas holidays and was not expected to return until December 27.

Pitt had introduced himself simply with his name and rank. Now he met the man’s startled look grimly. “Of Special Branch,” he added. “I am sorry to inconvenience your Christmas, and my own, but there has been another bombing, and I’m afraid the matter will not wait until we have enjoyed Christmas dinner.”

The man blanched. “I assure you, Commander Pitt, if we had any knowledge at all of such matters, we would already have informed the police.”

“I need to speak to Mr. Cornard regarding an old case. You will be good enough to give me his address,” Pitt replied. “Immediately.”

The man lifted his chin sharply into the air in a gesture of defiance, but he complied.

An hour later Pitt was sitting in the rather chilly library of Mr. Walter Cornard’s home, listening to the occasional bursts of laughter from the withdrawing room where clearly family guests were enjoying themselves. He had passed the huge, brightly decorated tree in the hall, and many garlands and wreaths of holly and ivy, woven with scarlet ribbons. Cut-glass bowls of chocolates and candied fruit sat on the side tables, and red candles burned on the mantel.

The library fire was unlit and not much warmth crept through from the rest of the house. Clearly this room was not intended to be used today.

Pitt stood up and paced back and forth to stop himself feeling even colder. He hoped Alexander Duncannon’s supplier of opium had turned up. At least Alexander had enough money to pay for it. Probably the man would come. It was his business.

This wretched thought was interrupted when Cornard finally arrived. His face was flushed with warmth. He had probably been enjoying the pre-Christmas delicacies.

He did not hold out his hand to Pitt. His resentment at the intrusion was palpable.

“Pitt, my butler said,” he began. “What on earth is it that makes you intrude on a man’s family at this hour on Christmas Eve? This had better be damned important, or I’ll know the reason for it!”

“I would rather be at home with my family, too,” Pitt replied tartly. “And I’m sure Inspector Ednam would, instead of in his grave, with his widow and children sitting with a funeral wreath on the door rather than one with red ribbons on it.”

Cornard shut the door hard. “What the devil are you talking about?” he demanded. “My man said something about a bombing. I know nothing about bombs, anarchists, traitors, or anyone else in your…area of work. I’d be obliged if you would explain yourself as briefly as possible, and then be on your way.” He remained standing, a statement that he intended their conversation to be very brief indeed.

Pitt sat down in one of the armchairs and looked up at Cornard. Once he would have been intimidated by such a man, even if he had managed to conceal it, but that time was long past.

“I will be as quick as I can, Mr. Cornard. The case at the root of my inquiry is that of Dylan Lezant, who was hanged for the murder of James Tyndale some two years ago. August the ninth, I believe, was the date of his death, if you need reminding.”

“I do not need reminding,” Cornard snapped back. “It was a clear-cut case. Tragic. The young man was addicted to opium and it had ruined his life. Damaged his brain, it would seem. He went to meet a dealer in an alley. The police intercepted him. Lezant shot Tyndale, apparently a passerby, although that is open to question. The police arrested Lezant right there on the scene. Gun was in his hand. You would have read all that in the court records, or in the damn newspapers, for that matter. What on earth are you doing here?”

“You must have looked at the evidence very closely,” Pitt observed.

“Of course I did. What is your point?”

“Why was Lezant armed? Tell me more about him. Where did he come from? Who were his family? How did he become addicted to opium?”

“I have no idea!” Cornard was annoyed. “It was my job to prosecute him, not to defend him. I have no idea how he became an addict, nor do I care. I certainly don’t know why he had a gun, but unquestionably he did! Maybe he intended to rob the dealer rather than pay him!” He raised his eyebrows, his eyes wide. “The man was an opium addict, for God’s sake! He did it. The police saw it, and they all testified to it. The facts are beyond doubt.”

“What about the other man who was there and escaped? Did you ever find him?”

Cornard gave a little snort of derision.

“Alexander Duncannon? He came forward. There’s no proof whatever that he was there, and the police deny it was him.” Cornard took a deep breath and let it out with a sigh of patience far stretched. “Look, Pitt-or whatever your name is-it was a wretched case. A grubby transaction between an addict and his supplier was interrupted by the police. The addict panicked and shot Tyndale, who may or may not actually have been the supplier.”

“Had he any opium?” Pitt interrupted.

“No. It seems more likely the supplier never came.” Cornard shifted his weight. “He may have been as innocent as he looked. For heaven’s sake, man, dealers in opium can be anybody! Just as users of it can be. You would be amazed who takes the stuff! God knows what pain people have and find they can’t endure.”

“Either of the body, or of the mind,” Pitt agreed. “What did you learn about Tyndale? Any income he couldn’t account for by whatever he did for a living? What did he do? The court records didn’t say.”

Cornard sighed and sat down in the chair nearest the fire. He took a box of matches from the scuttle and lit the paper, wood, and logs that were laid out. He watched it for a minute or two while the flames licked upward and he was sure it was going to take.

“He was a seller of rare books and manuscripts,” he replied at length. “His income was erratic because his sales were, but it seemed he was gifted at it, because he made a very comfortable living, and his records were all in order. He had an excellent accountant, and we checked it all.”

“So you looked and found no evidence of his buying or selling opium, or dealing it with anyone else?”

“None. Which isn’t to say he didn’t, but we found nothing we could take to court.”

“Did you believe he was a dealer?” Pitt said bluntly, staring at Cornard’s face.

“No, honestly I didn’t.”

“Then he was a perfectly innocent passerby?”

“Apparently.”

“So why did Lezant shoot him, instead of the closest policeman to him? Seems a stupid thing to do.”

“For God’s sake, man, I don’t know! Maybe Tyndale saw what was happening and got in the way, thinking he was helping? Or misunderstood the whole thing, and thought the police were robbers attacking Lezant?”

“Weren’t they in uniform? The report suggests they were. If they weren’t, then maybe Lezant took them for robbers also? Maybe he thought they were all out to steal the opium?”

“Hardly likely, since the dealer hadn’t turned up!” Cornard pointed out.

“Unless Tyndale was the dealer after all?”

“Then why the devil would Lezant shoot him?” Cornard said.

“That was exactly Duncannon’s point,” Pitt agreed. “That Lezant didn’t shoot him. He says the police did.”

“That’s patently ridiculous,” Cornard shook his head. “For a start, they weren’t armed.”

“So they said. Lezant also said he wasn’t armed.”

Cornard was incredulous. “And you think the court should have taken the word of a drug addict come to buy opium illegally, over the police who apprehended him? What’s the matter with you, man?”

“Then it comes back to the question as to why Lezant would shoot Tyndale, a passerby? By all accounts Tyndale was a thoroughly decent man who had nothing whatever against him. And the police did check very thoroughly. He lived locally, and it is the obvious conclusion that he was on his way home and stumbled on the police raid on an opium sale. Except that the police have no dealer to show for it, Lezant said there wasn’t one, the police are denying that Duncannon was ever there, and Tyndale is dead.”

“So it’s a mess!” Cornard said irritably, poking at the fire again. “No one is denying that. But Tyndale was shot, a gun of the right size and caliber, recently fired, was taken from Lezant. What other evidence is there…reasonably?”

“Not a lot of choice,” Pitt admitted. “But Duncannon’s story is that he was there, and Tyndale was shot by accident, by the police. He escaped, and Lezant didn’t. The police shouldn’t have had a gun, and certainly weren’t going to admit having fired it wildly and hit a respectable citizen passing by-even if they did jump to the mistaken conclusion that he was the dealer they were expecting.”

Cornard was looking increasingly unhappy.

“What was Lezant like?” Pitt asked, suddenly realizing he had no idea.

Cornard looked taken aback. He seemed to search his memory and then look for words. He was unhappy when he answered. “Quite a decent sort of young man. Overemotional, but I think he knew even then that he hadn’t a chance. He was good looking, in a quiet sort of way. Very fine eyes, darkest blue I ever saw.”

“Did he ever admit his guilt?”

“No, never. I don’t know what he told Hayman, who was defending him, but he insisted to me that he was innocent, right to the end.” Suddenly emotion choked his voice. “I hate prosecuting a young man to the gallows! Why on earth did you have to come and remind me of this on Christmas Eve, of all days?”

Pitt hesitated before answering. How much should he tell this man? Cornard had been open with him, even though Pitt had intruded into his home, interrupting what was clearly a family occasion. Did something about the case still trouble him? Or was it just a professional courtesy?

“Because the case isn’t over,” Pitt answered candidly. “At least I don’t think it is.”

“He’s dead and buried!” Cornard stared at him. “What has it to do with Special Branch? Whoever blew up your buildings, it wasn’t Dylan Lezant.”

“Are you certain now that he killed Tyndale? I know what the jury said, but what about you?”

“No, I’m not. Why does it matter? He wasn’t an anarchist. I don’t think any mad bomber is trying to avenge him, if that’s what you’re imagining.”

“I don’t think it’s vengeance,” Pitt said honestly. “I think it’s an effort to force us to reopen the case. Not for revenge…to clear Lezant’s name.”

“And you believe Alexander Duncannon is behind it? Why? And why now? Lezant has been gone over two years.”

“What if Duncannon was telling the truth, and he was there?”

“And the police shot Tyndale? That makes no sense. Why would they?”

“Because he wasn’t the dealer, and maybe refused to stop. He couldn’t hand over the opium because he didn’t have it. Perhaps he argued with them? Challenged them?”

“If a citizen’s getting in the way, arguing with you, you don’t shoot him dead.” Cornard turned away, disgusted. “You warn him, and then you arrest him. For heaven’s sake, man, they would see the police uniforms! If he had any honest business there, he would have explained it, and gone on his way.”

“What if the police weren’t in uniform?” Pitt suggested.

Cornard gave a heavy sigh and moved his shoulders uncomfortably, as though suddenly his jacket did not fit him.

“That wasn’t put forward as a possibility,” he said. “It…it seemed as if there was really very little to argue about. There still is. I’m not sure why you are pursuing it.” Now he was openly questioning, his eyes bleak and curious.

“Duncannon has tried for two years to say that that particular police station was corrupt, and no one would listen to him. Now he’s lost patience. He’s ill himself. Perhaps he doesn’t think he has all that much time to play with.”

Cornard looked pale. “So he’s bombing police until someone does listen?”

“There were no casualties in the bombing this morning. But we were beginning to let the case go, at least until…for a while. Over Christmas and New Year. Now I can’t, much as I would like to.”

“I see.” From the expression on Cornard’s face, he really did see. “Hell of a business. I think Duncannon’s mad. If he’s into the opium as well-and why else would he have been there at that buy?-then it’s eating away at his brain. I’ve heard it can give people delusions, hallucinations. Poor devil…”

“It would be a convenient explanation.”

“You’d better go and see Hayman. He won’t appreciate it at this hour, but we can’t have any more bombs. Don’t know who’ll be next. Maybe not another empty building.”

Pitt had not needed reminding of that. He did not argue. Cornard gave him Hayman’s address, and he thanked him and left.

The house was not far away, but it took Pitt nearly three-quarters of an hour through rain and heavy traffic before he was reluctantly admitted into Hayman’s morning room. It was another ten minutes after that before Hayman himself came in. He was a slender man wearing a dark blue velvet smoking jacket, clearly having relaxed after dinner and begun the lazy part of the evening when he could do as he pleased. He looked to be in his late fifties, and possibly had no children still at home.

“What is it you think I can do for Special Branch, Mr. Pitt?” he said with a frown, rather more of confusion than annoyance. His face was lean, his colorless hair receding off a high forehead. “Do sit down, man!” he added, taking the green leather armchair opposite the one nearest Pitt. It was a pleasant room and the embers of the fire were still warm.

Pitt obeyed. The comfort of the chair made him momentarily aware of how tired he was. His back ached and his feet were cold and wet.

“Do you recall the Dylan Lezant case, Mr. Hayman?”

Hayman frowned. “Of course I do. Miserable business. Why does Special Branch care? He was an unhappy young man, something of a rebel against society, because he was out of step with it. Not an unusual thing for a young man with time on his hands, and perhaps too much imagination. But he was no serious anarchist. Wanted social change, certainly, but so do many of us. He wouldn’t have bombed anyone to get it. Anyway, he’s been dead a couple of years now, poor devil.”

Pitt felt a quickening of interest, and discomfort. He was not sure what he wanted to find, but he was afraid of learning that Alexander was right and the police were as badly wrong as he believed. Sitting here in this quiet, well-used morning room of a man he had not heard of until today, he was touched with a new chill as to what this would mean.

Hayman was staring at him, waiting for him to explain himself.

“The bombings,” Pitt said rather too bluntly. “I have to investigate every possibility. One of them is that they are related to the Dylan Lezant case.”

Hayman’s eyes widened. “The bombings at Lancaster Gate? How?”

“You defended him?” Pitt asked.

“Not very effectively, I’m afraid. The evidence was overwhelming…by that I mean that it overwhelmed me, and I think possibly a good deal of the truth was obfuscated by lies in the interpretation of the evidence.”

Pitt was still hoping for an argument, something that would take him in a different direction. He was being a coward. He should face the facts and allow them to lead him wherever they may.

“What evidence was there, Mr. Hayman, apart from police testimony? Could they prove that Lezant had had the gun, or any gun? Had he a history of violence? Why would he shoot Tyndale? Did anybody ever find the opium, or proof that Tyndale was anything but the passerby he appeared to be? Could Alexander Duncannon have been telling the truth that he was there, and saw the police shoot Tyndale?”

Hayman thought for several moments, all the light gradually dying out of his face.

“Duncannon was a bad witness,” he said at last. “I didn’t put him on the stand. He was willing enough to testify, but his father exerted all the pressure he could to prevent it. The prosecution would have done what they could to discredit him, and would have succeeded. He had been in an appalling accident and was still under the influence of the opium given him initially for the pain. No doubt you are familiar with opium addiction. He would have been exposed as an addict, his supplier very probably exposed, too, and his legality questioned. It was not his doctor: that I know because I found out for myself.”

“Who was it?” Pitt asked.

The barrister shook his head.

“I know only that it was not his doctor, because I went into his medical history very thoroughly.” His face was filled with pity. “Alexander wanted to testify that they both went to buy opium from their dealer, who did not turn up. The police did. Tyndale came by, purely by chance-he was not the dealer. The police panicked and shot wildly, hitting Tyndale and killing him immediately. With a spot of very quick thinking, they arrested Lezant, but Alexander escaped, presumably thinking Lezant was behind him.”

“What did Lezant say?” he asked.

“That the story was true. But he refused to have Alexander called. He said it would ruin Alexander and do little to help his case. He was right. It would have been a pointless sacrifice. But whether it would have helped or not, I had to do as Lezant wished.”

“Did you believe them?” It was a very blunt question, but Pitt needed an answer, even if it was only in the mounting surprise in Hayman’s eyes, and then the discomfort.

“I don’t know,” he said after a brief hesitation. “You have looked into it. Do you?”

Pitt had not expected Hayman to challenge him. “I think Alexander believes it,” he replied. “But whether that makes it true or not is another matter. How close were they?”

A flash of humor lit Hayman’s face and then vanished. “Friends in affliction, I think. The desperate loyalty of people who understood one another’s pain, and perhaps shared in many beliefs. Lovers, if that’s what you mean? No, I don’t think so. I’ve seen that before, and I would be very surprised. The love of brothers in grief, yes.”

“Again, do you believe Lezant was guilty?”

“Of shooting Tyndale? No, I don’t think so.”

“Thank you.”

“I…I wish I could have saved him. I look back now and wonder if I tried hard enough.” He stopped abruptly.

Pitt rose to his feet. “Thank you, Mr. Hayman. I appreciate your honesty.”

Hayman stood also. “Not much point in wishing you a merry Christmas, is there? I don’t envy your job, sir. You have a nasty mess that won’t be either opened or closed easily.”

It was just after midnight when Pitt finally got home and went to bed. It did not feel like Christmas morning, a day of celebration, a new hope for the world, if the Church were to be believed, the dawn of a new redemption.

He must make an effort, for his family’s sake, no matter what he felt like: he must smile, go to church, let the music and the bells, the sound of happy voices drown out all other sounds. He owed his children that, even if Charlotte knew him well enough to read the shadows inside.

It was the day after Christmas, traditionally known as Boxing Day, named for the boxes of money or other gifts the well-off gave to their staff, tradesmen, or others less fortunate. Pitt did not call on Tellman and Gracie for this reason, although he did take them a hamper of gifts from Charlotte and himself, because they were old friends. It had nothing to do with social position. Also, it was the perfect opportunity to leave the last shred of the quarrel behind. They both wanted it forgotten and that was what the heart of Christmas was about.

While Gracie prepared their tea and rich, fruit-filled Christmas cake, Pitt sat with Tellman in the parlor. The fire was burning up well and the whole room was decorated with homemade, brightly colored paper chains. Dark red candles flickered on both ends of the mantel.

Pitt looked around at the parlor and smiled. Every touch in it spoke not of money but of care. Christina’s toys were placed in one corner, as if it were her part of the room. There was a stuffed rabbit, a box of bricks, and a doll with a homemade pink dress on. Pitt was absolutely certain that the little girl would have a dress of the same fabric. Years ago Jemima had had the same. He remembered Charlotte stitching it, and Jemima’s face when she had opened the parcel.

It seemed almost a blasphemy to force a conversation about violence and corruption. It should not be permitted to intrude in a place like this. But that was the evil of it. It intruded everywhere, until it was stopped.

“I saw the lawyers for the prosecution and the defense for Lezant on Christmas Eve,” Pitt said, biting into the cake. It was excellent. He would immeasurably have preferred to eat it and think of nothing else. Gracie’s cooking was very much to his taste, and it had improved all the time over the years.

Tellman cut straight to the point. “They think he was innocent?”

“Of shooting Tyndale, the defense thought so, yes. The prosecution thought Tyndale could have been the drug dealer, but I don’t think it’s likely. We’ve no choice but to investigate further. I hate dragging dead men’s names through the mud, but there’s no alternative now. At least it will stop Alexander Duncannon from setting off any more bombs.”

“He’s as mad as a hatter!” Tellman said bitterly.

“Probably. But that doesn’t mean he’s wrong about this. If he is, I’ll be delighted, but I need to prove it.”

Tellman did not argue. It was as if the comfort and sanity of Christmas had robbed him of the anger he had felt before. “Where are you going to start?” he asked. “Ednam’s dead, and I doubt Yarcombe or Bossiney’ll tell you anything useful. They don’t want to be tarred with the same brush.”

“I doubt it, too,” Pitt agreed. “The police tried to trace everything they could about poor Tyndale at the time, but we could go over it again. I think he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. But I’d like to know who the dealer was, and why he wasn’t there. What happened to him? And why did any of the police have guns? Was it an accident that Tyndale was hit? The only people there were other police, Lezant, and Duncannon.”

“They said Duncannon wasn’t there,” Tellman pointed out.

“Best thing to say to discredit him,” Pitt answered. “If he wasn’t there then his testimony was useless. Anything he said had to be a lie.”

Tellman’s face was grim. “No way to verify that. Of course, the police could have been shooting at Duncannon to prevent his escape, and got Tyndale instead.”

“We need to go to the place and see exactly where the shots were fired,” Pitt said unhappily. “Read the testimony over again, and get the other men who were there to repeat their statements.”

“Everyone took it for granted that Lezant was guilty.” Tellman’s voice was hard. He found the words difficult to say. “Of course, it could be that it was so absurd they didn’t bother questioning it any further,” he added.

Pitt gave him a cold look, and did not add any words.

Tellman colored slightly. He was uncomfortable, desperate to cling onto his old certainties.

Gracie came in with the tea and set it down. Without asking, she poured for each of them. She possibly knew Pitt’s taste even better than she knew Tellman’s.

“Wot yer going ter do, then?” She looked from one to the other. “Yer gonna bury it and leave it till it poisons everything, or yer going ter dig up all the roots until yer got it all, an’ yer can burn it?”

“We’re going to dig it up,” Tellman answered before Pitt could swallow his cake and form the words.

Pitt did not find Alexander at his flat this time. His mother must have persuaded him to come home for Christmas, or else he had felt well enough to offer her that, perhaps the best gift he could give her.

He made his way to the Duncannons’ house, through the fog that curled thick as smoke over the city. The street lamps were hazy yellow, seeming to move as the rising wind twined the vapors across them like scarves.

He was conducted to the morning room as soon as he arrived. The house smelled of mulled wine, spice, the perfumed greenery of wreaths, and the burning of applewood, cigars, and thick, colored wax candles. A Christmas tree in the hall was hung with glass ornaments reflecting the glitter of the chandeliers in their faceted sides.

“I’ll keep it brief,” Pitt said the moment the door was closed and he and Alexander were alone. “I’ve read all the records of Lezant’s trial, and the police reports. I’ve talked to both Cornard and Hayman. There are a lot of unexplained elements in the story. There is certainly a possibility that errors have been made. I see why you wanted to be called to the stand, and why Lezant wouldn’t allow it. You wouldn’t have been believed anyway. You might have got yourself hanged as well, for no cause.”

Alexander looked startled. “I didn’t shoot Tyndale!”

“I know that. But he was shot while you were in the act of committing a crime. That makes you guilty, even though you didn’t pull the trigger.”

“Neither did Dylan! It was one of the police,” Alexander said hotly. There was a flush in his pale face and his hands were clenched on his knee.

“Why? Was it an accident? Were they shooting at you? Why was anyone shooting at all? Are you sure you didn’t have a gun, either of you?”

“Yes, of course I’m sure!” Alexander’s voice was raised. “Why would we take guns? If you’re addicted to opium you don’t shoot your supplier, for God’s sake! He’s your lifeline! If he’s dead, you’re cut off.” The panic rose in his voice as if the threat were there in the room with him now.

Pitt fought the urge to believe him and was overwhelmed. It was the truth, and he could not refuse to see it.

“Did the supplier come?” he asked.

“No.”

“It wasn’t Tyndale? You’re sure?”

Alexander was incredulous. “Of course I’m sure! He didn’t come. Or if he did, he saw the police and went off without them or us ever knowing he was there.”

“Who was he?”

Something inside Alexander seemed to close down.

“I can’t tell you.”

“You mean you won’t!”

“Yes. I won’t. Without the opium I can’t stand the pain.” It was a simple statement of a fact he must live with day and night, every moment he was conscious, and that threaded through all his dreams, too.

“How did you know who the policemen were?” Pitt asked. “How were you certain enough to kill them?”

Alexander’s face was bleak, tight with pain. “They testified in court, remember? They swore to their names, and to being there.”

Of course. And Alexander was not called to testify.

“I assume it was your handkerchief at Craven Hill,” he said.

Alexander nodded.

Pitt knew he had grounds to arrest Alexander. But if he arrested him now, without proof of what had truly happened to Dylan Lezant, the young man would surely hang. And he had promised Jack he would wait. So he asked him to go over the events of that day one more time, step by step. He could compare it with whatever Yarcombe or Bossiney might say. Newman, Hobbs, Ednam, Lezant, and even Tyndale were all dead.

Half an hour later Godfrey Duncannon came in. He did not knock, which, since it was his house, was perhaps acceptable. All the same, Pitt found it an intrusion.

Alexander rose to his feet, his wince of pain almost imperceptible.

“Commander Pitt was just leaving, Father.” He turned to Pitt with a sudden, gentle smile, which for a moment illuminated his face and showed the man he could have been. “Good night, sir.”