The cab took me to Fleet Street, where an accident involving three carriages had halted traffic in all directions. I paid the driver, loped down to the Victoria Embankment, and hurried west along its dark gray stones. Although it wasn’t raining, the clouds hung low, and in the absence of sun, the river was like forged steel, gray and impenetrable. The sturdy tugboats and the crowded steamers ploughed along doggedly, and the ships’ pointed masts needled the clouds. At the Charing Cross footbridge, I climbed the shallowly puddled stone steps, making my way to the yard behind Whitehall Place, number four.
It seemed longer than three months since I’d walked under the stone arch onto the cobbles that would glint after a good rain. Today they were a muddy, pale brown.
I swung open the door, and the smell rushed at me, old and musty and familiar.
Nodding to the sergeant at the desk, I made my way through the main room to Vincent’s door. It was closed, but when I knocked, he called for me to enter.
Unlike the main room, Vincent’s room was altered. A new rug covered the floor and the room smelled of fresh paint. Strangely, it seemed the very dimensions of this room had changed. It appeared somewhat narrower. Perhaps it was because the old, battered bookcases had been replaced with new ones of fine dark-stained cherrywood.
I tipped my head toward the door. “May I?”
He nodded his permission, and I shut the door and unbuttoned my coat.
It was only then that I noticed Vincent’s eyes were glassy, and he looked feverish, with sweat on his forehead and a nose that looked red from rubbing.
“You’re ill, sir,” I said.
“It’s no matter. Please tell me you’ve some news.”
“I do,” I said. “We have an idea about who is behind the Princess Alice disaster—although it’s a complicated story and runs against the one the newspapers are telling.”
His eyebrows rose slightly. “Not the IRB?”
“No, and not an accident either,” I began, and continued with what we’d discovered about Ned Wilkins planting the dynamite, manipulating the tiller, and attacking Eyres, and his brother David attacking Conway.
“At first I wondered if the Wilkins brothers were IRB,” I said. “But after following David Wilkins into a print shop, Stiles found this handbill.” I drew it from my pocket, unfolded it, and passed it across the desk.
Vincent’s brows drew together as he read, and he looked up, puzzled.
“Stiles went to this meeting last night,” I said, “and listened for two hours about how the Irish are vermin like rats, complete with what Atwell called scientific evidence. There were about a hundred people there. Clerks and bankers. Not working men.”
He fought down a sneeze, using his handkerchief to cover his mouth and nose. “What do you know about this”—he glanced at the handbill again—“League of Stewards? Does it purport to be a scientific society?”
“Its purpose seems to be to stir up anti-Irish sentiment, to make it seem as though the Irish present an enormous threat to England.”
“To what end?”
“Among other things, to forestall the possibility of home rule being introduced when Gladstone returns.”
Understanding dawned in his eyes. “Who is directing the League? Radicals in Parliament? Businessmen with concerns in Ireland?”
“Some of both, I think.”
He winced, and it reminded me that as the second son of a baronet, Vincent was on intimate terms with plenty of MPs and businessmen. Being a former correspondent for the Daily Telegraph, he could very well know editors here in London, and I added, “It’s someone who has influence with the newspapers too.” I removed the envelope from my satchel and laid the four newspapers Belinda had first shown me across his desk. “These articles all carry similar stories. More than that—similar words, phrases, the same rhetorical questions pushing the readers toward concluding that not only the IRB are to blame but the Irish generally.” I watched him examine each in turn. “What do you think?”
He read slowly, shuffling the papers back and forth to compare them. At last, he shook his head and laid them aside. “Clearly there’s duplication. But I know the editor of the Star. I can’t believe he’d knowingly print something other papers are carrying, particularly something that stirs up distrust and hatred. Someone is abusing the papers.”
“We believe we know who is directing it, sir. While Stiles was at the meeting last night, I was searching for Ned Wilkins. I finally found him and followed him. Just after dawn, he entered the MP Archibald Houghton’s new warehouse, with a key to the back door. Not a quarter of an …”
I halted, for it was clear the name “Houghton” struck Vincent like a blow. After a moment of denial and uncertainty, he regained mastery over himself. He swallowed and tugged at his collar.
“Go on,” he said steadily. “After a quarter of an hour …”
“Houghton arrived, let himself in with a key, and then he and Wilkins came out and left in Houghton’s carriage.” I paused. “You know Houghton, then.”
“His younger brother Maxwell and I were at university together.” Vincent rose from his chair and walked unsteadily to the window to stare out. He took a deep breath that brought forth an involuntary hacking cough that he covered with a white handkerchief.
“Sir, have you seen a doctor?”
“Yes.” He continued to look out his window—a window that was clean, providing a proper view to the Thames.
“Was Houghton’s wife killed in the Mayfair bombing?” I asked.
He turned. “Not only his beautiful young wife.” His mouth tightened briefly. “She was with child.”
“I—see,” I managed. He remained silent, and at last I asked, “Do you believe him capable of such a scheme?”
“By God, I hope not,” he said softly. “But let me think about how to best handle this. Can you leave these papers with me?”
I nodded. “I’m wondering about the League’s reach. If it extends to the Princess Alice and possibly the railway and the Welsh mine and the newspapers, my guess is—”
“They’ve enabled the violence here in Whitechapel, yes,” he said heavily. When I didn’t reply, he added, “Houghton not only makes the casings for bullets; he sits on the board of one of the gun works in Birmingham.” He paused. “With my father.”
“Which one?”
“Webley and Son.”
I stilled. The gun I took from Colin had been a Webley. “What was the make of the guns found in the crate at Liverpool Station?”
He bent over his desk, riffled through a small stack of folders, opened one, and ran his eyes down a page until he gave a ragged exhale that told me my guess had been correct.
He looked up. “They were Webleys. Single-shot pistols.”
A small muscle near his eye twitched spasmodically. It was twisting him to pieces, the thought that people he knew were involved in this.
“I’m bloody sorry, sir,” I said.
He was silent for a long minute. At last, he dropped into his chair, rubbing a hand tiredly over his forehead. “Is there anything else, Corravan?”
“Do you know of any connection between Houghton and these papers?”
“I don’t. But I will look into the matter.” He paused. “Don’t approach Houghton. Not yet.”
“No, sir.”
I bid him goodbye, and as I closed the door behind me, a guttural groan of pain and regret and frustration burst from him.
It was the closest I’d ever heard him come to cursing. Meanwhile, my thoughts leapt from point to point. Colin had likely obtained that Webley from Finn Riley, who probably received guns through an intermediary, or a chain of them, one of whom had been paid by Houghton. I couldn’t prove it yet, but my instinct was shrilling like a gull screaming in the wind.
From Whitehall Place, I took a cab to the Inns of Court. After paying the driver, I strode into the quadrangle of red brick buildings, with green grass and gardens inside and the Thames beyond. The last time I’d been here was to visit Mr. Haverling, an important witness in the river murders, and I remembered this series of black doors. Though numbered, none were labeled in any way, and there were dozens of them. A messenger boy hurried past, and I reached a hand to stop him. “Lord Baynes-Hill,” I said, holding out a shilling between my thumb and forefinger. “Where are his chambers?”
The boy pocketed the coin and gestured for me to follow, trotting through an arched gate. Rounding a corner, he pointed to a window on the second story.
I thanked him, and he sped off. I entered the building, climbed the steps, and pushed open the door that bore “Lord C. L. Baynes-Hill” on a brass plate beside it. The foyer was large and square, with dark paneling, shelves of books, a frayed rug, and several lamps to light the room. The air held a smell I associated with Belinda’s library—old leather volumes, treasured and well kept.
A clerk looked up from his desk. “Sir?”
“Inspector Corravan to see Lord Baynes-Hill. I don’t have an appointment,” I added, forestalling the question. “But I believe he’ll see me. It’s a matter that concerns him.”
The clerk pushed his dark hair away from his brow, and though polite, his face was skeptical. “Very well. Please sit, and I’ll let him know you’re here.”
Not a minute later, he returned, stepping with some alacrity. “Please come through, sir,” he said and led me to an open door, which he closed behind him.
Lord Baynes-Hill stood behind his desk, in an unconscious imitation of the posture of the white-wigged man in the portrait behind him.
He saw the direction of my gaze and moved to the side, so I could see the image fully. “My grandfather. Also a barrister,” he said.
There was an awkward silence, during which he stepped to the side of his desk, so nothing stood between us. “What can I do for you, Inspector?”
“I have something to tell you in confidence,” I said. “It may be useful to you. But I ask that you don’t reveal where you heard it.”
“Of course. Please.” He gestured toward two chairs near the window and sank into one, crossing one leg over the other.
The other chair creaked underneath me as I sat, the tawny leather giving way. I began, “We believe that the group behind the Princess Alice disaster is called the League of Stewards.”
“The League of Stewards?” He gave an incredulous look. “Good lord.”
“Do you know of them?” I asked.
He rested his elbows on the chair arms and drew his fingertips together. “The last I heard of their activities, it was—oh, before the Prussian War. I had no idea they were extant.”
“They are stirring anti-Irish sentiment,” I said. His eyebrows rose, and I continued: “We believe one of their members brought dynamite onboard the Princess Alice, and it’s likely they caused the Sittingbourne disaster as well. More than that, we believe they’re planting stories in various newspapers to blame the IRB. The stories are worded in such a way that they reinforce one another, to give the appearance of verified truth.”
His expression grew wary. “Which papers, specifically?”
“The Kent Observer, the Sussex Post, the Standard, and the Evening Star. Possibly others as well.”
He frowned. “I can tell you that the Post and the Standard are both owned by Clarence Tomlinson. I don’t know about the others.”
It wasn’t proof of Tomlinson’s involvement, but two more papers owned by him, in addition to the Observer, seemed a strong coincidence.
“Did the League cause the Welsh mine explosion as well?” Lord Baynes-Hill asked.
“We don’t know about that yet. It’s a long way from London,” I acknowledged. “But that doesn’t mean they won’t urge the newspapers to suggest it.”
His narrow head bobbed slightly as he took this in. “And you’re here because you think all this has been done to derail our home rule talks?”
“Aside from stirring up public suspicion out of malice, can you think of another reason?” I asked. “There seems to be a particular urgency at the moment.”
His hands dropped onto the chair arms with a deliberateness that suggested the effort he was making to conceal his inner turmoil. “It’s a very small group who knows about the talks,” he said at last. “Only eight of us, chosen carefully. I suppose there is no way of knowing who spoke out of turn.” The skin around his eyes puckered with worry and dismay. “Could you tell me how you heard of the talks? It might allow me to trace it back.”
I wouldn’t give him Tom Flynn’s name, but I asked, “Is Archibald Houghton acquainted with any of the MPs in your group?”
He inhaled audibly, and his eyes widened. “You’re certain of his involvement?”
“He may be one of the leaders. His wife and unborn child were killed in the Mayfair Theatre bombing.”
He rubbed his large, blue-veined hand over his face for a long moment before his hand fell away and he met my gaze. “Two members of the group belong to his club. It likely wouldn’t have occurred to them to be wary.” He looked pained. “His conservative political positions would have assimilated with those of the League as it was fifteen years ago. If he was a member then, it’s only natural that he’d resuscitate the group for a different purpose.”
“Tell me what is meant by ‘splendid isolation,’” I said.
“It’s the theory that it is better to shore up our national boundaries and not meddle in the business of others. Of course, as with any theory, it can be refitted to another purpose. It seems this version shores up our national English identity with the Irish fixed outside of it.” He shook his head. “It disgusts me to think governmental policy has been influenced by the League and the press. But thank you for telling me, Mr. Corravan. I only wish I knew who spoke out of turn. It worries me.”
“Of course.”
“I cannot tell you how it grieves me to abandon the effort, but perhaps now isn’t the time for home rule.” The lines around his mouth deepened, and his eyes met mine. “It’s most unfortunate. We had come within sight of land, Mr. Corravan. We could see the dock.”
“That’s why they had to work so energetically to turn the tide,” I replied.
“But you realize what this means, of course. If we hadn’t begun those talks, those passengers would still be alive.” He raised a hand to forestall my objection. “I know—the blame lies with the League. The disaster was an unforeseen consequence of our endeavors. But I deeply, deeply regret …”
“I know,” I said quietly.
He heaved himself out of his chair and stepped to the window, the fingertips of his left hand groping for the sash, as if in search of something solid. His back was to me, and uncertain of whether I was being dismissed, I stood as well.
“Regret is a most unfortunate feeling, is it not?” he asked. “It poisons all satisfaction, all joy, and accomplishes nothing.” His voice broke, and I didn’t reply. “A friend and I were speaking of our regrets only last week. Perhaps you are too young to understand, but we are at an age when we consider them in wretched detail. The road behind me seems strewn with them. But there is no help for it.” He turned. “My friend is a noted wit with an apt turn of phrase. Do you know what he said?”
I shook my head.
“He said a blackguard may find relief from regret in one of three ways: rotgut, rage, or revenge. But a decent man can do very little with it other than carry it to his grave. I’m afraid that I am going to take this regret to mine, and it is a heavy burden.” He laid a hand on his chest as if he felt a physical pain. “Upon my heart.”
We stood in silence for a long moment. At last, he said, “Good luck to you, Mr. Corravan.”
“And you,” I said.
Regret, I thought as I closed the door. I was beginning to feel as though it were rising like a tide, lapping insistently at my boots.