Later he would find out how the injured men were doing, he resolved as he closed the front door behind him and walked along the icy pavement toward Tottenham Court Road. There were newspaper sellers out already and all the headlines were about the bombing in Lancaster Gate. Some cried out for justice, many for revenge. The reports were all laced with fear, just as Charlotte had said.

  He crossed over into Windmill Street. It was a risk going to the Autonomy Club himself. Usually he had less memorable-looking men frequent the place, build up an identity, and pass unnoticed. Now he felt as if he did not have the time for such slow-yielding efforts.

  He reached the door and went in. There was a bar, and a restaurant that served good, inexpensive food. He could have breakfast here while he observed and listened.

  He entered the restaurant with no more than a glance from the half-dozen or so men sitting, staring into their coffee or beer. Some were talking quietly to each other, others ate in silence. Two had pamphlets they were reading. As usual, most of what conversation there was, was in French. It seemed to be the language of international passion and reform. At Narraway’s instruction, he had managed to learn enough to understand most of what was said and on rare occasions to join in. Oddly enough, he found himself gesticulating with his hands in a way he never did when speaking English. It seemed to fill in some of the gaps when he could not think of the word he wanted.

  The owner of the place, who lived there with his family, came over to the corner table where Pitt sat, and bade him good morning in French.

  Pitt replied, and asked for coffee and whatever form of bread was available. He did not like coffee, but to have ordered tea would have marked him out as indelibly English, a stranger, and memorable. He did not want to be remembered. He was just one more scruffy, dispossessed, and angry man who could find no place in ordinary society.

  Two more people came in, a man and a woman speaking Italian, which he did not understand. The man had a grim expression on his face and crossed himself two or three times in a sign of piety and resignation.

  They were joined by another man, who was heavily bearded and had high cheekbones. He first spoke in a language Pitt could not identify; then they all reverted to French.

  They mentioned the explosion and the deaths several times, and shook their heads in bewilderment. They seemed to have no idea who was responsible.

  Pitt’s coffee and bread came, and he paid for it, fishing for pennies in his pocket.

  He remained for another hour as the place filled up. Finally a small, dark-complexioned man came in, glanced around, then saw Pitt. After speaking casually to a few other people, he sank down in the seat opposite Pitt, asking permission in heavily accented French.

  “Bad business,” he said, shaking his head from side to side. He spoke very quickly now, watching for the proprietor to approach him and take his order. “Surprise, eh? Don’t you think so, monsieur?”

  “It surprised me,” Pitt agreed.

  “Pity about that,” the man commiserated. “Think it surprised everyone.”

  “That’s odd.” Pitt took a sip of his coffee. He disliked the flavor, and it was no longer hot. “You’d think someone would know.”

  The proprietor hovered by, and Pitt’s companion looked round, exchanged a few words as if they were long familiar, then gave his order for coffee. He did it as smoothly and comfortably as if he ate here every day. Only after the proprietor returned with his drink did he turn back to Pitt. “You would, wouldn’t you?” he agreed, as if there had been no break in their conversation.

  They sat in silence for several minutes, as two strangers might, while they drank their coffee. Both were listening intently to the babble of conversation around them.

  “I’ve nothing to tell you,” the man said finally, looking at the scarred tabletop. “But if I ever have, I’ll do it.”

  “Sales,” Pitt mumbled. He was referring to dynamite, and his companion knew that.

  “Some,” he said. “Here and there. Not enough for that, that I know of. I’ll look.”

  “Be careful,” Pitt warned.

  The man shrugged and did not reply. He pulled his coat collar up higher and shambled toward the door.

  Pitt waited a few minutes, then stood up and walked between the tables without glancing to either side. He went out into the street, where it was fractionally warmer than before and beginning to rain. He went round the corner to Charlotte Street, to a small grocery store called La Belle Epicerie. This was another favorite place for anarchists, run by a passionate and generous sympathizer.

  Pitt waited in the queue, listening and passing the time of day. The bombing in Lancaster Gate was mentioned and greeted with indignation by a large man with a beard and crumbs on the front of his coat.

  “Damn fool!” he said angrily.

  A much smaller man next to him took exception. “Not for you to criticize,” he snapped back. “At least he’s doing something, which is more than you are!”

  “Something stupid,” the bearded man retorted. “Nobody even knows who it is! Could have been gas mains blowing up, for all the public knows. Fool!”

  “That’s only because you don’t know who it is,” the small man sneered.

  “And I suppose you do?” a third man joined in.

  “Not yet! But we will,” the small man said, as if he were certain. “He’ll tell us…when he’s ready. Maybe after he’s blown up a few more bloody police.”

  Pitt kept his temper and a calm face, as if the man were speaking of blowing up some derelict building rather than human beings, men he had known and worked with. “Gets the attention,” he murmured.

  The bearded man glared at him. “You want attention, then? That what you want? You in your nice warm coat!”

  Pitt glared back at him. “I want change!” he said equally aggressively. “You think it’s going to come some other way?”

  The small man smiled at him, showing broken teeth. A customer was served and left with a paper bag in his hands. The queue moved forward.

  —

  PITT WENT ON AND kept appointments that in more usual circumstances Stoker would have kept. He needed to do this himself. He was haunted by the fact that he had seen no warning of this bombing. What sort of a person would do such a thing? If it had not been an anarchist protest, then what? What conceivable purpose was there in killing these policemen?

  “Nothing,” Jimmy said as they sat over yet another pint of ale in one of the dockside public houses. It was narrow and crowded, straw on the floor, steam rising from rain-sodden coats. The smell of beer and wet wool filled the air. Jimmy was a long-time informer, a lean man, almost graceful, were it not for one slightly withered hand, which he carried always at an odd angle.

  “Don’t believe you, Jimmy,” Pitt said quietly. “It was yesterday morning. Somebody’s said something. I want to know what.” He had known Jimmy for years, and getting information out of him was like pulling teeth, but in the end it was usually worth the trouble.

  “Nothing useful,” Jimmy replied, his dark eyes watching Pitt’s face.

  Pitt knew the game. He also knew that Jimmy wanted to tell him something, and he would stay here until he did. “Who says?” he asked.

  “Oh…one feller and another.”

  “Who says it’s not useful?” Pitt persisted. “We’ll get to who told you in time.”

  “No we won’t!” Jimmy looked alarmed.

  “Why not? Unreliable?”

  “Don’t try that one!” Jimmy warned, shaking his head. “You’re sunk, Mr. Pitt. This Special Branch in’t good for yer. Yer used ter be a gentleman!” It was an accusation, made with much sorrow.

  Pitt was unmoved.

  “What have you heard? Two policemen are dead, and the other three are gravely injured. This information could be of the utmost importance, and I can promise you, if I don’t find whoever it is did it, I’m going to go on looking, and that’s going to get unpleasant.”

  Jimmy seemed affronted. “There’s no need for that, Mr. Pitt.”

  “Get on with it.”

  “Yer won’t like it,” Jimmy warned. Then he looked again at Pitt’s face. “All right! Yer won’t find a whole lot o’ help coming because there’s talk o’ them police being bent, on the take, like.”

  “You don’t bomb buildings to get at police on the take,” Pitt said carefully, watching Jimmy’s eyes. “You find proof of it and turn them in. Unless, of course, they’ve got something on you?”

  “Turn them in, right? Who to?” Jimmy asked with disgust. “Yer lost the wits yer was born with, Mr. Pitt. They’re bent all the way up, or as high up as I’m likely to get.”

  Pitt felt his chest tighten and the smell of beer was suddenly sour.

  “Revenge bombing?” he said with disbelief.

  Jimmy’s voice was heavy with disapproval. “Course not. In’t you listenin’ at all? I dunno what it’s for. But nobody’s weepin’ a lot o’ tears over a few coppers getting blown up. Not like they would if it was butchers or bakers or ’ansom cab drivers. Nobody’s going ter take risks ter find out for yer.”

  Pitt frowned. “Doesn’t make a lot of sense, Jimmy. You give information about a sale of opium to the police, someone will go, but you can’t know in advance who it will be. Revenge is personal. If you kill the wrong ones, then the right ones will come after you. You’ve tipped your hand.”

  Jimmy shrugged. “Think wot yer like, Mr. Pitt. Some o’ them coppers is as bent as a dog’s ’ind leg. I’m tellin’ yer.”

  “You’ll have to do more than tell me, you’ll have to prove it.”

  “I’m stayin’ out of it!” Jimmy said fervently, and lifted up his beer, avoiding Pitt’s eyes.

  Pitt shook his head, paid the bill, and went outside into the rain.

  He arrived back at Lisson Grove a couple of fruitless hours later. He was followed within fifteen minutes by Stoker, who looked as cold and fed up as Pitt felt, his face bleached with tiredness.

  “Nothing?” Pitt guessed as Stoker closed the door.

  “Nothing I like,” Stoker replied, walking across the short space to the chair opposite Pitt’s desk and sitting down in it. “We have a reasonable chance of tracing the dynamite, but it might take time, so that if he comes from the Continent he could well be back there by then. But he could be within a day anyhow.”

  “Anything to suggest it’s a foreign anarchist, though?”

  “No. To be honest, sir, it sort of smells more like a homegrown one with a grudge.” Stoker watched Pitt’s expression carefully as he said the words, waiting for his reaction.

  “Then you’d better start looking more closely at those anarchists we know,” Pitt conceded. “Something’s changed, and we’ve missed it. Any ideas?”

  Stoker drew in a deep breath, and let it out. “No, sir. Frankly, I haven’t. We’ve got men in all the cells we know about, and they’ve heard nothing beyond the usual complaining about pay, conditions, the vote, the trains, just the usual. Everybody hates the government, and thinks they could do it better themselves. Most of them hate people who’ve got more money than they have, until they get more money. Then they hate the taxes.”

  “Something different—anything,” Pitt said quietly. “Any change or shift in pattern, someone new, someone old leaving…”

  Stoker looked exhausted. There were deep lines in his bony face.

  “I’m looking, sir. I’ve got every man hunting, but if they ask too many questions they’ll be under suspicion, sir. Then we’ll get nothing, except maybe some more good men killed.”

  “I know. And make damn sure you’re not one of them!”

  Stoker smiled a little uncomfortably. He knew what Pitt was referring to. Almost two years ago, on an earlier case, he had met a woman named Kitty Ryder. In searching for her he had become fascinated, and when he had at last met her he had fallen in love. Now he had plucked up the courage to ask her to marry him, and the wedding was set. She knew what he did to earn his living, and that the dangers were considerable. She understood and did not complain. Nevertheless, Pitt was determined that Stoker would go to his wedding alive and well, and on time.

  “No, sir,” Stoker agreed. “I know better than to rush it.”

  —

  PITT CAME HOME LATE and had barely finished his evening meal when the doorbell rang. Charlotte answered it; when she returned to the kitchen, she was not alone, as Pitt had expected, but with a woman of striking appearance. She was in her fifties, at least ten years older than Charlotte, but beautiful in a quiet way, which seemed to grow more intense the longer one looked at her.

  Pitt rose to his feet.

  “I’m sorry,” the visitor said. “I see this is an extremely inconvenient hour, but I would not have come had I thought I would find you in at any other time.”

  From another woman the remark would have seemed strange, but Isadora Cornwallis was the wife of the previous Assistant Commissioner of Police, the man who had been Pitt’s superior when he was at Bow Street. Cornwallis and Pitt had been more than just colleagues; there was a trust between them, established through heavy and hard-fought battles. Side by side they had faced some bitter enemies. One of the worst had been Isadora’s brother. She had shared grief with both Cornwallis and Pitt, and found a very deep love with Cornwallis. Although at first it had seemed hopeless, because she was still married, her husband had died, leaving her free to follow her heart.

  “I’m afraid that’s true,” he agreed. “Would you like a cup of tea?” He glanced at the clock on the dresser. “Or a glass of sherry?” Then he wondered if they even had sherry. It was not something they drank unless they had company, which was rare enough. “If we have it,” he added.

  “Tea would be excellent,” she accepted.

  Charlotte shook her head at Pitt, as if she was surprised he had not taken as much for granted.

  “I’ll bring it through to the parlor,” she said quickly.

  He knew that Isadora would not have come without good reason. He searched her face for a moment for signs of grief or fear, and found none. Had Cornwallis been ill it would have been written there in her demeanor, however she might seek to disguise it.

  In the parlor the curtains were drawn against the winter night. The fire was long settled in hot coals in the grate, filling the room with warmth.

  Isadora sat down in the armchair opposite Pitt’s, and he took his own.

  “I have come to give you some information that I regret deeply having to pass on, but it may have something to do with the bombing at Lancaster Gate. I give it to you in confidence and trust that you will treat it accordingly, and act on it only if things should prove to be as I fear.”

  “Of course.” He was uncertain what she could possibly know that might have to do with the bombing. Were it anything of a police nature then it would be Cornwallis who would know. Surely she was not going to tell him something indiscreet, even secret? It was beyond his imagination that she should betray her husband’s trust.

  She began as if the whole subject distressed her. There was a tension in her voice and her hands were stiff on her lap, her usual grace completely absent.

  “I assume that you have learned very little so far?” It was a tentative question. Clearly she did not know how much she could ask without being told, albeit courteously, that it was confidential to Special Branch.

  “Nothing at all as to who it might be,” he answered honestly. “The only avenue of approach we have is to find out how the dynamite was obtained. That is very probably through one of the usual sources for any anarchist.”

  “Are you certain it is an anarchist behind this?” she said very seriously. Something in her tone caused a chill to grip him. It was as if the temperature in the room had dropped.

  “No,” he answered. “I don’t see any anarchist purpose in killing our police in this manner. When it comes to foreign groups, we tolerate them here because they are where we can see them. We have moderately good relationships with the countries they come from. Our own homegrown anarchists are more trouble, but so far major bombings are not their style. Sabotage, insurrection, and strikes are more useful to them. Why do you ask?” He sounded impatient. He had not meant to, but he was tired and still heavily weighed down with grief.

  Isadora was measuring her words very carefully. “Of course it is likely that anarchists provided the bomb, or at the very least, the materials for it,” she said. “But it seems possible that the motive was not political, in the sense of seeking a change in the entire system of government…”

  “I assume you don’t have any specific evidence, or you would not hesitate to say.” He leaned forward a little. “But tell me what you suspect. I will take it as an observation, a suggestion only.”

  She took a deep breath and let it out very slowly, giving herself time.

  “There is a young man whose family I know moderately well. They are, socially, in an important position.”

  With difficulty Pitt forced himself not to interrupt and urge her to reach the point. He found his hands clenching.

  “His name is Alexander Duncannon. About four years ago,” she went on, “I don’t know the exact date; he had a bad riding accident. His back was injured and he took some time to recover. The injury still causes him considerable pain. But I think the most severe legacy of the event was an addiction to the opium he was given in hospital during the worst of it.” She was obviously finding it difficult to tell him, not for lack of understanding but because in a sense she was betraying what might have been perceived as a confidence, or at the best, information gained in an unspoken trust.

  “He is still taking opium?” Pitt tried to make the narrative easier.

  “I think so. He does not mention it, but I have seen him in differing moods, and with the anxiety and constant unease that accompanies such…addiction…”

  “If it is for pain, then I presume his doctor prescribes it for him,” Pitt said, keeping his tone matter-of-fact.