Great Peter Street. Come on, man! You're half asleep!''
'Sorry sir, I've already got a fare.'
'Nonsense! There's no one here. Now pull yourself together and get a move on!' The man was middle-aged and brisk, his graying hair waved neatly and his expression was fast becoming irritated. He reached out a hand to open the cab door.
'I already have a fare, sir!' Pitt said sharply, his nerves betraying the fear he tried to force from his mind. 'He's in there!' he poked a gloved finger in the general direction of the buildings along the Embankment. 'IVe got to wait for him.'
The man swore under his breath and turned on his heel. He was an M.P. Pitt remembered seeing his photograph in
His hand clenched so tight the horse started, throwing its head, and the harness clanked.
In his doorway Micah Drummond stiffened, but he could see nothing except Pitt, rigid on the cab box.
268
The wail of a foghorn drifted upriver and the lights reflected in the water danced along the shore.
Garnet Royce was coming down the street. He called out loudly to someone, his voice husky; he was frightened. His steps were uneven as he passed the sandwich vendor and started across the bridge. His back was straight, shoulders stiff, and never once did he look behind him.
Pitt moved his horse forward a few yards. A man with an umbrella passed between him and Royce. The sandwich vendor left his barrow, and the footman stopped looking in the direction of the New Palace Yard and walked towards the bridge as if he had changed his mind about waiting.
From the black shadow under Boadicea another figure appeared: heavyset, broad-backed, a thick shawl round her shoulders and carrying a vendor's tray of flowers. She ignored the footman-natural enough, footmen seldom bought flowers-and moved surprisingly swiftly after Royce across the bridge. He was walking steadily in the center of the footpath, looking neither right nor left, concentrating on the lights. He was precisely halfway across.
Micah Drummond came out of his doorway.
Pitt urged the horse forward into a brisk walk and turned it left over the bridge. He was only two or three yards behind the flower seller. He could see her figure silhouetted against the paler mist beyond. She was walking soft-footed, gaining on Royce. He did not seem to hear her.
He left the milky haze of one lamp with its triple globes and entered the void of darkness beyond. The mist was silver round the lights, and the droplets hi the air gleamed like something beautiful and strange. His back was lit, showing the breadth of his shoulders, the precise angle of the rim of his hat, and his face was a mere lessening of the shadow, anonymous as he strode into the hollow of night between one lamp and the next.
Pitt held the reins so tightly his nails dug into his palms 269
even through the wet wool of his mittens. He could feel the sweat cold on his body.
'Flowers, sir? You buy sweet primroses, sir?' The voice was hardly audible, high, like a little girl's.
Royce spun round. He was close enough to the light for his features to show clearly: his hair was hidden by the hat, but the sweeping brow was plain, the vivid eyes, the big bones. He saw the woman and the tray of primroses. He saw her take a bunch of flowers in one hand, the other drawing something from underneath them. His mouth opened in a soundless exclamation of terror-and glittering, superb victory.
Pitt let go of the reins and leapt from the cab box, landing hard on the slippery road. The woman swung her arm up with the razor in her hand, its blade open and shining in the light. 'I got yer!' she screamed, flinging the tray off and sending the flowers spinning and scattering on the stones. 'I got yer at last, Royce!'
Pitt was on top of her, bringing his truncheon down on her shoulder. The pain of it stopped her, brought her round sharply, face blank with surprise, the razor still high.