Southampton Row - Anne Perry [153]
The result at the moment was one in which he had no interest, a safe Tory seat somewhere in the north of the city.
Two men were standing a yard or two from him.
“Did you hear?” one of them demanded incredulously. “That fellow got in! Would you believe it?”
“What fellow?” his companion asked irritably.
“Hardie, of course!” the first man replied. “Keir Hardie! Labor Party indeed!”
“You mean he won?” The questioner’s voice was high with disbelief.
“I told you!”
Pitt smiled to himself, although he was not sure what it would mean for politics, if anything. His eyes were fixed on the electric lights, but he began to realize it was pointless. Results were coming in as they were known, but Jack’s seat, or the Lambeth South seat, might already have been declared. He needed to find someone who could tell him. If there were time, he could even get a hansom and go to Lambeth and hear the result in person.
He moved away from the group watching the lights and went to the doorman. He had to wait a moment or two before the man was free to speak to him.
“Yes sir?” he enquired patiently, politely ignoring Pitt’s appearance. Everyone was seeking him tonight and it was a highly satisfying feeling.
“Is there any news on Mr. Radley’s result in Chiswick?” he asked.
“Yes sir, came almost quarter of an hour ago. Close, but ’e’s nicely in, sir.”
Pitt felt a burst of relief warm inside him. “Thank you. What about Lambeth South, Mr. Serracold and Sir Charles Voisey?”
“Don’t know, sir. ’Eard it’s a bit tighter there, but couldn’t say for sure. Might be either way.”
“Thank you.” Pitt stepped back to make room for the next eager enquirer, and hurried to find a cab. Unless he came across an extraordinary traffic jam, he would be able to get to Lambeth’s town hall in less than an hour. He could see the result come in himself.
It was a fine evening, warm and humid. Half of London seemed to be out taking the air, walking or riding, choking the streets. It was ten minutes before he found a free hansom and climbed in, calling to the driver to take him over the river to the Lambeth town hall.
The hansom turned and headed back the way it had come, fighting against the stream. There were lights everywhere, people calling out, the sound of hooves on cobbles and the clash and jingle of harness. He wanted to shout to the driver to hurry, to push his way through, but he knew it was pointless. For his own sake the man would already be doing all he could.
Pitt sat back, forcing himself to be patient. He veered between believing Aubrey Serracold could still win and the sick doubt in his stomach that anyone could beat Voisey. He was too clever, too certain.
They were crossing the Vauxhall Bridge now. He could smell the damp of the river and see the lights reflected from the shore. There were still pleasure boats out, laughter floating on the air.
On the far side there were people in the streets, but a little less traffic. The hansom picked up speed. Perhaps he would be there in time to hear them announce the result. Part of him hoped it would be all over when he got there. Then he could simply be told, and that would be it. Was there anything at all even Narraway could do to curb Voisey’s power if he were to win? Would he end up Lord Chancellor of England one day, perhaps even before the next government was out?
Or would Wetron be the one to stop him?
No—Wetron had neither the skill nor the nerve. Voisey would crush him, when he was ready.
“’Ere y’are, sir!” the cabbie called. “This is as close as I can get!”
“Right!” Pitt scrambled out, paid him and pushed his way through the rest of the traffic to the town hall steps. Inside was full of more people, jostling each other, cramming forward to see.
The returning officer was on the platform. The noise abated. Something was about to happen. The light shone on Aubrey Serracold’s pale hair. He looked stiff, tense,