Pitt sat silently trying to make the best plans possible for when they arrived. They would have to commandeer a boat—any sort would do—to get them across the narrow strip of water to the Isle of Wight.
He was still thinking of it when about fifteen minutes into the journey the train slowed. Then, with a great panting of steam, it stopped altogether. Pitt shot to his feet and went back to the guard’s van.
“What’s the matter?” he demanded. “Why have we stopped? Where are we?”
“We stopped to put off the mail, o’ course,” the guard said with elaborate patience. “That’s what we came for. Now you just go an’ sit down in your seat and be quiet, sir. We’ll be on our way when we’re ready.”
“How many places do you stop?” Pitt asked. His voice was louder and harsher than he meant it to be, but it was sliding out of his control.
The guard stood very straight, his face grim.
“Every place where we got to pick up mail, or set it down, sir. Like I said, that’s what we do. Jus’ you go an’ sit back down, sir.”
Pitt pulled out his warrant card and held it for the guard to see. “This is an emergency. I’m on the queen’s business, and I need to get to the Isle of Wight by sunrise. Drop off the mail on the way back, or let the next train through pick it up.”
The guard stared at Pitt with both pride and disgust. “I’m on the queen’s business too, sir. I carry the Royal Mail. You’ll get to Portsmouth when we’ve done our job. Now, like I said, go an’ sit down an’ we’ll get on with the mail. Ye’re just holding us up, sir, an’ I won’t have that. You’ve caused enough trouble already.”
Pitt felt exasperation well up inside him so he could almost have hit the man. It was unfair; the guard was doing his duty. He had no idea who Pitt was, other than some kind of policeman.
Could Pitt tell him any part of the truth? No. He would find himself held in charge as a lunatic. He could prove nothing, and it would only delay them even more. With a chill he remembered his helplessness on his last train ride, the horror and absurdity of it—and Gower’s mangled body on the tracks. Thank God, at least he had not seen it.
He returned to the carriage and sat down in his seat.
“Sir?” Stoker said.
“We have to stop at all the stations,” Pitt answered, keeping his voice level this time. “Without telling him the truth I can’t persuade him not to.” He smiled lopsidedly. “It’s the Royal Mail. Nothing stands in its way.”
Stoker started to say something, then changed his mind. Everything he meant to express was in the lines of his face.
The journey seemed achingly slow. None of them spoke again until finally they pulled into Portsmouth station as the dawn was lightening the eastern sky. Austwick caused no trouble as they went through the barely wakening streets and found a large rowing boat to take them across the water.
There was a brisk wind and the sea was choppy, the wave caps translucent, almost mirroring the high, rippling clouds shot through by the rising wind. It was hard work, and they were obliged to bend their backs to make headway.
They landed, shivering, at the wharf and set off toward Osborne House, which was just in sight above the tangle of the still-bare trees. They walked as fast as they could, since there was no one around from whom to beg or hire any kind of transport.
The sun was above the horizon and glittering sharp in a clear morning when they approached the boundaries. The rolling parkland and the splendid stone mansion were spread before them, broad and magnificent, as if still sleeping in the hushed land, which was silent but for the birdsong.
Pitt had a moment of terrible doubt. Was this whole thing no more than a vast nightmare, without reality at all? Had they misunderstood everything? Was he about to burst in on the queen and make the ultimate fool of himself?
Stoker strode forward, still gripping Austwick by the arm.
Nothing at Osborne stirred. Surely there had to be a guard of some sort, whatever the circumstances, even if the entire conspiracy was Pitt’s delusion?
As they reached the gate, a man stepped forward. He was in livery, but it fitted him poorly. He stood straight, but not like a soldier. There was an arrogance in his eyes.
“You can’t come in here,” he said curtly. “This is the queen’s house. You can look, of course, but no farther, understand?”
Pitt knew his face. He tried to remember his name, but it eluded him. He was so tired his vision swam a little. He must stay alert, keep his mind sharp, his judgment steady. He was a little behind Austwick, so he pushed him hard in the small of the back.
“It’s all right, McLeish,” Austwick said, his voice shaky and a little rough. “These gentlemen are with me. We need to come in.”
McLeish hesitated.
“Quickly,” Pitt added. “There are others behind us. It’ll all be over in an hour or two.”
“Right!” McLeish responded, turning on his heel and leading the way.
“Ask about the queen!” Pitt hissed at Austwick. “Don’t slip up now. Hanging is not a nice way to die.”
Austwick stumbled. Stoker yanked him up.
Austwick cleared his throat. “Is Her Majesty still all right? I mean … I mean, will she be able to sign papers?”
“Of course,” McLeish answered cheerfully. “Three people turned up unexpectedly. We had no choice but to let them in, or they’d have gone away and raised the alarm. A man and two women. But they’re no trouble. It’s all going well.”
They were nearly at the front doors.
Austwick hesitated.
The sun was dazzling through a break in the trees. There was no sign of life inside, no sound, but then the weight of the doors would have muffled anything.
Someone must have been watching. The door opened and a heavyset man stood barring the way, a shotgun hanging on his arm.
Austwick stepped forward, his head high. His voice cracked at first, then gained strength.
“Good morning, Portman. My name is Charles Austwick. I represent Gerald Croxdale and the socialist people of Britain.”
“About damn time you turned up!” Willy Portman said sharply. “Have you got the documents?”
“We’re taking them to the queen,” Pitt said quickly. “Get everybody in. It’s nearly over.” He tried to put some excitement in his voice.
Portman smiled. “Right. Yes!” He raised his arm with the gun in it, giving a salute of victory.
Stoker stepped forward and hit him as hard as he could, with all the force of his weight. He caught him in the vulnerable point of the solar plexus, driving him backward and inside. Portman doubled up in agony, the gun flying from his hand. Stoker spun around and picked it up.
Austwick stood as if paralyzed.
Pitt started up the stairs as another man came out of the servants’ quarters with a gun at the ready.
Narraway emerged onto the landing and struck the man at the top of the stairs, sending him pitching forward and down, his gun flying out of his grasp. He landed at the bottom, his neck broken.
The man in the hall raised his gun and aimed at Pitt.
Austwick stepped in front of him. There was the roar of an explosion and Austwick collapsed slowly, crumpling to the ground in a sea of blood.
Stoker shot the man with the gun.
Narraway came down the stairs and picked up the gun from the man at the bottom.
“There are five more,” he said calmly. “Let’s see if we can get them without any further bloodshed.”
Pitt looked at him. Narraway sounded totally in control, but his face was haggard, hollow-eyed. There was a rough edge to his voice as if he held it level with an effort that cost him all he had.
Pitt glanced at Stoker, who was now armed with the gun that had killed Austwick.
“Yes, sir,” Stoker said obediently, and set off toward the servants’ quarters.
Narraway looked at Pitt. He smiled very slightly, but there was a warmth in his eyes Pitt had never seen before, even in the best of their past triumphs. “Would you like to go up and tell Her Majesty that order is restored?” he said. “There will be no papers to sign.”