The cabby caught the tension and the urgency. He cracked the whip and the cab lurched forward. In a few moments it was charging through traffic at considerable risk to everything in its way.
Neither Pitt nor Binns spoke. They were thrown from side to side and clinging onto the handles, in peril of being injured, and there was too much noise to hear anything clearly above the hooves, the wheels, the creak of straining woodzx and the yells of outraged coachmen.
When they slowed to a halt in Devonshire Street, Pitt threw the door open and was out onto the pavement, Binns a yard behind him. He raced up the steps and yanked the doorbell, almost pulling it out of its socket, then beat his fists on the door.
Binns was shouting something, but he took no notice.
The door swung open and the agreeable butler looked alarmed.
“Is Ewart here?” Pitt demanded. “Policeman … Inspector Ewart! Dark, thinning hair, carrying something, probably a bag!”
“Yes, sir. He arrived a few minutes ago. Called to see Mr. FitzJames.”
“Where?”
The butler paled. “In the library, sir.”
“Is there a fire there?” Pitt’s voice cracked with the unbearable tension.
“Yes sir. What is wrong, sir? If I can-”
He never completed his sentence. The blast from the explosion tore out the fireplace and the outer wall of the library. It hurled the door off its hinges into the hallway and the force of heat and air knocked the men to the floor, bruised and wounded. Pitt was driven back and crashed into the hall table, Binns fell to his knees. There were books and loose papers everywhere and a cloud of gray ash.
There were seconds of silence, except for the settling of stones and rubble, then the screaming started.
Pitt climbed to his feet, unsteadily, dizzy and hurt, unaware of his bleeding hands or the scratches and smears of blood on his face. He stumbled towards the library and peered in. The wreckage of books littered everything except a space in the center where live coals were burning on the carpet. The body of Ewart lay crumpled, drenched with blood, and less than a yard away what was left of Augustus FitzJames sprawled across the pile of splinters which had been the table. One jagged end speared through his chest, but he would no longer care.
Pitt turned back and saw the butler rise to his knee, his face gray with shock. Binns moved forward slightly to help him.
Somewhere beyond the landing a maid was screaming, over and over again.
Aloysia FitzJames stood at the head of the stairs.
Finlay came from the withdrawing room. He looked incredulous, as if he did not believe what he saw. He faced Pitt with anger.
“What in God’s name have you done?” he said abruptly. “Where … where’s my father?”
“He’s dead,” Pitt answered quietly, the smoke catching in his throat. “So-is-Inspector Ewart. But his records remain. Finlay FitzJames, I arrest you for the torture and murder of Mary Lennox, on the twelfth of September, 1884.”
Finlay looked once, in desperation, towards the wreckage of the library.
“He cannot help you this time,” Pitt said. “Nor can Ewart. You can put off the time, Mr. FitzJames, but it always comes, one day or another. Have the courage now to face it. It is still not too late at least for dignity.”
Finlay stared at him, then his eyes swung wildly, seeking an escape, help, anything but Pitt standing in front of him.
“I can’t! I won’t! I …” His voice rose higher, more shrill. “You can’t prove-”
“Ewart confessed before he died.”
Aloysia came slowly down the staircase and stood by her son, but without touching him. She looked at Pitt.
“He will come with dignity, Superintendent,” she said very quietly. “I will come with him. In the last few moments I have lost everything that I have lived my whole life believing I possessed. But I will not go out of here weeping, and whatever I feel, no one else will know it.”
Finlay stared at her, incomprehension turning into rage.
“You can’t let him …” he began. “Do something!” His voice rose in terror and accusation. “Do something! You can’t let him take me! They’ll hang me!” He started to struggle, but Binns had hold of him so hard by the arm he would have wrenched it out of the socket had he continued to struggle. “Mother! You …”
Aloysia was not listening. She walked slowly down the steps and Binns followed with Finlay, his features tearstained and twisted with rage.
Behind them then, grimed and smeared, but still with an agreeable face, the butler staggered to the door and pulled it closed.
