Back in the sitting room Vespasia looked at Narraway the moment the door was closed.
“They’re waiting for something,” he said quickly. “Whoever it is here, he’s not in charge. Someone will come with a proclamation for Her Majesty to sign, or something of the sort.” He gritted his teeth. “We may be here for some time—this has been put to the prime minister—if they are arguing this thing in the cabinet. We’ll have to keep our heads. Try to keep them calm, and possibly even convince them they have a hope of success. If they lose that, they may just kill us all. They’ll have nothing to lose.” He looked at her white face. “I’m sorry. I would prefer not to have had to tell you that, but I can’t do this alone. We must all stay steady—the household staff as well. I wish I could get to them to persuade them of the need for calm. One person in hysterics might be enough to panic them all.”
Vespasia rose to her feet a trifle unsteadily. “Then I will ask this lunatic on the stairs for permission to go and speak with the household staff. Perhaps you will be good enough to help me persuade him of the necessity. Charlotte will manage here very well.”
Narraway took her arm, holding it firmly. He turned to Victoria.
“Ma’am, Lady Vespasia is going to speak with your staff. It is imperative that no one loses control or behaves with rashness. I shall try to persuade the men who hold us hostage to permit her to do this, for all our sakes. I am afraid we may be here for some little time.”
“Thank you.” Victoria spoke more to Vespasia than to Narraway, but the comment included them both.
“Perhaps they could serve everyone food?” Charlotte suggested. “It is easier to be busy.”
“An excellent idea,” Vespasia agreed. “Come, Victor. If they have any sense at all, they will see the wisdom of it.”
They went to the door, and he held it open for her.
Charlotte watched them go with her heart pounding and her stomach clenched tight. She turned to Victoria, who was staring at her with the same fear bright in her eyes.
Out on the landing there was still silence … no sound of gunfire.
————
A LITTLE BEFORE MIDNIGHT Pitt and Stoker sat in a hansom cab on its way to the home of Sir Gerald Croxdale. With them in the satchel was the main evidence to prove Austwick’s complicity in the movement of the money that had made Narraway appear guilty of theft and had resulted in the murder of Mulhare. Also included were the reports of the leading revolutionary socialists prepared to use violence to overthrow governments they believed to be oppressive, who were now gathered together in England, and had been seen moving south toward Osborne House and the queen. Also, of course, were the names of the traitors with Special Branch.
It took nearly five minutes of ringing and knocking before they heard the bolts drawn back in the front door. It was opened by a sleepy footman wearing a coat over his nightshirt.
“Yes, sir?” he said cautiously.
Pitt identified himself and Stoker. “It is an extreme emergency,” he said gravely. “The government is in danger. Will you please waken the minister immediately.” He made it a request, but his tone left no doubt that it was an order.
They were shown to the withdrawing room. Just over ten minutes later Croxdale himself appeared, hastily dressed, his face drawn in lines of anxiety. As soon as he had closed the door, he spoke, looking from Pitt to Stoker and back again.
“What is it, gentlemen?”
There was no time for any more explanation than necessary to convince him. “We have traced the money that was placed in Narraway’s account,” Pitt said briefly. “It was Charles Austwick behind it, and the consequent murder of Mulhare, and also behind Gower’s murder of West. Far more important, we know the reason for both. It was to place Austwick in charge of Special Branch, so no one else would notice the violent radical socialists coming into Britain, men who have been idealogical enemies until now, suddenly cooperating with one another and all moving down toward the Isle of Wight.”
Croxdale looked startled. “The Isle of Wight? For God’s sake, why?”
“Osborne House,” Pitt said simply.
“God Almighty! The queen!” Croxdale’s voice was all but strangled in his throat. “Are you sure? No one would … why? It makes no sense. It would unite the world against them.” He waved one hand and shook his head, as if to push away the whole idea.
“Not to kill her,” Pitt told him. “At least not to start with, perhaps not at all.”
“Then what?” Croxdale peered at him as if he had never really seen him before. “Pitt, are you sure you know what you are talking about?”
“Yes, sir,” Pitt said firmly. He was not surprised Croxdale doubted him. If he had not seen the proof himself he would not have believed it. “We traced the money that was supposed to go to Mulhare. The information he gave was very valuable. He gave up Nathaniel Byrne, one of the key men responsible for several bombings in Ireland and in London. Very few people knew that, even in Special Branch, but Austwick was one of them. Narraway arranged the payment so Mulhare could escape. That was a condition of his giving the information.”
“I knew nothing about it!” Croxdale said sharply. “But why would Austwick do such a thing? Did he take some of it himself?”
“No. He wanted Narraway out of Special Branch, and me too, in case I knew enough of what Narraway had been working on to piece it together.”
“Piece what?” Croxdale said sharply. “You haven’t explained anything yet. And what has this to do with socialist violence against the queen?”
“Passionate idealism gone mad,” Pitt answered. “Hold the queen for ransom to abolish the House of Lords, and then probably to abdicate. The end of rule by hereditary privilege, then likely a republic, with only elected representation of the people.”
“Good God.” Croxdale sank into the nearest armchair, his face ashen, his hands shaking. “Are you certain, man? I can’t act on this without absolute proof. If I have to mount a force of armed men to take Osborne House, I’d better be bloody sure I’m doing the right thing—in fact the only thing. If you’re wrong, I’ll end up in the Tower, and it’ll be my head on the block.”
“Mr. Narraway is already at Osborne, sir,” Pitt told him.
“What?” Croxdale sat up with a jerk. “Narraway’s in …” He stopped, rubbing his hand over his face. “Do you have proof of all this, Pitt? Yes or no? I have to explain this to the prime minister before I act: immediately, tonight. I can have Austwick arrested—I’ll do that first, before he gets any idea that you know what he’s done. I’ll do that now. But you must give me more than your word to take to the prime minister.”
“Yes, sir.” Pitt indicated the case he had with him. “It’s in here. Reports, instructions, letters. It takes a bit of piecing together, but it’s all there.”
“Are you certain? My God, man, if you’re wrong, I’ll see you go down with me!” Croxdale rose to his feet. “I’ll get it started. There’s obviously no time to waste.” He walked slowly from the room, closing the door behind him.
Stoker was standing where he had been throughout the conversation. There was a very slight frown on his face.
“What is it?” Pitt asked.
Stoker shook his head. “I don’t know, sir.”
Pitt had the case in his hand with the papers. Why had Croxdale not asked to see them, at least check over them? With the possibility of treachery inside Special Branch, and his belief earlier that Narraway himself was a thief, why had he not asked to see it? Pitt was known to be Narraway’s man. In his place, Pitt would have been skeptical, at the very least.
“Do you think he suspected Austwick all along?” Stoker asked.
“Of what? If he was part of setting up the forgeries to blame Narraway, then he was part of the plot to attack the queen. If Croxdale knew that, then he’s part of it too.” As he spoke the pieces fell together in his mind. Austwick was reporting to someone else, they were certain of that. Croxdale himself?