Long Spoon Lane - Anne Perry [133]
Wetron gave nothing away. To all other onlookers he was a man startled and grieved by an appalling event.
“Ah! Superintendent Pitt,” he said, as if Pitt still held his old rank. “I’m glad you’ve come. Dreadful thing. Irrefutable evidence, I’m afraid. Tragic. I went to question Sir Charles about it, hoping against hope that he had some other explanation, but he hadn’t. Guilt overtook him. He lunged at me with a paper knife in his hand. I had no choice.” His words were wrung out of him, harsh with shock and regret. His eyes burned with victory, and the hard, sweet taste of power. To those standing around, his expression could have meant anything, but Pitt read it for what it was.
“Evidence of what, Superintendent Wetron?” Pitt asked innocently, as if he had no idea.
Wetron’s expression did not waver. “Of corruption, Mr. Pitt. Deep corruption, not only of serving officers of police. I regret profoundly to have to say it, but Sir Charles was in league with Superintendent Simbister of Cannon Street. Worse than that, it seems inescapably evident that he was also involved with the anarchists who bombed Scarborough Street so appallingly. He is tied indisputably to the dynamite used. I wish it were not so.” He did not smile—there were too many others looking—but the victory shone in his eyes.
Pitt felt the taste of defeat as bitter as gall, but he could think of no weapon with which to strike back. There was no point in asking if Voisey had admitted any of it. Wetron would say he had, and Pitt would know it was not true.
“I shall tell Mr. Narraway,” Pitt managed to say. “Proof of the Scarborough Street bombers’ guilt will be very welcome.” Would Wetron give up his accomplices, the men who had obeyed his orders? Possibly. If they had no idea and no evidence of where the orders had come from, he had nothing to lose, and perhaps much to gain. The thought of Wetron taking the credit for that too made him sick with anger at the injustice of it, and his own helplessness, but there was nothing whatever he could do.
“Of course,” Wetron agreed slightly patronizingly. “I’ll be happy to pass it to him, when my men have sorted it out. We must settle the matter of Sir Charles’s death first, of course.”
One of the several parliamentary secretaries nodded. “Naturally, naturally. Fearful thing. Very well handled, if I may say so, sir. Great personal courage to tackle the man alone. Grateful not to have a herd of uniformed men in the place. What a scandal. Terrible thing. Never suspected it at all.”
“Years of experience,” Wetron said modestly. “But I am still shocked, I admit. This is…crime of a terrible order, a tragedy for the country. I…” He gave a little shudder. “I am sure you understand that at the moment I prefer to say nothing further. It has all been deeply distressing.” He glanced towards Voisey’s closed office door.
“Of course,” the parliamentary secretary agreed piously. He turned to the rest of the group around him. “Gentlemen, it is not appropriate for us to remain here when there is nothing we can do to help. This is the time for the sad duty of others. Let us return to our own offices, or wherever else we should be.” He made a gesture half-ushering them away.
Pitt hesitated. He was oddly reluctant to go in and see Voisey’s body. Was it his duty?
Wetron’s hand gripped his arm, holding him back with some force. “It’s a police matter,” he said firmly. “You are Special Branch, remember?”
Pitt’s mind was changed in an instant. “Did I mishear you, Superintendent? I thought you said Sir Charles was implicated in the Scarborough Street bombing, and that the money he had extorted from the tradesmen around the Cannon Street area went towards furnishing the anarchists.”
Wetron was confused for a moment, caught on the wrong foot. At least one of the parliamentary secretaries was still within hearing.
“That makes it Special Branch,” Pitt said with a tight, bitter