by Anne Perry
‘Not at the moment.’ Pitt was taking a chance, but time was growing short, and if he caught Wilson in a lie, it would at least tell him something. In fact perhaps fear would be a better ally than discretion, as long as that too was used secretly.
He loathed this. At least in the police he had always known that his colleagues were on the same side. He had not realized then how infinitely valuable that was. He had taken it for granted.
By the middle of the afternoon, they had found the connection between Gower and Austwick. They discovered it more by luck than deduction.
‘Here,’ Stoker held out a piece of paper with a note scrawled across the bottom.
Pitt read it. It was a memorandum of one man, written to himself, saying that he must see Austwick at a gentlemen’s club, and report a fact to him.
‘Does this matter?’ he asked, puzzled. ‘It’s nothing to do with socialists or any kind of violence or change, it’s just an observation of someone, which turned out to be irrelevant.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Stoker agreed. ‘But it’s this.’ He handed Pitt another note with something written on the bottom in the same hand.
‘Gave the message on Hibbert to Gower to pass on to Austwick at the Hyde Club. Matter settled.’
The place was a small, very select gentlemen’s club in the West End of London. He looked up at Stoker. ‘How the devil did Gower get to be a member of the Hyde Club?’
‘I looked at that, sir. Austwick recommended him. And that means that he must know him pretty well.’
‘Then we’ll look a lot more closely at all the cases Gower’s worked on, and Austwick as well,’ Pitt replied.
‘But we already know they’re connected,’ Stoker pointed out.
‘And who else?’ Pitt asked. ‘There are more than two of them. But with this we’ve got a better place to start. Keep working. We can’t afford even one oversight.’
Silently Stoker obeyed. He concentrated on Gower while Pitt looked at every record he could find of Austwick.
By nine o’clock in the evening they were both exhausted. Pitt’s head thumped and his eyes felt hot and gritty. He knew Stoker must feel the same. There was little time left.
Pitt put down the piece of paper he had been reading until the writing on it blurred in front of his vision.
‘Any conclusions?’ he asked.
‘Some of these letters, sir, make me think Sir Gerald Croxdale was just about onto him. He was pretty close to putting it together,’ Stoker replied. ‘I think that might be what made Austwick hurry it all up and act when he did. By getting rid of Narraway he shook everybody pretty badly. Took the attention away from himself.’
‘And also put him in charge,’ Pitt added. ‘It wasn’t for long, but maybe it was long enough.’ The last paper he had read was a memorandum from Austwick to Croxdale, but it was a different thought that was in his mind.
Stoker was waiting.
‘Do you think Austwick is the leader?’ he asked. ‘Is he actually a great deal cleverer than we thought? Or at any rate, than I thought?’
Stoker looked unhappy. ‘I don’t think so, sir. It seems to me like he’s not making the decisions. I’ve read a lot of Mr Narraway’s letters, and they’re not like this. He doesn’t suggest, he just tells you. And it isn’t that he’s any less of a gentleman, just that he knows he’s in charge, and he expects you to know it too. Maybe that wasn’t how he spoke to you, but it’s how he did to the rest of us. No hesitation. You ask, you get your answer. I reckon that Austwick’s asking someone else first.’
That was exactly the impression Pitt had had: a hesitation, as if checking with the man in control of master plan.
But if Croxdale was almost onto him, why was Narraway not?
‘Who can we trust?’ he asked aloud. ‘We have to take a small force, no more than a couple of dozen men at the very most. Any more than that and we’ll alert them. They’ll have people watching for exactly that.’
Stoker wrote a list on a piece of paper and passed it across. ‘These I’m sure of,’ he said quietly.
Pitt read it, crossed out three and put in two more. ‘Now we must tell Croxdale, and have Austwick arrested.’
He stood up and felt his muscles momentarily lock. He had forgotten how long he had been sitting, shoulders bent, reading paper after paper.
‘Yes, sir. I suppose we have to?’
‘We need an armed force, Stoker. We can’t go and storm the Queen’s residence, whatever the reason, without the Minister’s approval. Don’t worry, we’ve got a good enough case here.’ He picked up a small leather satchel and put into it the pages vital to the conclusions they had reached. ‘Come on.’
At Osborne, Charlotte, Vespasia and Narraway were kept in the same comfortable sitting room as the Queen. One terrified lady’s maid was permitted to come and go in order to attend to Queen’s wishes. They were given food by one of the men who kept them prisoner, and watched as they availed themselves of the necessary facilities for personal relief.
The conversation was stilted. In front of the Queen no one felt able to speak naturally. Charlotte looked at the old lady. This close to her, with no distance of formality possible, she was not unlike Charlotte’s own grandmother, someone she had loved and hated, feared and pitied over the years. As a child Charlotte had never dared to say anything that might be construed as impertinent. Later, exasperation had overcome both fear and respect, and she had spoken her own mind with forthrightness. More recently she had learned terrible secrets about that woman, and loathing had melted into compassion.
Now she looked at the short, dumpy old lady whose skin showed the weariness of age, whose hair was thin and almost invisible under her lace cap. Victoria was in her late seventies, and had been on the throne for nearly half a century. However, it was not the responsibility of that that wore her down, it was the bitter loneliness of widowhood. To the world she was Queen, Empress, Defender of the Faith, and her numerous children had married into half the Royal Houses of Europe.
Here at Osborne, standing looking out of the upstairs window across the fields and trees in the waning afternoon light, she was a tired old woman who had servants and subjects, but no equals. She would probably never know if any of them would have cared a jot for her if she were a commoner. The loneliness of it was unimaginable.
Would they kill her, those men in the hallway with guns and violent dreams of justice for people who would never want it, purchased this way? If they did, would Victoria mind so very much? A clean shot through the heart, and she would join her beloved Albert at last.
Would they kill the rest of them too: Narraway and Vespasia, and Charlotte herself? What about all the servants? Or did the hostage-takers consider the servants to be ordinary people like themselves? Charlotte was sure the servants didn’t think anything of the sort.
Charlotte had been sitting quietly on a chair at the far side of the room. On a sudden impulse she stood up and walked over towards the window. She stopped several feet short of the Queen. It would be disrespectful to stand beside her. Perhaps it was disrespectful to stand here at all, but she did so anyway.
The view was magnificent. She could even see a bright glint of sunlight on the sea in the distance.
The hard light picked out every line on Victoria’s face: the marks of tiredness, sorrow, ill temper, and perhaps also the inner pain of emotional isolation. Was she afraid?
‘It is very beautiful, ma’am,’ Charlotte said quietly.
‘Where do you live?’ Victoria asked.
‘In London, in Keppel Street, ma’am.’
‘Do you like it?’
‘I have always lived in London, but I think I might like it less if I had the choice of living where I could see something like this, and just hear the wind in the trees, instead of the traffic.’
‘Can you not be a nurse in the country?’ Victoria asked, still staring straight ahead of her.
Charlotte hesitated. Surely this was a time for the truth? It was only conversation.
The Queen did not care in the slightest where she lived. Any answer would do. If they were all to be shot, what sort of an answer mattered? An honest one? No, a kind one.
She turned and looked quickly at Vespasia.
Vespasia nodded.
Charlotte moved half a step closer to the Queen. ‘No, ma’am. I’m afraid I’m not a nurse at all. I told the man at the door that I was in order for them to allow me in.’
Victoria twisted her head to stare at Charlotte with cold eyes. ‘And why was that?’
Charlotte found her mouth dry. She had to lick her lips before she could speak. ‘My husband is in Special Branch, ma’am. Yesterday he became aware what these men planned to do. He returned to London to get help from among those we can trust. Lady Vespasia, Mr Narraway and I came here to warn you, hoping we were in time. Clearly we were not, but now that we are here, we will do all we can to be of help.’
Victoria blinked. ‘You knew that those . . . creatures were here?’ she said incredulously.
‘Yes, ma’am. Lady Vespasia realised that the man pretending to be a gardener was actually taking the heads off the petunias. No real gardener would do that.’
Victoria looked beyond Charlotte to Vespasia, still at the far side of the room.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Vespasia answered the unspoken question.
Narraway moved at last. He came forward, bowed very slightly, just an inclination of his head. ‘Ma’am, these men are violent and we believe they are seeking reform of all hereditary privilege in Europe—’
‘All hereditary privilege?’ she interrupted. ‘You mean . . .’ her voice faltered, ‘. . . like the French?’ From the pallor of her face she had to be thinking of the guillotine, and the execution of the King.
‘Not as violently as that, ma’am,’ Narraway told her. ‘We believe that when they are ready they will ask you to sign a bill abolishing the House of Lords—’
‘Never!’ she said vehemently. Then she gulped. ‘I do not mind dying so much, for myself, if that is what they have in mind. But I do not wish it for my household. They have been loyal, and do not deserve this repayment. Some of them are . . . young. Can you negotiate . . . something . . . that will spare them?’
‘With your permission, ma’am, I will attempt to prevaricate long enough for help to arrive,’ he replied.
‘Why does Special Branch not call in the army, or at the very least, the police?’ she asked.
‘Because if they come in with force, these people may react violently,’ he explained. ‘They are tense now. In their own way they are frightened. They know the cost of losing. They will certainly be hanged. We cannot afford to panic them. Whatever we do, it must be so stealthy that they are unaware of it. Everything must appear normal, until it is too late.’
‘I see,’ she said quietly. ‘I thought I was being brave when I said, “Here we die.” It looks as if I was more accurate than I intended. I will remain here in this room, where I have been so happy in the past.’ She gazed out of the window. ‘Do you suppose heaven is like that, Mr . . . what is your name?’
‘Narraway, ma’am. Yes, I think it may well be. I hope so.’
‘Don’t humour me!’ she snapped.
‘If God is an Englishman, ma’am, then it certainly will be,’ he said drily.
She turned and gave him a slow, careful look, then she smiled.
He bowed again, then turned away and walked to the door.
Outside in the landing he saw one of the armed men halfway down the stairs.
The man must have caught the movement in the corner of his vision. He spun around, raising the gun.
Narraway stopped. He recognised Gallagher from Special Branch photographs, but he did not say so. If any of them realised who he was they might shoot him on principle.
‘Get back there!’ Gallagher ordered.
Narraway stood where he was. ‘What do you want?’ he asked. ‘What are you waiting for? Is it money?’
Gallagher gave a snort of contempt. ‘What do you think we are – bloody thieves? Is that as far as your imagination goes? That’s all your sort thinks of, isn’t it! Money, all the world’s money, property. You think that’s all there is, property and power.’
‘And what’s yours?’ Narraway asked, keeping his voice level, and as emotionless as he could.
‘Get back in there!’ Gallagher jerked the gun towards the upstairs sitting room again.
Again Narraway remained where he was. ‘You’re holding Her Majesty hostage – you must want something. What is it?’
‘We’ll tell you that when we’re ready. Now unless you want to get shot, get back in there!’
Reluctantly Narraway obeyed. There was an edge of fear in Gallagher’s voice, a jerkiness in his movements that said he was as tight as a coiled spring inside. He was playing for the highest stakes he could imagine, and this was the only chance they would have. This was win, or lose it all.
Back in the sitting room Vespasia looked at Narraway the moment the door was closed.
‘They’re waiting for something,’ he said quickly. ‘Whoever it is here, he’s not in charge. Someone will come with a proclamation for Her Majesty to sign, or something of the sort.’ He gritted his teeth. ‘We may be here for some time – this has been put to the Prime Minister – if they are arguing this thing in the Cabinet. We’ll have to keep our heads. Try to keep them calm, and possibly even convince them they have a hope of success. If they lose that, they may just kill us all. They’ll have nothing to lose.’ He looked at her white face. ‘I’m sorry. I would prefer not to have had to tell you that, but I can’t do this alone. We must all stay steady – the household staff as well. I wish I could get to them to persuade them of the need for calm. One person in hysterics might be enough to panic them all.’
Vespasia rose to her feet a trifle unsteadily. ‘Then I will ask this lunatic on the stairs for permission to go and speak with the household staff. Perhaps you will be good enough to help me persuade him of the necessity. Charlotte will manage here very well.’
Narraway took her arm, holding it firmly. He turned to Victoria.
‘Ma’am, Lady Vespasia is going to speak with your staff. It is imperative that no one loses control or behaves with rashness. I shall try to persuade the men who hold us hostage to permit her to do this, for all our sakes. I am afraid we may be here for some little time.’
‘Thank you.’ Victoria spoke more to Vespasia than to Narraway, but the comment included them both.
‘Perhaps they could serve everyone food?’ Charlotte suggested. ‘It is easier to be busy.’
‘An excellent idea,’ Vespasia agreed. ‘Come, Victor. If they have any sense at all, they will see the wisdom of it.’
They went to the door and he held it open for her.
Charlotte watched them go with her heart pounding and her stomach clenched tight. She turned to Victoria, who was staring at her with the same fear bright in her eyes.
Out on the landing there was still silence . . . no sound of gunfire.
A little before midnight Pitt and Stoker sat in a hansom cab on its way to the home of Sir Gerald Croxdale. With them in the satchel was the main evidence to prove Austwick’s complicity in the movement of the money, which had made Narraway appear guilty of theft and resulted in the murder of Mulhare. Also included were the reports of the leading revolutionary socialists prepared to use violence to overthrow governments they believed to be oppressive, and who were now gathered together in England, and had been seen moving south towards Osborne House, and the Queen. Also, of course, there were the names of the traitors within Special Branch.
It took nearly five minutes of ringing and knocking before they heard the bolts drawn back in the front door. It was opened by a sleepy footman wearing a coat over his nightshirt.
‘Yes, sir?’ he said cautiously.
Pitt identified himself and Stoker. ‘It is an extreme emergency,’ he said gravely. ‘The government is in danger. Will you please waken the minister immediatel
y?’ He made it a request, but his tone left no doubt that it was an order.
They were shown to the withdrawing room. Just over ten minutes later Croxdale himself appeared, hastily dressed, his face drawn in lines of anxiety. As soon as he had closed the door, he spoke, looking from Pitt to Stoker and back again.
‘What is it, gentlemen?’
There was no time for any more explanation than necessary to convince him. ‘We have traced the money that was placed in Narraway’s account,’ Pitt said briefly. ‘It was Charles Austwick behind it, and the consequent murder of Mulhare, and also behind Gower’s murder of West. Far more importantly, we know the reason for both. It was to place Austwick in charge of Special Branch, so no one else would notice the violent radical socialists coming into Britain, men who have been ideological enemies until now suddenly co-operating with each other and all moving down towards the Isle of Wight.’
Croxdale looked startled. ‘The Isle of Wight? For God’s sake, why?’
‘Osborne House,’ Pitt said simply.
‘God Almighty! The Queen!’ Croxdale’s voice was all but strangled in his throat. ‘Are you sure? No one would . . . why? It makes no sense. It would unite the world against them.’ He waved one hand and shook his head, as if to push away the whole idea.
‘Not to kill her,’ Pitt told him. ‘At least not to start with, perhaps not at all.’
‘Then what?’ Croxdale peered at him as if he had never really seen him before. ‘Pitt, are you sure you know what you are talking about?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Pitt said firmly. He was not surprised Croxdale doubted him. If he had not seen the proof himself he would not have believed it. ‘We traced the money that was supposed to go to Mulhare. The information he gave was very valuable. He gave up Nathaniel Byrne, one of the key men responsible for several bombings in Ireland and in London. Very few people knew that, even in Special Branch, but Austwick was one of them. Narraway arranged the payment so Mulhare could escape. That was a condition of his giving the information.’
‘I knew nothing about it!’ Croxdale said sharply. ‘But why would Austwick do such a thing? Did he take some of it himself?’
