Pitt had at last learned not to fill other men’s silences with words he would rather not say. He ate his breakfast, without enjoyment.
“Narraway must have some plan,” Abercorn said at last. “You know the man. More to the point, he knows you! Is he going to try to trip you? What does he imagine he can do that Godfrey Duncannon has allowed him to represent the family? I have a powerful feeling that there is something I don’t know! What is it, Pitt?”
Pitt was startled. “What makes you think that?” He was playing for time, studying Abercorn’s face, the tension in his body as he sought to probe Pitt’s thoughts. Was this what the meeting was really about? “How well do you know Alexander Duncannon?” he asked. It was a thought that had only just occurred to him, and probably it was irrelevant.
Abercorn’s expression was extraordinary: a mixture of a terrible humor, bitter and deep; a satisfaction as if tasting something delicate, determined not to gulp it; and a pain that was almost overwhelming.
“Alexander?” Abercorn said with his eyebrows raised. “Our paths have seldom crossed. Why do you ask?”
Pitt shrugged, aware now that they were playing a complicated game with no rules to it. “Looking for what it could be that we don’t know,” he answered.
“Why did Godfrey allow Narraway to do this?” Abercorn held his fork in the air, the next mouthful for once ignored.
“Perhaps it was Alexander’s decision?” Pitt suggested, knowing that it was.
“Why? Cardew was to be his lawyer. He would have been excellent. He would at least have put up a battle.”
“But would he have won?” Pitt asked.
Abercorn pursed his lips doubtfully. “Insanity, perhaps. Narraway hasn’t even put it forward. God knows why. It’s all there is.”
“Perhaps he doesn’t think it would work?”
“Nothing’s going to work!” Abercorn said with a sudden rush of emotion. His big broad hand was clenched on his knife, his face was flushed with a wave of color. “He’s guilty!”
“Yes, he is,” Pitt agreed. He felt as if the room stifled him. He thought of Alexander bent double with pain, the sweat pouring off his face, his shirt soaked with it. He wanted justice for Lezant. He would die for it. He was going to die anyway. The opium would see to that.
Could Narraway bring about that justice?
There was something Pitt had missed, some connection. He racked his brain, but the pieces still did not fit, not quite.
Chapter 14
When the trial resumed, Pitt took the stand immediately. He climbed the steps, faced the court, and swore to his name, rank, and occupation. He was aware of Alexander in the dock, white-faced and motionless. He knew that Cecily would be in the front seats of the gallery, with Emily beside her, somewhere that Alexander could see her.
Pitt glanced at Charlotte once; she was sitting with Vespasia. Then he turned all his concentration on Abercorn as he stepped forward and began what was intended to be his cornerstone of the prosecution.
“My lord,” Abercorn addressed the judge, “I shall not ask Commander Pitt more than necessary about the terrible carnage he saw when he arrived at Lancaster Gate on the day of the bombing. We already know exactly what happened from the two victims who survived that atrocity. Nothing could be more immediate or more accurate than their accounts. We have heard from the firemen, from the ambulance men, and from the hospital doctors. We need no more retelling of the horror and the pain.”
He gestured toward Pitt on the stand. “What I will ask Commander Pitt to tell you is how he investigated the crime, how he put together all the evidence and came to the inevitable and terrible conclusion that Alexander Duncannon was responsible for it. He, and he alone, did this thing. I have no doubt whatever that you will reach the same conclusion.” He gave a very slight bow, a tiny gesture of courtesy, and then he looked up directly at Pitt.
“This must have been extraordinarily distressing for you, Commander,” he began, his voice filled with sympathy. “You will have seen many disasters, many crimes, but these men whose shattered corpses you found were fellow police officers! Men exactly as you were yourself only a few years ago.”
Pitt thought of Newman’s body hunched up, broken. He could smell the charred flesh as if it had been moments since it had happened. His throat was so tight it was hard to speak. The question had come without warning, and he knew Abercorn had done this on purpose. It was brilliant theater. He appreciated it and hated him for it at the same moment. Please God Narraway would be as good at it when it was his turn.
“Yes,” he agreed.
“Did you actually know any of the victims?” Abercorn asked.
There was silence in the courtroom. No one even fidgeted. Pitt was aware that the jurors were all watching him minutely, enthralled, and he had barely begun. He hated it. Everything depended upon him.
“Yes, I had heard the names of all of them, and I knew Newman and Hobbs personally,” he answered.
“It must have been terrible for you,” Abercorn dwelt on it for a moment, allowing the imagery to sink in. He did not leave it long enough for Narraway to object that it was not a question. “After you had seen the bodies,” he continued, “and made sure the survivors had been taken to hospital, and that the fires were out and the structure of the building, what was left of it, was safe to examine, what did you do next?”
“Looked for passersby, possible witnesses,” Pitt answered. “Unfortunately we learned very little of value. We also did all we could to find any remnants of the bomb, and to work out from the wreckage exactly where it had been placed.”
“Why? What difference did that make?” Abercorn sounded interested. He was not following the pattern he had discussed with Pitt. Maybe he did not wish it to sound rehearsed.
“The more you know about an explosion, the more likely you are to be able to deduce the ingredients of a bomb, the amount of dynamite used, the container, how it was detonated.”
“What good does that do?”
“There are not many sources of dynamite.” Pitt went on to explain the various types of bomb, how they were constructed and used. Abercorn did not interrupt him, and neither did Narraway. The public in the gallery were watching a drama unfold, whether or not they understood where it was leading.
Abercorn nodded. “The source of this dynamite, Commander-were you able to trace it, in this instance?”
“Yes-”
“Is one lot of dynamite different from another?” Abercorn interrupted.
“Not that you can tell, once it has exploded. But it is very carefully controlled,” Pitt explained. “No one can prevent the occasional theft, especially from quarries where it is used frequently. One doesn’t trace the dynamite so much as the men who steal it, sell it, or buy it. They are usually recognizable.”
“And Special Branch knows who deals in stolen dynamite?”
“Yes.” He did not qualify it. How many dealers they did not know was a matter of calculation. Abercorn had insisted that his testimony remain simple. Complication would confuse the jury. Not that Pitt needed telling that.
Abercorn paced two or three steps from the place where he had begun.
“And you traced the thief, the seller, and the purchaser of this particular dynamite?”
“As far as we could.” Carefully, in simple detail, Pitt recounted how they had traced the dynamite from the quarry from which it had been stolen, through the thief, his contacts among the anarchists. No one interrupted him. Narraway sat as if paralyzed. Pitt was careful not to look at him, except momentarily, out of the corner of his eye. He knew Vespasia was beside Charlotte, but he dared not even imagine what she was feeling.