Treachery at Lancaster Gate (3 page)

“They had an informer? How do you know that?”

“I got it from Ednam when I saw him in hospital.”

“Poor devil,” Bradshaw said softly. “Who is this informer?”

“Always communicates by letter. Calls himself Anno Domini.”

“Educated man?” Bradshaw looked surprised.

“Possibly,” Pitt said.

“I presume you're looking for this man?”

“Yes, sir. And working with the police.”

“But what are
you
doing?” Bradshaw pressed.

“Looking at all our contacts, asking our usual informers…”

“Do your anarchists deal in opium?”

“Possibly. And they certainly deal in dynamite.”

Bradshaw sighed. “Yes, of course they do. Damn them.” He regarded Pitt bleakly, his face filled with pain. “I suppose you've inherited a network of spies from Victor Narraway? You must have some ideas. Or am I out of date?”

Pitt had a retaliation on the tip of his tongue, but he knew better. “We'll do our best, Commissioner,” he said gently. “And I will keep you aware of any progress we make. On a day-to-day basis, I will be working with Inspector Tellman.”

Bradshaw nodded. “Anything you want that we can help with…” he said grimly. “But I imagine you have your own men.” It was not a question. He had no liking for Special Branch, and no wish to lend any of his force to do their work.

T
HE FIRST THING
P
ITT
did was to visit the families. It was the worst duty in all police or Special Branch work, and it could not be passed off to anyone else.

It was late when Pitt arrived home in Keppel Street, just off Russell Square. The streetlamps were haloed by a faint mist, which softened the outlines of the houses, blurring boundaries between them.

He was exhausted. He had stopped back at Lisson Grove and heard from Stoker the daily reports coming in: the threats, attacks, rivalries, anything that would give them a place to start. He had found no reference to the address in Lancaster Gate, and no one at all using the sobriquet Anno Domini.

A
S
P
ITT CLIMBED THE
steps to the familiar door, a sense of peace fell over him, as if he could leave the violence and the grief of the day behind him. He slipped his key in the lock and went inside, closing it with a slight noise deliberately. He wanted somebody to know he was home, even though it was late and seventeen-year-old Jemima and fourteen-year-old Daniel would already have eaten, and possibly even gone to bed. Charlotte would have waited up for him. She always did.

The light was warm and bright in the hall.

The parlor door opened and she stood there, the lamplight on her hair bringing out its auburn tones. She came toward him, concern in her face.

He took off his hat and coat and hung them up where they could dry out, then turned and kissed her gently.

“You're cold,” she said, touching his cheek. “Have you eaten anything? Would you like a roast beef sandwich and a cup of tea?”

He suddenly realized he was hungry and, sensing his response before he spoke it, she turned and led the way to the kitchen. It was always his favorite room anyway. It smelled of clean-scrubbed wood, of the freshly ironed linen hanging on the airing rail winched up to the ceiling, sometimes of new bread. There was a large wooden table in the center, and a Welsh dresser in the corner with blue-and-white ringed plates arranged on it, and a few jugs. Copper pans gleamed on hooks on the wall.

For years it had been the heart of the house. All kinds of people had sat here long into the night, talking of plans, easing defeats, helping one another to believe in victory. Gracie had come here as a maid when she was still a child. She was married to Tellman now, but there were moments when Pitt still missed her, as if he could hear her voice and she were only in the pantry or the hall, and might come around the corner at any moment. Now it was Minnie Maude who had taken her place, but she had not Gracie's sharp tongue, or bright, stubborn courage—not yet.

He pulled out a chair and sat down as Charlotte moved the kettle over onto the hottest part of the oven hob, and began to slice the beef.

“No horseradish,” he reminded her. It was part of a ritual. He never had horseradish. He liked pickle.

She nodded very slightly. “It was in the evening newspapers. They didn't give names. Did you know any of them?”

He hesitated, but only for a moment. “Yes. Newman was one of them. I…I told his wife.”

Charlotte stood motionless for a moment, the tears filling her eyes. “Oh, Thomas, I'm sorry! I remember her at her wedding—she was so happy! This is terrible.” She swallowed, trying to control her emotion. “And the others?”

“I've seen them, but Newman was the only one I really knew.”

“Are the injured ones going to be all right?”

“It's too early to say. One of them lost an arm.”

Charlotte didn't try to say anything comforting, and he was glad of it. She cut the bread, spread a little butter, then laid the beef thickly, adding pickle. The kettle boiled. She warmed the teapot, put in three spoons of tea, then added water and carried it all to the table.

“What are they saying in the papers?” he asked as he picked up the sandwich and bit into it. The taste was rich and sharp.

“That it's the work of anarchists,” she replied. “That people are frightened, and everything seems so uncertain. It's as if there is violence in the air and you never know quite where the next attack is coming from.” She poured the tea ready for him and a cup for herself. “I suppose that's the aim of anarchists, isn't it? The kind of fear that disables people and makes them do stupid things.” It was not a question. It was what she believed. She said it aloud because she wished him to know she understood.

He swallowed his mouthful and took another.

“In thirteen months we'll be into the 1900s.” She sipped her tea. “A lot of people seem to think it will be a different century, really different. Darker and more violent. But why should it change? It's only a date on a calendar. If anything, it's perhaps a self-fulfilling prophecy—we'll make it happen by thinking about it so much.”

He was too tired to discuss it, but he recognized the fear in her voice. She wanted an answer, not a palliative.

“Things are changing,” he agreed quietly. “But they always are.”

“Small things.” She shook her head. “Not big, like the changes people want in Europe. America hasn't yet signed a peace treaty with Spain, and there's going to be even more trouble in South Africa. We shouldn't be fighting there, Thomas. We're not right.”

“I know.”

“There are assassinations, bombings,” she went on. “We haven't had that before, not all over the place. People are restless about poverty and injustice. They want change, but they're going about it in all the wrong ways.”

“I know that, too. We're doing what we can. This looks like an opium sale gone wrong.”

“Two police killed and three badly injured!” Charlotte protested. “They weren't shot, that whole building was blown up!” Then she saw his face. He had done what he could to clean the ash and soot out of his hair, but he had not had a chance to put on a clean shirt. There was not only soot but scorch marks on his cuffs, and he must smell of charred wood.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered. “I suppose I'm as frightened as everybody else, except that I'm frightened for you, too.”

“That I won't catch them?” he asked, then instantly wished that he hadn't. What could he say to undo it?

“That, too,” she said candidly. “But also for you not to be hurt.”

“I've been in the police since before we met, and I've not been seriously hurt yet.” He smiled. “Scared stiff a time or two. And one way or another, we've solved most of the big cases.”

She nodded slightly and smiled, keeping her eyes on his.

Nevertheless he was worried. He had men embedded in all the major anarchist groups he knew of, and there had not been even a murmur of an atrocity like the bombing at Lancaster Gate. Nothing at all. He had been completely blindsided. Would Victor Narraway have known? Pitt had been promoted on Narraway's own recommendation, when Narraway had been dismissed. Had Narraway overestimated him?

He reached out across the table and put his hand over Charlotte's, but he did not say anything. He felt her fingers curl up and close around his.

I
N THE MORNING
P
ITT
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.

P
ITT 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.”