Long Spoon Lane: A Charlotte and Thomas Pitt Novel Read online

  Then Voisey rose. The rustles died away to silence. The woman in black beside Charlotte murmured something in approval. Charlotte had no idea whether the woman knew what Voisey was going to say, or not.

  He began by praising Jack’s words and his courage in saying them, at possible cost to himself. He was a man of principle not expediency. At this point Emily shot a rueful glance sideways. Charlotte met her eyes, then looked back at Voisey. No matter what he said, she must never forget that he was the enemy. She must study him until she found his vulnerability, personal or professional: a dream, a hope, a mistake, anything at all.

  Voisey continued, not by adding to the weight of evidence but by questioning the wisdom of giving guns to men who habitually dealt with violent elements of society. Might that not end in more weapons falling into the hands of criminals, particularly anarchists? Might it not end with warfare on the streets, and a number of innocent members of the public finding themselves hostages, victims, the eventual losers in such battles? It would damage business, and ultimately cost votes. The argument was aimed at their least noble interests. Charlotte despised it. But it was clever! No one booed or hissed. It was greeted by troubled silence.

  Charlotte and Emily remained where they were until the first convenient opportunity to leave. Then they excused themselves and made their way down to the main halls and outside.

  “He is going to sacrifice his career for nothing!” Emily said furiously. She was referring to Jack, of course.

  “You mean we should do the right thing only if it comes at no cost?” Charlotte said incredulously, barely even attempting to keep the horror out of her voice.

  Emily glared at her. “Don’t be so stupid!” she snapped. “I’m saying there is no sense in making a sacrifice you don’t have to! It is far more practical to keep your shot and use it when you can do some good.” She was walking so briskly that Charlotte had trouble keeping up. “Politics is not about making grand gestures, it is about winning!” Emily went on, her smart black-and-white skirts all but tripping her up. “You represent other people—and they did not elect you to play the hero strutting about with grand and pointless gestures, soothing your own conscience. They elected you to get things changed, not gallop at the enemy’s guns like the Charge of the Light Brigade!”

  “I thought they elected you to represent their views,” Charlotte replied, ignoring the military simile.

  “Represent them to some purpose, not to do it ineffectively. Any fool could do that!” Emily walked even more rapidly and Charlotte had to increase her pace yet again to keep up with her. Her skirts swung wildly and she nearly bumped into a young man going in the opposite direction.

  “I’m sorry,” she apologized.

  “I suppose I can’t expect you to understand,” Emily responded. “You’ve never been in that position.”

  “I wasn’t apologizing to you!” Charlotte said furiously. “I walked into someone!”

  “Then you should look where you are going!”

  “Do you think you are the only one whose husband ever places himself in danger in order to do what he thinks is right?” she demanded. “How incredibly self-centered you are!”

  Emily stopped so abruptly that two men behind them nearly overbalanced. Only with great skill did they avoid colliding with them.

  “That’s not fair!” she protested, ignoring the men.

  “It’s perfectly fair,” Charlotte responded. “I’m sorry,” she apologized to the men. “She’s very overwrought.” She turned back to Emily. “And if you are honest with yourself, not to mention with me, you would not wish it otherwise. Were he to avoid the issue you would have no time for him at all. You might love him, but you would also despise him. And that kind of love does not last very long.”

  Emily looked appalled. In an instant her fury had evaporated.

  “Charlotte, I’m sorry!” she said with total contrition. “I’m just terrified he is going to get into terrible trouble, and won’t know how to get out of it. And I don’t know what to do to help!”

  Charlotte knew exactly what Emily was feeling—the helplessness, the anger because it was unfair—but she should have expected it. She knew perfectly well how society worked, and if she thought about it, so did Jack. He had chosen his path because he wanted it—just as Pitt had done so many times.

  “You can’t help, except by believing in him,” Charlotte said gently, wanting now only to help. “Don’t let him doubt himself, and above all don’t let him think you have no confidence in him, even if you are so frightened you could be sick.”

  “Is that what you’re going to do?” Emily asked.

  “More or less. No, less,” Charlotte admitted. “I’m going to learn what I can about Charles Voisey, beginning right this moment. He must have some vulnerability, and I intend to find it. I shall report to you.” She gave a little smile, then turned and walked away.

  She had intended to watch Voisey, possibly even to speak with him. As it was, he spoke to her.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Pitt.”

  She swung around to find him standing a couple of yards behind her.

  “Good afternoon, Sir Charles.” She caught her breath and had to clear her throat. She was annoyed with herself for being caught off-balance. “That was a very powerful speech you made.”

  His eyes widened so very slightly she was not sure if she imagined it. “You are interested in the issue of arming the police, Mrs. Pitt? Your husband is in Special Branch now. Surely he can carry a gun any time he believes the occasion warrants it?” His voice dropped a little. “As in the siege in Long Spoon Lane. You must be very relieved he was not hurt. Unpleasant affair.” His eyes were hard, acutely self-aware. The hatred flared for an instant, and he knew he had not hidden it.

  “Indeed,” she said, her voice very nearly level. “But it is the job of Special Branch to deal with unpleasant matters, and therefore very often also with unpleasant people.” She forced herself to smile at him, not because she imagined he might believe she meant it, but to show him that she was more in command of herself than he was. “I am so glad that you believe it is unwise, and unnecessary, to give the police more weapons or greater powers to search people without showing a proper cause for it. You are absolutely right in your conviction that the cooperation of ordinary people is the best help of all. That would serve everyone’s interests.”

  He was studying her to read in her face if she had a deeper meaning or not. He was uncertain whether Pitt would confide in her, and for an instant she saw it in him.

  “Not everyone’s, Mrs. Pitt,” he said quietly. “Yours and mine, perhaps. But there are others whose ambitions are different.”

  “I am sure there are,” she agreed, then hesitated, not sure whether to let him know how far she understood.

  He saw it, and smiled back at her. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Pitt. An unexpected pleasure to have seen you.” He excused himself and walked away briskly, leaving her with a strange feeling of being at a disadvantage, and the memory of the instant’s naked hate burned into her mind.

  Vespasia racked her brains for an acceptable excuse to call upon Cordelia Landsborough again. They had never liked each other, and no one of the least sensitivity visited the newly bereaved unless they were invited. There was only one issue that could offer acceptable pretext, and that was Cordelia’s desire to be pivotal in seeing that Tanqueray’s bill was passed.

  The carriage was passing through quiet, residential streets. Elegant Georgian-fronted houses faced onto trees new with leaf. There were few pedestrians, mostly women, their skirts ruffled by the breeze, parasols up against the sun.

  Vespasia thought of Charlotte and the fear she had heard in her voice when she spoke of having a weapon to use should Voisey threaten Pitt. It was not being hurt that frightened her, it was her own power to injure, and the knowledge that she would use it.

  And then the idea was there in Vespasia’s mind. By the time she reached the Landsborough house and alighted, she knew exact
ly what she was going to say, should Cordelia receive her. Indeed, she was prepared to make it difficult to be refused.

  In the event, she was ushered through the somber hall and into the withdrawing room immediately. She found Cordelia standing by the window, looking out onto the lawn and the early summer flowers.

  “How kind of you to come again so soon,” Cordelia said, without any waspishness in her voice, or in her pale, exhausted face.

  For an instant Vespasia was sorry for her. Her harsh good looks showed grief more dramatically than softer, more feminine features would have. There were shadows under and around her eyes, deep lines cut from nose to mouth, and her lips looked bloodless. She had never resorted to paint; her brows were naturally black, and now they looked like gashes above her hollow eyes.

  “It may appear intrusive,” Vespasia said gently. “I hope it is not. I have been turning over and over in my mind the issue of anarchist violence, and the terror it must inspire in all manner of people. It is something against which we have to fight, and I admire your courage and selflessness in doing so at such a time of personal loss.” Oddly, that was true. Much as she had always disliked Cordelia, and thought her at times both cruel and self-indulgent, at this moment it was her strength that was uppermost in Vespasia’s thoughts.

  Perhaps Cordelia heard an honesty in her. “Thank you,” she acknowledged it. “I appreciate that you do not mistake my composure for indifference to my son’s death.”

  “Of course not! The thought is absurd and offensive,” Vespasia said with heat. “One weeps alone, not before the world. I came because in my consideration of precisely what we should do to battle such things, some of the dangers occurred to me, and I know that we cannot afford to wait until circumstances are more comfortable. We have enemies, not personal but of the cause. They will strike while we are perceived to be at our most vulnerable.”

  Cordelia turned to look at her, her expression curious, aware of intense irony. But she chose to concentrate on subjects Vespasia had raised. “Enemies in Parliament?” she asked.

  “We are bound to have, for many reasons,” Vespasia enlarged on the subject. “Some will sincerely believe that to give police more power is unwise, others will have their own sympathies and ambitions. And I fear, of course, there will always be those who pursue personal enmities wherever they lead. We cannot afford to be ambushed by any of them.”

  “Ambushed?” Cordelia repeated the word uncertainly. “I assume from the fact that you are here, sword in hand, so to speak, that you have a plan for our defense?”

  “I think so. But not without your assistance,” Vespasia answered. They stood side by side before the window, their skirts touching. She had come for information. “I am certain you know far more than I do, but apart from that, we must work together.”

  Cordelia hesitated. Such an idea was revolutionary, given their past relationship with each other. She was not going to be easily beguiled.

  Vespasia waited. She must not defend herself too quickly or she would give away her own vulnerability. Pity should not blind her to the reality of Cordelia’s nature, however deep or genuinely she might feel it. She smiled very faintly. “At least in this,” she conceded.

  Cordelia relaxed. “Would you care for tea?”

  “Thank you,” Vespasia accepted. “That would be most pleasant.”

  Cordelia reached for the bell.

  After the instructions were given, they both sat down, settling their skirts with almost identical movements, and Vespasia began in earnest. She had made the alliance, now she must justify it.

  “Those who are against us will attack our motives,” she began. “We must be certain we have the most acceptable and logical reasons, and that we give only those. Too much explanation looks like excuse.”

  Cordelia did not look impressed.

  “They will not be able to criticize you, or Mr. Denoon,” Vespasia made an intense effort to keep the impatience out of her voice. “And possibly not Mr. Tanqueray, although I do not know enough about him to be certain. But what of our other allies? It is an obvious tactic to fire at the most vulnerable and pick off the supporters one by one.”

  A sudden flame of intelligence lit Cordelia’s face. “Yes, of course it is,” she acceded. “And it works in reverse also. We would be well advised to learn who will stand against us.”

  Vespasia controlled her eyes, her voice, the hands lying loosely in her lap. She was playing a dangerous game, and she was well aware of it. “Precisely,” she agreed. “Somerset Carlisle will be one of them. He is eccentric, but he is well liked. Others have tried to defame him, and met with little success. There is also Jack Radley, I believe. He has a distant connection to my family, but he is very minor in Parliament. I do not believe attacking him will be perceived as anything but a desperate action, and we do not wish to appear either spiteful or driven to a last resort.”

  “They seem negligible so far,” Cordelia agreed. “Is there anyone about whom we should concern ourselves?” There was mild amusement in her eyes, but she was listening. She knew Vespasia would not have come without a purpose.

  “Sir Charles Voisey,” Vespasia answered, hoping to heaven she was wise in drawing him to Cordelia’s attention. “He has far more influence than it might appear.”

  Cordelia’s black brows rose questioningly. “Really? I had not heard of him until that extraordinary business to do with the republicans, and his shooting that Italian and apparently saving the Queen. I never know how much of that sort of thing to believe.”

  Vespasia felt her heart lurch, and the sharpness of loss as if it had been yesterday. The Italian that Cordelia referred to so condescendingly having been the greatest love in Vespasia’s life.

  Vespasia looked down at the hands in her lap. She could not afford to have Cordelia meet her eyes. “Voisey has associations,” she replied quietly. “Friends and enemies in many places. Men contract obligations, you know, and acquire certain pieces of knowledge.”

  “You mean—” Cordelia began.

  She was prevented from completing the sentence by the arrival of the parlor maid, who announced the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Denoon. Should she ask them to wait in the morning room, or show them in here?

  Cordelia had no choice but to welcome them. She masked her appearance that her conversation was thus interrupted, and told the maid to show them in.

  Enid was naturally in black also, but she had relieved it a trifle at the throat with a cameo brooch of extraordinary beauty, and her fair hair gave her a delicacy, almost a sense of life, that Cordelia lacked. She greeted Vespasia with interest little short of amazement.

  Denoon himself looked grim. He was civil, but did not pretend to be pleased to see a relative stranger at what he had apparently assumed would be a family occasion.

  Cordelia lost no time in explaining Vespasia’s presence. She did not prevaricate or concede to niceties once the customary greetings had been exchanged. “Lady Vespasia has our concerns very much at heart,” she said bluntly. “She has just warned me of the importance of guarding not only ourselves from political attack, but our allies as well.”

  “Considerate of you, Lady Vespasia,” Denoon said coldly, condescension clear in his face. “But quite unnecessary. I am more than aware of such currents. One can hardly run a newspaper if one is utterly naive.”

  Cordelia’s temper flared, perhaps because she wanted Vespasia’s help and he had been undisguisedly rude to her. “If you were aware of Sir Charles Voisey’s secret associations, it would have been more fortunate if you had thought to inform me,” she said icily.

  Denoon stiffened. “Voisey?”

  Vespasia looked at him, watching the muscles in his neck, the slight alteration in the way he stood. In that instant she felt certain that not only was he allied with Wetron with full intent, but that he was also a member of the Inner Circle, and acutely aware of all that Voisey had been, before it had been torn apart. It was what she had come to learn.

  “Yes,” sh
e said smoothly, her face almost expressionless. “Apparently he does not support the bill, and will make his feelings known with some force.”

  “How do you know this?” he challenged her.

  She raised her eyebrows delicately. “I beg your pardon?”

  “How do you…” he stopped.

  It was Enid who spoke. “Is he an apologist for anarchy?” she inquired, then sneezed fiercely. “I’m sorry.” She fished in her reticule for a handkerchief. Her clear, pale eyes were beginning to water.

  As a matter of courtesy Vespasia affected not to notice. “I don’t think so,” she answered the question. “It would be an impossible position to maintain. I imagine he will say that the police already have all the weapons they need, and that information about subversive groups would be of far more value than the power to search people at random. The police are unlikely to obtain assistance from ordinary people if they are seen as oppressive, and prone to abuse their power.”

  Enid sneezed again. She seemed to be rapidly developing a cold in the head. Her eyelids were pink.

  “A futile argument,” Denoon dismissed it irritably. “If they had the powers necessary to obtain such information, as you suggest, they would have prevented the bomb in Myrdle Street. That seems to be self-evident.”

  Vespasia hesitated. If she pointed out that guns and searches would not have discovered Magnus Landsborough’s part in it, it would be needlessly cruel, and could make her seem to be defending Voisey. It was an emotional game she was playing, as well as one of facts.

  “I am not defending Sir Charles, or his point of view, Mr. Denoon,” she said gently, with the tiniest touch of condescension. “I am concerned that we do not allow him to seem reasonable in Parliament, or in whatever newspapers that may choose to publish his opinions. I came merely to make you aware that he is likely to be a vigorous opponent of Mr. Tanqueray’s bill.”

  Denoon let out his breath silently. “Yes, of course,” he said more calmly. “Are you aware of the nature of his interest in the subject? Is it personal, or political?” He was watching her more closely than he pretended to be.