Long Spoon Lane: A Charlotte and Thomas Pitt Novel

by Anne Perry

  Pitt understood, and he saw it in Charlotte also, and Vespasia. Tellman was frowning.

  Narraway continued. He very pointedly did not look at Charlotte, as if he were afraid to meet her eyes.

  “Apparently Voisey has the proof to destroy Wetron by connecting him irrevocably with Simbister and the Scarborough Street bombing, and the blackmail of Piers Denoon with the murder of Magnus.” He faced Pitt. “Voisey still has this?”

  “Yes,” Pitt said unhappily. “We have the blackmail statements, but Voisey has the evidence that proves complicity in the Scarborough Street bombing. At least he said he has.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  Pitt hesitated. “Yes.”

  Vespasia set down her cup. “Surely the point is, can Wetron afford to disbelieve him?”

  A flash of appreciation lit Narraway’s face. “Precisely, Lady Vespasia. If Wetron knows this, he cannot afford to allow Voisey to remain. Voisey is hungry to regain his old leadership and have his revenge upon the man who usurped him. He believes he has destroyed Pitt. He will now be turning his attention to Wetron, and he will lose no time.”

  “Wetron may know that, but, equally, he may not,” Pitt pointed out. “His mind may be directed towards ensuring the bill goes through Parliament. And for all he says otherwise, perhaps Voisey would actually like it to, then quietly step into Wetron’s place in the Inner Circle, and see that one of his own allies is appointed in Wetron’s position, to keep on, far more discreetly, with the extortion. The bombing will stop and there’ll be a big show of catching anarchists and trying and executing them. The people who have power will be satisfied, and Voisey will reap Wetron’s reward. And be a hero. And make an advance towards being power minister one day.”

  Tellman had said little since coming in. Vespasia regarded him now, knowing that he was the only one in a position to tell Wetron all these things, and assumed that he realized the urgency. She saw in his thin, tense face that he understood it. Perhaps he also understood the danger, but what about the moral ambiguity? Wetron and Voisey were both killers. If any of them here in this room were going to interfere in their rivalry, to what degree were they necessarily implicit in the result?

  She looked at Victor Narraway, and saw what she thought was a conflict in his face. A decisive, almost ruthless, part of his nature, used to the bitter choices of command, seemed to be warring with something softer, and immeasurably more vulnerable.

  Pitt saw it too, she knew that. What she had not expected was the understanding in his eyes, a moment’s pity, as if they were equals in something.

  Gracie sensed it in the air, the glances, the stiffness of bodies, and was afraid. Instinctively she swiveled to Tellman. “A’ yer gonner tell ’im, Samuel?” Her voice was a little shaky, caught in her throat.

  He looked at her gently, but there was no wavering in him. “There’s no one else who can do it,” he told her. “He won’t hurt us. I didn’t do it, at least not that he knows,” he added ruefully.

  “Don’ be so daft!” she snapped. “ ’E knows ’ose side yer on! ’E don’ care about provin’ it, ’e in’t gonna charge yer, ’e’ll jus’ feel like flattenin’ someone, an’ you’ll be ’andy.” She turned to Pitt. “Mr. Pitt, yer gotta stop ’im. It ain’t fair! Yer can’t…”

  “It’s dangerous for everyone,” Narraway cut across her. “Sergeant Tellman is the only one Wetron will believe. The alternative is to let Voisey win. And remember, Miss Phipps, if he does, he has still not taken his vengeance on this family.” His gesture included her. “He will discover soon enough that Pitt is still alive, and there will be no one to stop him then.”

  Gracie glared at him, her protest dying on her lips.

  “It’ll be all right,” Tellman assured her. “And we’ve got no choice. We can’t leave Voisey with that kind of power. Mr. Narraway’s right, next he’ll come for us.”

  She smiled at him bleakly, pride and fear in her eyes, her lips pressed so tight it was impossible to see if they trembled.

  Narraway nodded at Tellman. “I can’t order you to, Sergeant, but, as you say, you are the only one of us who can do it.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tellman acknowledged.

  Vespasia stared at Narraway. “And when Wetron has disposed of Voisey, in whatever manner he decides—or he is inadequate to the task, and Voisey dispenses of him—what do you intend we shall do with the survivor?”

  “That depends upon which one of them it is,” he replied.

  “That is not an answer, Mr. Narraway.” Vespasia said it quite lightly, but her stare was inflexible.

  He smiled. “I know.”

  Pitt moved his position slightly.

  Vespasia turned to look at him. “Thomas?”

  “Wetron cannot afford to have Voisey tried,” he answered her, but he was speaking to all of them. “He’ll find a way to protect himself and get rid of Voisey at the same time. Don’t assume it won’t be violent.”

  Vespasia looked at Charlotte, concerned for her, and saw the anxiety in her face. Then she looked at Narraway. He understood it. If he had deliberately avoided saying so, then it was for that softer part of him she had seen for an instant, and not recognized.

  Narraway spoke to Tellman. “Report to Pitt immediately,” he said. “But don’t stay your hand because of it. Remember the dead in Scarborough Street, if you’re tempted towards mercy.”

  Vespasia saw the distaste in Tellman. “Don’t think of Scarborough Street,” she amended. “They are already dead, or crippled. Think of the next street, and the one after.”

  Tellman filled his mind with that, and they parted soon after. He went out into the street and walked briskly along a couple of blocks to Tottenham Court Road, where he took the first hansom to Bow Street. If he gave himself time to think about it, he might lose the spontaneity, the high pitch of emotion he felt after sitting in the kitchen at Keppel Street. And as they had said, there was no time to lose.

  He went in through the doors, past the duty sergeant with no more than a word, and up the stairs to Wetron’s office. He had not asked anyone if he were in because he was not certain yet if he wanted anyone to know what he intended.

  He knocked on Wetron’s door. The answer was quick and impatient.

  Tellman went in. “Good morning, sir,” he said without hesitation, closing the door behind him. His voice was tight and a little high.

  Wetron was standing at the window. He turned around, and saw Tellman with irritation. There was anxiety in his face, but an oblique kind of triumph also. “Morning, Sergeant. I’m sorry to hear about Pitt. Never liked the man, but I know you had a kind of loyalty.”

  Tellman’s mind raced. Wetron must have been told that Pitt was dead. He had three choices—deny it, accept it as if he knew also, or pretend complete ignorance—and almost three seconds to decide which served his interests best. “Sir?” He played for time. He could not afford even the slightest mistake.

  “Pulled out of the river this morning,” Wetron said, watching him with malicious pleasure. “Seems the anarchists got him.”

  “Oh, that.” Suddenly Tellman could see what he wanted to do. He had the chance to seize this as a weapon. “Looks a bit like Mr. Simbister trying to defend himself, doesn’t it? Last throw, as you might say.”

  Wetron’s skin flooded with color. For an instant he was uncertain. He wanted to lose his temper and shout at Tellman, hurt him by playing on his grief. Then better judgment prevailed; he weighed his own needs and spoke calmly.

  “You are aware of Simbister’s corruption?”

  “Just what I saw in the newspapers this morning, sir,” Tellman replied. “I know rather more about Sir Charles Voisey.”

  “Indeed?” Wetron raised his eyebrows. “How is that, Sergeant? I am not aware of any of your investigations taking you to ask questions about a member of Parliament.”

  Tellman shivered. It would be so easy to be overconfident, to say too much, or the wrong things. Now was the time for truth. “No, sir,” h
e said meekly. “I’m courting the Pitts’ housekeeper, sir. I happened to be there this morning.”

  “And yet you appear entirely indifferent to Pitt’s death!” Wetron said in amazement. “Is there an entire dimension to your character of which I am unaware?”

  “Not so far as I know, sir. Mr. Pitt was in good health. I don’t know if some poor soul who looks like him was pulled out of the river. I should think, sir, frankly, that it is more likely Sir Charles told you a deliberate lie.” He relaxed a little. “From what I know, sir, from Mrs. Pitt, and my own observation, it seems Sir Charles has some personal hatred towards you. He is the one behind Mr. Simbister’s fall, if you want to put it that way.”

  Wetron was motionless. “What makes you think that, Sergeant?”

  Now was the time to tell him what Narraway needed him to know. “He was the one who told Special Branch about Mr. Simbister using thieves and the like to collect money from the publicans, and he was the one who found out that the dynamite the anarchists used was kept in a boat down by Shadwell.”

  Wetron’s eyes were glittering hard, his skin all but bloodless. “And how do you know this, Tellman? It sounds as if you have spent more time working for Special Branch than doing your job from the police who pay you. Just where does your loyalty lie? As if I didn’t know!”

  “Like I said, sir, I’m courting Mr. Pitt’s maid. I happened to be there this morning, and I heard this from Mr. Pitt himself. Sir Charles tried to kill him last night, but he didn’t succeed.”

  “Were you there?” Wetron demanded.

  Tellman looked slightly aggrieved. “No, sir! I was on duty here!”

  “What did you come for, Tellman?” Wetron said harshly. His lips were as thin as a knife cut.

  “Loyalty to the police, sir.” That was believable. He had spent all his working life in the police force, and Wetron knew that. “I think it’s right that Mr. Simbister has to go. Seems he was rotten. But Mr. Pitt let some words slip out, and I can piece the rest together. Sir Charles plans to get rid of you too, sir, then get a man of his own in here, and spread the same kind of thing to Bow Street, but take the money himself. This is my station, sir. I’m not going to let that happen.”

  He drew in a long, deep breath. “I don’t pretend I like you, sir, the way I liked Mr. Pitt, but I wouldn’t see you done for something you had no part of. It’s wrong. And I don’t want one of Sir Charles Voisey’s policemen running my station.”

  “Indeed,” Wetron said softly. “And for what, exactly, does Sir Charles Voisey imagine he can have me ‘done?’”

  “Not sure, sir.” Tellman was shaking and his stomach was knotted like a fist. “Something to do with blackmail, and the murder of a young man. Says he has a paper to prove what happened, and he’ll lay it on you.”

  The silence in the room was like a growing thing, expanding to suffocate the spaces and take the air from the chest.

  Wetron stared at Tellman, trying to control the rage inside him, trying to keep his brain cool enough to think. The truth of what Tellman had said was naked in his reaction to it.

  Tellman could feel the sick fear grip him even more tightly.

  “Will he?” Wetron said very slowly, his voice rasping. “Will he indeed?”

  Tellman felt strangled. “Y-Yes, sir. I-I think perhaps he planned that all along. He’s got a terrible taste for revenge. That’s why he worked so elaborate, like, with Mr. Pitt, against the police bill—t-to set him up.”

  “But you said Pitt escaped!” Wetron challenged.

  Tellman let his breath out. “Yes, sir. Just luck. Someone else was passing on the river. Rescued him.”

  “Mistake,” Wetron said with satisfaction. “Always finish the job yourself. Well, if Sir Charles wants my place, the fruits of what I’ve built…he can have it! Very good, Tellman. Very good. In fact, I shall see that he has it—and the blame that goes along with it.” He glanced at the clock on the mantel. “He will still be at home. Excellent. Just where the proof will be. I shall go and arrest him.”

  His voice was shaking a little with a sudden excitement. “You say he tried to murder Pitt? Then he is a violent man. I had better take a gun with me. He may resist.” His smile was wide, mirthless, and filled with a savage pleasure. “Pitt is a fool, but his escape from last night’s adventure may prove useful. He won’t lie. If asked, he will say that Voisey tried to kill him.” He walked to a locked cupboard, took a key off his watch chain, and opened it. He picked a revolver, loaded it, and put it in the pocket of his jacket.

  “I shan’t need you, Tellman,” he said, straightening up. “This is between gentlemen. You’ve done a good job.” He walked past Tellman and out the door, his back stiff, the gun invisible within the heavy fabric of his jacket.

  Tellman waited until he was out of sight, then sprinted down the stairs and out the door. Pitt was waiting in an alley a couple of hundred yards away. They must follow Wetron and catch him at exactly the right moment, before he murdered Voisey. Then they would have them both, and all the evidence that was left. In their hatred, one would testify against the other.

  He ran along the street, his boots echoing on the stones.

  12

  PITT WAS WAITING in the alley, pacing back and forth, standing for a minute, peering around the corner, and then pacing again. He saw Tellman when he was still twenty yards away, his figure easily distinguishable in the momentary crowd on the footpath because he was running.

  Pitt started out, then realized in the tangle of people they could miss each other, and stepped back again. The moment after, Tellman nearly collided with him.

  “Wetron’s gone after Voisey,” he gasped. “At his house. He’s got a gun. I think he’s going to shoot him whatever, and say it was self-defense. No one’ll argue with him.”

  “Voisey’s house? Let’s go. He can’t shoot all three of us, and the servants.” Pitt strode towards the main street, Tellman at his side, and hailed the first empty hansom to pass. He gave Voisey’s address, and they both leapt in, shouting instructions to hurry.

  “It’s a matter of life and death!” Tellman added, his voice so sharp that passing drivers swiveled to pay momentary attention, but with disbelief.

  The hansom plunged forward, fighting its way through traffic. Neither Pitt nor Tellman spoke. They were both trying to keep panic at bay, not allow their imaginations to race into all the things that could go wrong: the nightmare of Voisey winning, revenge feeding more revenge until there was nothing left.

  And hope must be stifled too. They were not safe yet. They would arrest Wetron for attempting to kill Voisey, the proof of Wetron’s guilt would be there, and Voisey would have it. The whole machine of corruption would be broken, the bill defeated. But Voisey would be alive, with all that that meant.

  The hansom careered along a half-empty street and swung around a corner, throwing them almost on top of each other. Still, neither spoke. They picked up speed again.

  It seemed an age before they slowed to a stop at last. Pitt handed the driver a fistful of coins—roughly what he thought the ride would cost, plus a generous tip. He and Tellman ran across the pavement and up the steps of Voisey’s house. Pitt banged on the door.

  A butler opened it with a look of distaste on his face. “Yes, sir?” His tone of voice conveyed his opinion of people who made loud and vulgar noise, whatever the circumstances. “May I be of assistance?”

  “I must see Sir Charles immediately!” Pitt said, catching his breath. “His life is in danger.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but Sir Charles is at the House. He customarily goes at about this hour.”

  “But he was here forty minutes ago,” Tellman protested, as if it could matter now.

  “No, sir,” the butler said firmly. “Sir Charles left over an hour ago.”

  “Superintendent Wetron said…” Tellman insisted, his voice raised.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but you are mistaken,” the butler repeated.

  Wild thoughts of conspiracy raced
through Pitt’s mind, before he realized the obvious answer. “He wasn’t at home,” he said aloud. “Wetron misled us on purpose. We must get to the House.”

  “He couldn’t do anything in the House of Commons!” Tellman said incredulously.

  “Yes he could, in a private office.” Pitt started down the steps again in time to shout at the hansom. The driver had been giving the horse a few minutes’ rest while he enjoyed the spectacle in the doorway, and was only just pulling away now. He heard Pitt’s voice and stopped again.

  “House of Commons!” Pitt ordered.

  “I s’pose that’s as fast as yer can make it too, eh?” the driver observed. “Don’t you ever go nowhere at a normal speed like other fellers? More life an’ death, is it?”

  “Yes. Hurry! Or if this horse is exhausted, catch up with another cab and we’ll change,” Pitt replied.

  The driver gave him a look of total disdain, and started forward again, picking up speed rapidly.

  “We’re going to be too late!” Tellman said between his teeth. “That bastard will have shot him!”

  Pitt did not answer. He was afraid Tellman was right.

  It seemed like another long, tedious, traffic-congested ride. All the impatience and sense of failure could not shorten it, or prevent what they now felt to be inevitable.

  They finally reached the House of Commons. Pitt paid over nearly all the rest of the money he was carrying, with a request that it be spent on the horse, then sprinted to follow Tellman, who was already twenty yards ahead of him.

  Once they had identified themselves they were allowed in and conducted up to Voisey’s office. But as soon as they turned the corner of the long corridor they saw it was already too late. There was a grim crowd blocking the way. Voices were lowered, bodies tense, faces white and anxious.