Anne Perry - [Thomas Pitt 24]

by Long Spoon Lane

  Neither he nor Voisey had spoken much after they were up the steps and on the wharf again. There was nothing to say; it was all understood. The dynamite had probably belonged, directly or indirectly, to Simbister, but the point was that someone had deliberately tried to drown them, and very nearly succeeded.

  The hansom had dropped Pitt at Keppel Street, before taking Voisey on to his house in Curzon Street. Charlotte had met Pitt at the door. She had been pacing the floor in anxiety and was ashen-faced.

  Now she was standing in front of him, her eyes still shadowed with concern. He had already told her roughly what had happened—it would have been impossible not to, but apart from that he had had no wish to keep it from her. The dark hold, the sense of helplessness as the boat sank lower, and the sounds of water that seemed to be all around, was something he could never forget, even in dreams. He knew he would wake in the night grateful to see even a spark of light, the glow of the streetlamp through the curtains, anything at all. He had a new and terrible sense of what it would be like to be blind, attacked, and unable even to guess from which direction, until it was too late.

  “Are you sure Voisey had nothing to do with it?” Charlotte asked for a third time.

  “He doesn’t care for any cause enough to die for it,” he said with conviction.

  She did not argue. “This time,” she conceded. “What now? You don’t have the proof of the dynamite anymore. It’s at the bottom of the river.”

  He smiled. “I think it’s quite safe there, don’t you?”

  Her eyes widened. “Will that do?”

  “Sir Charles Voisey is a hero and a member of Parliament. I think his evidence will be accepted. And the records that the Josephine belonged to Simbister still exist.”

  “But what can you prove with that that could help defeat the bill?” she persisted. “Another explosion just looks like anarchists again, and will give Tanqueray even more fuel for his argument.”

  “If I take that proof of ownership to Somerset Carlisle, and tell him about the dynamite and Grover and Jones the Pocket, that may be enough to make a few people hesitate,” he said slowly. Suddenly, in the warmth of the kitchen, he was overwhelmingly tired. Exhaustion seeped through every inch of his body and he could not think clearly. No decisions were clear-cut anymore.

  “Don’t trust Voisey,” she said urgently. “He could still betray you.” She was leaning forward a little, her hands over his.

  “I don’t need to trust him,” he pointed out. “He wants the same thing I do: no police bill. For different reasons, but that doesn’t matter.” He yawned enormously. “Sorry.”

  She knelt in front of him, staring at his face. “You must go to bed. You have to keep warm.” Her voice was thick with emotion. “I can’t thank God enough that you’re safe. I refuse to think how close you came to drowning, because I couldn’t bear it. But Thomas, do you still have the proof that Voisey’s sister was involved in killing Reverend Rae? Could you convict her of that, if you had to?”

  “No.” He struggled to keep some remnant of clarity in his mind. He looked at her earnest face so close to his, the soft hair and anxious eyes. He could feel the warmth of her skin and smell faint lavender and soap. He felt his emotions welling up out of control. He had so very nearly lost it all, this room with its smells of cooking and clean linen, the familiar china on the dresser, the scrubbed table, was home. Most of all she mattered overwhelmingly.

  “You couldn’t!” Charlotte was frightened, he could hear it in her voice. “Why not? What’s wrong with the proof? You said it was all right at the time!”

  “It is all right.” He blinked, trying to stay awake. “I couldn’t convict her, because I really don’t believe she knew it was going to poison him.”

  “That isn’t the point!” She was working very hard to keep her patience. “You wouldn’t do it, but you could! The evidence is good enough. After all, she did give him the poison!”

  “I don’t believe she knew that.” He was having difficulty keeping his eyes open.

  She straightened up. “That doesn’t matter. Where is it?”

  “What? Where is—oh.” He realized that she meant the evidence. “It’s in the tallboy in the bedroom. It’s perfectly safe. Don’t be afraid. I won’t tell Voisey where it is, or that I wouldn’t actually use it.” If he were honest, he did not believe Voisey was unaware of that, but he could not be sure.

  “Go to bed,” she said gently. “It doesn’t matter tonight. Come on.” She held out her hands as if to pull him to his feet.

  He made an effort and stood up. He was warm now, and the idea of bed seemed exquisitely sweet.

  Pitt was late leaving Keppel Street in the morning. He did not even wake up until half past nine. He washed, dressed, had an extremely hasty breakfast, and was on his way to see Narraway by ten minutes after ten.

  As soon as he was out of sight, Charlotte also left the house, but going in the opposite direction. She took a hansom to Curzon Street, giving the driver Voisey’s address. She hoped he had not already left for Westminster, but the House did not sit until the afternoon, so there was a good chance he hadn’t gone yet. Moreover, she was hopeful that the previous night’s events on the river should have left him as exhausted as they had Pitt and herself. Of course it was possible he might have gone to Parliament early in hope of meeting with members before the sitting, but they also were likely to arrive later. It was only quarter to eleven, and she could not have come sooner.

  She steeled her nerve so that when the manservant opened the door she appeared composed, even though her heart was lurching inside her.

  “Good morning, madam,” he said politely, with only the slightest lift of surprise in his voice.

  “Good morning,” she answered. “My name is Mrs. Pitt. Sir Charles knows my husband quite well. They were involved in a matter of great importance yesterday evening. It was very dangerous, in the end, and I am sure when Sir Charles arrived home he was cold and exhausted.” She said it so the man would know she spoke the truth about her acquaintance with Voisey. “A situation has arisen which requires that I speak with Sir Charles before he goes to Westminster, if it is possible. I hope I am not too late.”

  The manservant’s face was now clear of suspicion; in fact, he looked almost friendly. “Indeed, Mrs. Pitt,” he replied graciously. “A most appalling event. I hope Mr. Pitt is recovered?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “If you would care to come in, I shall inform Sir Charles that you are here. He is taking breakfast at the moment.” He stepped back and opened the door wide so she could enter.

  “Thank you,” she accepted, following him across the hallway to a formal but very pleasant morning room.

  She looked around with interest. Anything she could learn about Voisey might one day be valuable. There were photographs on the small mahogany table in the corner: a handsome man in military uniform, and a woman beside him—from the pose, his wife. They appeared to be in their mid-fifties or so, and from the fashion of their clothes, the picture had been taken in the 1860s. Voisey’s parents?

  She looked hastily at the books in the glass-fronted case. They were old single volumes, not sets, and some of the bindings were worn. She guessed they had been bought individually, to read, rather than en masse to furnish the room, as some people did. The titles were varied, mostly studies in history, especially Middle Eastern and North African, including the rise of ancient civilizations. There were histories of Egypt, Phoenicia, Persia, and what was once Babylon.

  In the next case, she was surprised to see poetry and several novels, including translations from Russian and Italian, also German poetry and philosophy. Voisey’s own books, or his father’s?

  How much did she know about Charles Voisey? What emptiness lay behind his hunger for power?

  Not that it mattered to her. Nothing excused his threatening Pitt. She might even be sorry for him; it was not inconceivable. But she still would do anything within her ability to protect those she
loved.

  The door opened and Voisey came in. He looked pale and exhausted. He was shaved and neatly dressed, but there was something gone from his usual composure.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Pitt,” he said, closing the door behind him. There was a shadow of anxiety in his face now as he searched her eyes, her expression. She realized with an odd sense of irony that he was afraid something had happened to Pitt—he still needed him.

  “Good morning, Sir Charles,” she replied. “I hope you managed to sleep, after your ordeal?”

  Something inside him eased a little. He had no idea why she had come, but it was obviously not with news of further tragedy. “Yes, thank you. How is Mr. Pitt?”

  It was an absurd conversation of niceties. They were temporary allies in a cause, and underneath it bitter enemies. Pitt could destroy Voisey, be happy to see him in prison for the rest of his life, or even at the end of a rope. Voisey would not have hesitated to kill Pitt, with his own hands, if he could do it and escape the price. He had been behind what had seemed to be an attempt not only on Charlotte’s life, but her children’s as well, and Gracie’s.

  “Tired, but quite well,” she answered his inquiry. “But I imagine he will not forget being trapped in that boat, with the water coming in. And I expect you will not either.”

  “No.” In spite of his attempt at calm, he shivered very slightly. A flash of annoyance passed over his face, because he knew she must have seen it. “What may I do for you, Mrs. Pitt?”

  She was not ready to be quite so direct, not for a moment or two. “How is your sister, Sir Charles? I remember her as being charming, and most individual.”

  There was a warmth in his face, a softening, in spite of his tiredness, and his concern as to why Charlotte was here. “She is well, thank you. Why do you ask, Mrs. Pitt? You did not come here, at this hour, to ask after my welfare, or hers.”

  She smiled. She had rattled him, just a little.

  “Obliquely, perhaps,” she answered. “My inquiry was not without purpose.”

  “Indeed.” He was skeptical.

  “I am very glad she is well,” she continued. “And happy, I hope?”

  His irritation was mounting.

  Her smile vanished. “My purpose, Sir Charles, is to make it most clear to you that her welfare depends upon that of my husband. It is a trifle indelicate to put it so bluntly, but I can see that you are growing impatient with indirectness.” She saw the surprise in his face, a momentary lack of understanding. “I hope you have not forgotten the Reverend Rae? He was a very fine man indeed, much loved.” She held his eyes with a steady, unflinching stare. There was no pretense between them now. “His death was a tragedy,” she continued. “I can imagine that the verdict of accidental death might be true, in so far as Mrs. Cavendish is concerned, at least morally. She did not intend to poison him. Nevertheless, the proof remains that she did, in fact, and in law. There are copies of the evidence, naturally. It would be most unwise for there to be only one. They will all remain quite safe, so long as Thomas is also safe, and my family, of course. That includes Gracie. But should anything happen to them, even if it should appear to be an accident, then the evidence will fall into the hands of whoever is most appropriate, and most certain to see that it is followed to the full length of the law.”

  He stared at her in astonishment.

  “Do not imagine I would not use it. I have no vindictiveness towards Mrs. Cavendish. Actually, I think it more than probable she did not intentionally poison Reverend Rae, but she would find that hard to prove at trial, perhaps impossible. Then, of course, she would hang.” She used the word deliberately, and saw the blood drain from his face.

  “But I love my family, just as you love yours, Sir Charles. There are several copies of that proof, and I would use it without hesitation if you harm my husband, or any other member of my family.” She met his stare levelly and unflinchingly.

  The silence stretched out between them, cold and dangerous. She did not look away.

  “I think not, Mrs. Pitt,” he said at last.

  “Oh, you’re wrong!” she let all her passion and certainty spill into her voice. “I will!”

  His smile was very slight, like sunrise on a glacier. “If I should hurt Pitt, and you destroy my sister, then what will you have left to protect yourself, and your children? And you will protect yourself, because without you they cannot survive.”

  Everything inside her froze, paralyzed.

  “You may speak rashly, Mrs. Pitt,” he said very softly. “But you are not a stupid woman. You will do what you have to, to protect your children. I don’t for a moment doubt your courage, or your will. But neither do I doubt your perception of reality. You will not destroy my sister as long as you have anyone left to defend.” He inclined his head very slightly. “May I show you to the door? Perhaps my footman can fetch you a hansom?”

  She felt dizzy. He was right and they both knew it. It would be idiotic to argue. She must answer him, make herself speak, and move.

  “No thank you. I can find my own, when I wish it.” Should she add that there were degrees of damage? Whispers, rumors that could wound without killing? Or would that only make him think also of what he could do that would injure Pitt, or Daniel and Jemima. Or even Tellman?

  He was waiting.

  No. Better say nothing. She turned and walked out the door with him two steps behind her. It would be farcical to wish each other a good day.

  She reached the door, went out into the sunlit street without looking back, and walked briskly away.

  She found a hansom within ten minutes, and gave the driver Aunt Vespasia’s address, then sat back. She was trembling in the aftermath of having faced Voisey, which she had no intention whatever of ever allowing Pitt to know. There were a few things, a very few, that it was both wiser and kinder not to share. Learning that was part of growing up.

  She alighted at Vespasia’s house, paid the driver, and went to ring the front doorbell. She intended to see Vespasia, or wait for her return, should she be out.

  She was fortunate. Vespasia was not only in, but delighted to see her. Then when they were in the sitting room facing the garden, and the maid had left, Vespasia looked at her with concern.

  “My dear, you are very pale. Has something happened?”

  Charlotte would not tell her about the encounter with Voisey. She was frightened. A shield in which she had trust had melted away in her hand. She felt not only vulnerable but foolish. She had not yet absorbed the shock, nor formed any plan to deal with it. It would be sufficient to tell Vespasia about Pitt’s adventure on the Josephine, which she did in as much detail as she knew.

  “And is Thomas all right this morning?” Vespasia asked with concern.

  “He may develop a cold,” Charlotte replied. “And I am certain he will have nightmares about it for some time to come, but he is essentially unharmed. And Voisey also, which is fortunate, because we still need him.” She hoped her voice did not shake as she said his name. “I understand there is to be another reading of the bill in the House this afternoon. It will have great support, after the Scarborough Street bomb.”

  “I am afraid you are right,” Vespasia said grimly. “The best we can think is that Mr. Wetron is extraordinarily favored by events.”

  “The best?” Charlotte asked. “It seems bad to me!”

  Vespasia looked at her steadily. “My dear, the worst is that he caused those events. That makes him very much to be feared. A man who would bomb an entire street full of people appears to know no moral boundaries at all. He will kill without thought—not only his enemies, but ordinary men and women who have no more connection with his ambition than that their extinction serves his purpose. Please heaven, Thomas is able to prove some connection between the boat and its dynamite, and ultimately Wetron himself.” There was heartfelt emotion in her voice. She sat very straight, as always, but there was a painful tension in her.

  “I have not spoken with Thomas in the last day or two,�
� she went on gravely. “Is he closer to discovering who killed Magnus Landsborough?” She asked as if it were of peripheral concern, but her hands were clenched on the delicate fabric of her skirt.

  Charlotte realized with a surge of pity, even guilt, that Vespasia cared about this intensely. She had almost forgotten that Magnus had been the only son of one of Vespasia’s friends, one who had been very close to her in her youth, and perhaps in later, less happy years.

  “No,” she said gently. “Except that he believes from the evidence that it must have been someone he knew very well. I suppose that means one of the other anarchists. It seems a bitter thing to do to someone fighting essentially the same cause.”

  Vespasia was silent.

  Charlotte looked at her exquisite, high-boned face, and saw the fear in it. Would it be intrusive to ask, or callous not to? She would rather commit a sin of misjudgment than of cowardice.

  “Are you concerned that it could have been one of his family?” she asked.

  Vespasia turned to her, her skin bleached even paler. “Is that what Thomas thinks?”

  This was a time for honesty, not false comfort. “He hasn’t said. But it must have been someone who knew they used the house in Long Spoon Lane, because he must have been waiting there. And whoever it was shot only Magnus, when they could easily have killed all three of them. And whoever escaped.”

  Vespasia looked away. “That’s what I am afraid of: that it was personal, not political, and not a struggle for power within the anarchists.”

  There was one glaringly obvious answer, and Charlotte could not honestly avoid it. “Could it have been his father who killed him?” she said in a little more than a whisper. They both understood the reasons why a man could do such a thing, the dishonor that would stain the whole family, the knowledge that the violence would only be worse the next time, and the time after that.

  “I don’t know,” Vespasia admitted. “It is…a terrible thought. And yet if I were a man, and a son of mine contemplated blowing up houses with dynamite, and the people in them, I would consider it my responsibility to stop him. I don’t know what I should do. It is a long journey from knowledge to such fearful action. I don’t know what lies along its path.” A shadow crossed her face. “My children have certainly opposed me frequently, and I have disagreed with them, and disapproved of what they believed and again what they did, but I have never once feared they would embark upon a campaign of murder. If such a thing happened, and I knew it beyond doubt.”