Treachery at Lancaster Gate Read online

  There was a stationary cab close to the curb, as if the driver had known he would be needed. “St. Mary’s Hospital, Paddington,” Pitt said as he got in.

  “Yes, sir,” the driver replied gravely. “You’ll be wanting me to hurry,” he added.

  “Yes, if you please.” Pitt desperately wanted to speak to the injured men, if they were still conscious and not in the operating theater—or dead.

  It seemed like an endless journey, and yet in other ways far too short.

  Pitt got out, paid the driver, and thanked him.

  “Ye’re welcome, sir. You just catch the bastards!” the driver called after him.

  Pitt half turned and raised his hand in a swift acknowledgment. There was nothing he could promise.

  The doctor in charge told him that he couldn’t see the patients. They were still in great pain and heavily dosed with morphine.

  Pitt explained again who he was. It was one occasion when a uniform with plenty of buttons and braid would have helped.

  “Special Branch,” he said yet again. “This was a bombing. Right in the middle of London. We have to catch the perpetrators and stop them before they do it again. So it’s vital that I speak to these men, if they are able.”

  The doctor’s face paled and he bit back his insistence. “Then be quick, Mr. Pitt. These men are in a bad way.”

  “I know that,” Pitt said grimly. “I’ve just been looking at the dead.”

  The doctor winced, but did not say anything more. Instead he led Pitt briskly along the corridor to a very small ward where three beds were occupied by men in different states of treatment. Two of them appeared to be unconscious, but could have been merely silent, motionless in suffering.

  The most senior of the injured was Ednam, and he was awake, watching Pitt as he approached. His face was bruised and there was a dark red, angry burn across his left cheek. His left arm was bandaged from the shoulder to the wrist and his leg was propped up and also heavily bandaged, so whatever treatment it had received was concealed. Pitt guessed it was broken, and probably burned as well. When Pitt asked quietly if he could speak to him, Ednam looked back guardedly, taking a moment or two to recognize him. Then he relaxed a fraction, with just an easing of the muscles around his mouth.

  “I suppose.” His voice was dry. Clearly his throat hurt, and probably his chest, from inhaling the smoke.

  “If you can tell me anything,” Pitt prompted.

  “If I’d known there was a bloody bomb I wouldn’t ’ave gone!” Ednam retorted bitterly.

  “Why did you go?” Pitt asked. “And with four other men? That’s a big force. What were you expecting to find?”

  “Drugs. Opium, to be exact. Big buy there, we were told.”

  “By whom? Did you find any evidence of it?”

  “We barely had time to look!”

  Pitt kept his voice soft. “Was anyone else there?”

  “Apart from us? Not that I saw,” Ednam answered. “But the information came from a good source. At least…one we’ve trusted before.” His voice was now little above a whisper. The effort to speak cost him dearly. “Newman and Hobbs are dead, aren’t they?”

  “Yes.”

  Ednam swore until he couldn’t get his breath anymore.

  “I need to know your source,” Pitt urged, leaning forward a little. “Either he set you up or someone else set him up.”

  “I don’t know his name. He calls himself Anno Domini.”

  “What?”

  “Anno Domini,” Ednam repeated. “I don’t know if he’s religious or what. But we’ve had a few good tips from him before.”

  “How? Do you talk with him? Get letters?”

  “Letters, just a line or two. Delivered by hand.”

  “Addressed to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “By name?”

  “Yes.”

  “Telling you what?”

  “Where a purchase will be or where drugs are stashed.”

  “How many arrests have you made on this information?”

  Ednam’s eyes did not leave Pitt’s face.

  “Two. And found about two hundred pounds’ worth of opium.”

  More than enough to establish trust; in fact, enough to raise the funds to buy a small house. Pitt could not blame Ednam for following the lead. He would have himself.

  “Do you think he was setting you up?” he asked. “Or was someone else using him?”

  Ednam thought for a few moments, his face tense with concentration. “I think someone else was using him,” he said at last. “But it’s just a guess. Find who’s behind this. I want to see them hang.”

  “I’ll try,” Pitt promised. It was one of the rare moments when he agreed. Usually he found hanging a repulsive idea, regardless of the crime. It was an act of revenge that reduced the law to the same level of barbarism as those who had broken it.

  He walked over to the bed opposite and found Bossiney. Pitt spoke to him only a few moments. He was very badly burned and must have been in savage pain, drifting in and out of consciousness.

  Pitt walked over to the nurse in the corner of the ward. She gave him a bleak smile but would not confirm or deny anything; she had hope that he would survive, but would not commit herself to more. Her emotional exhaustion from witnessing such pain was marked on her face.

  Finally Pitt went to the bed closest to the window, where Yarcombe lay staring at the ceiling, his face blank. A glance told Pitt that his right arm was missing from the elbow downward. Pitt struggled for something to say and could find nothing that was remotely adequate. His own right hand clenched till his nails bit into the flesh of his palm, a sweet reminder that it was there, real and alive.

  “I’m sorry,” he said awkwardly. “We’ll get them.”

  Yarcombe turned his head very slightly till his eyes focused on Pitt. “Do that,” he replied in a whisper. “They set us up!” He added something more, but it was unintelligible.

  Pitt left the hospital with his head pounding and a vague, sick feeling in his stomach.

  —

  HE ARRIVED BACK AT the Special Branch offices at Lisson Grove to find a message waiting for him to report to Commissioner Bradshaw of the Metropolitan Police. It did not surprise him. Bradshaw would be deeply upset about the bombing and remiss in his duty if he did not contact the head of Special Branch. Pitt had wanted to return to Lisson Grove only to see if there was any further information he could give to Bradshaw.

  Stoker knocked on his door almost as soon as Pitt had closed it and looked at the papers on his desk.

  “Sir?” Stoker said as soon as he was inside. He was a man of few words, but this was brief, even for him.

  “Nothing more,” Pitt replied. “They are hurt very badly. Yarcombe lost part of his arm. Nobody can say if they’ll live or not. Ednam doesn’t look fatal but you can’t tell what’s inside. Or how bad the shock will be. He says they went there on a tip-off that there would be a big opium sale. They expected a degree of resistance, and they didn’t want anyone escaping with the proof.”

  “Was there a sale?”

  “No.”

  “Any idea who set them up?”

  “The tip came from a man they know only as Anno Domini.”

  “What?” Stoker looked startled.

  “Anno Domini,” Pitt repeated. “No idea why. But Ednam said he’s been reliable before.”

  “Setting them up for this,” Stoker said straightaway.

  “Could be. Tellman’s our police liaison. You’d better check on all the potential bombers we know of.”

  “Already started, sir. Nothing useful so far. But I suppose if it was someone we know, we’d have had wind of it before.” He made a grimace of unhappiness. “At least I damn well hope we would! We’ve got enough men infiltrated into their groups. I’ve already spoken to Patchett and Wells. They don’t know a thing. But dynamite’s easy enough to get, if you have the right connections.”

  Pitt did not argue. Unfortunately what Stoker said was true, hard as they tried to prevent it. “I’m going to see Bradshaw,” he said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  —

  PITT WAS SHOWN INTO Bradshaw’s office immediately. This time there was no pretense at being busy with more important things, as there had been on occasion. Bradshaw was a good-looking man in his early fifties. His thick hair had little gray in it and he had not yet developed any surplus body weight. He was well dressed, as always, but creases of tension marred the smoothness of his face.

  “How are the men, Pitt?” he began without ceremony the moment Pitt was in and had closed the door. He waved toward one of the elegant chairs but did not bother with an invitation.

  “Two dead, sir,” Pitt replied, walking over toward the desk, his feet silent on the heavy Turkish rug. “Newman and Hobbs. Ednam, Bossiney, and Yarcombe injured. Yarcombe lost part of an arm. Too early to say if they’ll recover.”

  Bradshaw winced. “It’s police who were killed,” he said sharply. “It was a police case.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you know what it was about?”

  “A very large opium sale.”

  Bradshaw’s face paled, the muscles in his jaw tight. “Opium,” he said quietly. “Have you…have you any idea who is involved?”

  “Not yet…”

  “Why is Special Branch taking the case?” His voice was hard-edged, challenging. “What evidence have you that it’s terrorists? Do you know who’s behind it? Did you know before?”

  “No, sir. We were not consulted until after the bomb went off this morning. It was one of their informers who lured them to the meeting, and with information that caused them to bring five men, rather than just a couple.”

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

  —

  THE FIRST THING PITT 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.

  —

  AS PITT 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.

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