“I know it too,” Charlotte agreed. “But if he accepted that, then he might not have the loyalty he does, and it’s that which makes him special and able to keep going even in the hardest cases.”
Gracie said nothing. Now, suddenly, it was not so easy. She had not come here for comfort; she needed to have a plan of some sort, something practical, if it all went bad.
She looked up at Charlotte. “Wot if they was bombed because they was crooked? On the take, like?”
Charlotte could remember very clearly what Thomas had said about the bombing, and how those specific policemen had been lured to the Lancaster Gate house-and about Isadora Cornwallis’s suspicion of Alexander Duncannon, though she could not share that with Gracie.
“If anyone had proof of stealing, or lying, wouldn’t they try to report it to police higher up, who would stop it themselves?” she asked slowly. “You could do that without any damage to yourself. If necessary you might be able to write an anonymous letter, if you were afraid of reprisals.”
“I thought o’ that,” Gracie answered. “It must be that there’s police ’igher up protecting them.” She shook her head. “I wish I could protect ’im from finding out the bad ones are bad enough to ’ave been the reason for this.” She looked at Charlotte, studying her face, wanting to see that Charlotte could prove her fears ungrounded.
It was several more moments before Charlotte answered. “They have to find the corruption, if it’s there,” she said, biting her lip. “And then they will discover where the deepest loyalties are. Choices between right and wrong are easy. It’s the ones where you have to decide between two rights, or two wrongs that hurt, and maybe you never know which would have been the better.”
“The police are going to say it should be to yer mates on the force,” Gracie said. “The ones as ’ave watched for yer when yer was tired, a bit slow, made a mistake, or could ’ave been knifed if they ’adn’t been there. If yer don’t know which side yer mates are on, nobody’s going ter fight. Samuel says then, if ye’re going into a dark alley an’ yer don’t know what’s in front of yer, yer gotta be sure as hell what’s behind yer.”
Charlotte did not argue. Gracie could see the conflict in her face.
“I know,” Charlotte agreed. “And yet if the police don’t keep honor to the truth but choose to protect those of them that lie, or twist evidence, steal little things here and there, take bribes to look the other way, what happens to the rest of us?” She shivered. “It’s like a building that’s got woodworm in the joists and rafters. One wormhole’s nothing: ten thousand and the whole thing caves in on your head.”
“So wot are we gonna do?” Gracie at last said the unavoidable.
For an instant there was a spark of dark humor in Charlotte’s eyes at her automatic inclusion, and then it vanished. This was too serious for any kind of laughter.
“I don’t think there’s anything you really can do,” Charlotte answered. “If there is, I’ve never found it.”
Surprise flickered across Gracie’s face, as if she had never considered Pitt vulnerable in the same way.
Charlotte threw away the last vestige of doubt. “You should look after your family. I will visit my sister, who knows all kinds of people, and ask her to find out what she can. Who knows how high up this may go?”
Gracie bit her lip. “An’ if it does?”
“I’m not sure. But an idea of the truth is the only place to begin.”
Gracie smiled a little lopsidedly. “Thank you.”
Chapter 4
It was an icy morning and Pitt was later arriving at Lisson Grove than he had intended. A dray had slid on the ice in Marylebone Road and everything was held up. It had given him the chance to read his morning newspaper in the hansom, not an enjoyable experience, but necessary.
Stoker was waiting for him, his face pink from the bite of the wind, and his expression dark.
“That missing dynamite from Bessemer’s,” he said as soon as Pitt came in the door. “It was the foreman who took it, but he’s not much help. Either he’s scared witless of whoever he sold it to or he really doesn’t know. Either way, it’s bound to be anarchists raising funds by selling it on.”
“Any idea from other sources who bought it?” Pitt asked without much hope. He pulled out his chair and sat down, looking at the pile of notes already on his desk.
“An Italian called Pollini, who sold it to someone whose name he doesn’t know and whose description could fit half the anarchists in Europe. Most of them are in London anyway. The reports are on your desk. I’ve looked at them, and I can’t see anything useful…at least not in regard to the Lancaster Gate business. Got a good line in one or two other cases. It’s stirred up the pot a bit, and all kinds of things are coming to the surface. We should be able to tie up the Lansdowne affair.”
“Good.” Pitt gave a brief smile, took the newspaper out of his pocket where he had slipped it, and dropped it into the bin.
“Did you read the leaders?” Stoker asked unhappily.
“Yes. Most of the demands are worded as looking for justice, but what it really means is revenge on those who attacked the police,” Pitt replied. “I saw a piece by the lawyer Josiah Abercorn. He’s riding a wave of popularity by defending the police, the ordinary man, people’s defense against the rise of crime, and so on. I can understand it. The police are our symbol of safety. We resent their interference at times. They can be pompous, authoritarian, full of self-importance, but in the end they are the barrier against violence, loss of property, general chaos. They separate the order we rely on from the barbarism that lies beyond: danger and unreason. To attack them is to attack all of us.”
“That’s pretty well what all the papers are saying,” Stoker agreed. “Least the better ones. Suppose you read that too?”
“I didn’t, actually,” Pitt replied. “I was looking mainly at the foreign news. I don’t think this has much to do with anarchists, but I wanted to see if there was anything political of importance, anything happened we should know about.”
“I’ve looked at the main reports, sir. I’m pretty sure it’s just hot air, the usual people ranting on. In fact, from what our blokes are saying, the serious anarchists are upset about the bombing. Stirs everybody up, and some people who used to tolerate them are getting resentful. Got a few of them turned out of their lodgings, even refused in some of the places where they like to eat…coffee shops, and the like. Makes people nervous.”
“Interesting,” Pitt said thoughtfully. “Sounds as if there’s no agreement among them, anyway. But we still have to be as certain as we can that there are no new groups that we’ve missed. I need reports from all the men we have embedded in those we know of. Let’s get it on paper, and see if everything is accounted for.”
Stoker looked at him, alarm in his eyes.
Pitt stiffened. “Do you know of any other certain way to connect everything up so we can see the pattern of it? We need to be as sure as we can that there isn’t something we’re missing, because we’re so used to seeing what we know.”
“We’ll need some help.” Stoker gave in reluctantly. “Who do you trust enough, sir? Whoever it is will end up learning all the embedded men’s names.” He shook his head. “Are you sure you want that? Only takes one word let slip, to someone you think you can trust. We’re none of us perfect, sir.” He came as close as he could to telling Pitt he was wrong.
Pitt bit back the retort in his mind. Stoker was right: he was not suggesting someone would let information slip out through betrayal, but through stress, exhaustion, and the loneliness of not being able to tell even those closest to you what you were doing, what you knew that was frightening, pitiful, or even funny. The pressure of silence could put strain on all kinds of emotions.