Pitt did not argue. Unfortunately what Stoker said was true, hard as they tried to prevent it. “I’m going to see Bradshaw,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
Pitt was shown into Bradshaw’s office immediately. This time there was no pretense at being busy with more important things, as there had been on occasion. Bradshaw was a good-looking man in his early fifties. His thick hair had little gray in it and he had not yet developed any surplus body weight. He was well dressed, as always, but creases of tension marred the smoothness of his face.
“How are the men, Pitt?” he began without ceremony the moment Pitt was in and had closed the door. He waved toward one of the elegant chairs but did not bother with an invitation.
“Two dead, sir,” Pitt replied, walking over toward the desk, his feet silent on the heavy Turkish rug. “Newman and Hobbs. Ednam, Bossiney, and Yarcombe injured. Yarcombe lost part of an arm. Too early to say if they’ll recover.”
Bradshaw winced. “It’s police who were killed,” he said sharply. “It was a police case.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know what it was about?”
“A very large opium sale.”
Bradshaw’s face paled, the muscles in his jaw tight. “Opium,” he said quietly. “Have you…have you any idea who is involved?”
“Not yet…”
“Why is Special Branch taking the case?” His voice was hard-edged, challenging. “What evidence have you that it’s terrorists? Do you know who’s behind it? Did you know before?”
“No, sir. We were not consulted until after the bomb went off this morning. It was one of their informers who lured them to the meeting, and with information that caused them to bring five men, rather than just a couple.”
“They had an informer? How do you know that?”
“I got it from Ednam when I saw him in hospital.”
“Poor devil,” Bradshaw said softly. “Who is this informer?”
“Always communicates by letter. Calls himself Anno Domini.”
“Educated man?” Bradshaw looked surprised.
“Possibly,” Pitt said.
“I presume you’re looking for this man?”
“Yes, sir. And working with the police.”
“But what are you doing?” Bradshaw pressed.
“Looking at all our contacts, asking our usual informers…”
“Do your anarchists deal in opium?”
“Possibly. And they certainly deal in dynamite.”
Bradshaw sighed. “Yes, of course they do. Damn them.” He regarded Pitt bleakly, his face filled with pain. “I suppose you’ve inherited a network of spies from Victor Narraway? You must have some ideas. Or am I out of date?”
Pitt had a retaliation on the tip of his tongue, but he knew better. “We’ll do our best, Commissioner,” he said gently. “And I will keep you aware of any progress we make. On a day-to-day basis, I will be working with Inspector Tellman.”
Bradshaw nodded. “Anything you want that we can help with…” he said grimly. “But I imagine you have your own men.” It was not a question. He had no liking for Special Branch, and no wish to lend any of his force to do their work.
The first thing Pitt did was to visit the families. It was the worst duty in all police or Special Branch work, and it could not be passed off to anyone else.
It was late when Pitt arrived home in Keppel Street, just off Russell Square. The streetlamps were haloed by a faint mist, which softened the outlines of the houses, blurring boundaries between them.
He was exhausted. He had stopped back at Lisson Grove and heard from Stoker the daily reports coming in: the threats, attacks, rivalries, anything that would give them a place to start. He had found no reference to the address in Lancaster Gate, and no one at all using the sobriquet Anno Domini.
As Pitt climbed the steps to the familiar door, a sense of peace fell over him, as if he could leave the violence and the grief of the day behind him. He slipped his key in the lock and went inside, closing it with a slight noise deliberately. He wanted somebody to know he was home, even though it was late and seventeen-year-old Jemima and fourteen-year-old Daniel would already have eaten, and possibly even gone to bed. Charlotte would have waited up for him. She always did.
The light was warm and bright in the hall.
The parlor door opened and she stood there, the lamplight on her hair bringing out its auburn tones. She came toward him, concern in her face.
He took off his hat and coat and hung them up where they could dry out, then turned and kissed her gently.
“You’re cold,” she said, touching his cheek. “Have you eaten anything? Would you like a roast beef sandwich and a cup of tea?”
He suddenly realized he was hungry and, sensing his response before he spoke it, she turned and led the way to the kitchen. It was always his favorite room anyway. It smelled of clean-scrubbed wood, of the freshly ironed linen hanging on the airing rail winched up to the ceiling, sometimes of new bread. There was a large wooden table in the center, and a Welsh dresser in the corner with blue-and-white ringed plates arranged on it, and a few jugs. Copper pans gleamed on hooks on the wall.
For years it had been the heart of the house. All kinds of people had sat here long into the night, talking of plans, easing defeats, helping one another to believe in victory. Gracie had come here as a maid when she was still a child. She was married to Tellman now, but there were moments when Pitt still missed her, as if he could hear her voice and she were only in the pantry or the hall, and might come around the corner at any moment. Now it was Minnie Maude who had taken her place, but she had not Gracie’s sharp tongue, or bright, stubborn courage-not yet.
He pulled out a chair and sat down as Charlotte moved the kettle over onto the hottest part of the oven hob, and began to slice the beef.
“No horseradish,” he reminded her. It was part of a ritual. He never had horseradish. He liked pickle.
She nodded very slightly. “It was in the evening newspapers. They didn’t give names. Did you know any of them?”
He hesitated, but only for a moment. “Yes. Newman was one of them. I…I told his wife.”
Charlotte stood motionless for a moment, the tears filling her eyes. “Oh, Thomas, I’m sorry! I remember her at her wedding-she was so happy! This is terrible.” She swallowed, trying to control her emotion. “And the others?”
“I’ve seen them, but Newman was the only one I really knew.”
“Are the injured ones going to be all right?”
“It’s too early to say. One of them lost an arm.”
Charlotte didn’t try to say anything comforting, and he was glad of it. She cut the bread, spread a little butter, then laid the beef thickly, adding pickle. The kettle boiled. She warmed the teapot, put in three spoons of tea, then added water and carried it all to the table.
“What are they saying in the papers?” he asked as he picked up the sandwich and bit into it. The taste was rich and sharp.
“That it’s the work of anarchists,” she replied. “That people are frightened, and everything seems so uncertain. It’s as if there is violence in the air and you never know quite where the next attack is coming from.” She poured the tea ready for him and a cup for herself. “I suppose that’s the aim of anarchists, isn’t it? The kind of fear that disables people and makes them do stupid things.” It was not a question. It was what she believed. She said it aloud because she wished him to know she understood.
He swallowed his mouthful and took another.
“In thirteen months we’ll be into the 1900s.” She sipped her tea. “A lot of people seem to think it will be a different century, really different. Darker and more violent. But why should it change? It’s only a date on a calendar. If anything, it’s perhaps a self-fulfilling prophecy-we’ll make it happen by thinking about it so much.”