by Anne Perry
Rathbone was still on his feet.
"I think now, my lord, that Mrs. Gardiner has nothing left to protect. If I call her to the stand, she may be prepared to tell us the little we do not know."
"By all means," the judge agreed. "If she is willing—and if she is able." He turned to Stourbridge. "Thank you, sir, for your honesty. We need ask nothing further of you."
Like a man walking through water, Harry Stourbridge went down the steps and stood for a moment in the middle of the floor. He looked up at the dock, where Miriam had risen to her feet. There was a gentleness in his face which held the room in silence, a compassion and a gratitude that even in her anguish she could not have failed to recognize.
He waited while she came down, the jailer standing aside as if he understood his duty was over.
Miriam stopped in front of Harry Stourbridge. Haltingly, he reached out and touched her arm, so lightly she could barely have felt it. He smiled at her. She put her hand over his for an instant, then continued on her way to the steps of the witness stand, climbed up and turned to face Rathbone and the court.
"Mrs. Gardiner," Rathbone said quietly, "I understand now why you preferred to face the rope for a crime you did not commit rather than have Lucius Stourbridge learn the truth of his birth. But that is not now possible. Nor can Aiden Campbell any longer hide from his acts—or blame you for any part of them. I do not require you to relive a past which must be painful beyond our imagining, but justice necessitates that you tell the jury what you know of the deaths of James Treadwell and Verona Stourbridge."
Miriam nodded very slightly, with just the barest acknowledgment, then in a quiet, drained voice she began.
"I ran from the croquet lawn. At first I did not care where I went, anywhere to be away from the house, alone—to try to realize what had happened, what it was I had remembered— if it could really be true. More than anything on earth, I did not want it to be." She stopped for a moment.
"Of course—it was, but I did not fully accept it then. I ran to the stables and begged Treadwell to take me anywhere. I gave him my locket as payment. He was greedy, but not entirely a bad man. I asked him to drive me to Hampstead Heath. I didn’t tell him why. I wanted to go back to where poor Mrs. Bailey was killed, to remember what really happened—if the flash of recollection I had on the croquet lawn was even some kind of madness."
Someone coughed, and the noise made people start in the tingling silence.
"Aiden Campbell must have seen my recognition," she went on. "He also remembered, and perhaps knew where I would go. He followed us, and found us near the tree where Mrs. Bailey’s body was hidden. He had to kill Treadwell if he was going to kill me, or he’d have been blackmailed for the rest of his life. He struck Treadwell first. He caught him completely by surprise.
"I ran. I know the area better than he because I lived near the Heath for years. Perhaps desperation lent me speed. It was getting dark. I escaped him. After that I had no idea where to go or what to do. At last, in the morning, I went to Cleo Anderson ... again. But this time I could not bear to tell even her what I knew."
"And the death of Verona Stourbridge, after you were released back into the Stourbridges’ custody," Rathbone prompted her.
She looked at him. "I couldn’t tell anyone...."
"We understand. What do you know about Verona Stourbridge’s death?"
"I believe she always thought Lucius was... an abandoned baby. She hid the truth from Major Stourbridge, but she had no knowledge of any crime, only her own deception, made from her despair that she would never bear a child for her husband. I know now that she knew it was Aiden’s child, but not about me or how he was concerned. She must have asked Aiden about it—and although he loved her, he could not afford to let her know the truth." Her voice dropped. "No matter how close they were, and they truly were, she might one day have told someone—she would have had to—to explain—" In spite of herself her eyes went to Lucius, sitting on the front bench, the tears running down his cheeks.
"I’m so sorry," Miriam whispered. "I’m so, so sorry..."
Rathbone turned to the judge.
"My lord, is it necessary to protract this any longer? May we adjourn for an hour or so before we conclude? I have nothing further to ask, and I cannot believe Mr. Tobias will pursue this anymore."
Tobias rose to his feet. "I am quite willing, my lord. What little remains can be dealt with after an adjournment. Major Stourbridge and his family have my deepest sympathy."
"Very good." The judge banged his gavel, and after a moment’s heavy stillness, people began to move.
Rathbone felt bruised, exhausted, as if he had made some great physical journey. He turned to Hester and Monk, who were coming towards him from the body of the court. Just behind them was a man with scruffy black hair and a beard that went in every direction. He was beaming with satisfaction, his eyes shining.
Hester smiled.
"You have achieved the impossible," Monk said, holding out his hand to Rathbone.
Rathbone took it and held it hard for a few moments.
"We still have the matter of the medicines," he warned.
"No, we don’t!" Hester assured him. "Mr. Phillips here is the apothecary at the hospital. He has persuaded Fermin Thorpe that nothing is missing. It was all a matter of natural wastage and a few rather careless entries in the books. No actual thefts at all. It was a mistake to have mentioned it."
Rathbone was incredulous. "How in heaven’s name did you do that?" He regarded Phillips with interest and a growing respect.
"Never enjoyed anything more," Phillips said, grinning broadly. "A little issue of one favor for another—resurrection, you might say!"
Monk looked at Hester narrowly.
She beamed back at him with complete innocence.
"Well done, Mr. Phillips," Rathbone said gratefully. "I am much obliged."
And don’t miss this
Charlotte and Thomas Pitt novel
in paperback:
BEDFORD SQUARE by ANNE PERRY
Another matchless Victorian mystery of men and women who embrace the best and the worst of human nature, where vicious lies become weapons of destruction—and dead men tell no lies.
Published by Ballantine Books.
Available at a bookstore near you.
By Anne Perry
Published by The Random House Publishing Group:
Featuring Thomas and Charlotte 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
THE HYDE PARK HEADSMAN
TRAITORS GATE
PENTECOST ALLEY
ASHWORTH HALL
BRUNSWICK GARDENS
BEDFORD SQUARE
HALF MOON STREET
THE WHITECHAPEL CONSPIRACY
SOUTHAMPTON ROW
SEVEN DIALS
Featuring William Monk:
THE FACE OF A STRANGER
A DANGEROUS MOURNING
DEFEND AND BETRAY
A SUDDEN, FEARFUL DEATH
THE SINS OF THE WOLF
CAIN HIS BROTHER
WEIGHED IN THE BALANCE
THE SILENT CRY
A BREACH OF PROMISE
THE TWISTED ROOT
SLAVES OF OBSESSION
FUNERAL IN BLUE
DEATH OF A STRANGER
THE SHIFTING TIDE
The World War I Novels:
NO GRAVES AS YET
SHOULDER THE SKY
Books published by The Random House Publishing Group are available at quantity discounts on bulk purchases for premium, educational, fund-raising, and special sales use. For details,
please call 1-800-733-3000.
Read on for an excerpt from Anne Perry’s
Treason at Lisson Grove
A Charlotte and Thomas Pitt Novel
CHAPTER
1
“THAT’S HIM!” GOWER YELLED above the sound of the traffic. Pitt turned on his heel just in time to see a figure dart between the rear end of a hansom and the oncoming horses of a brewer’s dray. Gower disappeared after him, missing a trampling by no more than inches.
Pitt plunged into the street, swerving to avoid a brougham and stopping abruptly to let another hansom pass. By the time he reached the far pavement Gower was twenty yards ahead and Pitt could make out only his flying hair. The man he was pursuing was out of sight. Weaving between clerks in pinstripes, leisurely strollers, and the occasional early woman shopper with her long skirts getting in the way, Pitt closed the gap until he was less than a dozen yards behind Gower. He caught a glimpse of the man ahead: bright ginger hair and a green jacket. Then he was gone, and Gower turned, his right hand raised for a moment in signal, before disappearing into an alley.
Pitt followed after him into the shadows, his eyes taking a moment or two to adjust. The alley was long and narrow, bending in a dogleg a hundred yards beyond. The gloom was caused by the overhanging eaves and the water-soaked darkness of the brick, long streams of grime running down from the broken guttering. People were huddled in doorways; others made their way slowly, limping, or staggering beneath heavy bolts of cloth, barrels, and bulging sacks.
Gower was still ahead, seeming to find his way with ease. Pitt veered around a fat woman with a tray of matches to sell, and tried to catch up. Gower was at least ten years younger, even if his legs were not quite so long, and he was more used to this kind of thing. But it was Pitt’s experience in the Metropolitan Police before he joined Special Branch that had led them to finding West, the man they were now chasing.
Pitt bumped into an old woman and apologized before regaining his stride. They were around the dogleg now, and he could see West’s ginger head making for the opening into the wide thoroughfare forty yards away. Pitt knew that they must catch him before he was swallowed up in the crowds.
Gower was almost there. He reached out an arm to grab at West, but just then West ducked sideways and Gower tripped, hurtling into the wall and momentarily winding himself. He bent over double, gasping to catch his breath.
Pitt lengthened his stride and reached West just as he dived out into the High Street, barged his way through a knot of people, and disappeared.
Pitt went after him and a moment later saw the light on his bright hair almost at the next crossroads. He increased his pace, bumping and banging people. He had to catch him. West had information that could be vital. After all, the tide of unrest was rising fast all over Europe, and becoming more violent. Many people, in the name of reform, were actually trying to overthrow government altogether and create an anarchy in which they imagined there would be some kind of equality of justice. Some were content with blood-soaked oratory; others preferred dynamite, or even bullets.
Special Branch knew of a current plot, but not yet the leaders behind it, or—more urgently—the target of their violence. West was to provide that, at risk of his own life—if his betrayal were known.
Where the devil was Gower? Pitt swiveled around once to see if he could spot him. He was nowhere visible in the sea of bobbing heads, bowler hats, caps, and bonnets. There was no time to look longer. Surely he wasn’t still in the alley? What was wrong with the man? He was not much more than thirty. Had he been more than just knocked off balance? Was he injured?
West was up ahead, seizing a break in the traffic to cross back to the other side again. Three hansoms came past almost nose-to-tail. A cart and four clattered in the opposite direction. Pitt fumed on the edge of the curb. To go out into the roadway now would only get him killed.
A horse-drawn omnibus passed, then two heavily loaded wagons. More carts and a dray went in the other direction. Pitt had lost sight of West, and Gower had vanished into the air.
There was a brief holdup in traffic and Pitt raced across the road. Weaving in and out of the way of frustrated drivers, he only just missed being caught by a long, curling carriage whip. Someone yelled at him and he took no notice. He reached the opposite side and caught sight of West for an instant as he swung around a corner and made for another alley.
Pitt raced after him, but when he got there West had disappeared.
“Did you see a man with ginger hair?” Pitt demanded of a peddler with a tray of sandwiches. “Where did he go?”
“Want a sandwich?” the man asked with eyes wide. “Very good. Made this morning. Only tuppence.”
Pitt fished frantically in his pocket; found string, sealing wax, a pocketknife, a handkerchief, and several coins. He gave the man a threepenny bit and took a sandwich. It felt soft and fresh, although right now he didn’t care. “Which way?” he said harshly.
“That way.” The man pointed into the deeper shadows of the alley.
Pitt began to run again, weaving a path through the piles of rubbish. A rat skittered from under his feet, and he all but fell over a drunken figure lying half out of a doorway. Somebody swung a punch at him; he lurched to one side, losing his balance for a moment, glimpsing West still ahead of him.
Now West disappeared again and Pitt had no idea which way he had gone. He tried one blind courtyard and alley after another. It seemed like endless, wasted moments before Gower joined him from one of the side alleyways.
“Pitt!” Gower clutched at his arm. “This way! Quickly.” His fingers dug deep into Pitt’s flesh, making him gasp with the sudden pain.
Together they ran forward, Pitt along the broken pavement beside the dark walls, Gower in the gutter, his boots sending up a spray of filthy water. Pace for pace, they went around the corner into the open entrance to a brickyard and saw a man crouching over something on the ground.
Gower let out a cry of fury and darted forward, half crossing in front of Pitt and tripping him up in his eagerness. They both fell heavily. Pitt was on his feet in time to see the crouched figure swing around for an instant, then scramble up and run as if for his life.
“Oh God!” Gower said, aghast, now also on his feet. “After him! I know who it is!”
Pitt stared at the heap on the ground: West’s green jacket and bright hair. Blood streamed from his throat, staining his chest and already pooling dark on the stones underneath him. There was no way he could possibly be alive.
Gower was already pursuing the assassin. Pitt raced after him and this time his long strides caught up before they reached the road. “Who is it?” he demanded, almost choking on his own breath.
“Wrexham!” Gower hissed back. “We’ve been watching him for weeks.”
Pitt knew the man, but only by name. There was a momentary break in the stream of vehicles. They darted across the road to go after Wrexham, who thank heaven was an easy figure to see. He was taller than average, and—despite the good weather—he was wearing a long, pale-colored scarf that swung in the air as he twisted and turned. It flashed through Pitt’s mind that it might be a weapon; it would not be hard to strangle a man with it.
They were on a crowded footpath now, and Wrexham dropped his pace. He almost sauntered, walking easily, swiftly, with loping strides, but perfectly casual. Could he be arrogant enough to imagine he had lost them so quickly? He certainly knew they had seen him, because he had swiveled around at Gower’s cry, and then run as if for his life.
They were now walking at a steady pace, eastward toward Stepney and Limehouse. Soon the crowds would thin as they left the broader streets behind.
“If he goes into an alley, be careful,” Pitt warned, now beside Gower, as if they were two tradesmen bound on a common errand. “He has a knife. He’s too comfortable. He must know we’re behind him.”
Gower glanced at him sideways, his eyes wide for an instant. “You think he’ll try and pick us off?”
“We practically saw him cut West’s throat,” Pitt replied, matching Gower stride for stride. “If we get him he’ll hang. He must know that.”
“I reckon he’ll duck and hide suddenly, when he thinks we’re taking it easy,” Gower answered. “We’d better stay fairly close to him. Lose sight of him for a moment and he’ll be gone for good.”
Pitt agreed with a nod, and they closed the distance to Wrexham, who was still strolling ahead of them. Never once did he turn or look back.
Pitt found it chilling that a man could slit another’s throat and see him bleed to death, then a few moments after walk through a crowd with outward unconcern, as if he were just one more pedestrian about some trivial daily business. What passion or inhumanity drove him? In the way he moved, the fluidity—almost grace—of his stride, Pitt could not detect even fear, let alone the conscience of a brutal murderer.
Wrexham wove in and out of the thinning crowd. Twice they lost sight of him.
“That way!” Gower gasped, waving his right hand. “I’ll go left.” He swerved around a window cleaner with a bucket of water, almost knocking the man over.
Pitt went the other way, into the north end of an alley. The sudden shadows momentarily made him blink, half blind. He saw movement and charged forward, but it was only a beggar shuffling out of a doorway. He swore under his breath and sprinted back to the street just in time to see Gower swiveling around frantically, searching for him.
“That way!” Gower called urgently and set off, leaving Pitt behind.
The second time it was Pitt who saw him first, and Gower who had to catch up. Wrexham had crossed the road just in front of a brewer’s dray and was out of sight by the time Pitt and Gower were able to follow. It took them more than ten minutes to close on him without drawing attention. There were fewer people about, and two men running would have been highly noticeable. With fifty yards’ distance between them, Wrexham could have outrun them too easily.
