“People dislike each other for all sorts of reasons,” Pitt pointed out. “Could it be a debt? A woman? Could Duncannon have done something as simple as blackball Abercorn from some club he wants to, or needs to, be a member of? People can care passionately about these things. It matters a lot to a social or political career. And usually those two are linked. They shouldn’t be, but they are.”

  “Not dislike, Thomas,” Jack corrected. “I wouldn’t give a damn about that. I don’t trust Abercorn. There’s malice in him, a deep pain. I can’t help thinking he knows something about Duncannon that I don’t, and when it suits him, he’s going to use it. I would love it if you could tell me for certain that I’m wrong.”

  “What are you afraid of, Jack? Specifically?”

  Jack took a deep breath. “That Abercorn knows something about these bombings, and he’ll produce it when it can most damage Duncannon.”

  “Alexander’s guilty,” Pitt said quietly. “But I think you already know that as well as I do. Isn’t that why you asked me to delay arresting him until the contract is signed?”

  “Yes. But my fear is that it goes deeper than that; I’m not sure how. Abercorn is championing the dead police as the victims of anarchy and lawlessness. He’s calling for revenge on those who were attacking the very defense against crime that everyone relied on. Some of his most outspoken remarks even suggest that to fail in support for the law, and those who represent it, is to invite anarchy, even to give support to revolution.

  “In one article he says that the specific duty of Special Branch is to safeguard the security of the Crown and the nation,” Jack continued. “He asks if you are involved in the Lancaster Gate bombing case precisely because, through attacking the police and insidiously by speaking of corruption, there is a thinly veiled prologue to revolution by violence. He likens it to the revolution that all but destroyed France in 1789.”

  “For heaven’s sake—” Pitt began.

  But Jack overrode him. “The fact that we are now at the beginning of the last year of this century was not lost on most of his readers,” he added. “There are more than enough eccentrics, even lunatics, predicting the end of the world, without men otherwise respected adding to the hysteria. Be realistic, Thomas. Men don’t invest fortunes if they don’t expect to gain something, either even more money, or value of some other sort. Are you sure Alexander committed this atrocity? Absolutely sure…and on his own?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Why? Because he’s dissolute, and addicted to opium?” Jack leaned forward earnestly. “He lost his way—no one is arguing that—but he’s a decent man, underneath the eccentricity and the pain. Perhaps he got in with some bad people. Godfrey says Lezant was a pretty good rotter. Considering what happened to him, that much seems unarguable. He must have been off his head with the opium, or why else would he have shot a completely innocent passerby?”

  “Is that what Godfrey Duncannon says?” Pitt was curious. He had not spoken to Alexander’s father, nor did he intend to, on that subject. “Easiest thing to blame the friend,” he agreed. “I might do the same, if it were my son. It’s not what Alexander himself says.”

  Jack shook his head sharply. “For heaven’s sake, Thomas! He’s lonely, shut out of the sort of career and society he would have had if he were able to follow in his father’s steps. Unfortunately he fell in with a really bad one in young Lezant.”

  There was some truth in what Jack said, but only a little, and even that was irrelevant now.

  “Whether Lezant was guilty or not doesn’t change anything if Alexander set the bomb in Lancaster Gate,” Pitt pointed out. “Yes, he is young and quixotic. He was over-loyal. He refuses to believe that Lezant was guilty. Have you considered the possibility that he was actually there, and he saw what happened? Maybe he isn’t guessing. Perhaps he knows that Lezant wasn’t guilty. Then trying to save him wasn’t quixotic. It was simply the decent thing to do.”

  “Lezant was tried and convicted,” Jack argued.

  “And juries are infallible?”

  “Do you think this one was wrong? Come on, Thomas! Five police, all lying? Two opium addicts, one of whom probably wasn’t even there! Who do you believe?”

  “There is police corruption, Jack, and it’s a lot deeper than I thought.”

  “To the level of shooting a bystander, then lying to get another man hanged for it?” Jack said with open disbelief.

  “Yes, it looks that way,” Pitt replied. Then a sudden weariness overtook him, filling him with grief. “It’s more than that, Jack, it’s a creeping dishonesty. This didn’t happen suddenly. Good men don’t turn bad overnight. There were small thefts, a few shillings here and there: lies to cover a man’s incompetence, absence without explanation, being drunk on duty, losing evidence, threatening a witness, turning a blind eye when it suited them, using more violence than necessary to arrest someone or get a statement. None of them alone is terrible, but added up, they are. And, in this case, it looks as if someone lost his self-control, panicked, and then found he’d shot Tyndale, the passerby. The only way out of it was to arrest Lezant, put the gun next to him, and say that Tyndale either was the dealer or Lezant thought he was.”

  “Why the hell would Lezant shoot his own dealer?” Jack asked.

  “He wouldn’t. He didn’t,” Pitt agreed.

  “Where was Alexander?”

  “They both ran for it, he was faster and got away. Or perhaps Lezant deliberately covered for him. It would explain even more powerfully why Alexander is willing to pay such a high price to clear Lezant’s name. From all I can find, he tried to his wits’ end to clear Lezant at the time. Nobody believed that Alexander was even there.” He disliked what he said next, but he still said it. “I don’t think Lezant’s father was anyone of note. Godfrey Duncannon certainly is. Perhaps no one wanted to lay the blame at that door, if they could find an easier one. Alexander would hate him for that.”

  A sudden tightness filled Jack’s face, then with an effort he dismissed it. “I…don’t know,” he confessed, the conviction suddenly seeping out of him.

  But it was too late. “Yes, you do,” Pitt told him. “I’ve watched Alexander’s face when his father’s name is mentioned. He may well suspect that he got off because of his father’s name, even if Godfrey never actually said anything. If you’re powerful enough, you don’t have to.”

  There were several conflicting emotions in Jack’s face. A momentary tenderness was replaced by anger, then guilt. Was he thinking of his daughter, Evangeline, so like Emily, so quick, so admiring of her father? What would Jack do to save her, if he had to?

  What would Pitt do to save his children? How can you ever know, unless you are tested?

  “I’m sorry, Jack,” Pitt said gravely. “Alexander wants a trial. He’s dying and he knows it. That’s why he did all this. It’s not revenge; it’s to force us to look at Lezant’s case again. I have to arrest him.”

  Jack’s face was racked with pity, but he did not change his mind.

  “I understand that, Thomas, but it doesn’t change my fear that Abercorn has something planned against Godfrey. He might even try to implicate him in the bombings…I don’t know. I’ve tried to find out more about him, but I can’t discern anything except a hardworking mother, no apparent father. Birth certificate simply says ‘deceased.’ He looks to be illegitimate, but that’s irrelevant. From what little I can learn, his mother was a decent enough woman who may have anticipated marriage and then had the misfortune for her would-be husband to be killed just before the wedding. I don’t want to crucify her for that, for God’s sake. Half the aristocracy sleeps around where they shouldn’t. And believe me, I know that. I’ve been to enough country house weekends. Lots of lordships’ children are not who they think they are.”

  Pitt looked at Jack’s face, the humor in it, and behind the charm, the deep anxiety, almost fear.

  “I’ll see what I can find out,” he promised. “Narraway might know something personally. There’s a lot that isn’t committed to paper.”

  The tight muscles loosened and Jack suddenly sat easily in his chair. “Thank you,” he sighed. “I…appreciate that. If it turns out to be nothing, I apologize.”

  Pitt smiled back at him. He did not think it would be “nothing.”

  —

  PITT GOT UP EARLY the next morning and had a snatched breakfast in the kitchen while Minnie Maude prepared for the day. She had already cleaned out the stove, boiled the kettle for him, and stirred the porridge. Now she was encouraging the old embers to catch the new coal and burn up so she could cook for the rest of the family.

  He thanked her and ate the porridge quickly. He would far rather have stayed and eaten properly, with the rest of the family. Stoker had been on watch all night, but there was no guarantee that Alexander would remain at his parents’ home, where he was currently staying, beyond eight or nine o’clock.

  Charlotte was standing at the bottom of the stairs, holding her dressing gown around her to keep warm.

  “Are you sure you want to arrest him at his parents’ home?” she asked anxiously. “This early his father will be there. He won’t make it easy for you.”

  “I know that.” He touched her arm gently. “But at least he will be there to be some support to his wife. If I wait it will look as if I’ve deliberately done it behind Godfrey’s back. I can’t afford to leave it, Charlotte. He’s very likely to do something more, and there could be someone else killed.”

  “I know…I know.” She was arguing for no reason, and they both understood that. She just could not accept it easily. Silence might imply consent.

  He kissed her, then, without looking back, put on his coat. He added a thick scarf, which was definitely unfashionable, but was a remembrance of the old days when he was simply a policeman, and he did not have to think more than superficially about politics. He jammed his hat on at an unintentionally rakish angle and went outside.

  The traffic was beginning to get heavy, but even so, he arrived at the Duncannons’ house far sooner than he wished. But it was a delusion to think that he would ever be sufficiently prepared for the emotional tragedy that was about to play out.

  He found Stoker tired and cold about fifty feet away from the house, half-sheltered from sight by a tree.

  “Still there,” he said quietly as Pitt came up to him. “We going to take him? Will two of us be enough?”

  “Yes. He wants to go…poor devil,” Pitt said quietly. “Come on. Let’s get it over.”

  The butler looked startled to see him, especially with Stoker at his back. Pitt did not expect violence, least of all from Alexander, but he would be a fool if he did not prepare for the possibility.

  “Good morning, sir?” the butler said coolly. It had been a footman who answered the door when Pitt came here on Boxing Day. Pitt did not look like the usual kind of gentleman who called on Godfrey Duncannon. His hat was too casual, the scarf was a disaster. What kind of man wore such a thing? He did not notice Pitt’s beautiful boots, which were an indulgence he had continued ever since the first expensive pair he had been given. A policeman is on his feet too much to ill-treat them.

  “Good morning,” Pitt replied. He put his card on the silver tray in the butler’s hand. It carried his rank in a discreet print that was nevertheless highly legible. “I require to see Mr. Godfrey Duncannon and Mr. Alexander on business that cannot wait. If you would be good enough to present my card…? I will wait in the morning room. Sergeant Stoker will wait in the hall.”

  The butler blinked. Clearly he considered arguing, and then thought better of it. He pulled the door wide open and allowed them both inside. The house was old and long cared-for with both money and dedication. At another time Pitt would have admired the carved mahogany balustrade and the portraits on the walls. Today he thought only of what was ahead of them.

  He was shown to the morning room, which was cold because the fire had barely caught. The dark wood paneling and the green leather furniture made it feel even colder. It was early in the New Year, and the cheer of Christmas had already faded.

  Pitt stood as the minutes ticked by. Did Alexander already know why he was here? Surely he must.

  Finally Godfrey Duncannon came in and closed the door behind him. He faced Pitt grimly, his skin pale and papery, his thick hair immaculate, but somehow looking lifeless.

  “I understand you wish to see me, Commander Pitt,” he said, meeting Pitt’s eyes unflinchingly. “It must be urgent indeed for you to interrupt breakfast. You had better tell me what it is you want.”

  Could he really be so unaware? Or did he know, and he was playing out the charade to the bitter end?

  “I know it is early,” Pitt replied. “I considered waiting until later in the day, but I thought it better to do the thing while you were at home and able to offer your wife some comfort, and decide in private what steps you wish to take.”

  “Regarding what, for heaven’s sake? Spit it out, man.”

  “I have come to arrest Alexander for the bombing in Lancaster Gate, and the resulting deaths of three police officers and the serious injury of two more.”

  Duncannon stared at him. He stood absolutely motionless, and the last vestige of color drained from his skin. In that moment Pitt had the wild idea that he had actually never considered this possibility. Had he refused to acknowledge it? Or imagined that Alexander would not be charged?

  “That…is…that is absurd!” he said at last. “Why on earth would my son do such an appalling thing?” His voice shook. “The idea is preposterous! Is this some political ploy to stop the contract going through? Is that what you’re after? Who’s behind it?”

  Pitt was embarrassed for him. He was making a fool of himself.

  “I very much hope the contract does go through, sir,” he said gravely. “But whether it does or not, I can no longer put off arresting your son for the Lancaster Gate bombing.”

  “Why on earth would he do such a thing? You are making yourself ridiculous!” Duncannon tried one more time.

  “To draw attention to police corruption the only way he knows how,” Pitt replied. “No one would listen to him—”

  “For God’s sake!” Duncannon’s rage exploded at last. “He’s addicted to opium, man! He’s off in a fairyland of his own! He can’t face it that his friend, what’s his name—Lezant—was guilty. He can’t bear to think it. He needs rest, in a hospital of some sort.”

  “That might have been an excellent idea a few months ago,” Pitt agreed. “It’s too late now—”

  “You’ve got your facts twisted,” Duncannon cut across him. “Taking the easiest answer. It’s anarchists of some sort, whom you damned well should have found. The city is full of them.” He turned toward the door.

  “Sir! I intend to arrest him. We can either do this in a discreet way, or you can make an incident out of it and I shall be obliged to do it by force. I don’t think that is what you wish, for your son or for your wife.”

  Duncannon’s eyebrows shot upward. “Are you threatening me, sir?”

  Pitt hated doing it. He could imagine how he might have felt if someone had come to arrest Daniel. But he would not be bluffed.

  “If you wish to look at it that way, then yes, sir, I am. The law applies to your family just as it does to any other man’s. I give you the courtesy of doing it in private, and in your presence. I could as easily have waited until he left and arrested him in the street.”

  “You are a disgrace to your service, sir!” Duncannon spat the words, but he snatched the handle and flung the door open. He turned back and looked at Pitt disdainfully. “Then you had better come and arrest my son in the dining room, where he and his mother are having breakfast. I trust you will not expect me to offer you tea?”

  Pitt did not reply. He followed Duncannon across the hall, nodding to Stoker as he went, and then into the dining room.

  Cecily Duncannon was sitting at the foot of the table, Alexander beside her. He looked gaunt and very pale, but he faced Pitt without surprise. If he was afraid, now that the moment had come, he did not show it. He rose from his seat slowly, swayed for an instant, then straightened himself.

  “I imagine you have come for me at last,” he said to Pitt. “I am obliged that you did it here, and not somewhere more comfortable for you. Perhaps not easier, but then nothing would make it easy, but at least discreet. My father can pretend it was simply a social call…a little early in the day.” He made a good attempt at a smile.

  “You are not going with them, Alexander,” Duncannon said firmly. “We will contact Studdert, and then go in at our leisure.”

  Alexander looked past his father toward Pitt. “Studdert is our family solicitor. I don’t wish to consult him. Mr. Pitt and I already understand each other. Thank you, Father, but I will take care of my own affairs.” He moved away from the table just as Cecily stood up also. She did not look confused, only desperately unhappy. Pitt was certain in that moment that she already knew how this would have to end. Indeed, she too had been expecting it.

  “Do what you must, Alex,” she said gently. “But know that whatever happens, I love you.”

  For a moment Alexander swayed and Pitt was afraid he was going to collapse. Then he straightened himself, but did not trust his voice. He touched his mother, brushing the side of her cheek with his finger, and then turned to Pitt. “I am ready.”

  “Nonsense!” Duncannon interrupted. “You will do as I tell you, Alexander. You are in no state to represent yourself.” He gestured toward Pitt without looking at him. “This man is trying to say that you are guilty of the murder of three policemen. For God’s sake! Don’t you understand that if they find you guilty they’ll hang you!” He all but choked on the word, and he was struggling for breath.

  Alexander raised delicate black eyebrows. “You mean like they hanged Dylan? Yes, I know that, Father. Perhaps I know more about it than you do. They assured me that actually when you get as far as having the rope around your neck, it’s quite quick. The only difference is that Dylan was innocent. I am not.”