Southampton Row

by Anne Perry

  Carlisle opened his mouth, and then closed it again. “You are utterly reliable, Lady Vespasia,” he said, rising also. “I swear you are the only person since I was twenty who can totally wrong-foot me, and you never fail to do it. I have always admired you, but it completely escapes me why I also like you.”

  “Because you have no desire to be comfortable, my dear,” she replied without hesitation. “More than a month or two and you become bored.” She smiled at him, utterly charmingly, as if she had given him a great compliment, and extended her hand for him to kiss, which he did with grace. Then she took Pitt’s arm and, with head high, walked out into the corridor and the main foyer.

  They were about halfway across when Pitt quite clearly saw Voisey excuse himself from a group of passersby and walk towards them. He was half smiling, supremely confident. Pitt knew from his face that he had come to taste victory, to savor it and roll it around his tongue. He had very possibly arranged to be here precisely for that purpose. What was revenge worth if you did not see your enemy’s pain? And in this instance he not only had Pitt, he had Vespasia as well.

  Voisey could never have forgiven her for the crucial part she had played, not only in the Whitechapel defeat, but in using all her influence to gain him his knighthood. Perhaps ruining Pitt was as much to hurt her as it was to hurt him? And now he could watch them both.

  “Lady Vespasia,” he said with extreme courtesy. “What a pleasure to see you. How loyal of you to take Mr. Pitt to luncheon so publicly at this unfortunate time. I do admire loyalty, and the more expensive it is, the more valuable.” Without waiting for her to reply, he turned to Pitt. “Perhaps you will be able to find a position away from London. I would advise it after your recent unfortunate behavior with poor Francis Wray. Somewhere in the country? If your wife and family have taken a liking to Dartmoor, perhaps that would do? Although Harford is much too small to require a policeman. It is barely a village, more of a hamlet, a mere two or three streets, and very isolated up there on the edge of Ugborough Moor. I doubt they have ever seen a crime, let alone a murder. It was murder you specialized in, wasn’t it? Still, I suppose that might change.” He smiled, turned to Vespasia, and then continued on his way.

  Pitt stood frozen, the cold running through him like a tide, drowning from the inside. He was barely aware of the room around him, even of Vespasia’s hand on his arm. Voisey knew where Charlotte was! He could reach out at any time and destroy her. Pitt’s heart contracted inside him. He could barely breathe. He heard Vespasia’s voice from a long way off, her words indistinct.

  “Thomas!”

  Time had no meaning.

  “Thomas!” The grip tightened on his arm, fingers digging into him. She spoke his name for the third time.

  “Yes . . .”

  “We must leave here,” she said firmly. “We are beginning to draw attention to ourselves.”

  “He knows where Charlotte is!” He turned to look at her. “I’ve got to get her away! I’ve got to—”

  “No, my dear.” Her hand held on to him with all her strength. “You have got to stay here and fight Charles Voisey. If you are here then his attention will remain here. Send that young man, Tellman, to take Charlotte and your family somewhere else, as discreetly as possible. Voisey needs to win the election, and he also needs to guard himself against your effort to find out the truth of Francis Wray’s death, and to watch and see what you learn about the man you have named as Cartouche. If Voisey is indeed connected with Maude Lamont’s death, he cannot afford to delegate that to someone else. You already know that he does not trust anyone to hold that power over him of having known the ultimate secret.”

  She was right, and when Pitt’s mind cleared again and he faced reality, he knew it also. But there was no time to waste. He must find Tellman immediately and be sure that he would go to Devon. Even as the thoughts were in his mind he put his hand into his pocket to see what money he had. Tellman would need his rail fare to Devon and back again, certainly. And he would need money to move the family also, and to find a new and safer place for them. They could not come back to London yet. He had no idea when that would be. It was impossible to plan that far ahead, or to see how he could even make it safe for them.

  Vespasia understood the gesture, and the need. She opened her reticule and took out all the money she had. He was startled how much it was, nearly twenty pounds. With the four pounds, seventeen shillings he had, plus a few odd pennies, it would be enough.

  Wordlessly, she passed it to him.

  “Thank you,” he accepted. This was no time for pride or burden of gratitude. She must know that he felt it more profoundly than could be conveyed.

  “My carriage,” she directed. “We must find Tellman.”

  “We?”

  “My dear Thomas, you are not leaving me in the Savoy penniless to find my own way home while you go pursuing the cause!”

  “Oh, no. Do you . . .”

  “No, I do not,” she said decisively. “You may require every penny. Let us proceed. We also should use every minute. Where will he be? What is his most urgent task? We have not time to search half of London for him.”

  Pitt disciplined his mind to remember exactly what Tellman had been sent to do. First he would have gone to Bow Street to speak with Wetron. That might have taken no more than an hour, at the most, unless Wetron were not there. Then, since ostensibly his greatest concern was the identity of Cartouche, he would have done something to appear to be following that. Pitt had not mentioned Bishop Underhill to Tellman. It was only a deduction based upon the Bishop’s attacks against Aubrey Serracold.

  “Where to?” Vespasia enquired as he handed her up into her carriage and then climbed in after her and sat down.

  He must answer with something. Would Tellman have told anyone in Bow Street where he was going? Perhaps not, but it was a chance he should not overlook. “Bow Street,” he replied.

  When they got there he excused himself and went straight to the desk sergeant. “Do you know where Inspector Tellman is?” he asked, trying to keep the panic out of his voice.

  “Yes sir,” the man replied immediately. It was clear in his face that he had seen the newspapers and his concern was genuine, and more than that, sympathetic. He had known Pitt many years, and he believed what he knew, not what he read. “’E said as ’e were goin’ ter see some o’ that spirit medium’s other clients. ’E said as if yer was ter come by for any reason an’ ask, sir, as I was ter tell yer where ’e wos.” He regarded Pitt anxiously and produced a list of addresses written on a sheet torn from a notebook.

  Pitt gave a prayer of thanks for Tellman’s intelligence, then thanked the desk sergeant so sincerely the man colored with pleasure.

  Back in the carriage, weak with mounting relief, he showed the paper to Vespasia and asked her if she would rather be taken home before he began to follow the trail.

  “Certainly not!” she said briskly. “Please get on with it!”

  Tellman had already checked on Lena Forrest’s story of visiting her friend in Newington and found that she had indeed been there, although Mrs. Lightfoot had only the vaguest ideas of time. Now he was retracing his steps with Maude Lamont’s other clients simply in the vague hope of learning something more about her methods which might lead him to Cartouche. He had little expectation of success, but he must appear to Wetron to be following it with urgency. Previously he had regarded Wetron as no more than the man who had replaced Pitt, by chance more than design. He resented him for it, but knew that it was not Wetron’s fault. Someone had to take the position. He did not like Wetron; his personality seemed to be calculating and too remote from the emotions of anger and pity that Tellman was used to in Pitt. But then whoever it had been would not have pleased him.

  Now he suddenly perceived Wetron in an entirely different way. He was not a colorless career officer; he was a dangerous enemy to be regarded in an acutely personal light. Any man who could rise to leadership in the Inner Circle was brave, ruthless
and extremely ambitious. He was also clever enough to have outwitted even Voisey, or he would be no threat to him. Only a fool would leave any act or word unguarded.

  Therefore, Tellman set about appearing to pursue Cartouche, after having left a list of the places he would be with the desk sergeant, in case Pitt should want him for anything to do with the real issues that mattered.

  He was listening to a Mrs. Drayton recounting her last séance, which had produced manifestations so dramatic as to astound Maude Lamont herself, when the butler interrupted them to say that a Mr. Pitt had called to see Mr. Tellman and the matter was so urgent that he regretted it could not await their convenience.

  “Send him in,” Mrs. Drayton said before Tellman could excuse himself to leave.

  The butler naturally obeyed, and a moment later Pitt was in the room looking white-faced and hardly able to keep still.

  “Really completely remarkable, Mr. Tellman,” Mrs. Drayton said enthusiastically. “I mean, Miss Lamont had not expected such a display herself! I could see the amazement in her face, even fear.” Her voice rose with excitement. “It was at that moment that I absolutely, truly knew she had the power. I confess I had wondered once or twice before if it could have been faked, but this wasn’t. The look in her eyes was proof to me.”

  “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Drayton,” Tellman said rather abruptly. It all seemed terribly unimportant now. They had found the lever on the table, a simple mechanical trick. He stared at Pitt, knowing that something of great and terrible urgency had happened.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Drayton,” Pitt said, his voice husky. “I am afraid I require Inspector Tellman to undertake something else . . . now.”

  “Oh . . . but . . .” she began.

  Pitt probably had no intention of dismissing her, but he was beyond the point of patience. “Thank you, Mrs. Drayton. Good day.”

  Tellman followed him outside and saw Vespasia’s carriage at the curb, and the glimpse of her profile inside.

  “Voisey knows where Charlotte and the family are.” Pitt could contain himself no longer. “He named the village.”

  Tellman felt the sweat break out on his body and his chest tighten until he could hardly breathe. He cared about Charlotte, of course he did, but if Voisey sent anyone after Charlotte it would mean Gracie would be hurt as well, and it was the thought of that which filled his mind and drenched him with horror. The idea of Gracie hurt, crushed . . . the specter of a world without her was so terrible he could not bear it. It was as if happiness would never again be possible.

  He heard Pitt’s voice as if from miles away. He was holding out something in his hand.

  “I wish you to go down to Devon, today, now, and take them somewhere safe.”

  Tellman blinked. It was money Pitt was giving him. “Yes!” he said, grasping it. “But I don’t know where they are!”

  “Harford,” Pitt replied. “Take the Great Western as far as Ivybridge. From there it’s only a couple of miles to Harford. It’s a small village. Ask and you’ll find them. You’d better take them to one of the nearby towns, where you’ll be anonymous. Find lodgings where there are lots of other people. And . . . stay with them, at least until after the election results for Voisey. It won’t be very long.” He knew what he was asking, and what it might cost Tellman when Wetron found out, and he asked anyway.

  “Right,” Tellman agreed. It did not even occur to him to question it. He took the money, then climbed into the carriage beside Vespasia, and as soon as Pitt was in also, they drove to the railway terminus for the Great Western. With the briefest farewell, Tellman was on his way to purchase his ticket and get onto the next train.

  It was a nightmare journey simply because it seemed to take forever. Mile after mile of countryside rattled past the windows of the carriage. The sun began to sink in the west and the late-afternoon light deepened, and still they were nowhere near their destination.

  Tellman stood up and stretched his cramped legs, but there was nothing to do except sway, adjusting his weight and balance, watch the hills and valleys steepen and then flatten out again, then sit down and wait longer.

  He had not stopped to pack clean shirts or socks or linen. In fact, he did not even have a razor, a comb, or a toothbrush. None of that mattered; it was just easier to think of the small things than of the larger ones. How would he defend them if Voisey sent someone to attack them? What if when he got there they were already gone? How would he find them? That was too terrible to bear, and yet he could not drive it from his thoughts.

  He stared out of the window. Surely they were in Devon by now? They had been traveling for hours! He noticed how red the earth was, quite unlike the soil around London that he was used to. The land looked vast, and in the distance ahead, even in high summer, there was something forbidding about it. The tracks stretched over the graceful span of a viaduct. For a moment the sheer daring of having built such a thing amazed him. Then he realized the train was slowing, they were reaching a station.

  Ivybridge! This was it. At last! He threw the door open and almost tripped in his haste to reach the platform. The evening light was long, shadows stretching two and three times the length of the objects that cast them. The horizon to the west burned in a blaze of color so brilliant it hurt his eyes to look at it. When he turned away he was blinded.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  He blinked and swiveled around. He was facing a man in the extremely smart uniform of a stationmaster, and who obviously took his position with great seriousness.

  “Yes!” Tellman said urgently. “I have to get to Harford as soon as possible. Within the next half hour. It is an emergency. I must hire a vehicle of some sort, and have the use of it for a day at least. Where can I begin?”

  “Ah!” The stationmaster scratched his head, setting his cap crooked. “What sort of a vehicle would you be wanting, sir?”

  Tellman could barely contain his impatience. It took a monumental effort not to shout at the man. “Anything. It’s an emergency.”

  The stationmaster seemed to remain unmoved. “In that case, sir, Mr. Callard down at the end of the road.” He pointed helpfully. “He might have something. Otherwise there’s old Mr. Drysdale up the other way, ‘bout a mile and a half. He has the odd dray, or the like, that he can sometimes spare.”

  “Something faster than that would be better, and I haven’t time to walk in both directions to find it,” Tellman replied, trying to keep the panic and the temper out of his voice.

  “Then you’d best walk to the left, down that way.” The stationmaster pointed again. “Ask Mr. Callard. If he doesn’t have anything, he’ll maybe know someone who does.”

  “Thank you,” Tellman called over his shoulder as he already began moving away.

  The road was downhill slightly, and he strode out as fast as he could, and kept up the pace. When he reached the yard it took him another five minutes to locate the proprietor, who seemed as unmoved by any sense of haste as the stationmaster had been. However, the sight of Vespasia’s money drew his attention, and he found he did have a fairly light cart, still capable of carrying half a dozen people, and a good enough horse to pull it. He took an exorbitant deposit, which Tellman resented, until he realized that he had no idea how or when he was going to return the vehicle, and that his skill at driving it was absolutely minimal. In fact, even climbing up onto the seat was awkward, and he heard Callard muttering under his breath as he turned away. Tellman very gingerly encouraged the horse to move, and then guided the cart out of the yard and along the road he had been told led to the village of Harford.

  Half an hour later he was knocking on the door of Appletree Cottage. It was dark and he could see the lights on through the cracks in the curtains at the window. He had met no one else on the road except one man in a dray cart, from whom he had asked directions. Now he stood on the step, acutely aware of the intense darkness around him, the sharp smell of the wind off the open stretch of the moor he could no longer see away to the north. It was no mor
e than a denser black against the occasional stars. It was a different world from the city, and he felt alien to it, at a loss to know what to do or how to cope. There was no one else to turn to. Pitt had entrusted him with rescuing the women and children. How on earth was he going to be equal to it? He had no idea what to do!

  “Who is it?” a voice demanded from behind the door.

  It was Gracie. His heart leaped.

  “It’s me!” he shouted, then added self-consciously, “Tellman!”

  He heard bolts withdrawn and the door open with a crash, showing a candlelit interior with Gracie standing in the doorway and Charlotte just behind her, the poker from the fireplace hanging loosely in her hand. Nothing could have told him more vividly that something had frightened them far more than the mere knocking on the door of a stranger.

  He saw the fear and the question in Charlotte’s face.

  “Mr. Pitt’s all right, ma’am,” he said in answer to it. “Things are hard, but he’s quite safe.” Should he tell her about Wray’s death and all that had happened? There was nothing she could do about it. It would only worry her when she should be concerned with herself, and escaping from here. And should he even tell them how urgent that was? Was it his job to protect them from fear, as well as actual physical danger?

  Or would lying by omission make them act less urgently? He had thought about that on the train, and vacillated one way and then the other, making up his mind, and as quickly unmaking it.

  “Why are yer ’ere, then?” Gracie’s voice cut across his thoughts. “If nothin’s wrong, why aren’t yer in the city doin’ yer job? ’Oo killed the ghosty woman? Yer get that all sorted?”

  “No,” he answered, moving inside to allow her to close the door. He looked at her pale, set face and the rigidity of her body inside her hand-me-down country dress, and he had to fight to keep the emotion down, stop it from tightening his throat until he couldn’t get the words out. “Mr. Pitt’s working on it. There’s been another death he needs to prove isn’t suicide.”