But as it was, Jack would be seen, at least by some, as being easily fooled, with flawed judgment, not safe to promote to higher office. Was that what troubled him this time? He could not afford to be closely allied to another man stained by scandal, let alone mass murder.
“He hasn’t given me any information,” Pitt said. “He is a possible suspect…”
“In bombing the house in Lancaster Gate?” Jack asked incredulously. “Don’t be absurd!” But even as he said it, his voice wavered minutely. “Why on earth would he do such a thing? He has unsuitable friends, that’s all. He’s young. Twenty-three or -four. I had some unsuitable friends at that age. Didn’t you? No, I suppose you didn’t. You were probably walking the beat in some domestic suburb and helping old ladies across the road.” There was anger in him now. Or was it fear?
“Probably,” Pitt agreed. “Whereas you were helping the young ones.”
Jack blushed very faintly. He had moved from one country house to another, as a cheerful, handsome, and hugely entertaining guest. He had never intended to marry any of the highly eligible young ladies. He would not have been acceptable to their families because he had no money with which to support them. But everybody liked having him as a guest. He made them laugh, he flattered them, he was nice to everyone. He dressed beautifully and rode a horse with skill and grace. He was wise enough never to drink more than he could hold and had more sense than to sleep with the wife of anyone who mattered. In fact he was discreet enough never to damage anyone’s reputation at all. They were not skills everyone possessed.
“Perhaps I deserve that.” He gave Pitt a rueful look. “Please, Thomas, I’m asking you.”
“I’ll try,” Pitt conceded. “And certainly I will be discreet about questioning Duncannon. That’s as far as I can go.”
“Thank you.” Jack nodded, a faint smile touching his lips at last. He picked up his sherry, turning the glass slowly and letting the firelight sparkle from the cut edges of the crystal.
Pitt raised his as well, but it was a gesture, an agreement.
Chapter 3
Tellman sat beside the fire in his own home, the place he most loved to be. It was a small house, one he could afford without anxiety, in a neat row of other houses along a quiet street. He did not know the neighbors well, but his wife, Gracie, did, and liked them. Several of them were other young women, like herself, with small children. They were all respectable. Gracie had wanted a house like this, with her own husband and her own children, for as long as she could remember dreaming about anything at all.
She had been born in the East End, in poverty and with no education. She had begun work at thirteen, as a maid for Charlotte and Pitt, soon after they were married. She was still barely five feet tall, but with enough spirit in her for two people twice her size. Charlotte had taught her to read and write as well as how to cook and generally keep house.
Tellman sat in the rocking chair in the corner of the warm kitchen and watched as Gracie fed their daughter. It was a sight that was infinitely pleasing to him. Nothing in the world would ever matter quite as much as this.
Little Christina looked at him once or twice, puzzled, because he had not picked her up and cuddled her, as he usually did. He had a heavy cold, and he did not wish to give it to her. He probably missed the touch of her face more than she missed him. He smiled at her now, even though he did not feel like it.
The bombing had horrified him, especially since the victims were fellow police. But his job had caused him to see a great deal of violence and tragedy over the years. What disturbed him more deeply was the talk of corruption. Of course people made mistakes, everyone did, and sometimes the results were serious. He had no doubt that at times people lied, either to protect themselves or someone else. Men had been known to keep the odd few coins, perhaps even a guinea, almost a week’s wages.
Tellman despised it, but he would have faced the guilty man. He had done, on occasion. You did not go behind a man’s back; you gave him the chance to put it right.
But two men were dead, and three men crippled and might yet die. Tellman had been to the hospital and seen them, not to ask any questions but out of respect. They had looked awful. Bossiney would probably live, but he was in agony from the burns that had devastated half his face. Yarcombe was silent, stunned by the loss of his limb, unable to grasp that it was not there.
Ednam had been more consumed by fury at the attack on his men than at his own pain. At least that was how it had seemed. He had glared at Tellman and demanded from him an oath that he would find who had done this, and see them hanged for it.
Tellman had replied that he would do it regardless of pressure or threats, and he had meant it. It had taken an effort to forgive Ednam for even asking.
Now Pitt was saying that the strongest lead they had, one they could not ignore, was that the whole atrocity was a revenge against police corruption so vile it had ended in the deliberate hanging of an innocent man!
It was nonsense, of course. The man who made the charge must be mad. In any other circumstances Tellman would have pitied him, for something had clearly unhinged his mind. Apparently the man hanged was a close friend. If anyone had so terribly damaged those Tellman loved, would he have lost his balance, his wits, maybe even his morality? He could not bear to think of it.
He stood up now and walked over to Gracie. “Sorry,” he said quietly. “I’ll carry her up.” He smiled at Christina, who put her head to one side and slowly smiled back at him. Suddenly he was choked with emotion. He reached forward and picked her up, holding her close, taking in the sweetness of her, soap, warm wool, smelling faintly milky.
“C’mon, angel,” he said a little gruffly. “It’s your bedtime.”
He carried her up the stairs and into her room, next to theirs and where, with the doors open, they could hear her if she cried. He took off the blanket around her and again marveled at the embroidery on her nightgown, little flowers worked in pink. He remembered Gracie stitching it, only a few months ago. How quickly babies grow. Every day was precious.
He tucked her into the bed and kissed her. “Good night,” he whispered.
“Night,” she answered, closing her eyes. She was probably asleep before he reached the door.
Back downstairs again his mind returned to the question of corruption.
For Tellman, who grew up poor, the scrawny, undersized son of a factory laborer, to be a policeman was an honorable job. It was a position that earned respectability and the regard of the community. People who had never noticed him as a child now looked to him for help. And he gave it, with pleasure.
He had felt that purpose more deeply when he had started working with Thomas Pitt, years ago, in Bow Street. Pitt was a tall man, strong, someone who had come from an ordinary enough background. But Pitt knew what he wanted to be, and he believed in himself. He had shown Tellman what a good job it was, what courage and honor there was in it. They were men who spent their days, and sometimes their nights as well, seeking the truth, wherever it led them, fighting to see that justice was done and people were kept from injury, loss, fear of the people they could not fight alone.
That was why he found Pitt’s attitude now so acutely painful. He could not tell him that. Of course he understood that Pitt’s job had changed and he could not afford a loyalty to the police rather than to Special Branch. But it still seemed like a denial of what he used to care about, the men he had worked beside in the past, not so long ago.