Juster looked unhappy, a faint flush on his cheeks. “I’m sorry, Pitt. I thought I had warned you enough, but I’m not sure that I did. It’s far from over.”

Pitt felt a catch in his throat, as if for an instant it was hard to breathe. “What could they do?”

“I don’t know, but Adinett has powerful friends… not powerful enough to save him, but they’ll take losing hard. I wish I could warn you what to expect, but I don’t know.” His distress was plain in his eyes and the slight droop to his shoulders.

“It wouldn’t have changed anything,” Pitt said honestly. “If you don’t prosecute a case because the accused has friends the whole law is worth nothing, and neither are we.”

Juster smiled, the corners of his mouth turning down. He knew it was true, but the price was far from as simple, and he knew Pitt was speaking with bravado, and irony as well. He held out his hand. “If I can help, call me. I can defend as well as I can prosecute. I mean it, Pitt.”

“Thank you,” Pitt said sincerely. It was a lifeline he might need.

Juster nodded. “I like your flowers. That’s the way to do it, lots of color all over the place. I can’t bear straight rows. Too easy to see the faults, apart from anything else.”

Pitt made himself smile. “That’s my belief as well.”

Together they stood drinking in the color in the evening air, the lazy droning of bees, the sound of children laughing in the distance, and the chattering birds. The perfume of the wallflowers was almost like a taste in the mouth.

Then finally Juster took his leave, and Pitt walked slowly back into the house.

The morning newspapers were all that Pitt had feared. In bold letters they announced the failure of Adinett’s appeal and that he would be executed in three weeks’ time. Pitt had already known, but seeing it in print made it more immediate. It tore away the last shred of evasion.

Almost underneath that news, where no one could miss it, was a long article by Reginald Cleave, who had defended Adinett and very openly still believed in his innocence. He spoke of the verdict as one of the great miscarriages of British justice in the current century, and predicted that the people would one day be bitterly ashamed of the establishment which had, in their name, carried out such a terrible wrong.

He did not castigate the judges of appeal, although he had some unkind words for the original trial judge. He was lenient with the jury, considering them unlearned men as far as the law was concerned, who were unwittingly led astray by those who were truly at fault. One of those was Ardal Juster. The main culprit was Pitt:

… a dangerously bigoted man who has abused the power of his office in order to carry out his private vendetta against the propertied classes because of the prosecution of his father for theft, when he was at an age not to understand the necessity and the justice of such a thing.

Since then he has defied authority in every way his imagination could conceive, short of actually losing his job and thus forfeiting the power he so profoundly desires. And make no mistake, he is an ambitious man, with an expensive wife to keep, and aspirations to act the gentleman himself.

But the officers who guard the law must be impartial, fair to all, fearing no one and favoring no one. That is the essence of justice, and it is in the end, the only freedom.

And there was more of the same, but he skipped over it, picking up a phrase here and there.

Charlotte was staring at him across the breakfast table, marmalade spoon in her hand. What should he tell her? If she saw the article it would make her angry first, then possibly frightened for him. And if he hid it, she would know he was being evasive, and that would be worse.

“Thomas?” Her voice cut across his thoughts.

“Reggie Gleave has written a rather vicious piece about the case,” he replied. “Adinett lost his appeal, and Gleave has taken it hard. He defended him, you remember. Perhaps he really thinks he’s innocent.”

She was looking at him narrowly, her eyes worried, reading his expression rather than listening to his words.

He made himself smile. “Is there any more tea?” He folded up the newspaper and hesitated for a moment. If he took it, she was perfectly capable of going out and buying another. And the fact that he had hidden it from her would make her worry more. He put it down again on the table.

She put down the marmalade spoon and poured the tea. She said nothing further, but he knew that the moment he was out of the house, she would read the newspaper.

In the middle of the afternoon Assistant Commissioner Cornwallis sent for Pitt. Pitt knew the moment he stepped into Cornwallis’s office that something was seriously wrong. He imagined a highly complex and embarrassing case, possibly even another like Fetters’s murder, implicating someone of importance. That was the sort of matter he dealt with lately.

Cornwallis stood behind his desk as if he had been pacing the floor and was reluctant to sit. He was a lithe man of average height. Most of his life had been spent in the navy, and he still looked as if being in command of men at sea would suit his nature better, facing the elements rather than the deviousness of politics and public opinion.

“Yes sir?” Pitt enquired.

Cornwallis seemed deeply unhappy, as if he had spent time searching for words for what he had to say but he had not yet found them.

“Is it a new case?” Pitt asked.

“Yes… and no.” Cornwallis gazed at him steadily. “Pitt, I hate this! I fought against it all morning, and I lost. No battle has ever sat worse with me. If I knew of anything else to do I would do it.” He shook his head very slightly. “But I believe that if I pursue it any more I may only make it worse.”

Pitt was confused, and Cornwallis’s obvious distress touched him with a chill of apprehension.

“Is it a case? Who’s involved?”

“In the East End,” Cornwallis replied. “And I have no idea who’s involved. Half of the anarchists in London, for all I know.”

Pitt took a deep breath, steadying himself. Like all other police officers, and much of the general public, Pitt was aware of the anarchist activities in much of Europe, including the violent explosion at a restaurant in Paris and several explosions in London and various other European capitals. The French authorities had circulated a dossier containing pictures of five hundred wanted anarchists. Several were awaiting trial.

“Who’s dead?” he asked. “Why are we called in? The East End is not our patch.”

“No one is dead,” Cornwallis replied. “It’s a Special Branch matter.”

“The Irish?” Pitt was startled. Like everyone else, he was perfectly aware of the Irish troubles, of the Fenians, of the history of myth and violence, tragedy and strife which had bedeviled Ireland over the last three hundred years. And he knew what unrest there was in parts of London, for which a special section of police had been set apart so that they might concentrate on dealing with the threat of bombings, assassination or even minor insurrection. It had originally been known as the Special Irish Branch.

“Not Irish in particular,” Cornwallis corrected. “General political troubles; they just prefer not to be called political. The public wouldn’t accept it.”

“Why us?” Pitt asked. “I don’t understand.”

“You’d better sit down.” Cornwallis waved at the chair opposite his desk, and Pitt obeyed.

“It’s not us,” Cornwallis said honestly. “It’s you.” He did not look away as he spoke but met Pitt’s eyes unflinchingly. “You are relieved of command of Bow Street and seconded to Special Branch, from today.”