Treason at Lisson Grove

by Anne Perry

  “Thank you,” Pitt said a little breathlessly.

  The guard stared at him. “Well … nice manners are all very good, but you can’t hold up the Royal Mail, you know. While it’s in my care, it belongs to the queen.”

  Pitt drew in his breath to reply, and then the irony of the situation struck him. Smiling, he said nothing.

  They continued on to the rear carriage and found seats. Stoker remained next to Austwick, as if he feared the man might make a run for it, although there was nowhere for him to go.

  Pitt sat silently trying to make the best plans possible for when they arrived. They would have to commandeer a boat—any sort would do—to get them across the narrow strip of water to the Isle of Wight.

  He was still thinking of it when about fifteen minutes into the journey the train slowed. Then, with a great panting of steam, it stopped altogether. Pitt shot to his feet and went back to the guard’s van.

  “What’s the matter?” he demanded. “Why have we stopped? Where are we?”

  “We stopped to put off the mail, o’ course,” the guard said with elaborate patience. “That’s what we came for. Now you just go an’ sit down in your seat and be quiet, sir. We’ll be on our way when we’re ready.”

  “How many places do you stop?” Pitt asked. His voice was louder and harsher than he meant it to be, but it was sliding out of his control.

  The guard stood very straight, his face grim.

  “Every place where we got to pick up mail, or set it down, sir. Like I said, that’s what we do. Jus’ you go an’ sit back down, sir.”

  Pitt pulled out his warrant card and held it for the guard to see. “This is an emergency. I’m on the queen’s business, and I need to get to the Isle of Wight by sunrise. Drop off the mail on the way back, or let the next train through pick it up.”

  The guard stared at Pitt with both pride and disgust. “I’m on the queen’s business too, sir. I carry the Royal Mail. You’ll get to Portsmouth when we’ve done our job. Now, like I said, go an’ sit down an’ we’ll get on with the mail. Ye’re just holding us up, sir, an’ I won’t have that. You’ve caused enough trouble already.”

  Pitt felt exasperation well up inside him so he could almost have hit the man. It was unfair; the guard was doing his duty. He had no idea who Pitt was, other than some kind of policeman.

  Could Pitt tell him any part of the truth? No. He would find himself held in charge as a lunatic. He could prove nothing, and it would only delay them even more. With a chill he remembered his helplessness on his last train ride, the horror and absurdity of it—and Gower’s mangled body on the tracks. Thank God, at least he had not seen it.

  He returned to the carriage and sat down in his seat.

  “Sir?” Stoker said.

  “We have to stop at all the stations,” Pitt answered, keeping his voice level this time. “Without telling him the truth I can’t persuade him not to.” He smiled lopsidedly. “It’s the Royal Mail. Nothing stands in its way.”

  Stoker started to say something, then changed his mind. Everything he meant to express was in the lines of his face.

  The journey seemed achingly slow. None of them spoke again until finally they pulled into Portsmouth station as the dawn was lightening the eastern sky. Austwick caused no trouble as they went through the barely wakening streets and found a large rowing boat to take them across the water.

  There was a brisk wind and the sea was choppy, the wave caps translucent, almost mirroring the high, rippling clouds shot through by the rising wind. It was hard work, and they were obliged to bend their backs to make headway.

  They landed, shivering, at the wharf and set off toward Osborne House, which was just in sight above the tangle of the still-bare trees. They walked as fast as they could, since there was no one around from whom to beg or hire any kind of transport.

  The sun was above the horizon and glittering sharp in a clear morning when they approached the boundaries. The rolling parkland and the splendid stone mansion were spread before them, broad and magnificent, as if still sleeping in the hushed land, which was silent but for the birdsong.

  Pitt had a moment of terrible doubt. Was this whole thing no more than a vast nightmare, without reality at all? Had they misunderstood everything? Was he about to burst in on the queen and make the ultimate fool of himself?

  Stoker strode forward, still gripping Austwick by the arm.

  Nothing at Osborne stirred. Surely there had to be a guard of some sort, whatever the circumstances, even if the entire conspiracy was Pitt’s delusion?

  As they reached the gate, a man stepped forward. He was in livery, but it fitted him poorly. He stood straight, but not like a soldier. There was an arrogance in his eyes.

  “You can’t come in here,” he said curtly. “This is the queen’s house. You can look, of course, but no farther, understand?”

  Pitt knew his face. He tried to remember his name, but it eluded him. He was so tired his vision swam a little. He must stay alert, keep his mind sharp, his judgment steady. He was a little behind Austwick, so he pushed him hard in the small of the back.

  “It’s all right, McLeish,” Austwick said, his voice shaky and a little rough. “These gentlemen are with me. We need to come in.”

  McLeish hesitated.

  “Quickly,” Pitt added. “There are others behind us. It’ll all be over in an hour or two.”

  “Right!” McLeish responded, turning on his heel and leading the way.

  “Ask about the queen!” Pitt hissed at Austwick. “Don’t slip up now. Hanging is not a nice way to die.”

  Austwick stumbled. Stoker yanked him up.

  Austwick cleared his throat. “Is Her Majesty still all right? I mean … I mean, will she be able to sign papers?”

  “Of course,” McLeish answered cheerfully. “Three people turned up unexpectedly. We had no choice but to let them in, or they’d have gone away and raised the alarm. A man and two women. But they’re no trouble. It’s all going well.”

  They were nearly at the front doors.

  Austwick hesitated.

  The sun was dazzling through a break in the trees. There was no sign of life inside, no sound, but then the weight of the doors would have muffled anything.

  Someone must have been watching. The door opened and a heavyset man stood barring the way, a shotgun hanging on his arm.

  Austwick stepped forward, his head high. His voice cracked at first, then gained strength.

  “Good morning, Portman. My name is Charles Austwick. I represent Gerald Croxdale and the socialist people of Britain.”

  “About damn time you turned up!” Willy Portman said sharply. “Have you got the documents?”

  “We’re taking them to the queen,” Pitt said quickly. “Get everybody in. It’s nearly over.” He tried to put some excitement in his voice.

  Portman smiled. “Right. Yes!” He raised his arm with the gun in it, giving a salute of victory.

  Stoker stepped forward and hit him as hard as he could, with all the force of his weight. He caught him in the vulnerable point of the solar plexus, driving him backward and inside. Portman doubled up in agony, the gun flying from his hand. Stoker spun around and picked it up.

  Austwick stood as if paralyzed.

  Pitt started up the stairs as another man came out of the servants’ quarters with a gun at the ready.

  Narraway emerged onto the landing and struck the man at the top of the stairs, sending him pitching forward and down, his gun flying out of his grasp. He landed at the bottom, his neck broken.

  The man in the hall raised his gun and aimed at Pitt.

  Austwick stepped in front of him. There was the roar of an explosion and Austwick collapsed slowly, crumpling to the ground in a sea of blood.

  Stoker shot the man with the gun.

  Narraway came down the stairs and picked up the gun from the man at the bottom.

  “There are five more,” he said calmly. “Let’s see if we can get them without any furth
er bloodshed.”

  Pitt looked at him. Narraway sounded totally in control, but his face was haggard, hollow-eyed. There was a rough edge to his voice as if he held it level with an effort that cost him all he had.

  Pitt glanced at Stoker, who was now armed with the gun that had killed Austwick.

  “Yes, sir,” Stoker said obediently, and set off toward the servants’ quarters.

  Narraway looked at Pitt. He smiled very slightly, but there was a warmth in his eyes Pitt had never seen before, even in the best of their past triumphs. “Would you like to go up and tell Her Majesty that order is restored?” he said. “There will be no papers to sign.”

  “Are you … all right?” Pitt asked. Suddenly he found he cared very much.

  “Yes, thank you,” Narraway replied. “But this business is not quite finished yet. Is that Charles Austwick on the floor?”

  “Yes,” Pitt answered. “I think it might be better all around if we say he died giving his life for his country.”

  “He was the head of this God damn conspiracy,” Narraway said between his teeth.

  “Actually he wasn’t,” Pitt told him. “Croxdale was.”

  Narraway looked startled. “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. He more or less admitted it.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Dead. We’ll say he took his own life.” Pitt found he was shivering. He tried to control it, and couldn’t.

  “But he didn’t?”

  “I shot him. He had Stoker by the neck. He was going to break it.” Pitt passed him on the stairs.

  “I see,” Narraway said slowly. He broke into a companionable smile. “Croxdale underestimated you, didn’t he?”

  Pitt found himself blushing. Embarrassed, he turned and went on up the stairs. At the top he crossed the landing and knocked on the door.

  “Come!” a quiet voice commanded.

  He turned the handle and went inside. Victoria was standing in the middle of the room, Charlotte to one side of her, Vespasia to the other. As Pitt looked at them, the emotion welled up inside him until he felt the tears of relief prickle in his eyes. His throat was so tight the words were difficult to say.

  “Your Majesty.” He cleared his throat. “I am pleased to inform you that Osborne House is now back in the hands of those to whom it belongs. There will be no further trouble, but I would advise you to remain here until a little clearing up has been done.”

  Vespasia’s face was radiant with relief, all the past weariness slipping from her.

  Charlotte smiled at him, too happy, too proud even to speak.

  “Thank you, Mr. Pitt,” Victoria said a trifle hoarsely. “We are most obliged to you. We shall not forget.”

  TO KEN SHERMAN for years of friendship

  BY ANNE PERRY

  (PUBLISHED BY THE RANDOM HOUSE PUBLISHING GROUP)

  The Sheen on the Silk

  FEATURING WILLIAM MONK

  The Face of a Stranger

  A Dangerous Mourning

  Defend and Betray

  A Sudden Fearful Death

  Sins of the Wolf

  Cain His Brother

  Weighed in the Balance

  The Silent Cry

  A Breach of Promise

  The Twisted Root

  Slaves of Obsession

  A Funeral in Blue

  Death of a Stranger

  The Shifting Tide

  Dark Assassin

  Execution Doc

  FEATURING CHARLOTTE AND THOMAS PITT

  The Cater Street Hangman

  Callander Square

  Paragon Walk

  Resurrection Row

  Bluegate Fields

  Rutland Place

  Death in the Devil’s Acre

  Cardington Crescent

  Silence in Hanover Close

  Bethlehem Road

  Highgate Rise

  Belgrave Square

  Farriers’ Lane

  Hyde Park Headsman

  Traitors’ Gate

  Pentecost Alley

  Ashworth Hall

  Brunswick Gardens

  Bedford Square

  Half Moon Street

  The Whitechapel Conspiracy

  Southampton Row

  Seven Dials

  Long Spoon Lane

  Buckingham Palace Gardens

  THE WORLD WAR I NOVELS

  No Graves as Yet

  Shoulder the Sky

  Angels in the Gloom

  At Some Disputed Barricade

  We Shall Not Sleep

  THE CHRISTMAS NOVELS

  A Christmas Journey

  A Christmas Visitor

  A Christmas Guest

  A Christmas Secret

  A Christmas Beginning

  A Christmas Grace

  A Christmas Promise

  A Christmas Odyssey

  For more high-stakes murder and mystery

  in Victorian England, turn the page to sample

  DORCHESTER TERRACE

  The newest Charlotte and Thomas Pitt novel

  from Anne Perry

  IT WAS MID-FEBRUARY and growing dark outside. Pitt stood up from his desk and walked over to turn the gas up on the wall lamps one by one. He was becoming used to this office, even if he was not yet comfortable in it. In his mind it still belonged to Victor Narraway. When he turned back to his desk he half expected to see the pencil drawings of bare trees that Narraway used to keep on the walls, instead of the watercolors of skies and seascapes that Charlotte had given him. His books were not so different from Narraway’s. There was less poetry, fewer classics perhaps, but similar titles on history, politics, and law.

  Narraway had of course taken with him the large, silver-framed picture of his mother. Today, Pitt had finally put in its place his favorite photograph of his family. In it, Charlotte is smiling; beside her stands thirteen-year-old Jemima, looking very grown-up, and ten-year-old Daniel, still with the soft face of a child.

  After the fiasco in Ireland at the end of last year, 1895, Narraway had not been reinstated as head of Special Branch, though he had been exonerated of all charges, of course. Instead, Pitt’s temporary status as head had been made official. Even though it had happened several months earlier, he still found it hard to get used to. And he knew very well that the men who had once been his superiors, then his equals, and now his juniors, also found the new situation trying at best. Rank, in and of itself, meant little. His title commanded obedience, but not loyalty.

  So far they had obeyed him without question. But he had had several months of very predictable events to deal with. There had been only the usual rumblings of discontent among the various immigrant populations, particularly here in London, but no crises. None of the difficult situations that endangered lives and tested his judgment. If such a crisis were to occur, it was then, he suspected, that he might find his men’s trust in him strained and tenuous.

  Pitt stopped by the window, staring out at the pattern of the opposite rooftops and the elegant wall of the nearby building, just able to discern their familiar outlines in the fading light. The bright gleam of streetlamps was increasing in all directions.

  He pictured Narraway’s grave face as it had been when they last spoke: tired and deeply lined, the effect of his difficult escape from total disgrace and from the emotional toll of his experiences in Ireland. Pitt knew that Narraway had accepted, at last, the existence of his feelings for Charlotte; but as always, Victor’s coal-black eyes had given little away as they talked.

  “You will make mistakes,” he had said to Pitt in the quietness of this room, with its view of sky and rooftops. “You will hesitate to act when you know it could hurt people or destroy a life. Do not hesitate too long. You will misjudge people; you’ve always thought better of your social superiors than you should have. For God’s sake, Pitt, rely on your instincts. Sometimes the results of your decisions will be serious. Live with it. The measure of your worth is what you learn from the errors you make. You canno
t opt out; that would be the worst mistake of all.” His face had been grim, shadowed by memories. “It is not only the decision you make that counts, but that you make it at the right moment. Anything that threatens the peace and safety of Britain can come under your jurisdiction.”

  Narraway had not added “God help you,” though he might as well have. Then a dry humor had softened his eyes for a moment. Pitt had seen a flicker of compassion there for the burden that lay ahead, and also a hint of envy, regret for the excitement lost, the pounding of the blood and the fire of the mind that Narraway was being forced to give up.

  Of course, Pitt had seen him since then, but only briefly. There had been social events here and there, conversations that were polite, but devoid of meaning beyond the courtesies. The questions as to how each of them was learning to bend, to adapt and alter his stride to a new role, remained unspoken.

  Pitt sat down again at his desk and turned his attention to the papers in front of him.

  There was a brief knock on the door.

  “Come in,” he said.

  The door opened at once, and Stoker entered. Thanks to the events in Ireland, he was the one man in the Branch that Pitt knew for certain he could trust.

  “Yes?” he said as Stoker came to stand in front of Pitt’s desk. He looked worried and uncomfortable, his lean face more expressive than usual.

  “Got a report in from Hutchins in Dover, sir. Seen one or two unusual people coming over on the ferry. Troublemakers. Not the usual sort of political talkers—more like the ones who really do things. He’s pretty sure at least one of them was involved in the murder of the French prime minister the year before last.”

  Pitt felt a knot tighten in his stomach. No wonder Stoker looked so worried. “Tell him to do all he can to be absolutely sure of their identities,” he replied. “Send Barker down as well. Watch the trains. We need to know if any of them come up to London, and who they contact if they do.”

  “It may be nothing,” Stoker said without conviction. “Hutchins is a bit jumpy.”

  Pitt drew in his breath to say that it was Hutchins’s job to be overcautious, then changed his mind. Stoker knew that as well as he did. “Still, we should keep our eyes open. We’ve enough men in Dover to do that, with Barker.”