“Because the case isn’t over,” Pitt answered candidly. “At least I don’t think it is.”
“He’s dead and buried!” Cornard stared at him. “What has it to do with Special Branch? Whoever blew up your buildings, it wasn’t Dylan Lezant.”
“Are you certain now that he killed Tyndale? I know what the jury said, but what about you?”
“No, I’m not. Why does it matter? He wasn’t an anarchist. I don’t think any mad bomber is trying to avenge him, if that’s what you’re imagining.”
“I don’t think it’s vengeance,” Pitt said honestly. “I think it’s an effort to force us to reopen the case. Not for revenge…to clear Lezant’s name.”
“And you believe Alexander Duncannon is behind it? Why? And why now? Lezant has been gone over two years.”
“What if Duncannon was telling the truth, and he was there?”
“And the police shot Tyndale? That makes no sense. Why would they?”
“Because he wasn’t the dealer, and maybe refused to stop. He couldn’t hand over the opium because he didn’t have it. Perhaps he argued with them? Challenged them?”
“If a citizen’s getting in the way, arguing with you, you don’t shoot him dead.” Cornard turned away, disgusted. “You warn him, and then you arrest him. For heaven’s sake, man, they would see the police uniforms! If he had any honest business there, he would have explained it, and gone on his way.”
“What if the police weren’t in uniform?” Pitt suggested.
Cornard gave a heavy sigh and moved his shoulders uncomfortably, as though suddenly his jacket did not fit him.
“That wasn’t put forward as a possibility,” he said. “It…it seemed as if there was really very little to argue about. There still is. I’m not sure why you are pursuing it.” Now he was openly questioning, his eyes bleak and curious.
“Duncannon has tried for two years to say that that particular police station was corrupt, and no one would listen to him. Now he’s lost patience. He’s ill himself. Perhaps he doesn’t think he has all that much time to play with.”
Cornard looked pale. “So he’s bombing police until someone does listen?”
“There were no casualties in the bombing this morning. But we were beginning to let the case go, at least until…for a while. Over Christmas and New Year. Now I can’t, much as I would like to.”
“I see.” From the expression on Cornard’s face, he really did see. “Hell of a business. I think Duncannon’s mad. If he’s into the opium as well-and why else would he have been there at that buy?-then it’s eating away at his brain. I’ve heard it can give people delusions, hallucinations. Poor devil…”
“It would be a convenient explanation.”
“You’d better go and see Hayman. He won’t appreciate it at this hour, but we can’t have any more bombs. Don’t know who’ll be next. Maybe not another empty building.”
Pitt had not needed reminding of that. He did not argue. Cornard gave him Hayman’s address, and he thanked him and left.
The house was not far away, but it took Pitt nearly three-quarters of an hour through rain and heavy traffic before he was reluctantly admitted into Hayman’s morning room. It was another ten minutes after that before Hayman himself came in. He was a slender man wearing a dark blue velvet smoking jacket, clearly having relaxed after dinner and begun the lazy part of the evening when he could do as he pleased. He looked to be in his late fifties, and possibly had no children still at home.
“What is it you think I can do for Special Branch, Mr. Pitt?” he said with a frown, rather more of confusion than annoyance. His face was lean, his colorless hair receding off a high forehead. “Do sit down, man!” he added, taking the green leather armchair opposite the one nearest Pitt. It was a pleasant room and the embers of the fire were still warm.
Pitt obeyed. The comfort of the chair made him momentarily aware of how tired he was. His back ached and his feet were cold and wet.
“Do you recall the Dylan Lezant case, Mr. Hayman?”
Hayman frowned. “Of course I do. Miserable business. Why does Special Branch care? He was an unhappy young man, something of a rebel against society, because he was out of step with it. Not an unusual thing for a young man with time on his hands, and perhaps too much imagination. But he was no serious anarchist. Wanted social change, certainly, but so do many of us. He wouldn’t have bombed anyone to get it. Anyway, he’s been dead a couple of years now, poor devil.”
Pitt felt a quickening of interest, and discomfort. He was not sure what he wanted to find, but he was afraid of learning that Alexander was right and the police were as badly wrong as he believed. Sitting here in this quiet, well-used morning room of a man he had not heard of until today, he was touched with a new chill as to what this would mean.
Hayman was staring at him, waiting for him to explain himself.
“The bombings,” Pitt said rather too bluntly. “I have to investigate every possibility. One of them is that they are related to the Dylan Lezant case.”
Hayman’s eyes widened. “The bombings at Lancaster Gate? How?”
“You defended him?” Pitt asked.
“Not very effectively, I’m afraid. The evidence was overwhelming…by that I mean that it overwhelmed me, and I think possibly a good deal of the truth was obfuscated by lies in the interpretation of the evidence.”
Pitt was still hoping for an argument, something that would take him in a different direction. He was being a coward. He should face the facts and allow them to lead him wherever they may.
“What evidence was there, Mr. Hayman, apart from police testimony? Could they prove that Lezant had had the gun, or any gun? Had he a history of violence? Why would he shoot Tyndale? Did anybody ever find the opium, or proof that Tyndale was anything but the passerby he appeared to be? Could Alexander Duncannon have been telling the truth that he was there, and saw the police shoot Tyndale?”
Hayman thought for several moments, all the light gradually dying out of his face.
“Duncannon was a bad witness,” he said at last. “I didn’t put him on the stand. He was willing enough to testify, but his father exerted all the pressure he could to prevent it. The prosecution would have done what they could to discredit him, and would have succeeded. He had been in an appalling accident and was still under the influence of the opium given him initially for the pain. No doubt you are familiar with opium addiction. He would have been exposed as an addict, his supplier very probably exposed, too, and his legality questioned. It was not his doctor: that I know because I found out for myself.”
“Who was it?” Pitt asked.
The barrister shook his head.
“I know only that it was not his doctor, because I went into his medical history very thoroughly.” His face was filled with pity. “Alexander wanted to testify that they both went to buy opium from their dealer, who did not turn up. The police did. Tyndale came by, purely by chance-he was not the dealer. The police panicked and shot wildly, hitting Tyndale and killing him immediately. With a spot of very quick thinking, they arrested Lezant, but Alexander escaped, presumably thinking Lezant was behind him.”
“What did Lezant say?” he asked.
“That the story was true. But he refused to have Alexander called. He said it would ruin Alexander and do little to help his case. He was right. It would have been a pointless sacrifice. But whether it would have helped or not, I had to do as Lezant wished.”
“Did you believe them?” It was a very blunt question, but Pitt needed an answer, even if it was only in the mounting surprise in Hayman’s eyes, and then the discomfort.
“I don’t know,” he said after a brief hesitation. “You have looked into it. Do you?”
Pitt had not expected Hayman to challenge him. “I think Alexander believes it,” he replied. “But whether that makes it true or not is another matter. How close were they?”
A flash of humor lit Hayman’s face and then vanished. “Friends in affliction, I think. The desperate loyalty of people who understood one another’s pain, and perhaps shared in many beliefs. Lovers, if that’s what you mean? No, I don’t think so. I’ve seen that before, and I would be very surprised. The love of brothers in grief, yes.”