Treachery at Lancaster Gate (6 page)

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 naïve. 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.

T
ELLMAN SAT BESIDE THE
fire in his own home, the place he most loved to be. It was a small house, one he could afford without anxiety, in a neat row of other houses along a quiet street. He did not know the neighbors well, but his wife, Gracie, did, and liked them. Several of them were other young women, like herself, with small children. They were all respectable. Gracie had wanted a house like this, with her own husband and her own children, for as long as she could remember dreaming about anything at all.

She had been born in the East End, in poverty and with no education. She had begun work at thirteen, as a maid for Charlotte and Pitt, soon after they were married. She was still barely five feet tall, but with enough spirit in her for two people twice her size. Charlotte had taught her to read and write as well as how to cook and generally keep house.

Tellman sat in the rocking chair in the corner of the warm kitchen and watched as Gracie fed their daughter. It was a sight that was infinitely pleasing to him. Nothing in the world would ever matter quite as much as this.

Little Christina looked at him once or twice, puzzled, because he had not picked her up and cuddled her, as he usually did. He had a heavy cold, and he did not wish to give it to her. He probably missed the touch of her face more than she missed him. He smiled at her now, even though he did not feel like it.

The bombing had horrified him, especially since the victims were fellow police. But his job had caused him to see a great deal of violence and tragedy over the years. What disturbed him more deeply was the talk of corruption. Of course people made mistakes, everyone did, and sometimes the results were serious. He had no doubt that at times people lied, either to protect themselves or someone else. Men had been known to keep the odd few coins, perhaps even a guinea, almost a week's wages.

Tellman despised it, but he would have faced the guilty man. He had done, on occasion. You did not go behind a man's back; you gave him the chance to put it right.

But two men were dead, and three men crippled and might yet die. Tellman had been to the hospital and seen them, not to ask any questions but out of respect. They had looked awful. Bossiney would probably live, but he was in agony from the burns that had devastated half his face. Yarcombe was silent, stunned by the loss of his limb, unable to grasp that it was not there.

Ednam had been more consumed by fury at the attack on his men than at his own pain. At least that was how it had seemed. He had glared at Tellman and demanded from him an oath that he would find who had done this, and see them hanged for it.

Tellman had replied that he would do it regardless of pressure or threats, and he had meant it. It had taken an effort to forgive Ednam for even asking.

Now Pitt was saying that the strongest lead they had, one they could not ignore, was that the whole atrocity was a revenge against police corruption so vile it had ended in the deliberate hanging of an innocent man!

It was nonsense, of course. The man who made the charge must be mad. In any other circumstances Tellman would have pitied him, for something had clearly unhinged his mind. Apparently the man hanged was a close friend. If anyone had so terribly damaged those Tellman loved, would he have lost his balance, his wits, maybe even his morality? He could not bear to think of it.

He stood up now and walked over to Gracie. “Sorry,” he said quietly. “I'll carry her up.” He smiled at Christina, who put her head to one side and slowly smiled back at him. Suddenly he was choked with emotion. He reached forward and picked her up, holding her close, taking in the sweetness of her, soap, warm wool, smelling faintly milky.

“C'mon, angel,” he said a little gruffly. “It's your bedtime.”

He carried her up the stairs and into her room, next to theirs and where, with the doors open, they could hear her if she cried. He took off the blanket around her and again marveled at the embroidery on her nightgown, little flowers worked in pink. He remembered Gracie stitching it, only a few months ago. How quickly babies grow. Every day was precious.

He tucked her into the bed and kissed her. “Good night,” he whispered.

“Night,” she answered, closing her eyes. She was probably asleep before he reached the door.

Back downstairs again his mind returned to the question of corruption.

For Tellman, who grew up poor, the scrawny, undersized son of a factory laborer, to be a policeman was an honorable job. It was a position that earned respectability and the regard of the community. People who had never noticed him as a child now looked to him for help. And he gave it, with pleasure.

He had felt that purpose more deeply when he had started working with Thomas Pitt, years ago, in Bow Street. Pitt was a tall man, strong, someone who had come from an ordinary enough background. But Pitt knew what he wanted to be, and he believed in himself. He had shown Tellman what a good job it was, what courage and honor there was in it. They were men who spent their days, and sometimes their nights as well, seeking the truth, wherever it led them, fighting to see that justice was done and people were kept from injury, loss, fear of the people they could not fight alone.

That was why he found Pitt's attitude now so acutely painful. He could not tell him that. Of course he understood that Pitt's job had changed and he could not afford a loyalty to the police rather than to Special Branch. But it still seemed like a denial of what he used to care about, the men he had worked beside in the past, not so long ago.

Tellman was tired and his head ached. The hot tea had eased his sore throat a little, but his face ached across the bones of his cheeks. He was in for a really heavy cold.

Gracie looked at him with a rueful smile.

“Yer should take a day in bed,” she told him. “Just sleep as much as yer can. It won't send it away, but it'll 'elp.”

“I can't,” he answered firmly, mostly to convince himself. Nothing sounded better than bed just now. “I've got to find out all I can about this bombing.”

“What can you find if it's anarchists?” she asked reasonably. She sat down sideways on one of the hard-backed chairs at the kitchen table. The room reminded him a little of the Pitts' kitchen. It had the same colored china, although it was a different pattern. It was still blue and white. And there was a copper saucepan hung on the wall by its handle. Gracie seldom used it, but she liked the beautiful, gleaming color of the metal. He had seen her polish it countless times. The fact that it was hers always made her smile.

On the dresser, where most people would have had special plates, there was a little brown china donkey. He had bought it for her in a market one day, and she had loved it. She said it reminded her of a real one she had known, and she called it Charlie. He looked at it now and smiled. This was home, and he longed to be able to stay here until his cold was better. It would almost certainly be wet tomorrow, and the sting of the east wind could slice through even the best woolen coat and scarf.

“If it's anarchists then it isn't crooked police,” he answered. “I'd give a week's salary—a month's—to be able to find that.”

“Do you think it could be?” she asked. Gracie never ran away from a problem; at worst she would creep around and attack it from another angle. She was the bravest, and the most stubborn person he knew. He admired it in her, even loved it, but it still frightened him. She might be only the size of a ninepenny rabbit, but she had more fight in her than a weasel.

She passed him a soft cloth rag and he blew his nose fiercely.

“That means you think it could be,” she said very quietly.

“That means I don't know how to prove it wasn't,” he argued. “We make mistakes, but we aren't corrupt. Gracie…if you'd seen them, you'd want to put a spit through whoever did it and slow roast them over the fire!”

“You knew them, didn't you, Samuel?” she said, biting her lip.

“It could have been me leading that raid on the house.” He met her eyes and saw the pain in them, as she imagined what the other men's wives must be feeling now.

“But yer weren't,” she said flatly. She sniffed. “Do yer know what it were about?”

“No. It looks like an opium sale.”

“That's not what you do, opium!”

“What difference does that make?” he demanded. Why was she arguing? “What if it'd been paintings, or jewelry? Then it could have been me!” he said sharply.

She sat absolutely still, her face tight with pain. “I know that. Ye're scared for next time they send you somewhere?” She reached forward to touch his hand, and then changed her mind. “I wouldn't blame yer.”

“No, I don't think so,” he answered quite honestly. “I think I feel sort of guilty, because they're in the morgue, blown to pieces, or in hospital burned and broken—and I'm sitting in my own house in a warm kitchen complaining 'cos I've got a cold. What makes me different, Gracie? How come I'm alive an' they're dead? Or maybe dying! Yarcombe lost his arm.”

“I dunno,” she admitted. “But it 'appens all the time. Mrs. Willetts down at number twenty-three died when her babe was born. An' I'm as fit as the butcher's dog. Nobody knows the reasons, Samuel. Least not yet. Maybe one day. I got one reason…”

“Like what?” he said after a moment. He really did not want to know, but she seemed to be waiting for him to ask.

“We're goin' to 'ave another baby…”

Suddenly a wave of emotion swept through him, as if there were a fire inside him, filling him up. All the rest of the kitchen melted into shadows and all he could see was Gracie sitting sideways on the chair, the lamplight on her face, a little flushed, her eyes bright.

This was his home, his family, more precious than anything else in the world. It was all he needed for happiness. He must look after them, keep them safe, see that they were always fed, sheltered, happy. Whatever job he had to do, he must do it well. This was his greatest calling in life. He must always look after them.

“Say something!” she urged him. “Are yer pleased?”

Tears choked him. “Of course I'm pleased,” he said, reaching for the cloth and blowing his nose again. “I'm…I'm happier than any man has a right to be.”

“Then get up to bed and sleep,” she ordered. “Sleep termorrer too.” She gave him a quick hug, which he returned, tightly, but he still argued.

“I can't, I've got to go to work. I need to prove to Pitt that this is anarchists, and nothing to do with the police!”

T
ELLMAN FELT THICKHEADED AND
his throat was sore when he woke up, but he pretended he was better. However his first words to Gracie were punctuated by a hacking cough, so her total disbelief was understandable.

“Go back to bed,” she said gently. “I'll bring yer up an 'ot drink and a nice crisp slice o' toast. I got some good, sharp marmalade.”

For an instant he hesitated. He could hear the rain against the kitchen window, even though it was warm inside. She must have been up for some time, because the cooker was hot and the whole kitchen was comfortable, the air soft to the skin.

“Yes,” he said huskily. “But I'll have it down here. Got to go and see more about the injured men again.” He knew he must look into whatever they had in common. Was the bomber aiming at them in particular? Or police in general? At anybody to pay for the one he thought was corrupt? He sat down at the kitchen table. He could see by the clock on the dresser that he was late already, but he could afford ten or fifteen minutes more. Perhaps the rain would ease.

Gracie opened the door to the hot coals and put a slice of bread on the toasting fork. While he waited he poured himself a large mug of tea.

She brought him the toast, crisp and perfect. He thanked her for it, and reached for the butter. Then he spread the marmalade on and bit into the slice. It was delicious and piquant enough to taste, even thickheaded as he was and totally robbed of the sense of smell.