Long Spoon Lane Read Online Free PDF Page A

quietly. “We were warned of it, and arrived in time to pursue those who caused it. We ran them down in Long Spoon Lane and laid siege to the house. There was a brief gun battle before we took it. When we went in we found two anarchists alive, and the body of a third. He had been shot. We don’t yet know by whom, except that it was from inside the room, not outside.” Looking at Landsborough’s face he could see that he already knew what Narraway would say next. “I’m sorry,” he continued gravely. “The signet ring on his hand, as well as the statements by one of the men we caught, identify him as Magnus Landsborough.”
    Landsborough might have been half expecting it, but still the color bleached from his face leaving his skin almost gray. He hesitated a long, agonized moment, fighting to control his voice, then he answered. “I see. It was considerate of you to come in person. I suppose you wish me to identify…” He was unable to continue. His throat simply closed up and he gasped to draw air into his lungs.
    Narraway felt utterly helpless. He had just inflicted appalling pain on a man, and was obliged to sit by without even averting his eyes as Landsborough struggled to maintain his dignity.
    “Unless there is a close relative you would prefer to send,” he offered, knowing Landsborough would not accept, even were there such a person.
    Landsborough tried to smile, and failed. “No.” His voice cracked. “There is no one else.” He did not say that he would not ask it of Lady Landsborough. Such a thought would not enter his mind.
    Narraway wanted to apologize again, but to do so would only require Landsborough to wave it away. Instead he used the moment to ask the painful question he was obliged to. It was still just possible that Magnus had been some kind of hostage, although he did not believe that. Welling had said he was their leader, and for all his naïveté, his passionate, ignorant, and one-sided philosophy, Narraway felt that Welling was speaking what he perceived to be the truth.
    “What were Mr. Landsborough’s political ideals, my lord?” he asked. “As far as you know.”
    “What? Oh?” Landsborough thought for a moment, when he answered there was a softer tone to his voice, on the edge of self-mockery, and tears. “I am afraid he followed some of my own liberal ideas, and took them rather too far. If you are trying a little delicately to ask me if I knew he had espoused more violent means of persuasion, I did not. But perhaps I should have expected it. Had I been wiser, I might have done something to prevent it, although precisely what escapes me.”
    Narraway was wrenched with an unexpected pity. Had Landsborough railed against fate or society, or even Special Branch, it might have been easier. He could have defended himself. He knew all the reasons and the arguments for what he did, the necessity of it. Most of them he actually believed, and he had never allowed himself to care whether others did or not. He could not afford to. But the silent, uncomplaining woundedness of the man opposite him struck where he had no armor prepared.
    “We cannot force other men to adopt our convictions,” he said quietly. “Nor should we. It is always the young who rebel. Without them there would be little change.”
    “Thank you,” Landsborough whispered. Then he coughed several times and took a few moments to master himself again. “Magnus felt passionately about individual liberty, and he said he believed it to be under far more threat than I did,” he continued. “But then I have seen tides of opinion ebb and flow more than he has. The young are so impatient.” He climbed stiffly to his feet, using the armrests of the chair to propel himself upright. He seemed a decade older than when he had sat down less than ten minutes earlier.
    There was no answer for Narraway to make. He followed him out of the door, retrieved their hats from the steward, and went to the front steps where there