by Anne Perry
“I knew nothing about it!” Croxdale said sharply. “But why would Austwick do such a thing? Did he take some of it himself?”
“No. He wanted Narraway out of Special Branch, and me too, in case I knew enough of what Narraway had been working on to piece it together.”
“Piece what?” Croxdale said sharply. “You haven’t explained anything yet. And what has this to do with socialist violence against the queen?”
“Passionate idealism gone mad,” Pitt answered. “Hold the queen for ransom to abolish the House of Lords, and then probably to abdicate. The end of rule by hereditary privilege, then likely a republic, with only elected representation of the people.”
“Good God.” Croxdale sank into the nearest armchair, his face ashen, his hands shaking. “Are you certain, man? I can’t act on this without absolute proof. If I have to mount a force of armed men to take Osborne House, I’d better be bloody sure I’m doing the right thing—in fact the only thing. If you’re wrong, I’ll end up in the Tower, and it’ll be my head on the block.”
“Mr. Narraway is already at Osborne, sir,” Pitt told him.
“What?” Croxdale sat up with a jerk. “Narraway’s in …” He stopped, rubbing his hand over his face. “Do you have proof of all this, Pitt? Yes or no? I have to explain this to the prime minister before I act: immediately, tonight. I can have Austwick arrested—I’ll do that first, before he gets any idea that you know what he’s done. I’ll do that now. But you must give me more than your word to take to the prime minister.”
“Yes, sir.” Pitt indicated the case he had with him. “It’s in here. Reports, instructions, letters. It takes a bit of piecing together, but it’s all there.”
“Are you certain? My God, man, if you’re wrong, I’ll see you go down with me!” Croxdale rose to his feet. “I’ll get it started. There’s obviously no time to waste.” He walked slowly from the room, closing the door behind him.
Stoker was standing where he had been throughout the conversation. There was a very slight frown on his face.
“What is it?” Pitt asked.
Stoker shook his head. “I don’t know, sir.”
Pitt had the case in his hand with the papers. Why had Croxdale not asked to see them, at least check over them? With the possibility of treachery inside Special Branch, and his belief earlier that Narraway himself was a thief, why had he not asked to see it? Pitt was known to be Narraway’s man. In his place, Pitt would have been skeptical, at the very least.
“Do you think he suspected Austwick all along?” Stoker asked.
“Of what? If he was part of setting up the forgeries to blame Narraway, then he was part of the plot to attack the queen. If Croxdale knew that, then he’s part of it too.” As he spoke the pieces fell together in his mind. Austwick was reporting to someone else, they were certain of that. Croxdale himself?
Then he remembered something else: Croxdale had said he did not know about Austwick sending the money for Mulhare—but Croxdale had had to countersign it. It was too large an amount for one signature alone.
He turned to Stoker. “He’s going to get rid of Austwick, and blame him for all of it,” he said. “Then the queen.”
Stoker was hollow-eyed in the lamplight; Pitt knew he must look the same. Could they possibly be right? The price would be total ruin if they were wrong. And ruin for the country if they were right, and did nothing.
Pitt nodded.
Stoker went to the door and opened it very quietly, not allowing the latch to click back. Pitt came behind him. Across the hallway the study door was ajar and there was a crack of light across the dark floor.
“Wait till he comes out,” Stoker said under his breath. “I’ll get over the far side, in the other doorway. You hold his attention, I’ll be behind him. Be prepared. He’ll fight.”
Pitt could feel his heart pounding so hard his whole body must be shaking with it. Had his promotion gone to his head? He was doing the wildest thing of his life, perhaps throwing away everything he had in a gesture that in the light of day would look like the act of a madman, or a traitor. He should wait, act with moderation, ask someone else’s opinion.
What if Stoker was the traitor, and deliberately provoking Pitt to this? What if he was Austwick’s man, about to arrest the one person who stood in their way?
What if it were all a plan to ruin Special Branch? Discredit it into oblivion?
He froze.
Ahead of him Stoker tiptoed across the hall to stand, little more than a shadow, in the doorway next to the study, where Croxdale would have his back to him when he came out to go back to Pitt.
The seconds ticked by.
Was Croxdale speaking to the prime minister? What could he tell him over a telephone? Would he have to go and see him in person in order to raise a force of men to relieve Osborne House? No—this was an emergency, no time to argue, or plead a case. Was he arranging to have Austwick arrested?
The study door opened and Croxdale came out. Now was the time for decision, as Croxdale walked across the unlit hall, before he reached the sitting room door.
Pitt stepped forward. “Sir Gerald, Austwick is not the leader in the attempted coup.”
Croxdale stopped. “What the devil are you talking about? If there’s somebody else, why in God’s name didn’t you tell me before?”
“Because I didn’t know who it was,” Pitt said honestly.
Croxdale was in the shadow, his face all but invisible. “And now you do?” His voice was soft. Was it in disbelief, or understanding at last?
“Yes,” Pitt said.
Stoker moved silently forward until he was a yard behind Croxdale. He had deliberately chosen an angle from which he cast no shadow.
“Indeed. And who is it?” Croxdale asked.
“You,” Pitt answered.
There was total silence.
Croxdale was a big man, heavy. Pit wondered if he and Stoker would be able to take him, if he fought back, if he called for the footman who must be waiting somewhere. Please God he was in the kitchen where he would only hear a bell. But he would not go back to bed while his master was up and there were visitors in the house.
“You made a mistake,” Pitt pointed out, as much to hold Croxdale’s attention from any slight sound Stoker might make as for any reasoning.
“Really? What was that?” Croxdale did not sound alarmed. In seconds he had regained his composure.
“The amount of money you paid Mulhare.”
“He was worth it. He gave us Byrne,” Croxdale replied, the contempt undisguised in his voice. “If you were up to your job, you would know that.”
“Oh, I do know it,” Pitt answered, keeping his eyes on Croxdale so he did not waver even once and glance at Stoker behind him. “The point is not whether Mulhare was worth it, it is that that amount had to be authorized by more than one man. It has your signature on it.”
“What of it?” Croxdale asked. “It was a legitimate payment.”
“It was used to get rid of Narraway—and you said you didn’t know anything about it,” Pitt reminded him.
Croxdale brought his hands out of his pockets. In the left one there was a small gun. The light from the sitting room behind Pitt gleamed on the metal of the barrel as Croxdale raised it.
Pitt swung around as if Stoker were behind him, just as Stoker slammed into Croxdale, kicking high and hard at his left elbow.
The gun flew in the air. Pitt lunged for it, just catching it as it arced over to his left.
Croxdale swung around and grabbed at Stoker, twisting his arm and turning him so he half fell and Croxdale had him in a stranglehold.
“Give me back the gun, or I’ll break his neck!” Croxdale said in a grating voice, just a little high-pitched.
Pitt had no doubt whatever that he would do it. The mask was off: Croxdale had nothing to lose. Pitt looked at Stoker’s face, which was already turning red as his neck was crushed by Croxdale’s hold. There was no choice. Stoker was still only half in fron
t of Croxdale, but slipping forward and sideways. A minute more and he would be unconscious and form a perfect shield. He aimed the gun and cocked the trigger.
Pitt shot Croxdale in the head, making a single wound.
Croxdale fell backward. Stoker, sprayed with blood, staggered and collapsed onto the floor. Pitt was alarmed by his own accuracy, though the distance to his target had been short enough. Of course he was surprised; he had never shot a man to death before.
He dropped the gun and held out his hand, hauling Stoker to his feet again.
Stoker looked at the gun.
“Leave it!” Pitt said, startled to find his voice almost level. “The minister shot himself when he realized we had proof of his treason. We didn’t know he had a gun, so we weren’t able to prevent him from doing it.” Now he was shaking, and it took all his control to keep even reasonably steady. “What the hell did you think you were doing?” he snarled at Stoker suddenly. “He would have killed you, you fool!”
Stoker coughed and rubbed his hand over his throat. “I know that,” he said huskily. “Just as well you shot him, or I’d have been the one on the floor. Thank you, sir.”
Pitt was about to tell Stoker that he was incompetent to have allowed Croxdale to grasp hold of him like that. However, with a shock like a physical blow, he realized that Stoker had done it on purpose, risking his own life to force Pitt to shoot Croxdale. He stared at him as if seeing him for the first time.
“What could we have done with him, sir?” Stoker said pragmatically. “Tie him up here, for his servants to find and let go? Take him with us, in a hansom cab or one of us stay and sit—”
“All right!” Pitt cut in. “Now we have to get to the Isle of Wight and rescue the queen—and Narraway and Lady Vespasia, and my wife.” His mind raced, picturing the men he knew were going to be there: violent, fanatical men like Portman, Gallagher, Haddon, Fenner, and others with the same distorted idealism, willing to kill and to die for the changes they believed would bring a new era of social justice.
Then another idea came to him. “If he had Austwick arrested, where would he be taken to? Quickly?”
“Austwick?” Stoker sounded confused.
“Yes. Where would he be now? Where does he live, do you know? How can we find out?”
“Kensington, sir, not far from here,” Stoker replied. “It’d be the Kensington police—if Croxdale really called anyone.”
“If he didn’t, we will,” Pitt said, now knowing exactly what he was going to do. “Come on, we’ve got to hurry. We don’t know who Croxdale actually spoke to. It won’t have been the prime minister.” He started toward Croxdale’s study.
“Sir!” Stoker said, bewildered.
Pitt turned. “If one of the servants comes down, tell him Sir Gerald shot himself. Do what you can to make it look right. I’m going to call the Kensington police.” In Croxdale’s study there was no time to search. He picked up the receiver and asked the operator to connect him, as an emergency. Perhaps Croxdale had done the same.
As soon as they answered he identified himself and said that there had been a practical joke suggested concerning the arrest of Mr. Austwick. It should be disregarded.
“Are you sure, sir?” the man at the other end said doubtfully. “We’ve ’ad nothing ’ere.”
“Mr. Austwick lives in your area?” Pitt had a sudden sinking in the pit of his stomach.
“Oh yes, sir.”
“Then we’d better make certain he’s safe. What is his address?”
The man hesitated a moment, then told him. “But we’ll send men there ourselves, sir, if you’ll pardon me, seein’ as ’ow I don’t really know ’oo you are.”
“Good. Do that,” Pitt agreed. “We’ll be there as soon as I can get a cab.” He replaced the receiver and went to find Stoker. The other man was waiting by the front door, anxiously moving his weight from one foot to the other.
“Right, find a hansom,” Pitt told him.
“We’ll have to walk as far as the main road,” Stoker warned, opening the door and slipping out with immense relief. They strode along at as rapid a pace as possible, short of breaking into a run.
It was still several minutes before they found a cab. They gave Austwick’s address, with orders to make the best speed possible.
“What are we going to do with Austwick, sir?” Stoker asked. He had to raise his voice above the clatter of the hooves and the rattle and hiss of wheels over the cobbles.
“Get him to help us,” Pitt replied. “They’re his men down there. He’s the one person who might be able to call them off without an all-out shooting battle. We won’t have achieved much in capturing them if they kill the queen in the process.” He did not mention Narraway or Vespasia, or Charlotte.
“Do you think he’ll do that?” Stoker asked.
“It’s up to us to persuade him,” Pitt said grimly. “Croxdale’s dead, Narraway’s alive. I doubt the queen will sign anything that reduces the power or dignity of the Crown, even in fear of her life.”
Stoker did not reply, but in the light of the next street lamp they passed, Pitt saw that he was smiling.
When they reached Austwick’s house there were police outside it, discreetly, well in the shadows.
Pitt identified himself, showing them his new warrant card, and Stoker did the same.
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said smartly. “How can we help, sir?”
Pitt made an instant decision. “We are going to collect Mr. Austwick, and we are all going to travel to Portsmouth, as rapidly as possible.”
The sergeant looked bemused.
“Use Austwick’s telephone. Hold the night train,” Pitt told him. “It’s imperative we get to the Isle of Wight by morning.”
The sergeant came to attention. “Yes, sir. I’ll … I’ll call immediately.”
Pitt smiled at him. “Thank you.” Then he nodded to Stoker. They went to the front door of Austwick’s house and knocked hard and continuously until a footman in his nightshirt opened it, blinking and drawing in breath to demand an explanation.
Pitt told him sharply to step back.
The man saw the police beyond Pitt, and Stoker at his elbow, and did as he was told. Ten minutes later Austwick was in the hall, hastily dressed, unshaven, and very angry.
“What the hell is going on?” he said furiously. “Do you know what time it is, man?”
Pitt looked at the long-case clock at the far side of the hall. “Coming up to quarter to two,” he answered. “And we must make Portsmouth by dawn.”
Austwick paled visibly, even in the dim light of the hall with its main chandelier unlit. If anything could tell Pitt that he knew of Croxdale’s plan, it was the fear in his face now.
“Croxdale is dead,” Pitt said simply. “He shot himself when we faced him with his plans. It’s all over. Narraway’s back. He’s at Osborne now, with the queen. You’ve got two choices, Austwick. We can arrest you now, and you’ll be tried as a traitor. You’ll hang, and your family will never live it down. Your grandchildren, if you have any, will still carry the stigma of your name.” He saw Austwick’s horror, but could not afford to pity him. “Or you can come with us and call off your men from Osborne,” he went on. “You have two minutes to choose. Do you wish to hang as a traitor, or come with us, to live or die as a hero?”
Austwick was too paralyzed with fear to speak.
“Good,” Pitt said decisively. “You’re coming with us. I thought you’d choose that. We’re going for the night train to Portsmouth. Hurry.”
Stoker grasped Austwick by the arm, holding him hard, and they stumbled out into the night.
They half heaved him into the waiting hansom, then sat with one on either side of him. Two uniformed police followed in another cab, ready to clear traffic if there should be any and to confirm that the night train was held.
They raced through the streets in silence toward the river and the railway station beyond, where they could catch the mail train to the coast. Pitt foun
d his fists clenched and his whole body aching with the tension of not knowing whether the sergeant he had instructed had been able to hold the train there. It could only have taken a telephone call from Austwick’s house to his own police station, and then a call from there to the railway. What if the stationmaster on night duty did not believe them, or realize the urgency of it? What if he was simply incompetent for such a crisis?
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.”
