Free The Whitechapel Conspiracy by Anne Perry Page A

bombings, assassination or even minor insurrection. It had originally been known as the Special Irish Branch.
    “Not Irish in particular,” Cornwallis corrected. “Generalpolitical 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.”
    Pitt was stunned. It was impossible. How could he be removed from Bow Street? He had done nothing even incompetent, far less wrong! He wanted to protest, but no words seemed adequate.
    Cornwallis’s mouth was stretched into a thin line, as if he felt some physical pain gnawing at him. “The command comes from the top,” he said very quietly. “Far above me. I questioned it, then I fought it, but it is beyond my power to reverse. The men concerned all know each other. I am an outsider. I’m not one of them.” He searched Pitt’s eyes, trying to judge how much of his meaning Pitt had understood.
    “Not one of them …” Pitt echoed. Old memories came flooding like a tide of darkness. He had seen the subtlest of corruption in the past, men who had secret loyalties which superseded every other honor or pledge, who would cover each other’s crimes, who offered preference to their own and excluded all others. It was known as the Inner Circle. Its long tentacles had gripped him before, but he had thought little of it for a couple of years. Now Cornwallis was telling him that this was the enemy.
    Perhaps he should not have been surprised. He had dealt them some hard blows in the past. They must have been biding their time to retaliate, and his testimony in court had given them the perfect opportunity.
    “Friends of Adinett?” he said aloud.
    Cornwallis nodded fractionally. “I have no way of knowing, but I would lay any odds you like on it.” He too avoided mentioning the name, but neither of them doubted the meaning. Cornwallis drew in his breath. “You are to report to Mr.Victor Narraway, at the address I shall give you. He is the commander of Special Branch in the East End, and he will tell you your exact duties.” He stopped abruptly.
    Was he going to say that Narraway too was a member of the Inner Circle? If he were then Pitt was more profoundly alone than he had imagined.
    “I wish I could tell you more about Narraway,” Cornwallis said miserably. “But the whole of Special Branch is something of a closed book to the rest of us.” Dislike puckered his face. He may have been obliged to accept that a clandestine force was necessary, but it offended his nature, as it did those of most Englishmen.
    “I thought the Fenian trouble had died down,” Pitt said candidly. “What could I do in Spitalfields that their own men couldn’t do better?”
    Cornwallis leaned forward over his desk. “Pitt, it has nothing to do with the Fenians, or the anarchists, and Spitalfields is immaterial.” His voice was low and urgent. “They want you out of Bow Street. They are determined to break you, if they can. This is at least another job, for which you will be paid. Money will be deposited for your wife to withdraw. And if you are careful, and clever, they may be unable to find you, and believe me, that would be very desirable for some time to come. I … I wish it were not so.”
    Pitt intended to stand up, but found his legs weak. He started to ask how long he was to be banished to chasing shadows in the East End, robbed of dignity, of command, of the whole way of life he was used to … and had earned! He was not sure if he could bear the answer. Then, looking at Cornwallis’s face, he realized the man had no answer to give.
    “I have to live … in the East End?” he asked.