“Someone has said we have, but it is only one man making that claim. And yes, he could be the bomber, or just someone trying to take advantage of a tragedy to make his own point,” he answered.
“Well, if you don’t do something, some people are going to start doing it themselves,” the man warned. “And I’m speaking for all of us.” He glanced back at the growing crowd watching him.
The fireman was looking at Pitt also, waiting for him to respond.
Pitt hated this. Being at odds with the very people he was meant to protect was the beginning of true anarchy, the loss of trust, the fear that sowed seeds of chaos.
“It’s one man,” he said very clearly. “And I’m going to see him, now that I have evidence I believe sufficient to charge him. I can’t hold him without it.”
“But-” the man protested.
Pitt stared at him. “Do you want me to have the power to arrest someone without proof, sir? A gentleman…as respectable as you are? He’s not known to the police for any offense at all.”
“Oh…well…just do your job!” The man turned on his heel and walked away, straight through the puddles on the road, and rejoined the still growing crowd.
The fireman nodded. “That’ll hold them for a while. Is it true, that the man you’re after is a gentleman?”
“Yes.” Pitt did not want to give explanations.
“Right, sir. Good luck.”
Pitt thanked him and left. He walked away cold, wet, and deep in thought. There was no escaping the inevitability that this was Alexander Duncannon again, giving a violent reminder that no one had checked into what he believed was police corruption. Pitt found a small cafe open and sat with workmen who were late for duty, and ate a bacon sandwich with a cup of scalding-hot, overstewed tea. The bitter taste of it was oddly welcome. He was anonymous in the crowd, just another tired man with wet hair, hands red with the cold.
Should he send Stoker to see if Alexander was at his flat? If he was in, or not, what would it prove? Unless he had dynamite on the kitchen table, nothing. And this second explosion accounted for all the rest of the dynamite they knew had been stolen. Without proof, arresting Alexander would do more harm than good. Godfrey Duncannon could prevent any further investigation, if he wished to. And given the issue of the contract, he well might. Pitt remembered his promise to Jack the previous evening, but the situation had now changed and he couldn’t just do nothing this morning.
Resolved, Pitt found his way to Alexander’s flat. The door was unlocked, and Alexander was sitting at the kitchen table looking desperately ill. His face was sheened in sweat, his skin was pale, and he was shaking as if he had a raging fever. His shirt was soaked.
He saw Pitt and for an instant his eyes were filled with hope, then he recognized him and the hope died. He slumped forward again with a gasp, his arms wrapped around himself as if some pain within him were almost intolerable.
“Alexander,” Pitt said gently, sitting in the chair next to him at the table. “Do you need a doctor? Can I get you anyone?”
Alexander’s teeth were clenched and he moved very slightly, as if he would rock himself were he able to bear the pain in the bones and muscles if he moved.
“No…” he said through clenched teeth. “There’s nothing…”
“There has to be something…”
Alexander grimaced. “You don’t happen to be carrying a spare twist of opium, do you?” The hope in his voice was for a moment greater than the misery.
Pitt tried to think if he knew anyone who could supply such a thing. The police surgeon? He might carry it in his first-aid kit, for pain. But Pitt would have to explain why he wanted it, and could he?
“Where do you get it normally?” he asked instead.
Alexander looked at him. “So you can arrest him?”
“So I can get you some.”
“And then arrest him. No. He’ll come. He always does. Being late is just a reminder to me of what it’ll cost if I turn him in. A touch of real power…in case I get out of line.” He stood up, bent double, and staggered across the room toward the bathroom and toilet.
Pitt could not help. The least he could give him was privacy-if Alexander even cared about that anymore. Pitt did not often feel violent, but whoever did this to anyone, as a reminder of power, deserved to be beaten till he hurt like this. Right now, Pitt would have liked to be the one to do it to him.
He lingered for a few moments, glancing around the room to see if there were any signs of Alexander having been out very recently. He must have worn a heavy coat to go to Craven Hill. The night was bitter. He stood up and walked over to the cupboard near the door. He pulled it open silently. There was an overcoat on the hanger. He touched the shoulders. The cloth was still wet. Had he been to Craven Hill, or simply to look for more opium? He leaned forward and sniffed, but there was no odor. But the bomber would have left before the blast anyway.
Should he stay in case Alexander collapsed and needed his help even to get back into his room and the chair? Might he be alone and unconscious on the bathroom floor? Or was the supplier waiting until Pitt was gone before he would appear with help? Anything that delayed that, even for minutes, was prolonging the torture.
He would go, and then come back again later, to make certain Alexander was all right. Perhaps he would find a doctor he could trust to be discreet?
He got up and went to the bathroom door just as Alexander opened it and came out. He looked white, but relieved of some of the pain.
“Let me take you to a hospital,” Pitt asked. “They’ll give you something immediately.”
“One dose,” Alexander replied. “What about tomorrow? And the next day?”
Pitt had no answer.
One thing he could do was find out what had really happened in the Lezant case.
Alexander was in no shape to talk to him. Who could he find to tell him, on Christmas Eve?
“I’ll come back and check you’re all right,” he said. What was that worth? Anything?
Alexander tried to smile and muttered a thank you.
Pitt walked down the narrow stairs and out into the rain again. It was cold, but the wind had dropped. He decided he would go see the lawyer who had prosecuted the Lezant case, a Walter Cornard. However, when he reached the office Pitt was told, with some surprise that he should ask, that Mr. Cornard had left for the Christmas holidays and was not expected to return until December 27.
Pitt had introduced himself simply with his name and rank. Now he met the man’s startled look grimly. “Of Special Branch,” he added. “I am sorry to inconvenience your Christmas, and my own, but there has been another bombing, and I’m afraid the matter will not wait until we have enjoyed Christmas dinner.”
The man blanched. “I assure you, Commander Pitt, if we had any knowledge at all of such matters, we would already have informed the police.”
“I need to speak to Mr. Cornard regarding an old case. You will be good enough to give me his address,” Pitt replied. “Immediately.”
The man lifted his chin sharply into the air in a gesture of defiance, but he complied.
An hour later Pitt was sitting in the rather chilly library of Mr. Walter Cornard’s home, listening to the occasional bursts of laughter from the withdrawing room where clearly family guests were enjoying themselves. He had passed the huge, brightly decorated tree in the hall, and many garlands and wreaths of holly and ivy, woven with scarlet ribbons. Cut-glass bowls of chocolates and candied fruit sat on the side tables, and red candles burned on the mantel.
The library fire was unlit and not much warmth crept through from the rest of the house. Clearly this room was not intended to be used today.
Pitt stood up and paced back and forth to stop himself feeling even colder. He hoped Alexander Duncannon’s supplier of opium had turned up. At least Alexander had enough money to pay for it. Probably the man would come. It was his business.