by Anne Perry
“He wasn’t…dead…” Welling’s uncertainty was naked in his face.
Pitt refused the temptation to imply that he was. “No, but that was lucky. You still tried to kill him.”
“I…I…” Welling’s voice died away. There was no argument that mattered.
Pitt waited while he considered it. Imprisonment would be harder than Welling would have any idea of, but there was a finality about the rope.
“Are you a religious man?” Pitt asked suddenly.
Welling was startled. “What?”
“Are you a religious man?” Pitt repeated.
The sneer came back to Welling’s face, but it was more out of bravado than confidence. “You don’t have to believe in God to have a morality,” he said bitterly. “The Church has got the biggest hypocrites of the lot! Have you any idea how much they own? How many of them preach one thing, and do something quite different? They condemn people whose lives they don’t begin to understand, and—”
“I wasn’t thinking of morality,” Pitt cut across him. “I’ve no more time for hypocrites than you have. I was thinking of there being anything to hope for after death.”
Welling went as white as a sheet. Suddenly he found it hard to breathe.
“You’re a young man,” Pitt said more gently. “You don’t have to give up your life, or all you can do in it, the good things and the mistakes, if you help me find out who killed Magnus Landsborough, and prove it. It was a wrong thing to do, by your morality and mine. I have the authority to give you amnesty for the shooting of the policeman, or anything else, if you help.”
Welling licked his lips. “How do I know that? How do I know you aren’t lying? Maybe the policeman did die!”
“No, he didn’t. He’ll be back on duty in a few weeks. The shot went through his shoulder. Didn’t touch the artery.” He pulled the piece of paper from his pocket with the promise Narraway had written for him and passed it to Welling, who took it and read it, blinking several times, his hands shaking slightly.
“What about Carmody?” he said at last. “I…” He had to clear his throat. “I won’t save myself and let you hang him.”
Pitt could only guess what it had cost him to say that. He admired him for it. “You won’t have to,” he promised. “The same offer goes for him, if he wants it. Now tell me all you know about Magnus Landsborough, who’ll be leader in his place—you can call him whatever you like—and the old man who spoke to him. How often, where, what time of day or night? How did Magnus react?”
Welling told him bit by bit, measuring every word so he was not tricked into betraying something he had not meant to. He could give no name to the man he believed would be the new leader, but his respect for him was clear. He shared Magnus’s passion against unjust dominion of one person over another. He was infuriated by the helplessness of the poor, the disadvantaged in health or intelligence, in education, birthright, or simply position in society. Power without responsibility was for him the ultimate evil, the begetter of cruelty, injustice, every kind of abuse one person may inflict upon another.
Pitt discussed with him only the means with which he sought to address it. Perhaps Welling sensed something of that, because he began to speak with less contempt, and more cordially of his hope to achieve some greater balance.
Pitt did not argue with him that in his belief it owed as much to human nature as to any specific political system. It rose to his mind to do so, but the coldness of the cell, the stale odor of the air, reminded him of the immediate urgency of corruption today, and Wetron’s power in the future.
Welling also told him of Magnus’s meeting with the older man. It had happened perhaps half a dozen times, and Magnus had seemed disturbed by it. He had refused to say who the man was, or what he wanted, but he would hear no ill of him, nor would he permit any of the others to approach the old man or warn him not to come again. The few of their conversations that had been observed were obviously arguments. The older man’s feelings had run high, but no one knew enough to say what they had been, and Magnus refused to discuss it at all.
Pitt broached the subject of the source of the money, obliquely at first, but he gained no response. Welling became even more guarded.
“There’s no need to protect him,” Pitt said casually. “We know who he is. In fact the police know as well.”
Welling smiled. “Then you don’t need us to tell you,” he said.
“No. I wouldn’t mention it if there were any chance that you would warn him.”
“Really.” Welling’s voice was back to its initial skepticism.
“Piers Denoon,” Pitt told him, and saw the chagrin in Welling’s eyes. Not that he needed any confirmation. It was on the edge of his tongue to ask if Magnus and Piers had quarreled. Perhaps Magnus had realized that Piers was a double player, both for the anarchists and the police, and had threatened to expose him. Then, just before he spoke, he thought of the danger to Tellman. Welling might testify in court to defend himself, and the information could get back to the police. He changed his mind. But the possibility remained. Maybe it was Piers Denoon who had killed Magnus, to safeguard himself.
It was just after noon when Pitt began his round of the public houses, replacing Jones the Pocket. He had seldom performed any task he loathed more. Perhaps because he knew how much he would hate it, he dressed in old clothes as unlike his usual ones as possible, as if he were trying to divorce himself from the act. He had brought a tweed jacket that was patched in places, something he would never have chosen otherwise. It was prickly to touch, and too warm in the evening sun.
In every place he went to, he had to explain that Jones was temporarily indisposed, and until he returned, Pitt was taking his place.
“Sick, is ’e?” one landlord said hopefully. “Real sick?”
“Probably,” Pitt replied. “And if he spends any time in the Coldbath Fields, he’ll get sicker.” He was referring to the London prison whose reputation was the worst.
“Wot a cryin’ shame,” the landlord said, smiling broadly. Then the smile vanished and he glared at Pitt. “I ’ope it’s catchin’!”
“Maybe,” Pitt had already made up his mind what he intended to do. “But I won’t get it so badly.”
“Why’s that then? You look jus’ the same ter me!”
“I’m not as susceptible,” Pitt answered. “Jones was hard. I want you to stay in business. I’ll take half what he did. That’ll be enough. Just keep it regular.”
The man looked startled, then suspicious. “I don’t want that bleedin’ Grover comin’ ’ere an smashin’ up the place,” he said warily.
“You don’t think Jones kept anything for himself?” Pitt raised his eyebrows.
“Oh yeah? An’ you’re doin’ it fer nothin’? Do I look like I came down wi’ the last rain?”
“I have my reasons,” Pitt answered. “Give me half, and get on to serving your customers. The longer you stand there arguing with me, the more you neglect them.”
In the next place it was essentially the same, and so on around them all. He collected nearly sixteen pounds. That was as much as an ordinary constable on the beat would earn in three months.
He could neither keep the money nor risk losing it. There was only one place where it would be safe, and also keep him from the possible charge of having extorted it for himself. Wetron would be delighted to try that! It would be an exquisite irony.
“Sixteen pounds!” Narraway said, flinging it down on his desk as if its source tainted him even to touch it. “That’s nearly fifty pounds a month, just from those few poor devils.”
“I know,” Pitt agreed. “And I only took half what Jones did.”
“Jones took twice that? Why didn’t you go to all of them?”
“I did. I just took half the money.”
Narraway rolled his eyes, but allowed his expression to make his comment.
“Look after it,” Pitt requested.
“Now what?” Narraway asked, his face creased, sud
denly serious. “Someone will be expecting to receive this. You’re playing a damn dangerous game, Pitt. What’s to stop them cutting your throat, to make an example of you? Especially when you haven’t got the money.”
“Greed,” Pitt answered. “Whoever comes after me will be getting a cut. They’ll want it, and I’ll offer them more. I’m no use dead.”
“You haven’t got more. You’ve got less!” Narraway pointed out.
“Since I haven’t got it with me, they won’t know that.”
“They may not believe you’ve got it at all, you fool!” Narraway said, suddenly furious. “Do you think I’ve got men to spare tracking you around London until someone comes after you for this?”
“It won’t be long,” Pitt told him frankly. He was taking a risk, and he knew it. Please heaven he had judged Narraway accurately enough that he would back him now. “I went a little earlier than Jones would have, and I left two altogether. If I go back for them in an hour or two, someone’ll be waiting for me. I’ll need men just long enough for that. Please…please give me someone who won’t hesitate to step in, if he’s needed.”
Narraway swore elegantly and viciously. “You try my patience, Pitt. But you’ll have someone, and they’ll be armed. And it will be someone who’ll shoot if need be, I’ll promise you that.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Narraway glared at him.
It was dusk when Pitt walked slowly down the cobbled street towards the last public house to collect the extortion money. He was trying to judge the exact manner to display. If he looked completely unafraid he might arouse suspicion. He had robbed an organization of a considerable amount of money. If he were not afraid, it could only be because he believed he had greater strength than they did. If they saw that, then this whole exercise was wasted, and he could not start again. It would not work a second time.
He could hear no footsteps behind him, only the moving and shifting in doorways of beggars half asleep, the scuttle of rats’ feet in the side alley, and the drip of leaking roofs and guttering. Fifty yards away someone laughed. He sounded drunk. Please God that Narraway’s man was close too, watching him, there to protect him when the time came. Narraway could not afford to lose him, he was essential to his war against Wetron. There’d be nothing left of Special Branch if Wetron became commissioner.
Pitt tripped over a loose cobble and nearly pitched over. Narraway could not be a member of the Circle, could he? Double bluff!
A man was crossing the road towards him, a big man with heavy shoulders. The streetlamps were not lit yet, but there was still enough daylight to see his face. It was broad, big-nosed, a scar over one cheek. His left ear was almost shapeless from bruising and tearing.
He stepped in front of Pitt. When he spoke his voice was soft with a faint burr to it.
“I wouldn’t go askin’ fer that if I wuz you. In’t no point, cos’ I got it, see?” He was Pitt’s height, and they stood face-to-face on the narrow pavement, about two feet apart. Pitt could feel the sweat run down his body and freeze. He prayed that his voice would stay steady enough to hide the fear that rippled through him.
“Did you collect the usual amount?” he asked politely.
“Course I did! Wot ’appened ter Mister Jones?”
“You don’t know?” Pitt affected surprise. “He got careless. Took a bit of flash paper instead of the real thing. Got caught with it.”
The big man pursed his lips. “Jones is too fly for that. Wot really ’appened?”
“It was a good copy. He got careless.”
“Did you make that ’appen, then?”
Pitt decided to take the credit. “I have plans,” he said in reply. “I can make more out of this than he did. I have contacts. And what you’ll like about it is that I can make more for you too. That is, if you like?”
“Oh yeah? An’ ’ow’s that, then?” the man asked skeptically. “Tell me why I shouldn’t stick a shiv inter yer gut an’ take it all, eh?”
“Because I haven’t got it with me, of course!” Pitt responded. “Stick a knife in me now, and you’ll never know what I plan, and more to the point, you won’t have any money to take back to your…master.” He invested the word with contempt.
“In’t nobody’s my master!” the other man snarled.
“Jones the Pocket was working for you?” Pitt damned the idea as idiotic by the laughter in his voice. “You’re an errand boy, a carrier of messages. But you don’t have to be…Mr.—?”
“Yancy.” He was interested, in spite of himself, but he kept his right hand in his pocket, where Pitt guessed he had his fingers around the hilt of a knife.
“You happy with being a messenger, Mr. Yancy?” Pitt was shaking slightly, his heart was knocking in his chest. “Safe, is it?”
“What do you want then?” Yancy asked cautiously.
“Who do you give it to?”
“If I tell you that, you’ll take my place!” Yancy spat. “Think I’m a fool?”
“Not your place, Mr. Yancy, I want far more than that! I want his place!” He saw the doubt in Yancy’s eyes. He had not gone far enough. How much did Yancy know? It all hung on persuading him now. A word too much, a word too little, and it would slip out of his grasp. “There are people getting a bit above themselves,” he said, his voice catching. He needed to cough, to clear his throat, but it would betray his nerves. There was no one else on the footpath except a couple of street women twenty yards away. If Yancy pulled out the knife, they would look the other way, see nothing, know nothing. “I can give you a bigger share because I’m getting rid of the middleman.” Pitt threw a wild gamble. “I report to the top. Are you in, or out?”
“Gawd!” Yancy let out a long breath. “Mr. Simbister ’is-self? Grover’d kill me!”
“Higher than that, even,” Pitt replied with a smile. “Are you in?”
Yancy opened his mouth to reply, and there was a shattering roar from two streets away. It was so violent the ground shook, and on the roof above them, slates broke loose and slid off the eaves to shatter on the streets. There was another ear-splitting roar and a gust of flame shot into the air. Someone was screaming, over and over and over. The crash of masonry drowned out voices and the smell and heat of the fire filled the dusk.
8
PITT TURNED ON his heel, Yancy forgotten, and ran to the end of the street, round the corner, and towards the flame filling the sky. Behind the jagged outlines of the roofs, ripped open and spewing fire, the belching smoke already caught in his lungs as he came closer. People were crying out, weeping. Some were standing motionless as if too stunned or confused to know what to do. Others were running one way then the other, some just stumbled about aimlessly. Rubble was still falling, with charred and burning pieces of wood, and flying glass, the shards bright like daggers.
As Pitt came to the end of Scarborough Street, the smoke caught in his throat and he felt the heat on his face. There were injured people lying in the roadway, some motionless, crumpled over like heaps of rags, their limbs twisted. Someone was screaming. There was blood, smoking wood, bricks, and shards of glass everywhere. A dog barked incessantly. Above it all was the sound of flames soaring up inside what was left of the last three houses. In the heat, wood exploded, and slates flew off like hurled knives, edges sharp as blades, dust and rubble poured into the air.
Pitt stood still, trying to quell the horror inside himself and to keep control. Had anyone sent for the fire brigade? Burning wood was already falling onto the roofs on the next street. What about doctors? Anyone to help? He moved forward, trying to find any sort of order in the terror and chaos. He could see clearly now in the glare of the fire.
“Has anyone called for the fire engines?” he shouted as another wall caved in. “Get the people out!” He took an old woman by the arm. “Go to the end of the street!” he told her firmly. “Away from the heat. Things will fall on you if you stand here.”
“My ’usband,” she said, blank-eyed. “ ’E’s in bed. ’E were
drunk out of ’is skin. I gotta get ’im. ’E’ll be burned.”
“You can’t help him now.” He did not release her. A young man was standing a few yards away, barefooted, shaking uncontrollably. “Here!” Pitt called to him. He turned slowly. “Take her out of the way,” Pitt told him. “Move everyone. Help me!”
The young man blinked. Slowly awareness returned to his eyes and he obeyed. Other people were beginning to react, trying to help the injured, picking up children and carrying them away from the heat.
Pitt went to the nearest body lying on the stones and bent to look more closely. It was a young woman, half on her back, her legs doubled under her. A single glance at her face told him that she was beyond help. There was blood in her hair and her wide eyes had already misted over. He knelt beside her feeling sick and twisted inside with rage. They should have been able to stop this. This was not any kind of idealism or desire to reform; it was madness, inhumanity driven by stupidity and hate.
Someone was moaning a few yards away. There was no time to spend in emotion now. It helped no one. He clambered to his feet and went over to the person moaning. It was getting hotter. He found himself blinking and turning his head from the flying ash. More slates were sliding off the roof and falling onto the road or the pavement. He reached the person: an older woman with a badly broken leg and a blood-pouring gash in her arm. She must have been in a lot of pain, but it was the bleeding that was frightening her.
“You’ll be all right,” he said with conviction. He tore a piece off her petticoat and tied up her arm. He was afraid it might be too tight, but he had to stop the blood gushing through. Surely someone would have gone for a doctor?
“There.” He stood up, then bent and lifted her onto the good leg. She was heavy and awkward, and it took all his strength. He nearly lost his balance. “Lean on me, and I’ll get you as far as the main road,” he said.