Anne Perry: Southampton Row

Pitt smiled back. “Thank you,” he accepted. “Yes, a photograph of each would be nice. I daresay, Commissioner Cornwallis would appreciate that.”

“Then he shall have it,” Narraway answered. “Now, catch your train back to the city and see what election results have come in. There should be some by now. I would suggest the Liberal Club. They will have news as fast as anyone, and they put it up in electric lights for all to see. If I didn’t have to speak to the coroner, I’d go myself.” A flicker of pain crossed his face. “I think the fight between Voisey and Serracold may be far closer than we wish, and I won’t call it. Good luck, Pitt.” And before Pitt could answer, he turned and walked smartly away.

Pitt, exhausted, stood in the crowd on the pavement outside the Liberal Club staring up at the electric lights which flashed the latest news of the results. He cared about Jack, but the Voisey-Serracold contest filled his mind, and he refused to let go of the last hope that Serracold could still ride the Liberal tide and win, by however narrow a majority.

The result at the moment was one in which he had no interest, a safe Tory seat somewhere in the north of the city.

Two men were standing a yard or two from him.

“Did you hear?” one of them demanded incredulously. “That fellow got in! Would you believe it?”

“What fellow?” his companion asked irritably.

“Hardie, of course!” the first man replied. “Keir Hardie! Labor Party indeed!”

“You mean he won?” The questioner’s voice was high with disbelief.

“I told you!”

Pitt smiled to himself, although he was not sure what it would mean for politics, if anything. His eyes were fixed on the electric lights, but he began to realize it was pointless. Results were coming in as they were known, but Jack’s seat, or the Lambeth South seat, might already have been declared. He needed to find someone who could tell him. If there were time, he could even get a hansom and go to Lambeth and hear the result in person.

He moved away from the group watching the lights and went to the doorman. He had to wait a moment or two before the man was free to speak to him.

“Yes sir?” he enquired patiently, politely ignoring Pitt’s appearance. Everyone was seeking him tonight and it was a highly satisfying feeling.

“Is there any news on Mr. Radley’s result in Chiswick?” he asked.

“Yes sir, came almost quarter of an hour ago. Close, but ’e’s nicely in, sir.”

Pitt felt a burst of relief warm inside him. “Thank you. What about Lambeth South, Mr. Serracold and Sir Charles Voisey?”

“Don’t know, sir. ’Eard it’s a bit tighter there, but couldn’t say for sure. Might be either way.”

“Thank you.” Pitt stepped back to make room for the next eager enquirer, and hurried to find a cab. Unless he came across an extraordinary traffic jam, he would be able to get to Lambeth’s town hall in less than an hour. He could see the result come in himself.

It was a fine evening, warm and humid. Half of London seemed to be out taking the air, walking or riding, choking the streets. It was ten minutes before he found a free hansom and climbed in, calling to the driver to take him over the river to the Lambeth town hall.

The hansom turned and headed back the way it had come, fighting against the stream. There were lights everywhere, people calling out, the sound of hooves on cobbles and the clash and jingle of harness. He wanted to shout to the driver to hurry, to push his way through, but he knew it was pointless. For his own sake the man would already be doing all he could.

Pitt sat back, forcing himself to be patient. He veered between believing Aubrey Serracold could still win and the sick doubt in his stomach that anyone could beat Voisey. He was too clever, too certain.

They were crossing the Vauxhall Bridge now. He could smell the damp of the river and see the lights reflected from the shore. There were still pleasure boats out, laughter floating on the air.

On the far side there were people in the streets, but a little less traffic. The hansom picked up speed. Perhaps he would be there in time to hear them announce the result. Part of him hoped it would be all over when he got there. Then he could simply be told, and that would be it. Was there anything at all even Narraway could do to curb Voisey’s power if he were to win? Would he end up Lord Chancellor of England one day, perhaps even before the next government was out?

Or would Wetron be the one to stop him?

No-Wetron had neither the skill nor the nerve. Voisey would crush him, when he was ready.

“’Ere y’are, sir!” the cabbie called. “This is as close as I can get!”

“Right!” Pitt scrambled out, paid him and pushed his way through the rest of the traffic to the town hall steps. Inside was full of more people, jostling each other, cramming forward to see.

The returning officer was on the platform. The noise abated. Something was about to happen. The light shone on Aubrey Serracold’s pale hair. He looked stiff, tense, but his head was high. Pitt saw Rose in the crowd, smiling. She was excited, but the fear seemed to have gone from her. Perhaps she had found the answer to the question she had asked Maude Lamont in a far better, more certain way than any medium could give?

Voisey was on the other side of the returning officer, standing to attention, waiting. Pitt realized with a particle of pleasure that he did not yet know if he had won or not. He was not sure.

Hope welled up inside Pitt like a spring, making him gasp.

There was silence in the room.

The returning officer read out the figures, Aubrey first. There was a tremendous shout. It was high. Aubrey flushed with pleasure.

The officer read out Voisey’s figure; it was nearly a hundred higher. The noise was deafening.

Aubrey was white, but he had been born and bred to accept defeat as graciously as victory. He turned to Voisey and offered his hand.

Voisey took it, then that of the returning officer. Then he stepped forward to thank his supporters.

Pitt stood frozen. He should have known, but he had hoped, right to the bitter end he had hoped. Defeat was crushing like a weight in his chest.

The words went on, the cheers. Then at last Voisey left the platform and pushed his way through the crowd. He was bent on savoring the last drop of his victory. He must see Pitt, look at him and be certain he knew.

A moment and he was there, standing in front of him, close enough to touch.

Pitt offered his hand. “Congratulations, Sir Charles,” he said levelly. “In a sense you deserved it. You paid a far higher price than Serracold ever would have.”

The amusement was sharp in Voisey’s eyes. “Indeed? Well, the big prizes do cost, Pitt. That is the difference between the men who reach the top and those who don’t.”

“I imagine you know that Bishop Underhill and Lena Forrest both died in the explosion in Southampton Row this morning?” Pitt went on, standing in front of Voisey, blocking his way.

“Yes. I heard. An unfortunate business.” He was still smiling. He knew he was safe.

“Perhaps you have not yet heard that they performed an autopsy on Francis Wray,” Pitt continued. He saw Voisey’s eyes flicker. “Digitalis poisoning.” He pronounced the words very clearly. “In raspberry jam tarts. . quite unmistakably. I don’t have the autopsy report myself, but I have seen it.”

Voisey was staring at him incredulously, fighting against belief in what he had heard. A bead of sweat formed on his lip.

“The odd thing is”-Pitt smiled very slightly-“there was no raspberry jam in the house, except in two tarts brought as a gift by a Mrs. Octavia Cavendish. Why on earth she should wish to murder such a gentle and harmless old man, I have no idea. There must be some reason we have not yet discovered.”