“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 Gleave, 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
