Betrayal at Lisson Grove (46 page)

What if it were all a plan to ruin Special Branch? Discredit it into oblivion?

He froze.

Ahead of him Stoker tiptoed across the hall to stand, little more than a shadow, in the doorway next to the study, where Croxdale would have his back to him when he came out to go back to Pitt.

The seconds ticked by.

Was Croxdale speaking to the Prime Minister? What could he tell him over a telephone? Would he have to go and see him in person in order to raise a force of men to relieve Osborne House? No – this was an emergency, no time to argue, or plead a case. Was he arranging to have Austwick arrested?

The study door opened and Croxdale came out. Now was the time for decision, as Croxdale walked across the unlit hall, before he reached the sitting-room door.

Pitt stepped forward. ‘Sir Gerald, Austwick is not the leader in the attempted coup.’

Croxdale stopped. ‘What the devil are you talking about? If there’s somebody else, why in God’s name didn’t you tell me before?’

‘Because I didn’t know who it was,’ Pitt said honestly.

Croxdale was in the shadow, his face all but invisible. ‘And now you do?’ His voice was soft. Was it in disbelief, or understanding at last?

‘Yes,’ Pitt said.

Stoker moved silently forward until he was a yard behind Croxdale. He had deliberately chosen an angle to come where he cast no shadow.

‘Indeed. And who is it?’ Croxdale asked.

‘You,’ Pitt answered.

There was total silence.

Croxdale was a big man, heavy. Pitt wondered if he and Stoker would be able to take him, if he fought back, if he called for the footman, who must be waiting somewhere. Please God he was in the kitchen where he would only hear a bell. But he would not go back to bed while his master was up and there were visitors in the house.

‘You made a mistake,’ Pitt pointed out, as much to hold Croxdale’s attention from any slight sound Stoker might make as for any reasoning.

‘Really? What was that?’ Croxdale did not sound alarmed. In seconds he had regained his composure.

‘The amount of money you paid Mulhare.’

‘He was worth it. He gave us Byrne,’ Croxdale replied, the contempt undisguised in his voice. ‘If you were up to your job, you would know that.’

‘Oh, I do know it,’ Pitt answered, keeping his eyes on Croxdale so he did not waver even once and glance at Stoker behind him. ‘The point is not whether Mulhare was worth it, it is that that amount had to be authorised by more than one man. It has your signature on it.’

‘What of it?’ Croxdale asked. ‘It was a legitimate payment.’

‘It was used to get rid of Narraway – and you said you didn’t know anything about it,’ Pitt reminded him.

Croxdale brought his hands out of his pockets. In the left one there was a small gun. The light from the sitting room behind Pitt gleamed on the metal of the barrel as Croxdale raised it.

Pitt swung round as if Stoker were behind him, just as Stoker slammed into Croxdale, kicking high and hard at his left elbow.

The gun flew in the air. Pitt lunged for it, just catching it as it arced over to his left.

Croxdale swung round and grabbed at Stoker, twisting his arm and turning him so he half-fell and Croxdale had him in a stranglehold.

‘Give me back the gun, or I’ll break his neck!’ Croxdale said in a grating voice, just a little high-pitched.

Pitt had no doubt whatever that he would do it. The mask was off: Croxdale had nothing to lose. Pitt looked at Stoker’s face, which was already turning red as his neck was crushed by Croxdale’s hold. There was no choice. Stoker was still only half in front of Croxdale, but slipping forward and sideways. A minute more and he would be unconscious and form a perfect shield.

Pitt shot Croxdale in the head, making a single wound. He was surprised how accurate he was, not because of the distance – which was short enough – but because he had never shot a man to death before.

Croxdale fell backwards. Stoker, sprayed with blood, staggered and collapsed onto the floor.

Pitt dropped the gun and held out his hand, hauling Stoker to his feet again.

Stoker looked at the gun.

‘Leave it!’ Pitt said, startled to find his voice almost level. ‘The Minister shot himself when he realised we had proof of his treason. We didn’t know he had a gun, so we weren’t able to prevent him from doing it.’ Now he was shaking, and it took all his control to keep even reasonably steady. ‘What the hell did you think you were doing?’ he snarled at Stoker suddenly. ‘He would have killed you, you fool!’

Stoker coughed and rubbed his hand over his throat. ‘I know that,’ he said huskily. ‘Just as well you shot him, or I’d have been the one on the floor. Thank you, sir.’

Pitt was about to tell Stoker that he was incompetent to have allowed Croxdale to grasp hold of him like that. However, with a shock like a physical blow, he realised that Stoker had done it on purpose, risking his own life to force Pitt to shoot Croxdale. He stared at him as if seeing him for the first time.

‘What could we have done with him, sir?’ Stoker said pragmatically. ‘Tie him up here, for his servants to find and let go? Take him with us, in a hansom cab or one of us stay and sit—’

‘All right!’ Pitt cut him off. ‘Now we have to get to the Isle of Wight and rescue the Queen – and Narraway and Lady Vespasia, and my wife.’ His mind raced, picturing the men he knew were going to be there: violent, fanatical men like Portman, Gallagher, Haddon, Fenner, and others with the same distorted idealism, willing to kill and to die for the changes they believed would bring a new era of social justice.

Then another idea came to him. ‘If he had Austwick arrested, where would he be taken to? Quickly?’

‘Austwick?’ Stoker did not understand.

‘Yes. Where would he be now? Where does he live, do you know? How can we find out?’

‘Kensington, sir, not far from here,’ Stoker replied. ‘It’d be the Kensington Police – if Croxdale really called anyone.’

‘If he didn’t, we will,’ Pitt said, now knowing exactly what he was going to do. ‘Come on, we’ve got to hurry. We don’t know who Croxdale actually spoke to. It won’t have been the Prime Minister.’ He started towards Croxdale’s study.

‘Sir!’ Stoker said, bewildered.

Pitt turned. ‘If one of the servants comes down, tell him Sir Gerald shot himself. Do what you can to make it look right. I’m going to call the Kensington Police.’ In Croxdale’s study there was no time to search. He picked up the receiver and asked the operator to connect him, as an emergency. Perhaps Croxdale had done the same.

As soon as they answered he identified himself and said that there had been a practical joke suggested concerning Mr Austwick, and arresting him. It should be disregarded.

‘Are you sure, sir?’ the man at the other end said doubtfully. ‘We’ve ’ad nothing ’ere.’

‘Mr Austwick lives in your area?’ Pitt had a sudden sinking in the pit of his stomach.

‘Oh, yes, sir.’

‘Then we’d better make certain he’s safe. What is his address?’

The man hesitated a moment, then told him. ‘But we’ll send men there ourselves, sir, if you’ll pardon me, seein’ as ’ow I don’t really know ’oo you are.’

‘Good. Do that,’ Pitt agreed. ‘We’ll be there as soon as I can get a cab.’ He replaced the receiver and went to find Stoker. The other man was waiting by the front door, anxiously moving his weight from one foot to the other.

‘Right, find a hansom,’ Pitt told him.

‘We’ll have to walk as far as the main road,’ Stoker warned, opening the door and slipping out with immense relief. They started striding along at as rapid a pace as possible, without actually running.

It was still several minutes before they found a cab, and gave Austwick’s address, with orders to make the best speed possible.

‘What are we going to do with Austwick, sir?’ Stoker asked. He had to raise his voice above the clatter of the hoofs and the rattle and hiss of wheels over the cobbles.

‘Get him to help us,’ Pitt replied. ‘They’re his men down there. He’s the one person who might be able to call them off without an all-out shooting battle. We won’t have achieved much in capturing them if they kill the Queen in the process.’ He did not mention Narraway or Vespasia, or, above all, Charlotte.

‘Do you think he’ll do that?’ Stoker asked.

‘It’s up to us to persuade him,’ Pitt said grimly. ‘Croxdale’s dead, Narraway’s alive. I doubt the Queen will sign anything that reduces the power or dignity of the Crown, even in fear of her life.’

Stoker did not reply, but in the light of the next streetlamp they passed, Pitt saw that he was smiling.

When they reached Austwick’s house there were police outside it, discreetly, well in the shadows.

Pitt identified himself, showing them his new warrant card, and Stoker did the same.

‘Yes, sir,’ the police sergeant said smartly. ‘How can we help, sir?’

Pitt made an instant decision. ‘We are going to collect Mr Austwick and we are all going to travel to Portsmouth, as rapidly as possible.’

The sergeant looked bemused.

‘Use Austwick’s telephone. Hold the night train,’ Pitt told him. ‘It’s imperative we get to the Isle of Wight by morning.’

The sergeant came to attention. ‘Yes, sir. I’ll . . . I’ll call immediately.’

Pitt smiled at him. ‘Thank you.’ Then he nodded to Stoker. They went to the front door of Austwick’s house and knocked hard and continuously until a footman in his nightshirt opened it, blinking and drawing in breath to demand an explanation.

Pitt told him sharply to step back.

The man saw the police beyond Pitt, and Stoker at his elbow, and did as he was told. Ten minutes later Austwick was in the hall, hastily dressed, unshaven and very angry.

‘What the hell is going on?’ he said furiously. ‘Do you know what time it is, man?’

Pitt looked at the longcase clock at the far side of the hall. ‘Coming up to quarter to two,’ he answered. ‘And we must make Portsmouth by dawn.’

Austwick paled visibly, even in the dim light of the hall with its main chandelier unlit. If anything could tell Pitt that he knew of Croxdale’s plan, it was the fear in his face now.

‘Croxdale is dead,’ Pitt said simply. ‘He shot himself when we faced him with his plans. It’s all over. Narraway’s back. He’s at Osborne now, with the Queen. You’ve got two choices, Austwick. We can arrest you now, and you’ll be tried as a traitor. You’ll hang, and your family will never live it down. Your grandchildren, if you have any, will still carry the stigma of your name.’ He saw Austwick’s horror, but could not afford to pity him. ‘Or you can come with us and call off your men from Osborne,’ he went on. ‘You have two minutes to choose. Do you wish to hang as a traitor, or come with us, to live or die as a hero?’

Austwick was too paralysed with fear to speak.

‘Good,’ Pitt said decisively. ‘You’re coming with us. I thought you’d do that. We’re going for the night train to Portsmouth. Hurry.’

Stoker grasped Austwick by the arm, holding him hard, and they stumbled out into the night.

They half-heaved him into the waiting hansom, then sat with one on either side of them. Two uniformed police followed in another cab, ready to clear traffic, if there should be any, and confirm that the night train was held.

They raced through the streets in silence towards the railway station, where they could catch the mail train to the coast. Pitt found his fists clenched and his whole body aching with the tension of not knowing whether the sergeant he had instructed had been able to hold the train there. It can have taken only a telephone call from Austwick’s house to his own police station, and then a call from there to the railway. What if the stationmaster on night duty did not believe them, or not realise the urgency of it? What if he was simply incompetent for such a crisis?

They swayed and lurched along the all-but-deserted streets. One moment he was desperate that they were going too slowly, the next, as they slewed around a corner, that they were going too fast and would tip over.

At the station they leaped out, Pitt wildly overpaying the driver because he could not wait for change. They ran into the station, dragging Austwick with them. The sergeant showed his warrant card and shouted at the stationmaster to direct them to the train.

The man obeyed with haste, but was clearly unhappy about it all. He looked at Austwick’s ashen face and dragging feet with pity. For a moment Pitt feared he was going to intervene.

The train was waiting, the engine belching steam. A very impatient guard stood at the door of his van, his whistle in one hand ready to raise to his lips.

Pitt thanked the sergeant and his men, happy to be able to give them some idea of how intensely grateful he was. He made a mental note to commend the sergeant if they survived the night, and if his own reputation was such that his appreciation was a blessing, not a curse.

As soon as they were in the guard’s van, the whistle blew. The train lurched forward like a horse that had been straining at the bit.

The guard was a small, neat man with bright blue eyes.

‘I hope all this is worth it,’ he said, looking at Pitt dubiously. ‘You’ve a lot of explaining to do, young man. Do you realise you have kept this train waiting ten minutes?’ He glanced at his pocket watch and then replaced it. ‘Eleven minutes,’ he corrected himself. ‘This train carries the Royal Mail. Nobody holds us up. Not rain nor floods nor lightning storms. And now we are standing around the platform for the likes of you.’

‘Thank you,’ Pitt said a little breathlessly.

The guard stared at him. ‘Well . . . nice manners are all very good, but you can’t hold up the Royal Mail, you know. While it’s in my care, it belongs to the Queen.’

Pitt drew in his breath to reply, and then the irony of the situation struck him. Smiling, he said nothing.