Long Spoon Lane - Anne Perry [132]
And hope must be stifled too. They were not safe yet. They would arrest Wetron for attempting to kill Voisey, the proof of Wetron’s guilt would be there, and Voisey would have it. The whole machine of corruption would be broken, the bill defeated. But Voisey would be alive, with all that that meant.
The hansom careered along a half-empty street and swung around a corner, throwing them almost on top of each other. Still, neither spoke. They picked up speed again.
It seemed an age before they slowed to a stop at last. Pitt handed the driver a fistful of coins—roughly what he thought the ride would cost, plus a generous tip. He and Tellman ran across the pavement and up the steps of Voisey’s house. Pitt banged on the door.
A butler opened it with a look of distaste on his face. “Yes, sir?” His tone of voice conveyed his opinion of people who made loud and vulgar noise, whatever the circumstances. “May I be of assistance?”
“I must see Sir Charles immediately!” Pitt said, catching his breath. “His life is in danger.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but Sir Charles is at the House. He customarily goes at about this hour.”
“But he was here forty minutes ago,” Tellman protested, as if it could matter now.
“No, sir,” the butler said firmly. “Sir Charles left over an hour ago.”
“Superintendent Wetron said…” Tellman insisted, his voice raised.
“I’m sorry, sir, but you are mistaken,” the butler repeated.
Wild thoughts of conspiracy raced through Pitt’s mind, before he realized the obvious answer. “He wasn’t at home,” he said aloud. “Wetron misled us on purpose. We must get to the House.”
“He couldn’t do anything in the House of Commons!” Tellman said incredulously.
“Yes he could, in a private office.” Pitt started down the steps again in time to shout at the hansom. The driver had been giving the horse a few minutes’ rest while he enjoyed the spectacle in the doorway, and was only just pulling away now. He heard Pitt’s voice and stopped again.
“House of Commons!” Pitt ordered.
“I s’pose that’s as fast as yer can make it too, eh?” the driver observed. “Don’t you ever go nowhere at a normal speed like other fellers? More life an’ death, is it?”
“Yes. Hurry! Or if this horse is exhausted, catch up with another cab and we’ll change,” Pitt replied.
The driver gave him a look of total disdain, and started forward again, picking up speed rapidly.
“We’re going to be too late!” Tellman said between his teeth. “That bastard will have shot him!”
Pitt did not answer. He was afraid Tellman was right.
It seemed like another long, tedious, traffic-congested ride. All the impatience and sense of failure could not shorten it, or prevent what they now felt to be inevitable.
They finally reached the House of Commons. Pitt paid over nearly all the rest of the money he was carrying, with a request that it be spent on the horse, then sprinted to follow Tellman, who was already twenty yards ahead of him.
Once they had identified themselves they were allowed in and conducted up to Voisey’s office. But as soon as they turned the corner of the long corridor they saw it was already too late. There was a grim crowd blocking the way. Voices were lowered, bodies tense, faces white and anxious.
“What’s happened?” Pitt demanded, stopping as soon as he reached them, although he feared he knew.
“Terrible,” one of the secretaries answered. He was a pale young man formally dressed. He clutched a bunch of papers in his hand and it was shaking, making a slight rustle as the sheets flapped together. “Absolutely dreadful.”
“What is?” Pitt repeated urgently.
“Oh! Don’t you know? Sir Charles Voisey’s been shot. The superintendent of police is here. Man from Bow Street. To have a member shot dead in the House! What’s happening to the world?”
Pitt pushed his way through, elbowing people aside until he reached the