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 authorized 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 around 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 around 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. He aimed the gun and cocked the trigger.
Pitt shot Croxdale in the head, making a single wound.
Croxdale fell backward. Stoker, sprayed with blood, staggered and collapsed onto the floor. Pitt was alarmed by his own accuracy, though the distance to his target had been short enough. Of course he was surprised; he had never shot a man to death before.
He 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 realized 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 realized 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 in. “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 sounded confused.
“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 toward 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 the arrest of Mr. Austwick. 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,
