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still heavily weighed down with grief.
    Isadora was measuring her words very carefully. “Of course it is likely that anarchists provided the bomb, or at the very least, the materials for it,” she said. “But it seems possible that the motive was not political, in the sense of seeking a change in the entire system of government…”
    “I assume you don’t have any specific evidence, or you would not hesitate to say.” He leaned forward a little. “But tell me what you suspect. I will take it as an observation, a suggestion only.”
    She took a deep breath and let it out very slowly, giving herself time.
    “There is a young man whose family I know moderately well. They are, socially, in an important position.”
    With difficulty Pitt forced himself not to interrupt and urge her to reach the point. He found his hands clenching.
    “His name is Alexander Duncannon. About four years ago,” she went on, “I don’t know the exact date; he had a bad riding accident. His back was injured and he took some time to recover. The injury still causes him considerable pain. But I think the most severe legacy of the event was an addiction to the opium he was given in hospital during the worst of it.” She was obviously finding it difficult to tell him, not for lack of understanding but because in a sense she was betraying what might have been perceived as a confidence, or at the best, information gained in an unspoken trust.
    “He is still taking opium?” Pitt tried to make the narrative easier.
    “I think so. He does not mention it, but I have seen him in differing moods, and with the anxiety and constant unease that accompanies such…addiction…”
    “If it is for pain, then I presume his doctor prescribes it for him,” Pitt said, keeping his tone matter-of-fact.
    Isadora shifted. “He did. But I am not sure that is still the case, or if it is, if it is in the amounts he wishes.”
    Pitt was uncomfortably aware that Isadora’s story, like that of the police being lured to the Lancaster Gate house, seemed to center on opium.
    “Are you afraid that he is buying opium himself, illegally?” he asked. It had not been made public that the raid had been intended to capture dealers in drugs. Did Isadora know somehow? Cornwallis could have told her; it was possible he had heard through a friend on the force or an old colleague, despite the fact that he was no longer assistant commissioner. “Does your husband know you have come to see me?” he asked.
    She winced. “No. And he is not aware of Alexander’s…frailty. I prefer that it remains so. I have no obligation to act regarding opium. I can assume that it is legally prescribed and not inquire. He might feel that he could not.”
    Pitt was puzzled. “But you came to tell me? I don’t understand.”
    She was quick. “You seized on the opium when I mentioned it,” she said. “Did the bombing have something to do with opium?”
    “Is that not why you mentioned Duncannon and his addiction in the first place?” he countered.
    She smiled ruefully. “Don’t play with me, Mr. Pitt. I was well used to it with my brother, and with my first husband. I came to you, even though it is difficult for me, because Alexander is a charming, intelligent but unstable young man, who has a passionate hatred for the police. It amounts to an obsession, a crusade against them. He has made no secret of it, but I think many people assume it to be merely part of his rather eccentric style of living, perhaps an attempt to be accepted by the company he chooses to keep, possibly even as a rather desperate form of rebellion against his father, who is a wealthy and formidable man who once had high expectations of his only son.”
    “He hates the police?” Pitt sat back, surprised by this new information. “Does he have sympathy with anarchist connections?” It was not unusual for young men of wealth and privilege to have sympathies with the poor, and aspirations to see the politics changed.