by Anne Perry
They swayed and lurched along the all-but-deserted streets, then over the river at the Battersea Bridge, and sharp west along the High Street. One moment he was desperate that they were going too slowly, the next, as they slewed around a corner, that they were going too fast and would tip over.
At the station they leapt out, Pitt wildly overpaying the driver because he could not wait for change. They ran into the station, dragging Austwick with them. The sergeant showed his warrant card and shouted at the stationmaster to direct them to the train.
The man obeyed with haste, but was clearly unhappy about it all. He looked at Austwick’s ashen face and dragging feet with pity. For a moment Pitt feared he was going to intervene.
The train was waiting, the engine belching steam. A very impatient guard stood at the door of his van, his whistle in one hand ready to be raised to his lips.
Pitt thanked the sergeant and his men, happy to be able to give them some idea of how intensely grateful he was. He made a mental note to commend the sergeant if they survived the night. He was doubly glad that his own reputation was such that his appreciation was a blessing, not a curse.
As soon as they were in the guard’s van, the whistle blew. The train lurched forward like a horse that had been straining at the bit.
The guard was a small, neat man with bright blue eyes.
“I hope all this is worth it,” he said looking at Pitt dubiously. “You’ve a lot of explaining to do, young man. Do you realize you have kept this train waiting ten minutes?” He glanced at his pocket watch and then replaced it. “Eleven minutes,” he corrected himself. “This train carries the Royal Mail. Nobody holds us up. Not rain nor floods nor lightning storms. And here we stood around the platform for the likes of you.”
“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.
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 further 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.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ANNE PERRY is the bestselling author of two acclaimed series set in Victorian England: the Charlotte and Thomas Pitt novels, most recently Buckingham Palace Gardens and Long Spoon Lane, and the William Monk novels, most recently Dark Assassin and Execution Dock. She is also the author of the World War I novels No Graves As Yet, Shoulder the Sky, Angels in the Gloom, At Some Disputed Barricade, and We Shall Not Sleep, as well as nine Christmas novels, most recently A Christmas Odyssey. Her standalone novel The Sheen on the Silk, set in the Byzantine Empire, was a New York Times bestseller. Anne Perry lives in Scotland.
www.anneperry.net
Table of Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
About the Author
