Anne Perry - Treachery at Lancaster Gate

“That it’s the work of anarchists,” she replied. “That people are frightened, and everything seems so uncertain. It’s as if there is violence in the air and you never know quite where the next attack is coming from.” She poured the tea ready for him and a cup for herself. “I suppose that’s the aim of anarchists, isn’t it? The kind of fear that disables people and makes them do stupid things.” It was not a question. It was what she believed. She said it aloud because she wished him to know she understood.

He swallowed his mouthful and took another.

“In thirteen months we’ll be into the 1900s.” She sipped her tea. “A lot of people seem to think it will be a different century, really different. Darker and more violent. But why should it change? It’s only a date on a calendar. If anything, it’s perhaps a self-fulfilling prophecy-we’ll make it happen by thinking about it so much.”

He was too tired to discuss it, but he recognized the fear in her voice. She wanted an answer, not a palliative.

“Things are changing,” he agreed quietly. “But they always are.”

“Small things.” She shook her head. “Not big, like the changes people want in Europe. America hasn’t yet signed a peace treaty with Spain, and there’s going to be even more trouble in South Africa. We shouldn’t be fighting there, Thomas. We’re not right.”

“I know.”

“There are assassinations, bombings,” she went on. “We haven’t had that before, not all over the place. People are restless about poverty and injustice. They want change, but they’re going about it in all the wrong ways.”

“I know that, too. We’re doing what we can. This looks like an opium sale gone wrong.”

“Two police killed and three badly injured!” Charlotte protested. “They weren’t shot, that whole building was blown up!” Then she saw his face. He had done what he could to clean the ash and soot out of his hair, but he had not had a chance to put on a clean shirt. There was not only soot but scorch marks on his cuffs, and he must smell of charred wood.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I suppose I’m as frightened as everybody else, except that I’m frightened for you, too.”

“That I won’t catch them?” he asked, then instantly wished that he hadn’t. What could he say to undo it?

“That, too,” she said candidly. “But also for you not to be hurt.”

“I’ve been in the police since before we met, and I’ve not been seriously hurt yet.” He smiled. “Scared stiff a time or two. And one way or another, we’ve solved most of the big cases.”

She nodded slightly and smiled, keeping her eyes on his.

Nevertheless he was worried. He had men embedded in all the major anarchist groups he knew of, and there had not been even a murmur of an atrocity like the bombing at Lancaster Gate. Nothing at all. He had been completely blindsided. Would Victor Narraway have known? Pitt had been promoted on Narraway’s own recommendation, when Narraway had been dismissed. Had Narraway overestimated him?

He reached out across the table and put his hand over Charlotte’s, but he did not say anything. He felt her fingers curl up and close around his.

In the morning Pitt dressed in old clothes and deliberately took on an even more casual appearance than usual. He made a point of not shaving. He set out early, while Charlotte was still occupied upstairs, so she would not see him and guess what he was going to do. There was no point in worrying her unnecessarily.

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.