Long Spoon Lane Read Online Free PDF

seemed always to be a hansom waiting. He gave the driver the address of the morgue where the body had been taken, and they rode in silence. It was not that Narraway was ignoring Landsborough, or even did not know what to say; rather he wished to allow him to grieve without the necessity of having to disturb himself to find the words to be courteous.
    And yet at some point Narraway would have to ask him more about his son: questions of associates, of money, names, places that might lead to other anarchists that he could not afford to let pass, however painful.
    The morgue had the smell of wet stone, carbolic, and the indefinable odor of death familiar to Narraway but perhaps alien to Landsborough. Most people died at home, and a sick room, whatever the illness, never had this cloying, over-scrubbed dampness to it. This building was not designed for the living.
    The attendant met them with a professional mask of solemnity. He knew how to conduct himself in the presence of overwhelming pain without intruding upon it. He took them along the corridor to the room where the body was lying on a table. It was covered by a sheet, even the head.
    Narraway remembered how damaged the face was, and strode over ahead of Landsborough, interposing his body between him and the table. He pulled up the side of the sheet exposing the dead man’s hand. The signet ring had been replaced and would be sufficient for Lord Landsborough to identify the body.
    “Is he really so badly disfigured?” Landsborough said with faint surprise.
    “Yes.” Narraway diverted his gaze to the hand.
    Landsborough looked down at it. “Yes, that is my son’s ring. And I believe that is his hand. I would still like to see his face.”
    “My lord…” Narraway started to protest, then changed his mind. He was being foolish. Without looking at the face it was not a full identification. He stood aside.
    “Thank you,” Landsborough acknowledged the gesture. He picked up the sheet and looked in silence at the features—shattered on one side, almost peaceful on the other. Then he replaced the sheet. “That is my son,” he said in a whisper. His voice jerked, as if he had meant to speak aloud, but his body would not obey him. “Is there more you require of me, Mr. Narraway?”
    “I’m sorry, sir. There is.” Narraway turned to lead the way out along the corridor, thanking the attendant briefly, and went outside into the warm air of the street.
    “The anarchists must have had money to finance their arms,” he said as the traffic clattered past them. “Dynamite has to be paid for. If we could trace their purchases we might find the rest of them, before they blow up more people’s homes.” He spoke of the destruction deliberately, ignoring the wince of pain that tightened Landsborough’s face. “We need to find them,” he emphasized. “We need to know Mr. Landsborough’s associates, anything of his movements lately.”
    “Yes, of course you do,” Landsborough agreed, blinking a little in the sun as if its light were suddenly harsher than before. “But I can’t help you. Magnus was seldom home. I was aware of his convictions—although I admit, not of their depth—but I did not know his friends.” He bit his lip. “And as for money, he had a small annuity, but it was not sufficient to buy arms, merely to feed and clothe himself. I paid the rent of a set of rooms for him, off Gordon Square. He wished to be independent.”
    “I see.” Narraway was not certain of how entirely he believed Landsborough, but he was quite sure that it would be pointless to press the issue any further at the moment. “We will require to look at the rooms in Gordon Square, in case he left anything there which could lead us to them.”
    “Naturally. I shall send my man to give you the address and my keys to it.” Landsborough straightened his shoulders. “If that is all, Mr. Narraway, I should like to return to my home. I must inform my wife of what has