Anne Perry - Treachery at Lancaster Gate

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.