What would it do to the future cooperation between the forces that Special Branch in particular relied on? The whole idea of a police force, with power to search a man’s house, question his servants or even his family, was a relatively new idea among the general public, and, with some, still unpopular.
Special Branch, on the other hand, was accepted by patriotic men, so long as they did not bother people too much and did not intrude into any man’s private affairs. It was agreed that there had always been spies, recognized and dealt with discreetly, since the days of Queen Elizabeth and her spymaster, Walsingham. It was something one did not refer to, except in private with one’s most trusted friends. Best to keep on the right side of the fellow in charge of it, who was usually a gentleman anyway, more or less.
It was the regular police whose toes Special Branch trod on occasionally, and whose cooperation they needed a sight too often.
Pitt was angry, mainly with himself.
“Looking into this will turn the whole force against us,” he pointed out, staring at the papers spread out on the table between them.
“You think Tellman’s wrong?” Stoker said with raised eyebrows.
“No,” Pitt admitted. “He hates this even more than we do.”
“I don’t hate it,” Stoker contradicted him. “Any policeman who thinks it’s all right to tamper with evidence, pick and choose what bits he’ll show and what he’ll hide, lie about things, change times and records, take money if he thinks he can get away with it, or beat the hell out of a few witnesses or villains if he’s in a bad temper, is a disgrace to the force and should be got rid of, before he poisons everyone. When they’re no better than the men they’re chasing, we’ve all had it! I don’t care how much they resent it. If they’d got rid of those practices themselves, then we wouldn’t have to.”
Pitt gave him a long, cold look. “You want them to come and take a close look at us?”
Stoker colored faintly. “That’s not exactly fair, sir. If you caught any one of us doing anything like that we’d be charged with treason, and be out in a day. It’s a much tougher service, and you know that.”
“Yes, it is,” Pitt conceded. “But the police still have to trust each other. You don’t want to go into any sort of a fight if you can’t trust the man who’s always there beside you, watching for you.” He looked at Stoker’s face. “All right, I know: I just made your point for you. But this is still going to cause a hell of a lot of ill feeling. The next time we need police help, we may be damn lucky to get it!”
Stoker’s hard, blue eyes widened. “We may clear their good name, sir!”
“Don’t be so damn stupid,” Pitt snapped, hating himself for the situation he had walked into, and Stoker for his perception of it. He was even annoyed with Tellman for caring so much, and still having gone on and on after Ednam and his men. “I’ve got to know more, with proof, before I face them with it. I wish to hell there were a way out of it, but there isn’t.”
Pitt needed to talk about it with someone who understood what damage it might do, both if he did as Stoker had suggested-and he knew he must-or if he did not. He had long ago learned what good and honest argument could do. At the very least it would force him to defend his decision and see the flaws in it before it was too late.
In times past, with ordinary civilian murder cases, he had talked things through with Charlotte, but this was different. There was only one person who would understand it perfectly and be willing to counteract him with both reason and passion. That was Victor Narraway. He might even have faced a similar situation himself, although Pitt had looked through the records of Narraway’s years, and found nothing especially comparable.
But then he himself had made no written notes on the possibility of police corruption. It was not something he wanted to have on paper. Narraway might have felt the same.
Vespasia was out when Pitt visited her home. It was now only three days before Christmas, but this was the first moment he was touched by the joy of the season. There was a tree in the hall, decorated with colored balls and golden tinsel. Delicate angels of spun glass hung from the upper branches, their gossamer wings seeming to trap and hold the light.
In the sitting room Narraway poured Pitt a very small portion of brandy, ignoring his protests, and they sat on either side of the fire, smelling the faint fragrance of burning applewood. There was a plate of warm mince pies on the small table beside them.
Pitt explained the situation and watched Narraway’s face grow more and more serious.
“And you’re going to start digging into this trial of Dylan Lezant tomorrow?” Narraway said finally.
“I would be delighted to escape it,” Pitt replied ruefully. “But I don’t see how I can.”
“What do you expect from me?” The firelight accentuated the shadows on Narraway’s face, the concentration in his expression.
“An analysis of the political fallout,” Pitt replied immediately. “And any advice you have as to how best to go about it. What procedure do I use if the evidence is there and I need to contain it?”
Narraway did not answer for several minutes. There was no sound in the room except the crackle of flames in the hearth. Somewhere outside, beyond the window and its curtains, came the distant sound of carol singers in the street.
Pitt noticed how much more masculine the room had become since Narraway had moved in. Vespasia’s paintings were still on the walls, scenes from her youth and from generations even earlier. But there were some of Narraway’s favorite charcoal drawings of bare trees as well. They were a total contrast, and yet they complemented each other. It completed the sense of balance in the room, and Pitt liked it.
A log settled in the hearth, sending up a shower of sparks. Narraway leaned over and took a fresh one from the box, putting it on top of the others. The flames leaped up quickly to accept it.
“If what Tellman says is true,” he said at last, “then you have to start immediately. And Tellman is a good man. I think he would not say this if he could escape it. I assume he has no history with Ednam? Or any of the others? No, I assumed not. You have to know if it is just bad practice at that station, petty corruption that you can discipline the men for, perhaps get rid of the worst of them…although, God help us, it rather looks as if young Duncannon may have done that for you.”
“Of course Tellman hates it,” Pitt agreed. “I could think of a strong argument for dealing with it as discreetly as possible, with some acceptable story for the public, if I were sure there was no more than Tellman found. But if it has any connection at all with the shooting for which Lezant was hanged, then it can’t be left. For a start, Duncannon will open it up again, whatever else we do on a smaller scale.”
“If it is Duncannon,” Narraway pointed out. “Better find out about Ednam and his men on one hand, and about Lezant on the other. Put them together only if you have to. I assume you’ve gone over the bombing evidence with a fine-tooth comb?”
“Of course. There’s nothing definitive in it.”
“And this ‘Anno Domini’?” Narraway gave a wry smile. “You think that’s Alexander Duncannon?”
“No way to be sure,” Pitt replied. “But I think so, and I have to investigate his story about Lezant.”
“I can’t see a way out of it either,” Narraway said unhappily. “But the cost could be high, and I think it will be. For God’s sake, be careful, Pitt. You don’t know how far this goes.”
Pitt felt the coldness close up tightly inside him, like a lump of ice. New possibilities took form in his imagination: corruption deeper than merely that of Ednam and his men. If it was someone higher than Ednam conniving at an appalling murder, then they would react powerfully, perhaps violently, to Pitt’s attempt to expose them all.