The first thing in the morning, Stiles and I were at the Public Records Office, where a clerk found what we needed in less than an hour. There were hundreds of Houghtons in London, but there was only one property owned by Mrs. Dorothea H. Houghton—a small house in Clerkenwell, in Rose Mews, number 31. It had been bequeathed to her on January 13, 1874. When I explained that the woman had been dead ten months by that date, the clerk had shrugged. So long as the title was clear and the taxes paid promptly—which they were, he assured us—no one would care that a man registered property in the name of his wife, dead or alive.
Dark clouds hung low in the sky, and a cold rain fell as Stiles and I arrived at the house, with three sergeants in tow. I wasn’t taking any chances in case it was guarded, and we’d need help retrieving the guns and putting them into a wagon, if indeed the firearms were here.
The house was modest, with two stories and a door that opened onto the pavement, without steps. Although it appeared in good repair—the windows were whole, the paint on the door wasn’t peeling—it had the air of not having been lived in for some time. No one answered our knock, so we descended the cellar stairs, and I opened the door with my picks.
The dim entryway smelled musty and dank. Ahead of me was another door with a glass pane. Behind me, Stiles shook open his box of matches and scraped one against the stone foundation. The smell of sulfur stung my nostrils in the close space, but I saw a lamp hanging from a hook and took it down, passing it to Stiles as I surveyed the shelves on either side. Empty for the most part except for dust, an old hat box, and a broken wooden crate of the sort used to deliver produce. Stiles lit the lamp, and we filed through a second door.
In a room that had once served as a kitchen and scullery, most of the floor was taken up by three stout wooden crates, standing about waist-high, all closed with nails.
Sergeant Trent put the toe of his boot to one and pushed to no avail. “It’s full up o’ something.”
A shelf nearby held another lantern, so we had enough light to work by. Sergeant Trent hefted the crowbar he’d brought. “This should do it,” he said as he forced the forked end underneath the top edge of the crate, wedging it open with a screech from the nails. Together we pushed it up and shifted some burlap sacks on top. By the light from the lantern Stiles held high, we saw ten shining pistols, laid out in two rows of five. I estimated at least fifty guns in this crate—one hundred and fifty guns among the three—which was enough to stir up trouble not just for London, but for all of England.
“Thar you have ’em,” Sergeant Trent muttered. “Blimey.”
“I’ll fetch a wagon,” one of the other sergeants said.
“Bring two,” Sergeant Trent said. “It’s too much for one animal.”
Within half an hour, we had a pair of wagons, and between the five of us and the wagon drivers, we loaded the crates and brought them through the streets to the cobbled stone quadrangle of the Yard.
With the wagon drivers at the horses’ heads, the sergeants and I remained with the cargo while Stiles went inside. He returned with Vincent, who hadn’t taken the time to button his coat, and the wind blew it open as he strode toward the cart. We had left the wooden top of one of the crates loose, and I lifted it so he could see.
The deep breath he took brought on a spasm of coughing. At last, his handkerchief over his mouth, he managed, “Stiles, take this into the storage bay.”
“Yes, sir.” He led the way across the cobbles as I explained to Vincent how we had found them.
As I concluded, he nodded. “Mr. Houghton is in my office.”
I felt a jolt of surprise. Vincent had already brought him in, without me furnishing the guns as proof?
He wrapped his arms across his chest to keep his coat closed, but he made no move toward the back door. “I thought it for the best. And now that we have the guns, we can keep him here. I received word last night that my plainclothesman lost Tomlinson, who boarded a boat to America, but don’t worry. We’ve someone at Pinkerton’s who will meet him at the dock. I telegraphed this morning. He’ll be brought back for questioning.”
“And when Tomlinson returns, he can give us Morgan, the intermediary, if we haven’t found him by then,” I said.
“Of course.” He nodded. “McPherson’s body was found last night, washed up on shore.”
I stared blankly.
“The Irishman who was to be blamed for Sittingbourne,” Vincent reminded me. “The one who shunted the carts onto the primary line.”
“Another murder, then.” I glanced toward the vanishing wagons. “We certainly have enough evidence to confront Houghton.”
“No, Corravan.” Vincent’s voice was decisive. “Not you. He’ll talk more freely to me alone. We have no proof whatsoever that he ordered the murder of Lord Baynes-Hill, and I—I want that.”
“But you’ll need a witness,” I objected. “Can’t you put him in one of the interview rooms, so I can listen from next door?”
“It’s not necessary,” he said. “Last month I installed a cabinet d’écouté—a listening cabinet—along the side of my office, behind the bookshelves. There was one in frequent use at the office of the Préfet de police in Paris.”
“Ah,” I said. “That’s why your office looked narrower to me.”
He stared at me and gave a bemused shake of his head. “Trust you to notice six bloody inches. We took space from the cupboard.” He started toward the back door, pulled it open, and waved me inside.
The sudden warmth of the Yard made me open my coat. “Where’s the door?”
He pointed down the hallway. “The second one.” He dabbed at his nose one last time with his handkerchief and stowed it in his pocket, his expression betraying how much he dreaded this interview.
“I’m sorry, sir. I know he was your friend,” I said.
“But I didn’t know him, did I? What sort of friend is that?” His mouth tightened as he turned away.
I found the door and slipped inside the cabinet. It was narrow but serviceable, and I could hear Vincent’s door open and close as clearly as if I were in the room.
“This is an error, Howard,” Houghton said. “An inexcusable one, dragging me in here as if I were a criminal. Your father will be appalled to hear of it.”
“I daresay he will be appalled,” Vincent said quietly, but I heard the ironic note in his voice.
Houghton continued: “You know, none of us really understands this eccentricity of yours, serving as the director here. You’re a baronet’s son. What are you doing mucking about with all of this? You ought to be at home, looking after your wife.” There was a pause, and then, in a dry tone: “Perhaps then she wouldn’t have cuckolded you.”
I held my breath, my insides shriveling for Vincent. In the next moment, it occurred to me that he likely knew this revelation was coming and had me listen anyway. I had never esteemed him as much as I did at that moment.
Vincent said, “I would like to ask you for some particulars about the Mayfair bombing.”
Houghton’s voice was sharp. “Why the devil would you ask me to relive such a painful event?”
I bit my lower lip. Vincent wasn’t approaching the matter sideways. He was leading Houghton straight to his motive.
“Did your wife attend the theater alone that day?” Vincent asked.
“No,” he snapped. “She went with her friend Mrs. Robeson.”
“Had the two tickets been purchased with that intent?”
There was a long silence.
“I was supposed to go with her,” Houghton said. “But there was a meeting I needed to attend.” He paused. “I knew she wouldn’t be able to venture out much longer without her … condition becoming apparent, so I urged her to go.” His voice dropped low over the last words.
“You can’t blame yourself,” Vincent said.
“Of course not!” he retorted, his voice rising. “It wasn’t I who set those bombs to murder everyone. It was the bloody Irish! But it is to be expected. Soulless, godless creatures, with no respect for life. As rotten as their damned potatoes.” An audible exhale, and he continued dismissively, “Oh, I know about the papers you wrote for the Royal United Services, where you defended them, but I put that down to your youth and inexperience. You didn’t take into account the Irish national character. Why, God himself deplored it. He sent famines upon them, like he sent the plagues upon the pharaoh and the Egyptians. One year after the next, to punish them for their wantonness and depravity. Still, they didn’t learn. They can’t. Instead of remaining where they belonged, they came to Liverpool in droves, like locusts.” His voice was heavy with disgust.
“And if they hadn’t, you would still have your wife, and your child would be nearly three years old,” Vincent replied. “It’s a tragedy. A terrible thing.”
There was a noise, something between a snort and a cough.
“They’re not like us, Howard.” A chair creaked, and I could imagine Houghton leaning forward. “If we don’t keep them in check, they’ll ruin this country. They will breed and multiply and sap us and drain us of everything that makes us English. They will rob us of all we own and kill us wantonly and without regret.”
The irony of that last accusation seemed lost on him.
“But it is you who have wantonly killed hundreds of innocent people,” Vincent replied. “You have become the very thing that you hate. Surely you see the parallels between the Princess Alice and Mayfair Theatre.”
“How dare you?” His voice shook with outrage.
“How dare I?” The words were clipped short, Vincent’s fury held in check. “Brutal and heartless as it is to murder hundreds of nameless, faceless people whom you did not know, killing Lord Baynes-Hill is something else altogether. How could you do it, Archibald? A fellow MP? You’ve been to his house, eaten at his table. He was our friend.”
“He was once our friend! No longer! Once he took up their cause, he was dead to me.”
“And so you made him dead to everyone—including Marjorie. For God’s sake, Archibald! In front of his wife!”
“At least I left her alive!” he burst out.
Good lord, I thought. Even I hadn’t expected Houghton to admit to committing the murder by his own hand.
I eased the breath out of my chest silently and took another in, ever so slowly, through a dry mouth. Vincent may never have worn a uniform, but his instincts for drawing out a confession were as fine as those of any inspector I knew.
“Yes, you did,” Vincent said. More silence, and then came the sound of paper unfolding. “How do your views, or the beliefs espoused by this League of Stewards, align with the theory of ‘splendid isolation?’”
There was a pause before Houghton replied. Perhaps he was surprised that Vincent had a copy of the handbill. “I should think it would be fairly obvious. We are isolated because we are alone, by the very nature of our superiority. We alone have dominated people and countries on every inhabited continent because our way of life transcends theirs. Our economy is stronger; our navy and our soldiers are better trained; our very way of governing is more evolved—and in their hearts, these people understand that. Otherwise, they would not have bowed their heads to our rule. It is our right and our duty to oversee all of those within the borders of our empire.”
For God’s sake, I thought. It’s not only the newspapers who can set a story in a particular light.
“Was it Tomlinson who helped you place the stories in the papers?” Vincent asked.
“I will not answer for another man’s actions,” Houghton replied.
“We’re bringing him back, you know,” Vincent said. “Pinkerton’s men will be waiting at the dock in New York.”
There was another silence, followed by a sigh. “Archibald, it gives me no pleasure to accuse you,” Vincent said. “But we have ample cause, including witnesses and physical evidence. It is enough to convince a judge that you must be accused and put on trial.”
“On the contrary. You have no direct evidence against me. And if you accuse me based on what circumstantial evidence you have, you will look like a fool at trial, and I shall have you removed from your post.” A chair creaked and heavy cloth rustled, as if Houghton stood up. “You know I can do that. And the reputation of the Yard hasn’t been so rehabilitated that it can’t be swept away again. This is the sort of scandal the Yard can’t survive.”
“Archibald,” Vincent said, and his voice was almost gentle, “you, of all people, know my reputation for prudence. Would I risk the Yard, after all the work I’ve done this past year?”
There was an audible puff of breath. “You will be sorry,” Houghton said.
“I am only sorry that you are not the man I thought you were,” Vincent replied.
“I shall contact my barrister. Richard Lowell, Inner Court.”
“You’re not returning home, after what I have heard.”
A short laugh. “You know full well you can’t introduce this conversation into evidence. It would be your word against mine.”
Vincent rose and went to the door. “Sergeant. Please take Mr. Houghton to one of the rooms and remain with him.”
There was the shuffle of footsteps and the ping of a cane against a chair leg, and then the door closed. I remained where I was. From Vincent’s office came only silence. I didn’t have to see him to imagine how he felt after such a conversation.
Finally came the words “You heard, Corravan?” Vincent’s voice was weary, dejected.
Had we been in the same room, I might have tried to convey my fellow feeling by a gesture—one small enough that he could ignore it, if he chose. But I replied, “I heard,” and hoped he understood.
“Please write up your account while it is still fresh in your mind,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
Emerging into the hallway, I found Stiles hurrying toward me with a look of relief. “The Wilkins brothers have been found. They’re in custody, on their way here, arriving at Euston in an hour. All those handbills and advertisements worked. A railway servant spotted them on a train leaving Manchester, and telegraphed ahead, and the police were waiting at the next station.”
An hour would give me time to write up my notes of Vincent’s meeting with Houghton.
“Was anyone hurt?” I asked.
“No, although the brothers led them on quite a chase. They knocked over half a dozen people and ran a luggage cart onto one of the tracks, smashing it up, before they were caught.” His face sobered. “One of the brothers drew a gun, but his shot went wild.”
“Thank God,” I said. I could only imagine the scene on a crowded platform. “That railway man deserves a reward.”
“I’ll ask for his name. Shall I meet the train?” he asked.
I nodded. “Take a constable with you. May I use your desk while you’re gone? I need paper and pen.”
“Of course,” Stiles replied. “Top drawer.”
It had been years since I’d sat in the main room at the Yard and composed a report. But the whole exchange was fresh in my mind, blazingly fresh, and I recorded it faithfully. Then I blotted the three pages and set them to dry.
Next, I began a message to Dr. Bradford to let her know that John Conway could be released safely. But on second thought, I tore the paper in quarters and deposited the scraps in Stiles’s rubbish bin. Conway was owed an explanation about why his name had been dragged through the mud, and he deserved to hear the truth firsthand, from me, as quickly as I was able to deliver it.
I put away Stiles’s pen and sat quietly, waiting for him to return with the brothers.
I didn’t have to wait long. With Houghton still in one of the interview rooms, the two Wilkinses were brought into another, and the constable remained with them while I gave Stiles the three pages of Houghton’s confession to review. He read them through and looked up. “There isn’t much we don’t know, is there?” he asked.
“No,” I replied. “I’d like you to question the Wilkins brothers.”
Stiles looked at me in some perplexity.
“I’m bloody tired, Stiles,” I said. “At this point we’re mostly looking for confirmation.”
“Of course,” he replied.
“The only thing we still don’t know is whether they murdered Schmidt,” I said.
“The first murder,” Stiles said.
The one that began everything, though we didn’t know it at the time, I thought.
“I’ll be back in an hour or so,” I said. “I’ve someone to see.”
I entered the hospital and asked for Dr. Bradford. She emerged from her office, and when she saw me, her expression betrayed relief.
“Is Mr. Conway still here?” I asked.
She grimaced. “I’m glad you’ve come at last. I don’t know how much longer I could have kept him. Is everything all right?”
“He’s in no danger anymore,” I said. “Is he still in the same bed?”
“Yes.” She pointed to the stairs, and I headed up them.
Conway was sitting up, with an open book in his lap. He greeted me with surprise. “Why, Inspector! What brings you back?”
“I’ve come to let you know the inquiry is finished,” I said, “and you can go home.”
He peered up at me. “I’ll have you know, I didn’t appreciate being kept here helpless.”
“We’ve just arrested the Wilkins brothers.”
“Ah.” He sank back against the pillows.
“I wanted to tell you all that’s happened.” I paused. “And I have to confess, I broke into your house.”
He choked a bit. “Well, I s’pose it’s all right. I’ve nothing to hide.”
“You were never a suspect,” I said. “Not in my mind.” With that, I launched into an explanation, beginning with Mr. Schmidt’s murder.
He marveled at parts and swore at others. At the end of it, he stuck out his hand to pat mine. “Don’t think I don’t know what you did for me,” he said. “It might be one time in my life I thank God I’m Irish.”
“You’re also innocent,” I said.
He allowed that was true.
I rose. “I must ask that you not leave London, as there will be a formal inquest in a month. You’ll need to appear in court.”
“Of course.”
“Good luck to you, Mr. Conway.”
“And to you, sir.” With that, he pushed aside the bedclothes. “Nurse! Where are my proper clothes?”
The main room at the Yard was nearly deserted as I entered. Even Vincent’s doorway was dark.
But Stiles was still there, his fair head bent over his desk, writing. I approached, and he looked up.
“I went to tell Conway,” I said.
“Ah.” Stiles’s expression changed to understanding. “He must have been relieved.”
I dragged over a chair and sat. “He was.”
Stiles laid aside his pen. “I told the Wilkins brothers that Houghton has confessed and explained that by turning queen’s evidence they’d have a chance to avoid hanging. They confirmed everything. Their actions were all at Houghton’s direction, of course.”
“Sittingbourne?”
Stiles nodded. “But not the mine. The next incident was to be at St. James Hall next week.”
The famous theater could hold hundreds of people. I let out a sigh. “At least we prevented that.”
“And,” he said with the air of concluding, “the Wilkinses killed Schmidt upstream, as you guessed, and rowed him to the steps at around two o’clock in the morning, during the ebb tide. They did it so the newspaper could report that he’d been murdered by the IRB to bring Conway on board.”
“Did they say why he stank of gin?”
“That was a mistake. They borrowed a lighter and didn’t realize there was a bottle of gin under a thwart. It broke and soaked Schmidt during the journey.”
“Ah.” I gestured toward the pages Stiles had been writing. “Anything else in there I need to know?”
He gave a flicker of a smile. “Nothing important. You should go home, get some rest. I’m nearly finished.”
I set my hands on my knees and pushed myself to standing.
“Oh—I nearly forgot,” Stiles said. “This came from Wapping just after you left.” He handed me a sealed letter, and I unfolded it to find this:
I am prepared to state publicly that the IRB had nothing to do with any of the recent attacks. Shall wait for your sign. Place an advert in the Falcon.
—T. Luby
With an exhale of relief, I handed it toward Stiles.
The public’s terror could be over, I thought. For now.