by Anne Perry
Narraway nodded. “And who killed Magnus Landsborough?”
“I don’t know,” Pitt admitted. “I need to speak to Welling and Carmody again, but it’s getting harder to get anything useful out of them. They’re both idealists who see largely one vision: a corrupt authority that can only be got rid of by violence. They let off bombs after giving the residents warning to get out.” He tried to put into words the innocence or essential futility of such tactics. “They won’t shed blood, which was the ultimate weapon, but they were willing to destroy homes and possessions.”
“They’ll hang,” Narraway said, looking at Pitt steadily. He put his hands into his pockets. “I imagine they know that, but it might have escaped them. No one died in the Myrdle Street bombing, but one of them shot at a policeman and hit him. If you hadn’t gone to him and stopped the bleeding, he might have died. They can be charged with attempting to murder a policeman while in the course of committing a very serious crime.”
Pitt knew it was pointless to argue with Narraway. Actually he had no idea what Narraway believed about hanging, or what he felt about anything else deeper than the surface pleasures or irritations of the job. Narraway was meticulous in his clothes and habits and untidy with paperwork. He ate sparingly, but he liked good pastry and good wine. He read voraciously: history, biography, science, and poetry. Pitt had not seen him with a novel except in translation from other languages, especially Russian. But what stirred his emotions, what hurt him, or woke his dreams, Pitt had no idea at all.
“Offer them amnesty.” Narraway’s voice cut across Pitt’s thoughts. “In return for information to stop police corruption, more bombings that will kill people, any way you want to phrase it that will work.”
Pitt was astounded. “Amnesty?” he said incredulously.
Narraway widened his eyes. “You know, I rather thought that would please you! Not that that’s why I’m doing it, of course. Five years’ prison, instead of the rope. But don’t sell it cheap.”
Pitt’s spirits surged upward. “Who do you have to ask? When will you know?”
Narraway put his hands into his pockets. “I know now, Pitt.” The faintest flicker of amusement crossed his eyes. “Go and see what you can get for it.”
Five minutes before noon Pitt went across the black-and-white stone floor of St. Paul’s Cathedral, and down the flight of steps to the crypt. He walked through the arches quietly, trying to keep his footsteps from disturbing the near-silence. There were only two other people down here that he could see, an old man with thin hair and a mild, dreamy face, and a young woman concentrating intently on a piece of paper in her hand. Neither of them looked at him as he passed.
There were many plaques on the walls commemorating the famous dead from great battles of the past. He was startled to notice how many of them were naval captains who had fallen at Trafalgar. It was a stark reminder of just how dark England’s future had seemed then, with Napoleon conquering Europe and poised on the shores to take Britain as well. It had seemed as if nothing could stop him.
He saw the central pale-arched ceiling where the colonnades met and under it, in the heart of the crypt, the great memorial tomb of Horatio Nelson. Voisey was standing in front of it. Was he in silent contemplation of heroism, sacrifice, the fortunes of war that could change history in the outcome of one battle? And could the leadership of one man with vision, skill, courage, eccentricity, control that? Nelson’s signal to the fleet before the attack had passed into history, and perhaps into all that it meant to be English: “England expects that every man will do his duty.”
Why had Voisey selected this tomb, among all those in this great cathedral? There were a score of other places to meet, as easily found. And why was he early? Was that his first and startling tactical error? Pitt had expected him to be about ten minutes late, not long enough for Pitt to leave, but enough to make him feel anxious and at a disadvantage, as if he were the petitioner, not Voisey.
Pitt stopped, to see if Voisey would turn in a moment or two to look for him. He did not. Was he more confident than his earliness would suggest? Or could he see Pitt reflected in the black marble surface of the tomb?
In case that was so, Pitt smiled and moved forward. He would not spoil his advantage by seeming to measure it, as though it mattered to him.
“Morning, Sir Charles,” he said, using both the correct form of address and the one that would remind Voisey that in their greatest clash it had been Pitt who had won. He would prefer not to have been the one to approach, but to avoid it would have made it even more obvious. It would have signaled that he was walking soft-footedly on purpose. The realization of how much thought he had given it, even before they entered any conversation, before Voisey himself said anything at all, was discomforting.
Voisey turned slowly. He was smartly and soberly dressed, almost as if he had come here to contemplate the heroes of the past rather than to discuss the political battles of today. “Good morning, Pitt,” he replied. “You are a trifle late. Is it the first time you have been to St. Paul’s? If you can keep your attention on the business in hand, perhaps you would like to walk around? I can show you some of the other notable tombs, although of course there is nothing to rival this for sheer”—he hesitated—“spectacle.”
Pitt looked at the magnificent monument. It was ornate, resplendent, a nation’s tribute to a man who was not only the architect of their greatest naval victory but a hero personally loved, who had died at the moment of his supreme triumph. Pitt thought it totally fitting, and he was filled with a deep pride as he stood in front of it, for a moment unaware of Voisey beside him.
“We lost nearly forty officers and five hundred men,” Voisey’s words interrupted his thoughts.
“In Trafalgar?” Pitt was surprised. It sounded very few for such a battle.
“In the British fleet,” Voisey replied, irony in his face, his eyes bright. “That doesn’t include the French, Spanish, of course.”
Pitt said nothing, feeling a little foolish.
“They lost over a hundred officers, and eleven hundred men,” Voisey went on.
Again Pitt did not answer.
“Funny little man,” Voisey continued. “Seasick at the beginning of every voyage.”
He was referring to Nelson. “I know,” Pitt said.
“And he liked fat women, who smelled,” Voisey added.
Pitt had no idea whether that was true or not, and he did not wish to know. He glanced at Voisey, and away again quickly. He knew why he had mentioned it, it was a matter of class. He was reminding Pitt that he was a gentleman and Pitt was not. He was using the aristocrat’s ease with the fallibility of heroes, and the earthier side of nature, compared with working-class prudency. He was testing, trying to find the place of offense.
“Really?” Pitt said casually. “How many ships did we lose?”
“The French and Spanish lost twenty-one from the combined fleet.”
“How many ships did we lose?” Pitt repeated.
“The French lost eight, the Spanish thirteen.”
“And us?”
Voisey nodded towards the tomb. “We lost Nelson.”
“And ships?” Pitt persisted, refusing to think of men, lives, passions. Stick to the measurable.
“None. We lost no ships. Every last one made it home.” Voisey blinked, as if his own emotion had caught him off-guard. “It was the greatest victory in the annals of our naval history. We were saved from invasion. And the fleet returned to England with flags at half mast, as if it had been a defeat.” His voice was thick and he looked away from Pitt for a moment. “Did Jack Radley tell you that Tanqueray’s bill will pass?” he asked.
Pitt concealed his jolt of surprise that Voisey knew already that he had spoken to Jack. “Yes,” he replied. “Also that there is very little organized resistance against it. We shall have to be much cleverer than we have been so far to turn the tide.” He had used the naval metaphor unintentionally.
A faint flicker of am
usement touched Voisey’s mouth, but his hands were clenched at his sides, their powerful knuckles white. “That sounds like defeat,” he remarked. The heavy symbolism of where they were was not lost on either of them. This too was what Voisey had intended.
“It should sound like caution,” Pitt replied. “I think we are also outnumbered and outgunned, at least at this point. It takes more than bravado to win, and unfortunately, more than a just cause.”
Voisey’s eyebrows rose fractionally. “We need a Nelson?” A tiny smile touched his mouth. “Do you think Narraway’s up to the task?”
“I’m not sure how much I intend to consult him,” Pitt answered.
“I rather thought you liked him! Am I mistaken?”
“It’s irrelevant,” Pitt said a little tartly. Voisey’s amusement stung him. “I can work with people whether I like them or not, if I believe their goal is the same as mine, and that they are competent at what they do. I had rather assumed you knew that!”
“Good,” Voisey approved very softly, almost under his breath. “If you had said you trusted me, I should have known you for a liar, and a poor one at that. But you appreciate that my goal is the same as yours. That’ll suffice.”
“One step at a time,” Pitt replied. He did not question whether Voisey trusted him. That was Voisey’s advantage and they both knew it. Pitt was bound by his own rules. Voisey was bound by nothing.
“What is this Tanqueray like?” Pitt asked.
“A jam tart of a man,” Voisey replied. “Attracts those with more appetite than sense, and you come away licking your fingers and looking for somewhere to wash yourself. Somehow a napkin never does it.”
Pitt smiled in spite of not wishing to. “Why did they choose him?”
Voisey’s eyebrows rose. “A guess? Because we have a lot of members who think there is nothing more innocent or innocuous than a jam tart! Offer them a rum baba or a brandy cream éclair, and they know you want something.”
Pitt saw his point. “And who else can they rely on?”
“Too many,” Voisey said ruefully. “Dyer is the most powerful. Unctuous beggar. Looks like a defrocked priest. I wouldn’t trust him with the party funds, or my god-daughter, if she was under twenty. Lord North used to say of Gladstone that he didn’t mind him having the ace of trumps up his sleeve, he just objected virulently to his claim that it was God who put it there. Dyer’s the same, holier than the pope!”
Pitt turned away to hide the amusement that betrayed him. He did not want to like anything about Voisey. He started to walk away from the tomb, back the way he had come in.
“Who killed Magnus Landsborough?” Voisey asked.
“Why do you care?” Pitt responded. “Isn’t police corruption your interest? That will be your chief card to play against them in Parliament.”
“Precisely. Are you certain they are not the same thing?”
“No, I’m not. I think they may be.”
“I will need better than that,” Voisey answered. “I want proof of corruption on a systematic basis, or at least enough that far more must be assumed.”
“Oh, I can see what you need, and why,” Pitt agreed. “I could get it and as easily give it to Jack Radley.” He turned to look at Voisey. He could not resist seeing if the mention of Jack’s name, with its memories of past defeat, galled him. The momentary hatred appeared in Voisey’s face, bitter as bile. Pitt had known it was there. Seeing it undisguised for an instant chilled him, but it should not have. It was a reminder. He should be grateful for it. It was too easy to forget. “What are you giving me that he could not?” he asked.
“Knowledge of the Inner Circle,” Voisey answered. “Names, details, who owes what and to whom.” It could be the ultimate betrayal of all his oaths, payment for those who had turned against him and chosen Wetron. He would be taking an irretrievable step, breaking bones for which the penalty was death. Pitt must never, for an instant, forget that he too had waited just as long for his revenge on Voisey.
“And how much of this information are you prepared to use?” Pitt asked quietly, guarding against being overheard by passersby, any of whom could be one of that secret brotherhood.
“All of it,” Voisey replied. “Until it is as dead as the men whose bones lie in all this marble and porphyry.”
“I see.”
“No, you don’t,” Voisey answered. “But you will. I will send you a message if I have anything to tell you about what happens in Parliament. Otherwise, meet me here again in three days’ time. Now go. We are not together. We simply happen to be at the same place at the same time, by chance.”
Pitt swallowed. His mouth was dry. He wanted something cutting and final to say, but there was nothing in his mind except the knowledge of Voisey’s corroding and irreversible hatred. He turned and walked away, back towards the stairs and upward into the vast cathedral, and the rest of the world.
At home in the evening Pitt was grateful for the children’s pleasure in seeing him at the dinner table. He welcomed their incessant questions, deliberately not meeting Charlotte’s eyes when she turned to intervene and keep some sort of order.
“What are anarchists, Papa?” Daniel asked with his mouth full. “Mrs. Johnson says they are devils. Is that true?”
Charlotte started to admonish him to eat his vegetables, but Pitt interrupted.
“No. People are not devils,” he said. “But they can do bad things, for all kinds of reasons. Anarchists don’t believe in order. They think they would like no rules, no government.”
“Why?”
Charlotte rolled her eyes, hiding a smile. She was not going to help.
Pitt was tempted to make a flippant reply, but he looked at Daniel’s serious, rather worried expression and changed his mind. “They think it would be better if we all did whatever we liked.”
Daniel waited.
“Do you remember when we went to Piccadilly in a hansom?” Charlotte said gently. “Do you remember one person’s carriage wheel getting caught in someone else’s and coming off, and everybody went in different directions to get around it, and ended by making it all worse?”
Daniel nodded, satisfaction close to laughter lighting his face.
“Well, that was what it would be like,” Charlotte replied. “It was quite funny for a little while, but it wouldn’t be if you were in a hurry, or you were very tired or cold, or not feeling well. If there are rules then we all get where we are going…eventually.”
Daniel turned to his father. “Why would anybody want a mess? It’s stupid!”
“Some people are stupid,” Jemima ventured. “Dolly Jones is stupid. My cat has more sense.”
“Cats are very practical,” Charlotte agreed. “Finish your carrots and don’t call people stupid.”
“Cats don’t eat carrots,” Jemima tried her luck.
“No,” Charlotte conceded. “Would you prefer a mouse?”
Jemima let out a howl of disgust, and ate the rest of her carrots in two mouthfuls.
Pitt was not alone with Charlotte until nearly nine o’clock. Then he could no longer evade the issue, not because he felt compelled to broach it but because she did.
“I visited Emily today,” she said, ignoring her sewing folded up beside her on the small table next to her chair. Both children were upstairs, and Gracie had taken the rest of the evening off.
“How was she?” Pitt asked, both from courtesy and because he was genuinely fond of his sister-in-law, even if he was also exasperated by her at times.
“She is concerned,” Charlotte replied.
Pitt was happy to talk about Emily’s concern. Presumably it had something to do with her children, or some other domestic matter. It would save him from struggling with his guilt over not sharing his own feelings with Charlotte. He could not tell her that he was going to work with Voisey. Every time he was half an hour later home than she expected, she would be filled with fear, visions of violence and betrayal tearing through her mind. “What about?” he asked.
> She looked at him very directly. “About the bill to arm the police,” she replied. “She is afraid that men like Wetron, whom we know is the head of the Inner Circle, will get members of Parliament, like Tanqueray, who’s a fool, to force the bill through. And then Wetron will end up with even more power. We don’t know who is with him, and who is against. Perhaps Charles Voisey will come back into the Circle again, maybe even buy his way back by helping with the bill.”
“No, he won’t,” he said immediately, then wished he had not been so emphatic. “At least…” He stopped. She was staring at him with her brows furrowed.
“How do you know that, Thomas?” It was not a challenge. She had seen that he did know, and she was asking him to explain it. Now he had either to tell the truth or take the vast step of deliberately lying to her.
“Thomas?” she asked. “How do you know that Voisey won’t do that?”
She would be terrified for him if she knew what he was going to do.
“Wetron doesn’t need him back in the Circle,” he answered. That was true. “And he’d be a fool to trust him.” There was a corroding irony in that! Was anyone a fool to trust Voisey?
“Would you trust him?” she asked. It was a blank question, honest.
“I would trust him to act in his own self-interest,” he said. “To follow his chance for revenge, if you like.” He was making it worse. Now he had backed himself into a corner where it was impossible to tell her that he was going to work with Voisey, and yet neither was he prepared to sacrifice as much of himself as he would have to in order to lie. He wanted to retreat into simply asking her not to pursue it. But that evasion would only make the fear worse.
“Voisey’s involved in this, isn’t he.” She made it a statement, but there was a pleading in her face that he would deny it all the same.
“Of course he is,” he admitted. “He’ll do everything he can to thwart Wetron, and if he succeeds I shall be delighted. But if you are asking me if I know what he plans to do, then no, I don’t.”
“But he’ll do something!” she insisted.