Southampton Row - Anne Perry [146]
Narraway was on his feet now, too, his face ashen under the dust and smoke.
“We can’t do anything for them,” Pitt said shakily.
“The whole house could go up any moment.” Narraway coughed and choked. “Come on out! Pitt! Run!” And he yanked him around by the arm and plunged for the front door.
They went careering out over the step and fell into the street side by side just as the third explosion rent the air and a gout of flame shot out through the windows with glass flying everywhere.
“Did you know?” Narraway demanded, on his hands and knees. “Did you know it was Lena who killed Maude Lamont?”
“I did by this morning,” Pitt replied, rolling over to sit. His knees were scraped, his hands scarred and he was scorched and filthy. “When I realized it was her sister who died in Teddington. Nell is short for Penelope.” He bared his teeth savagely. “Voisey missed that one!”
There were several people in the street now, running, shouting. In a little while the fire engines would be here.
“Yes,” Narraway agreed, his smoke-grimed face splitting into a white-toothed grin. “He did—didn’t he!”
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
There was little to be salvaged from the ruins of the house on Southampton Row, but the fire engines did at least stop the flames from spreading to the house to the south, or across Cosmo Place to the north.
There was no question that it was the curtains catching fire and the flames spreading to the gas brackets which had caused the first explosion, which had then cracked other gas mains throughout the north part of the house. Gas had leaked out, and as soon as the open flame had reached it, it had made a bomb out of the parlor and its immediate surrounds.
Pitt and Narraway were fortunate to be no more seriously hurt than a few scratches and bruises, and clothing that would never again be fit to wear. It would be late tonight, or even tomorrow morning, before it would be safe for anyone to go into the ruins to look for what was left of Lena Forrest and Bishop Underhill.
And unless there was a connection between Maude Lamont and Voisey in the papers they already had, there was no way in which they could prove such a thing now. Certainly there would be nothing in Southampton Row, nor would Lena Forrest be able to speak again.
“The solution, for what it’s worth,” Narraway said when the firemen had asked them all they wished and were satisfied there was nothing more to add.
Pitt knew what he meant. There was little satisfaction in it, except that of the mind, and perhaps that Rose Serracold was not guilty. But there was none of the connection to Voisey they had hoped for. It was there, but impossible to prove, which made it more acutely painful. Voisey could look at them and know they knew very clearly what he had done, and why, and that he would succeed.
“I’m going to Teddington,” Pitt said after a moment or two as they walked along the footpath out of the way of the horses and the fire engines. “Even if there’s nothing I can prove, I want to know that Francis Wray didn’t kill himself.”
“I’ll come with you,” Narraway said flatly. He gave a thin smile. “Not for your sake! I want to catch Voisey enough to take any chance there is, no matter how slight. But first one of us had better tell Bow Street what’s happened here. We’ve solved their case for them!” He said that with considerable satisfaction. Then he frowned. “Why the devil isn’t Tellman here?”
Pitt was too tired to bother with a lie. “I sent him to Devon to move my family.” He saw Narraway start. “Voisey knew where they were. He told me so himself.”
“Did he get there?”
“Yes.” Pitt said it with infinite satisfaction. “Yes, he did!”
Narraway grunted. There was no comment worth making. The darkness seemed to be gathering on all sides around Pitt, and facile remarks would be worse than useless. “I’ll tell Wetron about this,” he said instead. “You might tell Cornwallis. He deserves to know.”
“I will. And someone has to tell the Bishop’s wife. It will be a while before the firemen get to know who he is.”
“Cornwallis will find someone,