But it was not the same conspiracy as that which had murdered James Sissons and made it look like suicide, or was feeding Lyndon Remus with information which when complete would expose the greatest scandal in royal history and bring down the government and the crown with it.

And Harper was part of that second conspiracy; Pitt was certain of that. Therefore he could tell him nothing he did not have to.

Second to that, and coming to his realization a moment later, was that the description he could give could fit easily many people he knew: Saul, or Isaac, or a score of other older men. And perhaps Harper would like nothing better than to use that excuse to whip up anti-Semitic feeling. It would suit his purposes very well to blame the Jews for the ruin of the sugar factory. It was not as good as blaming the Prince of Wales, but it was better than nothing.

And so it turned out. By midday, when Pitt was allowed to leave, Harper had suggested, and then paraphrased, answers until he had a definite intruder observed by three different night workers: a thin, dark man of Jewish appearance, carrying something in his hand on which the light gleamed, like the barrel of a gun. He had crept up the stairs, soft-footed, and some little time later crept down again and disappeared into the night.

Pitt left feeling sick and miserable, and more helpless than ever in his life. His concept of the law and all his beliefs were shifted into a new and ugly pattern. He had seen corruption before, but it had been individual, born of greed or weakness exploited, never a cancer that spread silent and unseen throughout the entire body of those who created the law and admonished it, even those who judged it. There was no recourse, no one left to whom the hunted or injured could appeal.

As he walked along Brick Lane up towards Heneagle Street he found himself genuinely and deeply afraid. It was the first time he had felt this way since he was a child and his father had been taken away, and the realization had come that there was no justice to save him, no one who could help. They would never meet again, and he was helpless to make any difference to it.

He had forgotten how terrible that feeling was, the bitterness of disillusion, the loneliness of understanding that this was the end of this particular path. There was nothing beyond except what he himself could create.

But he was a man now, not a child. He could and would effect it! He changed direction and increased his pace towards Lake Street. If Narraway was not in, he would demand that the cobbler send for him. At least he would find out which side Narraway was on, force him to show himself. He had very little to lose, and if Remus succeeded, then nobody would have.

He crossed the street and passed a newsboy shouting the headlines. In the House of Commons, Mr. McCartney had asked whether the conflict between political parties in Ireland would be such as to prevent peaceable citizens from voting. Would protection be provided for them?

In Paris, the anarchist Ravachol had been found guilty and sentenced to death.

In America, Mr. Grover Cleveland had been nominated as the Democratic candidate for the presidency.

As he reached Lake Street he passed another newsboy, this one holding a placard saying that James Sissons had been murdered in a conspiracy to ruin Spitalfields, and the police already had witnesses who had seen a dark-haired man of foreign appearance on the premises, and were now looking to identify him. The word Jew had not been used, but it might as well have been.

Pitt reached the cobbler’s shop and left a message that he required to speak to Narraway immediately. He was told to return in thirty minutes.

When he did, Narraway was waiting for him. He was not sitting in his usual position, but standing in the tiny room as if he had expected Pitt to the minute and was too restless to make even the smallest concession to the idea that things were as usual.

“Well?” he demanded as soon as the door was closed.

Now that it was the moment, suddenly Pitt was undecided. His hands were clammy, his heart knocking in his chest. Narraway’s eyes seemed to be boring into his mind, and he still had no idea whether to trust him or not.

“You wanted something, Pitt! What is it?” Narraway’s voice was hard-edged. Was he afraid too? He must have heard of Sissons’s murder, and he would understand all its implications. Even if he were Inner Circle, riot was not what he wanted. But there was nowhere else to turn. A phrase came into Pitt’s mind: if you would sup with the devil, you must have a long spoon. He thought of the five women in Whitechapel, and the coach that had gone around at night, looking for them to butcher. Was it really better than riot, even revolution?

“For God’s sake, man!” Narraway exploded, his eyes dark and brilliant, his face bleached of color with exhaustion. “If you’ve got something to say, say it! Don’t waste my time!”

This time there was no mistaking his fear. It was under the surface, but Pitt could feel it like electricity crawling over the skin.

“Sissons wasn’t murdered the way the police suppose,” he said, committing himself. There was no going back now. “I was the one who found him, and when I did it looked like suicide. The gun was there in his right hand, along with a letter saying that he had killed himself because he was ruined over a loan he had made and which was now denied.”

“I see. And what has happened to this note?” Narraway’s voice was soft now, almost expressionless.

Pitt felt his stomach lurch.

“I destroyed it.” He swallowed. “I also got rid of the gun.” He was not going to mention Adinett’s letter or the note of debt.

“Why?” Narraway said softly.

“Because the loan was to the Prince of Wales,” Pitt replied.

“Yes… I do see.” Narraway rubbed his hands over his brow, pushing his hair back into spikes. In that single gesture was a weariness and a depth of understanding that dispelled the outer shell of Pitt’s fear. It was peculiarly naked, as if at last it had exposed something of the real man.

Narraway sat down and gestured to the other chair. “So what is this about a Jew being seen leaving the factory?”

Pitt smiled wryly. “Inspector Harper’s attempt to find an acceptable scapegoat-not as good as the Prince of Wales.”

Narraway looked up sharply. “As good?”

There was no going back, no safety left. “For his purposes,” Pitt replied. “Harper is Inner Circle. He was expecting Sissons’s death. He was dressed and waiting to be called. He tried to say it was suicide and blame me for stealing the gun. He might have succeeded if Wally Edwards hadn’t stood up to him-and Constable Jenkins as well. It was Wally who said Sissons couldn’t have shot himself because of an old injury; he didn’t have the use of his right fingers.”

“I see.” Narraway’s voice was bitter. “And do I assume from this that you now trust me? Or are you sufficiently desperate that you have no choice?”

Pitt would not add to his lies. And perhaps Narraway deserved better, either way. “I don’t think you want the East End in flames any more than I do. And yes, I am desperate.”

A black humor showed briefly in Narraway’s eyes. “Should I thank you for at least that much?”

Pitt would have liked to tell him about the Whitechapel murders and what Remus knew, but that was taking trust too far, and once said it could not be taken back. He shrugged very slightly and made no reply.

“Can you see the police don’t blame some innocent person?” he said instead.

Narraway gave a short bark of laughter, bitter and derisive.

“No… I can’t! I can’t stop this lot from blaming Sissons’s death on some poor Jew, if that’s what they think will get them out of more trouble.” He bit his lip hard, till the pain showed in his face. “But I’ll try. Now get out of here and do what you can yourself. And Pitt!”