“Again, do you believe Lezant was guilty?”
“Of shooting Tyndale? No, I don’t think so.”
“Thank you.”
“I…I wish I could have saved him. I look back now and wonder if I tried hard enough.” He stopped abruptly.
Pitt rose to his feet. “Thank you, Mr. Hayman. I appreciate your honesty.”
Hayman stood also. “Not much point in wishing you a merry Christmas, is there? I don’t envy your job, sir. You have a nasty mess that won’t be either opened or closed easily.”
It was just after midnight when Pitt finally got home and went to bed. It did not feel like Christmas morning, a day of celebration, a new hope for the world, if the Church were to be believed, the dawn of a new redemption.
He must make an effort, for his family’s sake, no matter what he felt like: he must smile, go to church, let the music and the bells, the sound of happy voices drown out all other sounds. He owed his children that, even if Charlotte knew him well enough to read the shadows inside.
It was the day after Christmas, traditionally known as Boxing Day, named for the boxes of money or other gifts the well-off gave to their staff, tradesmen, or others less fortunate. Pitt did not call on Tellman and Gracie for this reason, although he did take them a hamper of gifts from Charlotte and himself, because they were old friends. It had nothing to do with social position. Also, it was the perfect opportunity to leave the last shred of the quarrel behind. They both wanted it forgotten and that was what the heart of Christmas was about.
While Gracie prepared their tea and rich, fruit-filled Christmas cake, Pitt sat with Tellman in the parlor. The fire was burning up well and the whole room was decorated with homemade, brightly colored paper chains. Dark red candles flickered on both ends of the mantel.
Pitt looked around at the parlor and smiled. Every touch in it spoke not of money but of care. Christina’s toys were placed in one corner, as if it were her part of the room. There was a stuffed rabbit, a box of bricks, and a doll with a homemade pink dress on. Pitt was absolutely certain that the little girl would have a dress of the same fabric. Years ago Jemima had had the same. He remembered Charlotte stitching it, and Jemima’s face when she had opened the parcel.
It seemed almost a blasphemy to force a conversation about violence and corruption. It should not be permitted to intrude in a place like this. But that was the evil of it. It intruded everywhere, until it was stopped.
“I saw the lawyers for the prosecution and the defense for Lezant on Christmas Eve,” Pitt said, biting into the cake. It was excellent. He would immeasurably have preferred to eat it and think of nothing else. Gracie’s cooking was very much to his taste, and it had improved all the time over the years.
Tellman cut straight to the point. “They think he was innocent?”
“Of shooting Tyndale, the defense thought so, yes. The prosecution thought Tyndale could have been the drug dealer, but I don’t think it’s likely. We’ve no choice but to investigate further. I hate dragging dead men’s names through the mud, but there’s no alternative now. At least it will stop Alexander Duncannon from setting off any more bombs.”
“He’s as mad as a hatter!” Tellman said bitterly.
“Probably. But that doesn’t mean he’s wrong about this. If he is, I’ll be delighted, but I need to prove it.”
Tellman did not argue. It was as if the comfort and sanity of Christmas had robbed him of the anger he had felt before. “Where are you going to start?” he asked. “Ednam’s dead, and I doubt Yarcombe or Bossiney’ll tell you anything useful. They don’t want to be tarred with the same brush.”
“I doubt it, too,” Pitt agreed. “The police tried to trace everything they could about poor Tyndale at the time, but we could go over it again. I think he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. But I’d like to know who the dealer was, and why he wasn’t there. What happened to him? And why did any of the police have guns? Was it an accident that Tyndale was hit? The only people there were other police, Lezant, and Duncannon.”
“They said Duncannon wasn’t there,” Tellman pointed out.
“Best thing to say to discredit him,” Pitt answered. “If he wasn’t there then his testimony was useless. Anything he said had to be a lie.”
Tellman’s face was grim. “No way to verify that. Of course, the police could have been shooting at Duncannon to prevent his escape, and got Tyndale instead.”
“We need to go to the place and see exactly where the shots were fired,” Pitt said unhappily. “Read the testimony over again, and get the other men who were there to repeat their statements.”
“Everyone took it for granted that Lezant was guilty.” Tellman’s voice was hard. He found the words difficult to say. “Of course, it could be that it was so absurd they didn’t bother questioning it any further,” he added.
Pitt gave him a cold look, and did not add any words.
Tellman colored slightly. He was uncomfortable, desperate to cling onto his old certainties.
Gracie came in with the tea and set it down. Without asking, she poured for each of them. She possibly knew Pitt’s taste even better than she knew Tellman’s.
“Wot yer going ter do, then?” She looked from one to the other. “Yer gonna bury it and leave it till it poisons everything, or yer going ter dig up all the roots until yer got it all, an’ yer can burn it?”
“We’re going to dig it up,” Tellman answered before Pitt could swallow his cake and form the words.
Pitt did not find Alexander at his flat this time. His mother must have persuaded him to come home for Christmas, or else he had felt well enough to offer her that, perhaps the best gift he could give her.
He made his way to the Duncannons’ house, through the fog that curled thick as smoke over the city. The street lamps were hazy yellow, seeming to move as the rising wind twined the vapors across them like scarves.
He was conducted to the morning room as soon as he arrived. The house smelled of mulled wine, spice, the perfumed greenery of wreaths, and the burning of applewood, cigars, and thick, colored wax candles. A Christmas tree in the hall was hung with glass ornaments reflecting the glitter of the chandeliers in their faceted sides.
“I’ll keep it brief,” Pitt said the moment the door was closed and he and Alexander were alone. “I’ve read all the records of Lezant’s trial, and the police reports. I’ve talked to both Cornard and Hayman. There are a lot of unexplained elements in the story. There is certainly a possibility that errors have been made. I see why you wanted to be called to the stand, and why Lezant wouldn’t allow it. You wouldn’t have been believed anyway. You might have got yourself hanged as well, for no cause.”
Alexander looked startled. “I didn’t shoot Tyndale!”
“I know that. But he was shot while you were in the act of committing a crime. That makes you guilty, even though you didn’t pull the trigger.”
“Neither did Dylan! It was one of the police,” Alexander said hotly. There was a flush in his pale face and his hands were clenched on his knee.
“Why? Was it an accident? Were they shooting at you? Why was anyone shooting at all? Are you sure you didn’t have a gun, either of you?”
“Yes, of course I’m sure!” Alexander’s voice was raised. “Why would we take guns? If you’re addicted to opium you don’t shoot your supplier, for God’s sake! He’s your lifeline! If he’s dead, you’re cut off.” The panic rose in his voice as if the threat were there in the room with him now.
Pitt fought the urge to believe him and was overwhelmed. It was the truth, and he could not refuse to see it.