“Getting away?” Tellman interrupted. “He was there?” He remembered the account of Lezant’s arrest had said there were two men, but the other one had escaped.
“So he says, but I’m not sure he even remembers. He says Lezant didn’t have a gun, but all that means is that he doesn’t remember him having one, or he didn’t know he had.”
“Or he’s chosen to forget!”
“Or that. But it doesn’t matter now-”
“Doesn’t matter!” Tellman’s voice was high and sharp. “It doesn’t matter if the police lied about evidence to convict an innocent man and see him hanged for a crime they knew damn well he didn’t commit? Then, for God’s sake, what does matter?” He could feel the desperate helplessness rise up inside him again until he could hardly breathe.
Pitt was silent for a moment. “From what you tell me about Ednam and those he leads…led…they were not above bending evidence, misusing money, telling the occasional lie to get what they thought was a bigger truth. They might have been right in some cases, and wrong in others. Perhaps they reached the point where the truth was so blurred they lost sight of it altogether. They believed what they wanted to.” His smile was bitter. “Like Alexander…maybe.”
“And Duncannon placed the bomb in Lancaster Gate to make us pay attention? Now? The Lezant case was over two years ago,” Tellman pointed out. “And there was no record of him having fought for Lezant at the time in the files.” He knew as he said it that that meant little. It was still all possible…or not. He also knew before Pitt spoke again that they were going to have to look into it a lot further, before the Lancaster Gate case suddenly solved itself and brought chaos, disbelief, and violence on all of them.
When Tellman returned to his own station he found a message waiting for him to report that afternoon to Commissioner Bradshaw. He was not aware of having done anything wrong, and yet he found his hands sweating. What had he missed? Did Bradshaw expect a result already?
It was a beautiful office, elegant, the furniture antique and worn smooth and comfortable by generations of men who’d held command and on whom it sat easily. Bradshaw, with his gracious office, his smooth hair, and his well-cut clothes, fitting him as only a personally tailored suit can, seemed to be placed by birth and education above the anxieties of the ordinary man. But was he?
“Yes, sir?” Tellman said politely.
“Sit down, Tellman,” Bradshaw waved his hand toward a chair with slender legs and a delicately carved mahogany back. His own chair was roomier, the seat leather-padded.
Tellman obeyed. Even if he preferred standing, one did not argue with the police commissioner.
“Sad thing about Ednam’s death,” Bradshaw said gravely. “Poor man can’t even defend himself now. We’ve got to do something about the rumors that the press is beginning to stir up. I suppose it was inevitable someone would stir up trouble! Whicker tells me you were onto that yesterday and the day before…” He had not phrased it as a question, but he left it hanging in the air. His face was furrowed.
“Yes, sir,” Tellman replied. “I need to be in a position where I can say I’ve looked into it. If I don’t, they’ll leap on it, sooner or later.” Silently he thanked Pitt for forcing him to. “I hate doing it, sir. It’s as if I think there’s something to it, but the rumormongers will twist it if I don’t.”
“Yes, yes, I know.” Bradshaw nodded. “Rotten business altogether. Pitt tells me he has no leads from Special Branch, no anarchist groups they can pinpoint, except to know who sold the dynamite, but not what happened to it after that. Damned stuff seems to be for sale to God knows who, once a thief gets hold of it.”
“Yes, sir. I’ve been working with Commander Pitt. Seems most of the anarchists he knows about are more or less accounted for.”
Bradshaw looked up at him. “Are you suggesting there are others he doesn’t know about?” His voice was impossible to read. Was he hoping there were, so it would take the attention away from the police? Or afraid there were, and they were all on the edge of more violence, and perhaps worse?
Tellman thought about it for a moment. Loyalty said he should deny it. Loyalty to whom? To Pitt, with whom he had worked for years? Or to his own force, the police? Pitt had been willing to blame the police, and so far as Tellman knew, had not even looked into the competence or honor of his own men.
No, that was unfair. Tellman would not know whether he had or not. He might have torn them apart! It was the evidence. Alexander Duncannon was blaming police for Lezant’s death, not Special Branch.
“It’s a possibility, sir,” he replied, still sitting upright in the carved-backed chair. It offered more beauty than comfort. But nothing would have made him comfortable in this interview. “But unlikely, I think,” he added.
Bradshaw nodded slowly, turning it over in his mind. He looked miserable, as if something were worrying him so deeply he was having trouble concentrating on Tellman.
Tellman began to be concerned that there was important information that Bradshaw knew and he did not. Could it be about Pitt? Or about the police?
Tellman noticed in a small alcove in the bookcase a framed photograph of a woman, more than a decade younger than Bradshaw, maybe even two decades. A daughter? A wife? It was possibly an old picture. Its color was soft, as if a little faded over time from sitting in the light. The woman was beautiful, soft-featured, her hair falling a trifle out of its pins. It was an informal picture, and she was smiling. There was an innocence about her that was instantly appealing, something in her that awoke a gentleness in him. She looked young, unaware of what would hurt her.
He moved his gaze. He should not be looking at her. It was a very personal photograph. One day he would like to have enough money to be able to pay someone really good to take a photograph of Gracie, looking happy like that, quite unstudied. He would have it on his desk, or somewhere that he could see it all the time.
Bradshaw had said something, and he had missed it. He must pay attention.
“…anything that makes sense,” Bradshaw added. “We must give the newspapers something, or they’ll make things up. What did you find when you looked into Ednam’s records? Who is this Anno Domini Pitt told me of, the informer that led the men to the house in Lancaster Gate? What grounds did they have for believing him? Can we at least say that much? Is he a suspect, this informer? He has to be. Why haven’t we found him yet?”
“We’re looking, sir, but no one in the general neighborhood seems to have any idea who he is.”
“So this man could be anyone, possibly a serious political threat?” Bradshaw looked suddenly afraid, as if the whole issue had ballooned into a new and far more serious crime.
“No, sir. But not an ordinary petty thief or scam artist. And we can’t ask Ednam now, poor…man. But every other tip this informer has given them has proved genuine.”
“To set Ednam up?” Bradshaw asked grimly.
“Perhaps. But then again, maybe someone was setting the informer up. Sir…”
He already had Bradshaw’s attention. He must continue now, get it over with…or lie.
“Sir, I found a degree of sloppiness, inaccuracy, and lying to cover petty theft, in Ednam’s station.” He chose his words carefully. “Quite a bit of unnecessary violence in making arrests. One or two people pushed into changing their evidence when it got to court, or even taking it out altogether. It won’t look good if a journalist gets wind of it, sir.” He drew in his breath to go on, then changed his mind. He was already talking too much. He felt awkward in this quiet room where there was a decanter with a silver label around the neck on the side cabinet, and an ashtray for cigars.
Bradshaw nodded, looking at Tellman all the time.