The Whitechapel Conspiracy

chapter THREE
A little over three weeks later Pitt was home early from Bow Street and pottering happily in the garden. May was one of the most beautiful months, full of pale blossom, new leaves and the brilliant flare of tulips, the heavy scent of wallflowers rich as velvet. The lupines were beginning, tall columns of pinks, blues and purples, and he now had at least half a dozen Oriental poppies opening, fragile and gaudy as colored silk.

He was doing more admiring than actual work, even though there were sufficient weeds to have kept him fully occupied. He was hoping Charlotte would finish whatever domestic duties she had and would join him, and when he heard the French doors open he turned with pleasure. But it was Ardal Juster who walked down the lawn, his dark face grim.

Pitt's first thought was that the appeal judges had found some flaw in the procedure and the verdict had been overturned. He did not believe there was new evidence. He had searched everywhere at the time and questioned everyone.

Juster stopped in front of him. He glanced to right and left at the flower beds, then up at the sunlight pouring through the chestnut leaves at the far end of the lawn. He drew in a deep breath of the fragrance of damp earth and blossoms.

Pitt was about to break the tension himself when Juster spoke.

"Adinett's appeal failed," he said quietly. "It will be in the newspapers tomorrow. A majority verdict-four to one. Voisey delivered it. He was one of the four. Abercrombie was the only dissenting voice."

Pitt did not understand. Juster looked as if he had brought news of a defeat, not a victory. He seized on the only explanation he could think of, the one he felt himself, that to hang a man was a solution that degraded yourself and allowed the man no answer to his sin, no time to change. Certainly he believed Adinett had committed a profound evil, but it had always troubled him that he had no idea of the reason. It was just conceivable that had they known the whole truth everything might have looked different.

But even if it did not, and whatever Adinett was, to demand the final payment from him diminished those who exacted it more than it did him.

Juster's face in the evening sun was bleak with anxiety. There was only reflected light in his eyes.

"They'll hang him." Pitt put it into words.

"Of course," Juster answered. He pushed his hands into his pockets, still frowning. "That's not why I came. You'll read about it in the newspapers tomorrow, and anyway, you know as much about that as I do. I came to warn you."

Pitt was startled. A chill grew inside him, in spite of the balmy evening.

Juster bit his lip. "There was nothing wrong with the conviction, but there are many people who can't believe a man like John Adinett really murdered Fetters. If we could have provided them with a motive then they might have accepted it." He saw Pitt's expression. "I don't mean the ordinary man in the street. He's perfectly happy that justice has been done... possibly even agreeable that a man in Adinett's position can meet with the same justice as he would. Such people don't need to understand." He squinted a little in the light. "I mean men of Adinett's own class, men of power."

Pitt was still uncertain. "If they didn't overturn the verdict, then the law accepts both his guilt and that the trial was fairly conducted. They may grieve for him, but what else can they do?"

"Punish you for your temerity," Juster answered, then smiled lopsidedly. "And perhaps me too, depending on how far they consider it my choice to prosecute."

The warm wind stirred the leaves of the chestnut tree, and a dozen starlings swirled up into the air.

"I thought they had already hurled every insult that they could think of at me when I was on the witness stand," Pitt replied, remembering with a flash of anger and pain the charges against his father. He had been taken by surprise that it still hurt so much. He thought he had pushed it into the background and allowed it to heal over. It startled him that the scab was so easily ripped off and that the wound should bleed again.

Juster looked unhappy, a faint flush on his cheeks. "I'm sorry, Pitt. I thought I had warned you enough, but I'm not sure that I did. It's far from over."

Pitt felt a catch in his throat, as if for an instant it was hard to breathe. "What could they do?"

"I don't know, but Adinett has powerful friends... not powerful enough to save him, but they'll take losing hard. I wish I could warn you what to expect, but I don't know." His distress was plain in his eyes and the slight droop to his shoulders.

"It wouldn't have changed anything," Pitt said honestly. "If you don't prosecute a case because the accused has friends the whole law is worth nothing, and neither are we."

Juster smiled, the corners of his mouth turning down. He knew it was true, but the price was far from as simple, and he knew Pitt was speaking with bravado, and irony as well. He held out his hand. "If I can help, call me. I can defend as well as I can prosecute. I mean it, Pitt."

"Thank you," Pitt said sincerely. It was a lifeline he might need.

Juster nodded. "I like your flowers. That's the way to do it, lots of color all over the place. I can't bear straight rows. Too easy to see the faults, apart from anything else."

Pitt made himself smile. "That's my belief as well."

Together they stood drinking in the color in the evening air, the lazy droning of bees, the sound of children laughing in the distance, and the chattering birds. The perfume of the wallflowers was almost like a taste in the mouth.

Then finally Juster took his leave, and Pitt walked slowly back into the house.

***

The morning newspapers were all that Pitt had feared. In bold letters they announced the failure of Adinett's appeal and that he would be executed in three weeks' time. Pitt had already known, but seeing it in print made it more immediate. It tore away the last shred of evasion.

Almost underneath that news, where no one could miss it, was a long article by Reginald Cleave, who had defended Adinett and very openly still believed in his innocence. He spoke of the verdict as one of the great miscarriages of British justice in the current century, and predicted that the people would one day be bitterly ashamed of the establishment which had, in their name, carried out such a terrible wrong.

He did not castigate the judges of appeal, although he had some unkind words for the original trial judge. He was lenient with the jury, considering them unlearned men as far as the law was concerned, who were unwittingly led astray by those who were truly at fault. One of those was Ardal Juster. The main culprit was Pitt:

... a dangerously bigoted man who has abused the power of his office in order to carry out his private vendetta against the propertied classes because of the prosecution of his father for theft, when he was at an age not to understand the necessity and the justice of such a thing.

Since then he has defied authority in every way his imagination could conceive, short of actually losing his job and thus forfeiting the power he so profoundly desires. And make no mistake, he is an ambitious man, with an expensive wife to keep, and aspirations to act the gentleman himself.

But the officers who guard the law must be impartial, fair to all, fearing no one and favoring no one. That is the essence of justice, and it is in the end, the only freedom.

And there was more of the same, but he skipped over it, picking up a phrase here and there.

Charlotte was staring at him across the breakfast table, marmalade spoon in her hand. What should he tell her? If she saw the article it would make her angry first, then possibly frightened for him. And if he hid it, she would know he was being evasive, and that would be worse.

"Thomas?" Her voice cut across his thoughts.

"Reggie Gleave has written a rather vicious piece about the case," he replied. "Adinett lost his appeal, and Gleave has taken it hard. He defended him, you remember. Perhaps he really thinks he's innocent."

She was looking at him narrowly, her eyes worried, reading his expression rather than listening to his words.

He made himself smile. "Is there any more tea?" He folded up the newspaper and hesitated for a moment. If he took it, she was perfectly capable of going out and buying another. And the fact that he had hidden it from her would make her worry more. He put it down again on the table.

She put down the marmalade spoon and poured the tea. She said nothing further, but he knew that the moment he was out of the house, she would read the newspaper.

***

In the middle of the afternoon Assistant Commissioner Cornwallis sent for Pitt. Pitt knew the moment he stepped into Cornwallis's office that something was seriously wrong. He imagined a highly complex and embarrassing case, possibly even another like Fetters's murder, implicating someone of importance. That was the sort of matter he dealt with lately.

Cornwallis stood behind his desk as if he had been pacing the floor and was reluctant to sit. He was a lithe man of average height. Most of his life had been spent in the navy, and he still looked as if being in command of men at sea would suit his nature better, facing the elements rather than the deviousness of politics and public opinion.

"Yes sir?" Pitt enquired.

Cornwallis seemed deeply unhappy, as if he had spent time searching for words for what he had to say but he had not yet found them.

"Is it a new case?" Pitt asked.

"Yes... and no." Cornwallis gazed at him steadily. "Pitt, I hate this! I fought against it all morning, and I lost. No battle has ever sat worse with me. If I knew of anything else to do I would do it." He shook his head very slightly. "But I believe that if I pursue it any more I may only make it worse."

Pitt was confused, and Cornwallis's obvious distress touched him with a chill of apprehension.

"Is it a case? Who's involved?"

"In the East End," Cornwallis replied. "And I have no idea who's involved. Half of the anarchists in London, for all I know."

Pitt took a deep breath, steadying himself. Like all other police officers, and much of the general public, Pitt was aware of the anarchist activities in much of Europe, including the violent explosion at a restaurant in Paris and several explosions in London and various other European capitals. The French authorities had circulated a dossier containing pictures of five hundred wanted anarchists. Several were awaiting trial.

"Who's dead?" he asked. "Why are we called in? The East End is not our patch."

"No one is dead," Cornwallis replied. "It's a Special Branch matter."

"The Irish?" Pitt was startled. Like everyone else, he was perfectly aware of the Irish troubles, of the Fenians, of the history of myth and violence, tragedy and strife which had bedeviled Ireland over the last three hundred years. And he knew what unrest there was in parts of London, for which a special section of police had been set apart so that they might concentrate on dealing with the threat of bombings, assassination or even minor insurrection. It had originally been known as the Special Irish Branch.

"Not Irish in particular," Cornwallis corrected. "General political troubles; they just prefer not to be called political. The public wouldn't accept it."

"Why us?" Pitt asked. "I don't understand."

"You'd better sit down." Cornwallis waved at the chair opposite his desk, and Pitt obeyed.

"It's not us," Cornwallis said honestly. "It's you." He did not look away as he spoke but met Pitt's eyes unflinchingly. "You are relieved of command of Bow Street and seconded to Special Branch, from today."

Pitt was stunned. It was impossible. How could he be removed from Bow Street? He had done nothing even incompetent, far less wrong! He wanted to protest, but no words seemed adequate.

Cornwallis's mouth was stretched into a thin line, as if he felt some physical pain gnawing at him. "The command comes from the top," he said very quietly. "Far above me. I questioned it, then I fought it, but it is beyond my power to reverse. The men concerned all know each other. I am an outsider. I'm not one of them." He searched Pitt's eyes, trying to judge how much of his meaning Pitt had understood.

"Not one of them..." Pitt echoed. Old memories came flooding like a tide of darkness. He had seen the subtlest of corruption in the past, men who had secret loyalties which superseded every other honor or pledge, who would cover each other's crimes, who offered preference to their own and excluded all others. It was known as the Inner Circle. Its long tentacles had gripped him before, but he had thought little of it for a couple of years. Now Cornwallis was telling him that this was the enemy.

Perhaps he should not have been surprised. He had dealt them some hard blows in the past. They must have been biding their time to retaliate, and his testimony in court had given them the perfect opportunity.

"Friends of Adinett?" he said aloud.

Cornwallis nodded fractionally. "I have no way of knowing, but I would lay any odds you like on it." He too avoided mentioning the name, but neither of them doubted the meaning. Cornwallis drew in his breath. "You are to report to Mr. Victor Narraway, at the address I shall give you. He is the commander of Special Branch in the East End, and he will tell you your exact duties." He stopped abruptly.

Was he going to say that Narraway too was a member of the Inner Circle? If he were then Pitt was more profoundly alone than he had imagined.

"I wish I could tell you more about Narraway," Cornwallis said miserably. "But the whole of Special Branch is something of a closed book to the rest of us." Dislike puckered his face. He may have been obliged to accept that a clandestine force was necessary, but it offended his nature, as it did those of most Englishmen.

"I thought the Fenian trouble had died down," Pitt said candidly. "What could I do in Spitalfields that their own men couldn't do better?"

Cornwallis leaned forward over his desk. "Pitt, it has nothing to do with the Fenians, or the anarchists, and Spitalfields is immaterial." His voice was low and urgent. "They want you out of Bow Street. They are determined to break you, if they can. This is at least another job, for which you will be paid. Money will be deposited for your wife to withdraw. And if you are careful, and clever, they may be unable to find you, and believe me, that would be very desirable for some time to come. I... I wish it were not so."

Pitt intended to stand up, but found his legs weak. He started to ask how long he was to be banished to chasing shadows in the East End, robbed of dignity, of command, of the whole way of life he was used to... and had earned! He was not sure if he could bear the answer. Then, looking at Cornwallis's face, he realized the man had no answer to give.

"I have to live... in the East End?" he asked. He heard his own voice, dry and a little cracked, as if he had not spoken for days. He realized it was the sound of shock. He had heard the same tone in others when he had had to tell them unbearable news.

He shook himself. This was not unbearable. No one he loved was injured or dead. He had lost his home for himself, but it was there for Charlotte, and Daniel and Jemima. Only he would be missing.

But it was so unjust! He had done nothing wrong, nothing even mistaken. Adinett was guilty. Pitt had presented the evidence to a jury fairly, and they had weighed it and delivered a verdict.

Why had John Adinett killed Fetters? Even Juster had been unable to think of any reason. In everyone's belief they had been the best of friends, two men who not only shared a passion for travel and for objects treasured for their links with history and legend, but also shared many ideals and dreams for changing the future. They wanted a gentler, more tolerant society which offered a chance of improvement to all.

Juster had wondered if the motive could concern money or a woman. Both had been investigated, and no suggestion could be found of either's being the case. No one knew of even the slightest difference between the two men until that day. No raised voices had been heard. When the butler had brought the port half an hour earlier, the two men had seemed the best of friends.

But Pitt was certain he was not mistaken in the facts.

"Pitt..." Cornwallis was still leaning across the desk, staring at him, his eyes earnest.

Pitt refocused his attention. "Yes?"

"I'll do all I can." Cornwallis seemed embarrassed, as if he knew that was not enough. "Just... just wait it out. Be careful. And... and for God's sake, trust no one." His hands clenched on the polished oak surface. "I wish to God I had the power to do something. But I don't even know who I'm fighting..."

Pitt rose to his feet. "There's nothing to do," he said flatly. "Where do I find this Victor Narraway?"

Cornwallis handed him a slip of paper with an address written on it- 14 Lake Street, Mile End, New Town. It was on the edge of the Spitalfields area. "But go home first, collect what clothes you'll need, and personal things. Be careful what you tell Charlotte... Don't..." He stopped, changing his mind about what he meant to say. "There are anarchists," he said instead. "Real ones, with dynamite."

"Maybe they're planning something here."

"I suppose that's possible. After Bloody Sunday in Trafalgar Square, not much would surprise me. Although that was four years ago."

Pitt walked to the door. "I know you did what you could." It was difficult to speak. "The Inner Circle is a secret disease. I knew that... I'd just forgotten." And without waiting for Cornwallis to answer, he went out and down the stairs, oblivious of the men he passed, not even hearing those who spoke to him.

***

He dreaded telling Charlotte, therefore the only way to do it was immediately. "What is it?" she said as he came into the kitchen. She was standing at the big, black cooking stove. The room was full of sunlight and the smell of fresh bread, and clean linen on the airing rails hauled up to the ceiling. There was blue-and-white china on the Welsh dresser and a bowl full of fruit in the center of the scrubbed wooden table. Archie, the marmalade-and-white cat, was lying in the empty laundry basket washing himself, and his brother Angus was creeping hopefully along the window ledge towards the milk jug by Charlotte 's elbow.

The children were at school, and Gracie must be upstairs or out on some errand. This was the home he loved, everything that made life good. After the horror and tragedy of crime, it was coming back here with its laughter and sanity, the knowledge that he was loved, that took the poison out of the wounds of the day.

How would he manage without it? How would he manage without Charlotte?

For a moment he was filled with a blinding rage against the secret men who had done this to him. It was monstrous that from the safety of anonymity they could rob him of the things he held dearest, that they could invade his life and scatter it like dry grass, without being accountable to anyone. He wanted to do the same to them, but face-to-face, so they would know why, and he could see it in their eyes as they understood.

"Thomas, what is it?" Her voice was sharp with fear. She had swung around from the stove, the oven cloth in her hand, and was staring at him. He was dimly aware that Angus had reached the milk and was beginning to lap it.

"They've put me into Special Branch," he replied.

"I don't understand," she said slowly. "What does that mean? Who are Special Branch?"

"They work against bombers and anarchists," he replied. "Mostly Fenians to begin with, until last year. Now it's anyone who wants to cause riot or political assassination."

"Why is that so terrible?" She was looking at his face, reaching his emotions rather than the words he had said. She was not doubting the pain of it, only the reason.

"I shan't be in Bow Street anymore. Not with Cornwallis. I'll work for a man called Narraway... in Spitalfields."

She frowned. "Spitalfields? The East End? You mean you'll have to travel to the Spitalfields police station every day?"

"No... I'll have to live in Spitalfields, as an ordinary person.

Slowly understanding dawned in her eyes, then loneliness and anger.

"But that's... monstrous!" she said incredulously. "They can't do that! It's totally unjust! What are they afraid of? Do they think a few anarchists are really going to put all London in danger?"

"It's got nothing to do with catching anarchists," he explained. "It's about punishing me because John Adinett is part of the Inner Circle, and I gave the evidence that will get him hanged."

Her face tightened, her lips pale. "Yes, I know. Are they listening to people like Cleave, in the newspaper? That's ridiculous! Adinett was guilty-that's not your fault!"

He said nothing.

"All right." She turned away, her voice thick with tears. "I know that has nothing to do with it. Can't anyone help? It's so unjust." She swung back. "Perhaps Aunt Vespasia..."

"No." The ache inside him was almost intolerable. He stared at her face, flushed with anger and despair, her hair escaping its pins, her eyes full of tears. How was he going to bear living in Spitalfields, alone, not seeing her at the end of every day, not sharing a joke or an idea, or even arguing an opinion, above all not touching her, feeling the warmth of her in his arms?

"It won't be forever." He said it as much to himself as to her. He had to look to a time beyond this, whenever it might be. He would not endure this a day longer than he had to. There would be some way of fighting it... in time.

She sniffed hard. Her eyes brimmed over and she hunted through her apron pockets for a handkerchief. She found one and blew her nose fiercely.

He was suddenly undecided. He had thought since before he came into the kitchen that he would pack his things and leave straightaway, not dragging out good-byes. Now he wanted to stay as long as he could, hold her in his arms, and since the house was empty, even go upstairs and make love for what would be the last time for as long as he could foresee.

Would that make it better... or worse, harder when the time came, as it would-soon?

In the end he did not think about it at all, he simply clung to her, kissed her, held her so tightly she cried out against it and he let her go, but only an inch or two, only enough not to hurt. Then he took her upstairs.

***

After he was gone, Charlotte sat in front of the bedroom mirror brushing her hair. She had to take out the few pins that remained and redo it anyway. She looked dreadful. Her eyes were red and still burning with tears, although now they were also of anger, as well as shock and loneliness.

She heard the front door close, and Gracie's footsteps along the hall.

Quickly she wound up her hair and repinned it rather wildly, then went down and into the kitchen.

Gracie was standing in the middle of the room.

"Wotever's 'appened?" she said in dismay. "Yer new bread's ruined. Look at it." Then she realized it was something far more serious. "S'it Mr. Pitt? S'e 'urt?" All the color drained from her face.

"No!" Charlotte answered quickly. "He's all right. I mean, he isn't hurt."

"Wot then?" Gracie demanded. Her whole body was rigid, her shoulders hunched tight, her small hands clenched.

Charlotte deliberately sat down on one of the chairs. This was not something to tell in a few words. "They've dismissed him from Bow Street and sent him into Special Branch, in the East End." She never thought of not confiding in Gracie. Gracie had been with them for eight years, since she had been a thirteen-year-old waif, undernourished and illiterate, but with a sharp tongue and a will to improve herself. To her, Pitt was the finest man in the world, and the very best at his job. She considered herself better than any other maid in Bloomsbury because she worked for him. She pitied those who worked for mere useless lords. They had no excitement, no purpose in life.

"Wot's Special Branch?" she asked suspiciously. "W'y 'im?"

"It used to be about the Irish bombers," Charlotte said, explaining the little she knew. "Now it's more about anarchists in general, and nihilists, I believe."

"Wot's them?"

"Anarchists are people who want to get rid of all governments and create chaos-"

"Yer don't 'ave ter get rid o' governments ter do that," Gracie said with scorn. "Wot's them other 'ists?"

"Nihilists? People who want to destroy everything."

"That's daft! What's the point o' that? Then yer got nuffink yerself!"

"Yes, it is daft," Charlotte agreed. "I don't think they have much sense, just anger."

"So is Mr. Pitt goin' ter stop 'em, then?" Gracie looked a little more hopeful.

"He's going to try, but he has to find them first. That's why he's going to have to live in Spitalfields."

Gracie was aghast. "Live! They in't never gonna make 'im live in Spitalfields? Don' they know wot kind of a place that is? Blimey, it's the dregs o' the East End there. Filthy, it is, and stinkin' o' Gawd knows wot! Nobody's safe from nuffink, not robbers nor murderers nor sickness nor bein' set on in the dark." Her voice rose higher and higher. "They got the fevers an' the pox an' everything else besides. Dynamite some o' them places there an' yer'd be doin' the world a favor. Yer'll 'ave ter tell 'em it in't right. 'Oo der they think 'e is? Some kind o' useless rozzer?"

"They know what it's like there," Charlotte said, misery overwhelming her again. "That's why they're doing it. It's a kind of punishment for finding the evidence against John Adinett and swearing to it in court. He's not head of Bow Street anymore."

Gracie hunched into herself as if she had been beaten. She looked very small and thin. She had seen too much injustice to question its reality.

"That's wicked," she said quietly. "It's real wrong. But I s'pose if them toffs is after 'im, 'an 'e got one of 'em wot 'e 'ad comin' ter 'im, then 'e's safest out o' their way, w'ere they can't see 'im, like. I s'pose they'll pay 'im, won't they, in this Branch wotever?"

"Oh, yes. I don't know how much." That was something Charlotte had not even thought of. Trust Gracie to be practical. She had been poor too often to forget it. She had known the kind of cold that makes you feel sick, the hunger where you eat scraps that other people throw away, when one slice of bread is wealth and nobody even imagines tomorrow, let alone next week.

"It will be enough!" she said more forcefully. "No luxuries, maybe, but food. And the summer's coming, so we won't need anything like as much coal. Just no new dresses for a while, and no new toys or books."

"An' no mutton," Gracie added. " 'Errings is good. An' oysters is cheap. An' I know w'ere yer can get good bones fer soup an' the like. We'll be o'right." She drew in a deep breath. "But it still in't fair!"

***

It was difficult to explain to the children too. Jemima at ten and a half was already growing tall and slim and had lost a little of her roundness of face. It was possible to see in her a shadow of the woman she would become.

Daniel, at eight, was sturdier of build and very definitely a child. His features were developing strength, but his skin was soft and the hair curled at the back of his head exactly the way Pitt's did.

Charlotte had tried to tell them that their father would not be home again for a long time in such a way that they understood it was not of his choosing, that he would miss them terribly.

"Why?" Jemima said immediately. "If he doesn't want to go, why does he do it?" She was fighting against accepting, her whole face full of resentment.

"We all have to do things we don't wish to sometimes," Charlotte answered. She tried to keep her voice level, knowing that both children would pick up her emotions as much as her words. She must do all she could to disguise from them her own distress. "It is a matter of what is right, what has to be done."

"But why does he have to do it?" Jemima persisted. "Why couldn't someone else? I don't want him to go away."

Charlotte touched her gently. "Neither do I. But if we make a fuss it will only be harder for him. I told him we would look after each other, and would miss him, but we'd be all right until he comes back."

Jemima thought a few moments about that, uncertain if she was going to accept it or not.

"Is he after bad men?" Daniel spoke for the first time.

"Yes," Charlotte said quickly. "They must be stopped, and he is the best person to do it."

"Why?"

"Because he's very clever. Other people have been trying for a while, and they haven't managed to do it, so they've sent for Papa."

"I see. Then I suppose we'll be all right." He thought for a few minutes more. "Is it dangerous?"

"He's not going to fight them," she said with more assurance than she felt. "He's just going to find out who they are."

"Isn't he going to stop them?" Daniel asked reasonably, his brow puckered up.

"Not by himself," she explained. "He'll tell other policemen, and they'll all do it together."

"Are you sure?" He knew she was worried, even though he was uncertain why.

She made herself smile. "Of course. Wouldn't you?"

He nodded, satisfied. "But I'll miss him."

She forced the smile to remain. "So will I."

***

Pitt went by train straight to the address to the north of Spitalfields that Cornwallis had given him. It proved to be a small house behind a shop. Victor Narraway was waiting for him. Pitt saw that he was a lean man with a shock of dark hair, threaded with gray, and a face in which the intelligence was dangerously obvious. He could not be inconspicuous once one met his eyes.

He surveyed Pitt with interest.

"Sit down," he ordered, indicating the plain wooden chair opposite him. The room was very sparsely furnished, with no more than a chest with drawers, all of which were locked, a small table, and two chairs. Probably it had originally been a scullery.

Pitt obeyed. He was dressed in his oldest clothes, the ones he used when he wished to go into the poorer areas unnoticed. It was a long time since he had last found it necessary. These days he employed other people for such tasks. He felt uncomfortable, dirty, and at a complete disadvantage. It was as if his years of success had been swept away, nothing but a dream, or a wish.

"Can't see that you'll be a great deal of use to me," Narraway said grimly. "But I shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth, I suppose. You've been foisted on me, so I'd better make the best of it. I thought you were noted for your handling of scandal among the gentry. Spitalfields doesn't seem like your patch."

"It isn't," Pitt said grudgingly. "Mine was Bow Street."

"And where the hell did you learn to speak like that?" Narraway's eyebrows rose. His own voice was good-he had the diction of birth and education-but it was not better than Pitt's.

"I was taught in the schoolroom along with the son of the house," Pitt replied, remembering it sharply even now, the sunlight through the windows, the tutor with his cane and his eyeglasses, the endless repetitions until he was satisfied. Pitt had resented it at first, then become fascinated. Now he was grateful.

"Fortunate for you," Narraway said with a tight smile. "Well, if you're going to be any use here, you'll have to unlearn it, and rapidly. You look like a peddler or a vagrant, and you sound like a refugee from the Athenaeum!"

"I can sound like a peddler if I want to," Pitt retorted. "Not a local one, but I'd be a fool to try that. They'll know their own."

Narraway's expression eased for the first time, and a glint of acceptance shone for an instant in his eyes. It was a first step, no more. He nodded.

"Most of the rest of London has no idea how serious it is," he said grimly. "They all know there is unrest. It's more than that." He was watching Pitt closely. "We are not talking of the odd lunatic with a stick of dynamite, although we've certainly got them too." A brief flicker of irony crossed his face. "Only a month or two ago we had a man who tried to flush dynamite down the lavatory and blocked the drains up until his landlady complained. The workmen who took up the drains and found it had no idea what it was. Some poor fool thought it would be useful to mend cracks in something or other, and put it on the floor of his loft to dry out, and blew the whole place to smithereens. Took half the house away."

It was farce, but bitter and deadly. One laughed at the absurdity of it, but the tragedy was left.

"If it's not the odd nihilist achieving his ambition," Pitt asked, "then what is it we are really looking for?"

Narraway smiled, relaxing a little. He settled in his chair, crossing his legs. "We've always had the Irish problem, and I don't imagine it'll go away, but for the moment it is not our main concern. There are still Fenians around, but we arrested quite a few last year, and they're fairly quiet. There is strong anti-Catholic feeling in general."

"Dangerous?"

He looked at Pitt's expression of doubt. "Not in itself," he said tartly. "You have a lot to learn. Start by being quiet and listening! Get something to do to explain your existence. Walk 'round the streets here. Keep your eyes open and your mouth closed. Listen to the idle talk, hear what is said and what isn't. There's an anger in the air that wasn't here ten years ago, or perhaps fifteen. Remember Bloody Sunday in '88, and the murders in Whitechapel that autumn? It's four years later now, and four years worse."

Of course Pitt remembered the summer and autumn of '88. Everyone did. But he had not realized the situation was still so close to violence. He had imagined it one of those sporadic eruptions which happens from time to time and then dies down again. Part of him wondered if Narraway were over dramatizing it, perhaps to make his own role more important. There was much rivalry within the different branches of those who enforced the law, each guarding his own realm and trying to increase it at the cost of others.

Narraway read his face as if he had spoken.

"Don't rush to judgment, Pitt. Be skeptical, by all means, but do as you are told. I don't know whether Donaldson was right about you or not on the witness stand, but you'll obey me while you're in Special Branch or I'll have you out on your ear so fast you'll fetch up living in Spitalfields or its like permanently, and your family with you! Am I clear enough for you?"

"Yes, sir," Pitt answered, still hideously aware of what a dangerous path he trod. He had no friends, and far too many enemies. He could not afford to give Narraway any excuse to throw him out.

"Good." Narraway recrossed his legs. "Then listen to me, and remember what I say. Whatever you think, I am right, and you will need to act on what I say if you are to survive, let alone be any actual use to me."

"Yes, sir."

"And don't parrot back at me! If I wanted a talking bird I'd go and buy one!" His face was tight. "The East End is full of poverty-desperate, grinding poverty such as the rest of the city can't even imagine. People die of hunger and the diseases of hunger... men, women, and children." A suppressed anger made his voice raw. "More children die than live. That makes life cheap. Values are different. Put a man in a situation where he has little to lose and you have trouble. Put a hundred thousand men in it and you have a powder keg for revolution." He was watching Pitt steadily. "That's where your Catholics, your dynamiting anarchists, nihilists and Jews are a danger. One of them could be the single spark which could unintentionally set off all the rest. It only needs a beginning."

"Jews?" Pitt said curiously. "What's the problem with the Jews?"

"Not what we expected," Narraway confessed. "We have a lot of fairly liberal Jews from Europe. They came after the '48 revolutions, all of which were crushed, one way or another. We expected their anger to spill over here, but so far it hasn't." He shrugged very slightly. "Which isn't to say it won't. And there's plenty of anti-Semitic feeling around, mostly out of fear and ignorance. But when things are hard, people look for someone to blame, and those who are recognizably different are the first targets, because they are the easiest."

"I see."

"Probably not," Narraway said. "But you will, if you pay attention. I have found you lodgings in Heneagle Street, with one Isaac Karansky, a Polish Jew, well-respected in the area. You should be reasonably safe, and in a position to watch and listen, and learn something."

It was still very general, and Pitt had little idea of what was expected of him. He was used to having a specific event to investigate, something that had already happened and was his task to unravel so he could learn who was responsible, how it had been done, and-if possible-why. Trying to learn about some unspecified act which might or might not happen in the future was completely different, and something too indefinite to grasp. Where did he begin? There was nothing to examine, no one to question, and worst of all, he had no authority.

Once again he was overwhelmed by a sense of failure, both past and to come. He would be no use at this job. It required both skills and knowledge he did not possess. He was a stranger here, almost a foreigner in the ways that would matter. He had been sent not because he would be of use but as a punishment for accusing Adinett, and succeeding. Perhaps as far as Cornwallis was concerned it was also for his safety, and so that he still had a job of some sort, and an income for Charlotte and the children. He was grateful for at least that much, even if at the moment it was well buried beneath fear and anger.

He must try! He needed more from Narraway, even if it meant stifling his pride and making himself ask. When he left this tiny, drab room it would be too late. He would be more completely alone than he had ever been professionally in his life, until now.

"Do you believe there is someone deliberately trying to foment violence, or is it just going to happen by a series of unguarded accidents?" he asked.

"The latter is possible," Narraway answered him. "Always has been, but I believe this time it will be the former. But it will probably look spontaneous, and God knows, there is enough poverty and injustice to fuel it once it is lit. And enough racial and religious hatred for there to be open war in the streets. That's what it is our job to prevent, Pitt. Makes one murder more or less look pretty simple, doesn't it, even close to irrelevant-except to those concerned." His voice was sharp again. "And don't tell me all tragedy or injustice is made up of individual people... I know that. But even the best societies in the world don't eradicate the private sins of jealousy, greed and rage, and I don't believe any ever will. What we are talking about is the sort of insanity where no one is safe and everything of use and value is destroyed."

Pitt said nothing. His thoughts were dark, and they frightened him.

"Ever read about the French Revolution?" Narraway asked him. "I mean the big one, the 1789 one, not this recent fiasco."

"Yes." Pitt shivered, thinking back to the classroom on the estate again, and the word pictures of the streets of Paris running with human blood as the guillotine did its work day after day. "The High Terror," he said aloud.

"Exactly." Narraway's lips thinned. " Paris is very close, Pitt. Don't imagine it couldn't happen here. We have enough inequality, believe me."

Against his will, Pitt was considering the possibility that there was at least some truth in what Narraway was saying. He was overstating the case, of course, but even a ghost of this was terrible.

"What do you need of me, exactly?" he asked, keeping his voice carefully controlled. "Give me something to look for."

"I don't need you at all!" Narraway said in sudden disgust. "You've been wished on me from above. I'm not entirely sure why. But since you're here, I may as well do what I can with you. Apart from being able to provide you with as reasonable a place to live as there is in Spitalfields, Isaac Karansky is a man of some influence in his own community. Watch him, listen, learn what you can. If you find anything useful, tell me. I am here every week at some time or another. Speak to the cobbler in the front. He can get a message to me. Don't call unless it's important, and don't fail to call if it could be! If you make a mistake, I'd rather it were on the side of caution."

"Yes, sir."

"Right. Then go."

Pitt stood up and walked towards the door.

"Pitt!"

He turned. "Yes, sir?"

Narraway was watching him. "Be careful. You have no friends out there. Never forget that, even for an instant. Trust no one."

"No, sir. Thank you." Pitt went out of the door feeling cold, in spite of the close air and the semisweet smell of rotting wood, and somewhere close by an open midden.

A couple of enquiries led him through the narrow, gray byways to Heneagle Street. He found the house of Isaac Karansky on the corner of Brick Lane, a busy thoroughfare leading past the towering mass of the sugar factory down to the Whitechapel Road. He knocked on the door. Nothing happened, and he knocked again.

It was opened by a man who appeared to be in his late fifties. His countenance was dark, very obviously Semitic, and his black hair was liberally flecked with gray. There were both gentleness and intelligence in his eyes as he regarded Pitt, but circumstances had taught him to be cautious.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Karansky?" Pitt asked.

"Yes..." His voice was deep, slightly accented, and very wary of intrusion.

"My name is Thomas Pitt. I am new to the area, and looking for lodging. A friend of mine suggested you might have a room to let."

"What was your friend's name, Mr. Pitt?"

"Narraway."

"Good, good. We have one room. Please come in and see if it will suit you. It's small, but clean. My wife is very particular." He stood back to allow Pitt to pass him. The hall was narrow and the stairs were no more than a couple of yards from the door. It was all dark, and he imagined that in the winter it would be damp and bitterly cold, but it smelled clean, of some kind of polish, and ahead of him there was an aroma of herbs he was unused to. It was pleasant, a house where people led a family life, where a woman cooked, swept and did laundry, and was generally busy.

"Up the stairs." Karansky pointed ahead of them.

Pitt obeyed, climbing slowly and hearing the creak with every step. At the top Karansky indicated a door and Pitt opened it. The room beyond was small with one window so grimed it was difficult to see what lay outside, but perhaps it was a sight better left to the imagination. One could create one's own dream.

There was an iron bedstead, already made up with linen that looked clean and crisp. There seemed to be several blankets. A wooden dresser had half a dozen drawers with odd handles, and a ewer and basin on top. A small piece of mirror was attached to the wall. There was no cupboard, but there were two hooks on the door. A knotted rag rug lay on the floor beside the bed.

"It will do very well," Pitt accepted. Years fled away and it was as if he were a boy again on the estate, his father newly taken away by the police, he and his mother moved out of the gamekeeper's cottage and into the servants' quarters in the hall. They had counted themselves lucky then. Sir Matthew Desmond had taken them in. Most people would have turned them onto the street.

Looking around this room, remembering poverty again, cold, fear, it was as if the intervening years had been only a dream and it was time to wake up and get on with the day, and reality. The smell was oddly familiar; there was no dust, just the bareness and the knowledge of how cold it would be, bare feet on the floor, frost on the window glass, cold water in the jug.

Keppel Street seemed like something of the imagination. He would miss the physical comfort he had become used to. Immeasurably more than that, unbearably more, he would miss the warmth, the laughter and the love, the safety.

"It will be two shillings a week," Karansky said quietly from behind him. "One and sixpence more with food. You are welcome to join us at the dinner table if you wish."

Remembering what Narraway had said about Karansky's position in the community, Pitt had no hesitation in accepting. "Thank you, that would be excellent." He fished in his pocket and counted out the first week's rent. As Narraway had said, he must find work of some sort, or he would arouse suspicion. "I am new in the area. Where is the best place to look for a job?"

Karansky shrugged expressively, regret in his face. "There's no best place. It's a fight to survive. You look like you have a strong back. What are you prepared to do?"

Pitt had not thought seriously about it until this moment. Only as he counted out the money for his rent did he realize that he would have to have a visible means of earning it or he would invite undue suspicion. It was many years since he had put in great physical effort. His work was hard on the feet sometimes, but mostly it was his mind he used, more especially since he had been in charge in Bow Street.

"I'm not particular," he answered. At least he was not close enough to the docks to have to heave coal or lift crates. "What about the sugar factory? I noticed it just along Brick Lane. Can smell it from here."

Karansky raised one black eyebrow. "Interested in that, are you?"

"Interested? No. Just thought it might have a job offering. Sugar uses a lot of men, doesn't it?"

"Oh yes, hundreds," Karansky agreed. "Every second family around here owes at least some of its living to one of them. Belongs to a man called Sissons. He has three of them, all around here. Two this side of the Whitechapel Road, one the other."

There was something in his expression which caught Pitt's attention, a hesitation, a watchfulness.

"Is it a good place to work?" Pitt asked, trying to sound completely casual.

"Any work is good," Karansky answered. "He pays fair enough. Hours are long and the work can be hard, but it's enough to live on, if you are careful. It's a lot better than starving, and there's already enough around here that do that. But don't set your heart on it, unless you know someone who can get you in."

"I don't. Where else should I look?"

Karansky blinked. "You're not going to try for it?"

"I'll try. But you said not to count on it."

There was a movement on the landing beyond the door, and Karansky turned. Pitt saw past him where a handsome woman stood just behind. She must have been almost Karansky's age, but her hair was still thick and dark although her face was lined with weariness and anxiety and her eyes held a haunted look, as if fear were a constant companion. Nevertheless her features were beautifully proportioned, and there was a dignity in her that experience had refined rather than destroyed.

"Is the room right for you?" she asked tentatively.

"It is good, Leah," Karansky assured her. "Mr. Pitt will stay with us. He will look for a job tomorrow."

"Saul needs help," she said, looking past her husband to Pitt. "Can you lift and carry? It is not hard."

"He was asking about the sugar factory," Karansky told her. "Perhaps he would rather be there."

She looked surprised, worried, as if Karansky had done something which disappointed her. She frowned. "Wouldn't Saul's be better?" Her expression indicated that she meant far more than the simple words, and she expected him to understand.

Karansky shrugged. "You can try both, if you want."

"You said I wouldn't get anything at the sugar factory unless I knew someone," Pitt reminded him.

Karansky gazed back in silence for several seconds, as if trying to decide how much of what he had said was honest, and the truth of it eluded him.

It was Mrs. Karansky who broke the silence.

"The sugar factory is not a good place, Mr. Pitt. Saul won't pay as much, but it's a better place to work, believe me."

Pitt tried to balance in his mind the advantages of safety and the appearance of ordinary common sense against the loss of opportunity to discover what was so dangerous about the sugar factories which supported half the community, either directly or indirectly.

"What does Saul do?" he asked.

"Weave silk," Karansky answered.

Pitt had a strong feeling that Karansky expected him to be interested in the sugar factory, to go for that job in spite of any warning. He remembered Narraway's words about trust.

"Then I think I'll go to see him tomorrow, and if I'm lucky, he may give me some work," he replied. "Anything will be better than nothing, even a few days."

Mrs. Karansky smiled. "I'll tell him. He's a good friend. He'll find a place for you. May not be much, but it's as certain as anything is in this life. Now you must be hungry. We eat in an hour. Come, join us."

"Thank you," Pitt accepted, remembering the smell from the kitchen and recoiling from the thought of going out again into the sour, gray streets with their smell of dirt and misery. "I will."