“Sit down, Mr. Abercorn,” the judge ordered. “Commander Pitt is answering a perfectly reasonable question. You did not offer any motive for this abominable act. It is in order that his defense should offer it, destructive to his case as it may be. I cannot imagine anything that could be a justification. Can you?”

  “Absolutely not, my lord!”

  “Good. Then sit down and be quiet, so we can get this over with as quickly as possible. Narraway?”

  “Yes, my lord. Please continue, Commander Pitt.”

  “Yes, I did ask him,” Pitt answered. He was acutely aware that he might well get only one chance to say what he had to. Abercorn would do all he could to stop him. One slip and he would be silenced.

  “And his reply?” Narraway prompted.

  “I thought at first it was revenge,” Pitt began. He gripped the rail in front of him, aware that his knuckles were white, but it helped to hold onto it. “He was injured very badly in a riding accident and had been given opium by his doctor, to offer some ease for the appalling pain. He became addicted to it, as I am afraid often happens, especially when the pain itself will be for life.”

  Abercorn stirred, but the judge glared at him, and he subsided.

  Pitt went on quickly, “Nearly two and a half years ago he and a close friend found in affliction, also addicted to opium for pain, set up a meeting to purchase a further supply. When they got to the appointed place, they were met by a police ambush. Five men: Ednam, Newman, Hobbs, Bossiney, and Yarcombe. The drug dealer never appeared. It developed into a brief but fatal battle. A passerby, James Tyndale, a totally innocent man, was shot dead. Alexander Duncannon told me it was by one of the police. Alexander escaped. His companion, Dylan Lezant, who was close behind him, was less fortunate. He was tackled by the police and knocked senseless.”

  “Really,” Abercorn began. “This is—”

  “Be quiet!” the judge ordered. “Continue, Commander Pitt.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” Pitt replied. “The police account of the incident said that Lezant was guilty of the murder of Tyndale. He was tried for it and, on police testimony, found guilty and hanged. Alexander said he was innocent. Neither he nor Lezant carried weapons of any sort. They had no need of them. The last thing a man desperately addicted to opium is likely to do is quarrel with the man who supplies him with the only release he knows from his agony.”

  “And did you believe this…story?” Narraway asked.

  “Not at first,” Pitt replied. “I and the policeman I most trusted, Inspector Samuel Tellman, investigated at some length. It was extremely disturbing. I was in the police for many years, and Inspector Tellman is still in the force. But we both found Duncannon’s story to be substantially true. Indeed, Inspector Tellman was personally attacked for his part in the investigation, and shot! He is still recovering from his injuries.”

  Abercorn was on his feet and shouting now. “My lord, this is all hearsay! Pitt used to work with Tellman. It is—”

  The judge held up his hand and Abercorn restrained himself with difficulty and ill-concealed fury.

  “Is this hearsay, Commander Pitt?” the judge asked.

  “No, my lord. I was informed of the battle by one of my own men and I went to the scene immediately. I took Mr. Jack Radley, MP, with me because he was visiting me at the time. When we arrived Inspector Tellman was cornered in an alley by several armed police and there was a great deal of shooting going on. We managed to rescue him, during which battle Mr. Radley was wounded in the arm. However, I’m sure he would testify to this knowledge of the event if you wanted to call him.”

  The judge shook his head, his lips pursed. “It will not be necessary. I am far more concerned with your account of the battle two years ago in which James Tyndale was killed. If what you say is true, then there was a deliberate judicial murder of a man possibly guilty of being addicted to opium, but most certainly not of murder. This will require an extremely grave inquiry. An innocent man may have been hanged by police perjury and corruption.”

  “Yes, my lord, I believe so,” Pitt agreed. “I have no doubt whatsoever that that is what Alexander Duncannon believes, and that he wished to be tried in this court in order to expose it.”

  Abercorn would not be silenced any longer. He began to speak even as he was straightening to stand.

  “That is absolute rubbish, my lord! No sane man would believe it. Why didn’t he protest to the court at the time of Lezant’s trial? Why was he not called as a witness for him? The answer is obvious. He was part of the crime, an accomplice at the very least. How can you give credence to any of this?”

  Pitt answered before the judge had time to rule, or Narraway to ask.

  “He was not called to testify at the trial,” he answered, speaking to Abercorn directly as if no one else in the huge room were there. “He wished to and was not allowed. Lezant refused, in order to protect him, and the prosecutor did not need him. I have that from the lawyer concerned. And he did try to take up the issue with the judiciary numerous times, and no one would listen to him.”

  “He’s a drug addict, for God’s sake!” Abercorn all but shouted back. “Have you ever looked at where he lives? What he does? The gin-sodden alleys he sleeps in when he’s too far gone to find his own home? The drunken, drug-crazed company he keeps?”

  “Yes, I have.” Pitt raised his voice back. “But far more important than that, and far more relevant, I’ve followed the course of the investigation into Tyndale’s death. I’ve seen how the police lied, mostly led by Inspector Ednam. I’ve followed the facts, and their story doesn’t make sense with the evidence—Alexander’s does. He tried over and over again to make someone listen to him, and they closed in a wall of lies or silence to cover their own disastrous error in shooting Tyndale. He was an innocent passerby, no more. The drug dealer never turned up, and was never caught.”

  Abercorn was pale, a sheen of sweat on his skin.

  “None of that, even if it is true, excuses what Duncannon did to these five policemen!”

  “Of course it doesn’t,” Narraway agreed. “He knows that, and is prepared to answer with whatever remains of his life. He has kept his word to his friend, and his own honor. You cannot raise the dead, but Dylan Lezant will be pardoned. What a ridiculous expression! We will pardon him that we hanged him by the neck until he was dead—on the perjury and corruption of five policemen! Three of whom are also dead now, and the two others punished even more terribly.

  “Alexander himself has been in excruciating pain of body since his accident, and will soon die, either on the end of a rope himself or in prison. Unless his lordship sees fit to put him in a hospital where at least some of his agony may be relieved.” Narraway’s face was filled with pity and his voice was hushed. “I am not sure if that is justice, but it is the best we have left to us.”

  There was a silence of shock, grief, and perhaps fear in the room.

  It was Pitt, remembering something from only a few moments ago, and then other things from further back, who spoke then.

  “My lord, may I have permission to ask Mr. Abercorn a question, or if not, then to speak with Lord Narraway so that he may?”

  “If it is brief, and has some relevance to this tragic matter,” the judge replied.

  “Thank you.” Pitt turned to Abercorn. “Sir, you said that Alexander Duncannon lived a life of depravity, in gin-sodden alleys, half-crazed with drugs, filthy and desperate. If I quote your words out of order, I apologize.”

  “Do you dispute it?” Abercorn challenged.

  “No. No, I don’t. Opium addiction is a terrible thing. What I wanted to ask you was how you knew that?”

  Abercorn froze for an instant, almost too small to notice. Then he let out his breath slowly.

  “I have had occasion to observe opium addicts now and then, even to do what I could to help them.” His expression was one of torn emotions, rage and pity and deep, scouring pain. “I have learned that it is useless…” He stopped. For a moment grief overwhelmed him.

  Pitt would have liked to give him the dignity of silence, but he would never again have this chance, and it must be taken. Other words came back to his memory, something Bradshaw had said about his wife.

  “Your mother,” he said. “She died of opium addiction. You watched as a boy and could not help.”

  Abercorn threw his head back and glared at Pitt with a hatred that was inflamed by grief and humiliation.

  “It wasn’t her fault!” He almost choked on the words. “She was seduced by a promise of marriage, lied to, and betrayed for a woman with far more money. She was left with child, and disgraced. It was a hard birth and the pain never left her! I watched her die by inches. What would you have done?”

  “Probably the same,” Pitt admitted. “And I would have hated my own father too. But, please God, I would not have taken it out on his son, your half brother.”

  There were gasps. No one moved.

  “You knew Alexander was addicted because you supplied him, as indeed you did Dylan Lezant and God knows how many more. You blackmailed him so he would never expose you. How much did you use Ednam to do your dirtiest work? You learned as a youth how to find opium, for your mother,” Pitt went on. It must be done now. There would never be another chance. Even so, the judge could stop him at any moment. “Ever more and more powerful doses. Did you really hate him so much, because he was Godfrey’s legitimate son, the heir to all that should have been yours?”

  Now people were moving in the body of the court. Godfrey Duncannon was on his feet, his face purple with fury, but uncertain what to do. Beside him Cecily was staring at him as though she had never really seen him before, not clearly, not like this.

  Then Cecily turned away and Emily put her arms around her, letting her hide her face.

  Charlotte was on her feet too, holding Jack’s hand hard, not allowing him to interrupt Emily at this terrible moment.

  Abercorn was dazed. At least he understood. The entire edifice of his dreams had crashed around him and lay in wreckage on the floor, and he knew who had done it, and how, and that there was nothing he could do.

  It was Vespasia, ignoring everyone else, who walked gracefully across the floor to Narraway, signaling that the trial was over.

  “You were quite brilliant, my dear,” she said quietly, but distinctly enough that those close to her could hear. “With Thomas’s help, I think you have achieved all the justice that is possible.” She looked up at the judge. “I daresay his lordship will accept your suggestion of a hospital for Alexander to live out whatever days he has left. Won’t you, Algernon?”

  The judge blushed very faintly, and did his best to retain his composure.

  “You are excused, Commander Pitt,” he said a little hoarsely. “I hope not to see you in my court again. You have made a complete shambles of this trial.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Pitt agreed humbly, but he was smiling in spite of the pity that tore him apart.

  “But you did it rather well, I suppose,” the judge added.

  Pitt bowed his head in acknowledgment, and then made his way down the steps and across the floor to Charlotte.

  She took his hand. “Very well,” she said softly. “Brilliantly.”

  To Flora Rees

  BY ANNE PERRY

  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

  Dark Assassin

  Execution Dock

  Acceptable Loss

  A Sunless Sea

  Blind Justice

  Blood on the Water

  Corridors of the Night

  FEATURING CHARLOTTE AND THOMAS PITT

  The Cater Street Hangman

  Callander Square

  Paragon Walk

  Resurrection Row

  Rutland Place

  Bluegate Fields

  Death in the Devil’s Acre

  Cardington Crescent

  Silence in Hanover Close

  Bethlehem Road

  Highgate Rise

  Belgrave Square

  Farriers’ Lane

  Hyde Park Headsman

  Traitors Gate

  Pentecost Alley

  Ashworth Hall

  Brunswick Gardens

  Bedford Square

  Half Moon Street

  The Whitechapel Conspiracy

  Southampton Row

  Seven Dials

  Long Spoon Lane

  Buckingham Palace Gardens

  Treason at Lisson Grove

  Dorchester Terrace

  Midnight at Marble Arch

  Death on Blackheath

  The Angel Court Affair

  Treachery at Lancaster Gate

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ANNE PERRY is the bestselling author of two acclaimed series set in Victorian England: the Charlotte and Thomas Pitt novels, including The Angel Court Affair and Death on Blackheath, and the William Monk novels, including Corridors of the Night and Blood on the Water. She is also the author of a series of five World War I novels, as well as thirteen holiday novels, most recently A Christmas Escape, and a historical novel, The Sheen on the Silk, set in the Ottoman Empire. Anne Perry lives in Los Angeles.

  www.anneperry.co.uk

  @AnnePerryWriter

  Facebook.com/​AnnePerryAuthor

  To inquire about booking Anne Perry for a speaking engagement, please contact the Penguin Random House Speakers Bureau at speakers@penguinrandomhouse.com

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