Long Spoon Lane Page 9

  Along the embankment a band played a dance tune. People below them on the river were laughing and calling out to one another. Somewhere in the distance a hurdy-gurdy was churning out a popular song. A girl’s hat blew off in the wind, ribbons flying.

  “Hate is irrelevant,” Voisey said drily. “I trust you—to be predictable, anyway. Think about it. I have a seat in Parliament, and I know the Inner Circle. We can do better together than either of us can alone. Think what it is you want, Pitt. Remember, ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’—at least until the battle is over. Think about it. Meet me tomorrow and give me your answer.”

  Pitt needed more time. The whole idea was preposterous. Voisey was a dangerous man who hated Pitt and would destroy him at the first chance. It was only what Pitt knew—and had proof of, a carefully kept secret—that prevented Voisey from harming his family. Voisey had used his own sister, the only person in the world he loved, as his tool in a murder.

  But the thought of Wetron using the anarchist threat to rise to power was too real to ignore. He knew it, and Voisey understood that.

  “Day after tomorrow,” he said. “Where?”

  Voisey smiled. “There’s no time for self-indulgence. Make it somewhere nice and public,” he replied. “How about midday, in the crypt of St. Paul’s, by Nelson’s tomb.”

  Pitt drew in a long breath. He met Voisey’s eyes, and saw that he already knew Pitt would agree. He nodded. “I’ll be there.”

  4

  PITT DID NOT FEEL his usual pleasure as he let himself in at the front door in Keppel Street. Voisey had spoiled that. If Pitt as much as mentioned his name, Charlotte would remember all the misery and violence of the past. It would be a self-indulgence to tell her of his meeting with Voisey, simply so he did not have to weigh his decision alone.

  He stepped inside and unlaced his boots without calling out to tell her he was home. There was no point in saying anything about Voisey if he decided not to ally with him. And if he accepted his offer, it would be far easier for Charlotte if she did not have to know. He told her the things that mattered; he always had. They had first met because of a murder. She was observant, wise, and she understood women as he never would. What was often more important in his investigations, she understood her own social class in a way that he, as an outsider, did not. Many times it had been her observation that had shown him some vital point, an anomaly, a motive, a pattern of thought.

  Still, he protected her from some things, and the need to work with Voisey must be one of them. Not that he had made up his mind. He wanted to refuse. Every instinct was against it.

  He walked softly down the corridor to the kitchen. The lights were on and he could hear the chink of crockery.

  But every time he was on the brink of dismissing the idea of working with Voisey, Wetron’s smooth, passionless face came into his mind, and he knew that Voisey might be right about him. He might be playing for the ultimate police office, holding the law in his own hands, with the power to corrupt almost limitless. And perhaps allying with Voisey was the only way to defeat him.

  He could never trust Voisey, of course! But could he use him, just for this one purpose? The gain was worth the risk. Or perhaps more honestly, the loss would be too great not to try.

  He opened the kitchen door and went in.

  All through supper he did not mention it, nor did he say anything about police corruption. Charlotte would hear the pain in him and it would hurt her too. She would know that all the words, the holding him in her arms, the gentleness and the trust would not alter the reality he still had to face.

  When the meal was over and the plates cleared away he leaned back in his armchair in the parlor and watched her as she sat with her head bent. The lamplight on the side of her face cast the shadow of her lashes on her cheek. Her slender hands pulled the needle through the linen she was mending, and he was glad he had not disturbed her peace.

  There was no sound in the room but the slight tick of her needle against the thimble as she stitched. The sight, the near silence but for the needle, and the faint whicker of the flames—it was uniquely, perfectly comfortable. It was safety, companionship, the kind of unspoken ease that was the real prize at the end of each day, more than food or warmth, more than time in which to do whatever he wished. It was the certainty that it all mattered. Whether they agreed or differed, they were on a crusade for something they both cared about. Victorious or defeated, full of energy or too tired to think, she was there with him.

  It was stupid to frighten her with the prospect of working with Voisey, or the ugliness of police corruption. And anyway, if he thought about it carefully, with judgment, weighed all the possibilities, he might find another, better solution.

  Jack Radley would be the person to ask. He was Pitt’s brother-in-law, the husband of Charlotte’s sister Emily. He was a member of Parliament also, and gaining in experience. Pitt would go to the House of Commons in the morning and ask him. Tonight he put the matter out of his mind, and let the warmth deepen inside him, driving out everything else.

  “Tanqueray,” Jack said with an edge to his voice. He had chosen to meet Pitt not in his office, where he might be interrupted by clerks, Parliament officials, and other members, but outside on the terrace overlooking the river. With their backs to the great Gothic palace of Westminster and the tower of Big Ben, they would look like anyone else, and might largely escape recognition.

  “Is it true?” Pitt asked quietly. A couple of elderly men walked past behind them and he caught a whiff of cigar smoke on the breeze. The sun was bright on the water. Strings of barges were making their way upstream on the tide.

  “Oh, yes,” Jack said with feeling. “And he has a lot of backers. In fact, it’s the backers who matter—Tanqueray is merely the spokesman. That’s one of the many things that worry me. I don’t really know who’s the moving force behind it.”

  “His bill is not a response to the bomb in Myrdle Street?” Pitt asked.

  Jack smiled with a downward twist of his mouth. “They are using it, certainly, but they are far better prepared than anyone could be in a day or two. The bill still needs drafting, but they have all their promises and the main arguments to support them. They are testing opinion, but there’s a lot of agreement already. Crime in the street has been increasing over the last year or so.” He looked sideways at Pitt, his eyes narrowed against the sun. “Everyone knows somebody who’s been robbed, or experienced a nasty incident, or even simply preferred to go the longer way home because of the threat of violence. Perhaps, being in Special Branch instead of the police, you haven’t noticed it.”

  “And police corruption,” Pitt said softly. “I hadn’t noticed that either.”

  “Corruption?” Jack asked, frowning. “Where? How do you know?”

  “The two anarchists we caught,” Pitt answered, beginning to walk slowly. “That’s presumably why they bombed Myrdle Street. They meant to destroy only the center house—it belongs to a policeman from Cannon Street. They’re apparently not very skilled with the dynamite. They took away three houses at least, and damaged five more so badly they’ll have to be demolished.”

  Jack raised his eyebrows. “And you believe them?” He kept pace with Pitt.

  “I didn’t at first. I did a little investigating myself. At least part of it is true.”

  “And the rest?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How high does it go?” They reached the end of the terrace and turned to go back again.

  “To the top,” Pitt replied.

  Jack was silent for several minutes because there were some M.P.s walking behind them, closely enough to overhear. Two or three spoke to Jack and he replied briefly. He did not introduce Pitt.

  “Who do you mean?” he asked at length when he was perfectly sure there was no one within earshot.

  “Wetron in Bow Street,” Pitt replied. “Simbister in Cannon Street. Don’t know who else, but it’s Wetron that matters.”

  Jack did
not ask why. Pitt had previously told him that Wetron was head of the Inner Circle.

  “The police are saying that they can’t protect us from theft or random violence unless they have more men.” Jack stood still, staring out across the wind-riffled water. “And now they want more guns, as general protection for their men, and the argument for it is powerful. We haven’t had many police killed in the line of duty yet, but it will happen. We can’t ask them to protect us if we won’t give them the means. When the next policeman gets badly injured there is going to be an uproar. Not to mention that more police will leave the force. People are frightened, Thomas, and they have reason to be.”

  “I know.” Pitt leaned on the wall beside him, watching a ferry boat passing under the arches of Westminster Bridge. “But giving us guns isn’t going to help; it will only escalate everything. We already have them if we face a really bad situation, like the siege in Long Spoon Lane. If we have too much power then sooner or later some of us will abuse it. We’ll separate ourselves from the people we’re supposed to be part of.”

  Jack chewed on his lip. “There’s worse to come,” he said unhappily. “I don’t know what, not yet.”

  “Worse?” Pitt was jolted. “What could be worse than corrupt police with guns and the power to go wherever they want, to search whomever they want simply because they say they have a reason, but don’t have to prove it? It’s license for a private army!”

  “I don’t know. It’s only a rumor of an addition to the bill, something no one will specify. But I believe it exists. Or at least, let us say, I fear it.” He straightened up and turned to face Pitt. “There’s a lot of fear around, Thomas. Fear of change, fear of violence, fear of apathy allowing us to lose what we have. It’s a bad motive for doing anything. We react without taking account of the consequences.”

  Pitt smiled bitterly, thinking of Welling and Carmody, and Magnus Landsborough, whom he had never known. “Like the anarchists, who want to bomb things without considering how they can replace them.”

  “Is that what they said?” Jack looked curious.

  “That surprises you?”

  “I suppose it depends. The old theory of anarchy isn’t very practical; at least I don’t think so. It relies too much on the inherent good nature of mankind. It believes that wise men should learn to rule their own behavior, away from the interference of governments.” He smiled a little bitterly. “Trouble is, who is to decide who is wise and who isn’t? And what do we do about those who are lazy, or inadequate, or simply don’t want to contribute to the general welfare? There are always going to be the sick, the old, the foolish, not to mention the rebellious. Who is going to take care of them? Who is going to curb the bully or the liar, or the thief? It needs to be done by common consent, and so we’re back to government again.”

  “And police,” Pitt agreed. “There’s something else. Yesterday, on the embankment, I met Voisey.”

  Jack stiffened. “Voisey!”

  Pitt told him what Voisey had said of Wetron’s ambitions to rise until he effectively governed the whole city.

  “God in Heaven!” Jack said violently. Then he deliberately lowered his voice, aware of drawing attention to himself from a group of men passing by. “He’s mad! Isn’t he?” he asked incredulously. “What does Victor Narraway think?”

  “I don’t know,” Pitt admitted. “I haven’t told him yet.”

  “And exactly when are you intending to do that?”

  “When I leave here.”

  “Don’t trust Voisey!” Jack said with intense urgency. “He’ll forgive nothing and forget nothing. He wanted to be president of Britain, and it was largely you who stopped him, with Lady Vespasia’s help, and he won’t have forgotten that either.”

  “I know,” Pitt assured him. “I’d be head of Bow Street, not Wetron, if Voisey hadn’t had me thrown out. Does any of that make the charge against Wetron untrue?”

  Jack stared at him, his face pale. The wind was rising, whipping at his hair. “No,” he said reluctantly. “No, I suppose it doesn’t. What does Voisey want? He didn’t tell you without wanting something.”

  “He wants me to work with him to prevent Wetron from succeeding,” Pitt answered.

  “You can’t!” Jack was appalled. “Thomas, you can’t work with Voisey! He’ll stab you in the back the first chance he gets. For God’s sake, you know that!”

  “Yes, I do.” Pitt turned up his coat collar. “But I also know that he could be right, and if he is, Wetron would end with virtual control of London, and the heart of the whole Empire.”

  Jack did not answer. They stood in silence thinking over the enormity of the possibility.

  “And there is another thing,” Pitt said at last, starting to walk back the way they had come. “What if Wetron is not quite as clever as he thinks, and he is betrayed from within the Circle, perhaps by someone with foreign sympathies. Is the conspiracy confined to England? I don’t know. But even if it is, some men can be bought for money, or power, or any of a dozen other things. An Inner Circle member could be a traitor to England quite easily. It has been torn apart by factions before, and the leadership changed. That is how Wetron got rid of Voisey. It could happen again.”

  Jack’s eyes were dim cast, his face furrowed in unhappiness. “You don’t think Voisey is simply making this up so he can use you to destroy Wetron?” he suggested, but with no belief in his voice. “He must hate him even more than he hates you. What could be more satisfying than to pit your enemies against each other? No matter who loses, you win, and the survivor may well be sufficiently weakened that you can finish him off too.”

  “I know that.” Pitt did know it, with a sickening certainty that knotted in his stomach. “Can we afford to stand apart from it?”

  Jack waited a long time before he answered. They were nearly at the doorway to go back inside the palace and towards his office. “No,” he said softly. “But be careful, Thomas, for heaven’s sake, be careful. Don’t trust him with anything, not even for a moment.”

  Pitt said nothing.

  “What do you want from me?” Jack asked him.

  Pitt looked at him steadily. “The answer you gave me. Tanqueray’s going to go ahead with his bill, and you think it might well get passed. If it does, it will give Wetron the power to impress his rule on London. I can’t let that happen if there is any way to stop it, whatever the risk.”

  Pitt entered Narraway’s office, tense even before he broached the subject. Narraway was standing, staring out of the window, his back to the door, the gray in his hair catching the light. He turned as Pitt came in, his face expectant. “You’re late,” he said bluntly. “What else have you learned about Magnus Landsborough? I need to know before they regroup and find another leader.” He was impatient. “Where was the money coming from? Who else is involved? I’ve spoken to all my sources of information, and I’ve heard of no connection to any foreign group. The East End is littered with Poles and Jews, Frenchmen, Italians, Russians, anything and everything you can think of, but no one was interested in blowing up Myrdle Street.”

  “I don’t think there’s a foreign connection,” Pitt replied, remaining standing also. He was too stiff and shivery to sit anyway. Better to come to the point straightaway. It was not as if he could avoid telling Narraway. “I’m late because I was at the House of Commons, talking to Jack Radley. He says Tanqueray’s bill has a good chance of passing.”

  Narraway swore viciously and with a suppressed violence that spoke of intense emotion.

  Pitt found that instead of shocking him, it was oddly comforting. It betrayed a humanity that bridged the gulf he so often felt between them. Narraway seldom allowed anything but his intellect to show.

  “I have an offer of help that I am going to accept,” Pitt told him. “Because the situation may possibly be worse than we thought, and Jack believes it is going to deteriorate even further.”

  “Oh? And what are they going to blow up next? Buckingham Palace?” Narraway said sarcast
ically.

  “Sabotage by corruption,” Pitt answered. “The police force could become Wetron’s private army, if this bill is passed.”

  Narraway drew in his breath sharply, then suddenly he understood. His shoulders relaxed and he breathed in very deeply, his eyes bright. “Wetron seizing the chance,” he said softly. “Brilliant! Then he won’t want us to catch the anarchists. He’ll want them to strike again, so everyone is frightened enough to give him the power he’s after. Then he’ll reverse the corruption he’s encouraged. It won’t be hard for him to arrest all the men because he already knows who they are—God help them, he put them there! What made you see that, Pitt?” There was a gleam in his black eyes that could have been admiration.

  There was only one possible answer, and that was the truth. “Charles Voisey,” Pitt answered. “He caught up with me in the street yesterday evening. He wants me to work with him to prevent the bill.”

  “Does he indeed? And what did you tell him?”

  Pitt forced himself to be calm. “I told him I would consider it. I’m meeting him at St. Paul’s. But I am going to do it.”

  Narraway’s voice was very soft, almost like an animal’s purr. “Oh, are you!” It was more of a challenge than a question.

  Pitt answered it as such.

  “I can’t afford not to. And you can’t afford that I don’t. We need police cooperation in order to succeed at our job. With Wetron as commissioner, and the Inner Circle against us, not to mention the police seen as a public enemy, we’d be blocked at every point. We would be able to do only what Wetron allowed us to.”

  “You believe this?” Narraway asked. “It hasn’t occurred to you that Voisey could have made it all up in order to use you to destroy Wetron and get himself back in control of the Inner Circle?”

  “Of course it has occurred to me,” Pitt replied bitterly. “And I’m sure Voisey knows that it has. But it doesn’t alter Tanqueray’s bill, or the police corruption that Wetron has not prevented, whether he knows about it or not.”