by Anne Perry
After Stoker had gone Narraway sat still for several minutes. To have lost West, with whatever information he had, was serious. There had been increased activity lately, known troublemakers coming and going more often than usual, a charge of expectancy in the air. He knew all the signs; he just did not know what the target was this time. There were so many possibilities. Specific assassination, such as a government minister, an industrialist, a foreign dignitary on British soil—that would be a serious embarrassment. Or the dynamiting of a major landmark. He had relied on Pitt to find out. Perhaps he still might, but without West it would be more difficult.
And of course it was not the only issue at hand. There were always whispers, threats, the air breathing of suspicion and betrayal. It was the purpose of Special Branch to detect such things before they happened, and prevent at least the worst.
But if Pitt had gone to Scotland after the murderer of West, or worse still, across the channel, and had had no time to tell Narraway, then certainly he would not have had time to tell his wife either. Charlotte would be at home in Keppel Street waiting for him, expecting him, and growing more and more afraid with each passing hour as the silence closed in on her.
Narraway glanced at the longcase clock standing against the wall of his office. Its ornate hands pointed at quarter to seven. On a usual day Pitt would be home by now.
He thought of her in the kitchen, preparing the evening meal, probably alone. Her children would be occupied with studies for the following day’s school. He could picture her easily; in fact the picture was already there in his mind, unbidden.
Some would not have found Charlotte beautiful. They might have preferred a face more traditional, daintier, less challenging. Narraway found such faces boring. There was a warmth in Charlotte, a laughter he could never quite forget—and he had tried. She was quick to anger at times, far too quick to react. Many of her judgments were flawed, in his opinion, but never her courage, never her will.
Someone must tell her that Pitt had gone in hot pursuit of West’s murderer—no, better leave out the fact that West had been murdered. Pitt had gone in hot pursuit of a man with vital information, possibly across the channel, and had been unable to telephone her to let her know. He could call Stoker back and send him, but she did not know him. She did not know anyone else at Lisson Grove Headquarters. It would be the courteous thing to tell her himself. It would not be far out of his way. Well, yes it would, but it would still be the better thing to do.
Pitt, for all his initial ignorance of Special Branch ways, and his occasional political naïveté, was one of the best men Narraway had ever known. A gamekeeper’s son, he had been educated in the household of the manor, which had produced a man who was by nature a gentleman, and yet possessing an anger and a compassion Narraway admired. He found himself puzzlingly protective of Pitt. Now he must tell Charlotte that her husband had disappeared, probably to France. He tidied his desk, locked away anything that might be confidential, left his office, and caught a hansom within minutes. He gave him Pitt’s address on Keppel Street.
Narraway saw the fear in Charlotte’s eyes as soon as she opened the door to him. He would never have called merely socially, and she knew that. The strength of her emotion gave him a startling twinge of envy. It was a long time since there had been anyone who would have felt that terror for him.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” he said with rather stiff formality. “Events did not go according to plan today, and Pitt and his assistant were obliged to pursue a suspected conspirator without the opportunity to inform anyone of what was happening.”
Warmth returned to her face, flushing the soft honey color of her skin. “Where is he?” she asked.
He decided to sound more certain than he was. West’s murderer might have fled to Scotland, but France was far more likely. “France,” he replied. “Of course he could not telephone from the ferry, and he would not have dared leave in case the man got off as well, and he lost him. I’m sorry.”
She smiled. “It was very thoughtful of you to come tell me. I admit, I was beginning to be concerned.”
The April evening was cold, a sharp wind carrying the smell of rain. He was standing on the doorstep staring at the light beyond. He stepped back, deliberately, his thoughts, the temptation, the quickening of his heart frightening him.
“There is no need,” he said hastily. “Gower is with him; an excellent man, intelligent and quite fluent in French. And I daresay it will be warmer there than it is here.” He smiled. “And the food is excellent.” She had been preparing dinner. That was clumsy. Thank goodness he was far enough into the darkness that she could not see the blush rise up his face. “I will let you know as soon as I hear from him. If this man they are following goes to Paris, it may not be easy for them to be in contact, but please don’t fear for him.”
“Thank you. I won’t now.”
He knew that was a polite lie. Of course she would fear for Pitt, and miss him. Loving always included the possibility of loss. But the emptiness of not loving was even greater.
He nodded very slightly, just an inclination of his head, then wished her good night. He walked away, feeling as if he were leaving the light behind him.
IT WAS THE MIDDLE of the following morning when Narraway received the telegram from Pitt in St. Malo. He immediately forwarded him sufficient money to last both men for at least two weeks. He thought about it as soon as it had been sent, and knew he had been overgenerous. Perhaps that was an indication of the relief he felt to know Pitt was safe. He would have to go back to Keppel Street to tell Charlotte that Pitt had been in touch.
He had returned to his desk after lunch when Charles Austwick came in and closed the door behind him. He was officially Narraway’s next in command, although in practical terms it had come to be Pitt. Austwick was in his late forties with fair hair that was receding a little, and a good-looking but curiously unremarkable face. He was intelligent and efficient, and he seemed to be always in control of whatever feelings he might have. Now he looked very directly at Narraway, deliberately so, as if he was uncomfortable and attempting not to show it.
“An ugly situation has arisen, sir,” he said, sitting down before he was invited to. “I’m sorry, but I have no choice but to address it.”
“Then do so!” Narraway said a little hastily. “Don’t creep around it like a maiden aunt at a wedding. What is it?”
Austwick’s face tightened, his lips making a thin line.
“This has to do with informers,” Austwick said coldly. “Do you remember Mulhare?”
Narraway recognized the name with a rush of sadness. Mulhare had been an Irishman who risked his life to give information to the English. It was dangerous enough that he would have to leave Ireland, taking his family with him. Narraway had made sure there were funds provided for him.
“Of course I do,” he said quietly. “Have they found who killed him? Not that it’ll do much good now.” He knew his voice sounded bitter. He had liked Mulhare, and had promised him that he’d be safe.
“That is something of a difficult question,” Austwick replied. “He never got the money, so he couldn’t leave Ireland.”
“Yes, he did,” Narraway contradicted him. “I dealt with it myself.”
“That’s rather the point,” Austwick said. He moved position slightly, scuffing the chair leg on the carpet.
Narraway resented being reminded of his failure. It was a loss that would continue to hurt. “If you don’t know who killed him, why are you spending time on that now, instead of current things?” he asked abruptly. “If you have nothing to do, I can certainly find you something. Pitt and Gower are away for a while. Somebody’ll have to pick up Pitt’s case on the docks.”
“Oh really?” Austwick barely masked his surprise. “I didn’t know. No one mentioned it!”
Narraway gave him a chill look and ignored the implied rebuke.
Austwick drew in his breath. “As I said,” he resumed, “this is something I regre
t we have to deal with. Mulhare was betrayed—”
“We know that, for God’s sake!” Narraway could hear his own voice thick with emotion. “His corpse was fished out of Dublin Bay.”
“He never got the money,” Austwick said again.
Narraway clenched his hands under the desk, out of Austwick’s sight. “I paid it myself.”
“But Mulhare never received it,” Austwick replied. “We traced it.”
Narraway was startled.
“To whom? Where is it?”
“I have no idea where it is now,” Austwick answered. “But it was in one of your bank accounts here in London.”
Narraway froze. Suddenly, with appalling clarity, he knew what Austwick was doing here, and held at least a hazy idea of what had happened. Austwick suspected, or even believed, that Narraway had taken the money and intentionally left Mulhare to be caught and killed. Was that how little he knew him? Or was it more a measure of his long-simmering resentment, his ambition to take Narraway’s place and wield the razor-edged power that he now held?
“And out again,” he said aloud to Austwick. “We had to move it around a little, or it would have been too easily traceable to Special Branch.”
“Oh yes,” Austwick agreed bleakly. “Around to several places. But the trouble is that in the end it went back again.”
“Back again? It went to Mulhare,” Narraway corrected him.
“No, sir, it did not go to Mulhare. It went back into one of your special accounts. One that we had believed closed,” Austwick said. “It is there now. If Mulhare had received it, he would have left Dublin, and he would still be alive. The money went around to several places, making it almost untraceable, as you said, but it ended up right back where it started, with you.”
Narraway drew in his breath to deny it, and saw in Austwick’s face that it would be pointless. Whoever had put it there, Austwick believed it was Narraway himself, or he chose to pretend he believed it.
“I did not put it there,” Narraway said, not because he thought it would change anything, but because he would not admit to something of which he was not guilty. The betrayal of Mulhare was repugnant to him, and betrayal was not a word he used easily. “I paid it to Terence Kelly. He was supposed to have paid it to Mulhare. That was his job. For obvious reasons, I could not give it directly to Mulhare, or I might as well have painted a bull’s-eye on his heart.”
“Can you prove that, sir?” Austwick asked politely.
“Of course I can’t!” Narraway snapped. Was Austwick being deliberately obtuse? He knew as well as Narraway himself that one did not leave trails to prove such things. What he would be able to prove now, to justify himself, anyone else could have used to damn Mulhare.
“You see it calls into question the whole subject of your judgment,” Austwick said half apologetically, his bland face grave. “It would be highly advisable, sir, for you to find some proof of this, then the matter could be let go.”
Narraway’s mind raced. He knew what was in his bank accounts, both personal and for Special Branch use. Austwick had mentioned one that had been presumed closed. No money had passed through it for some time, but Narraway had deliberately left a few pounds in it, in case he ever wished to use it again. It was a convenience.
“I’ll check the account,” he said aloud, his voice cold.
“That would be a good idea, sir,” Austwick agreed. “Perhaps you will be able to find some proof as to why it came back to you, and a reason poor Mulhare never received it.”
Narraway realized that this was not an invitation, but rather a warning. It was even possible that his position at Special Branch was in jeopardy. Certainly he had created enemies over the years, both in his rise to leadership and even more so in the time since then. There were always hard decisions to make; whatever you did could not please everyone.
He had employed Pitt as a favor, when Pitt had challenged his own superiors and been thrown out of the Metropolitan Police. And initially he had found Pitt unsatisfactory, lacking the training or the inclination for Special Branch work. But the man had learned quickly, and he was a remarkably good detective: persistent, imaginative, and with a moral courage Narraway admired. And he liked the man, despite his own resolution not to allow personal feelings into anything professional.
He had protected Pitt from the envy and the criticism of others in the branch. That was partly because Pitt was more than worthy of the place, but also to defend Narraway’s own judgment. Yet—he admitted it now—it was also for Charlotte’s sake. Without Pitt, he would have no excuse to see her again.
“I’ll attend to it,” he answered Austwick at last. “As soon as I have a few more answers on this present problem. One of our informants was murdered, which has made things more difficult.”
Austwick rose to his feet. “Yes, sir. That would be a good idea. I think the sooner you put people’s minds at rest on the issue, the better it will be. I suggest before the end of this week.”
“When circumstances allow,” Narraway replied coolly.
CIRCUMSTANCES DID NOT ALLOW. Early the following morning Narraway was sent for to report to the Home Office, directly to Sir Gerald Croxdale, his political superior, the one man to whom he was obliged to answer without reservation.
Croxdale was in his early fifties, a quiet, persistent politician who had risen in the ranks of the government with remarkable swiftness, not having made great speeches or introduced new laws, nor apparently having used the benefit of patronage from any of the more noted ministers. Croxdale seemed to be his own man. Whatever debts he collected or favors he owed were too discreet for even Narraway to know of, let alone the general public. He had made no individual initiatives that were remarkable but—probably far more important—he had also made no visible mistakes. Insiders spoke his name with respect.
Narraway had never seen in him the passion that marked an ambitious man, but he noted the quick rise to greater power and it earned in him a deeper, if reluctant, respect.
“Morning, Narraway,” Croxdale said with an easy smile as he waved him to a brown leather armchair in his large office. Croxdale was a big man, tall and solid. His face was far from handsome in any traditional sense, but he was imposing. His voice was soft, his smile benign. Today he was wearing his usual well-cut but unostentatious suit, and perfectly polished black leather boots.
Narraway returned the greeting and sat down, not comfortably, but a little forward, listening.
“Bad business about your informant West being killed,” Croxdale began. “I presume he was going to tell you a great deal more about whatever it is building up among the militant socialists.”
“Yes, sir,” Narraway said bleakly. “Pitt and Gower were only seconds too late. They saw West, but he was already terrified of something and took to his heels. They caught up with him in a brickyard in Shadwell, only moments after he was killed. The murderer was still bending over him.” He could feel the heat of the blood in his cheeks as he said it. It was partly anger at having been so close, and yet infinitely far from preventing the death. One minute sooner and West would have been alive, and all his information would be theirs. It was also a sense of failure, as if losing him were an incompetence on the part of his men, and so of himself. Deliberately he met Croxdale’s eyes, refusing to look away. He never made excuses, explicit or implicit.
Croxdale smiled, leaning back and crossing his long legs. “Unfortunate, but luck cannot always be on our side. It is the measure of your men that they kept track of the assassin. What is the news now?”
“I’ve had a couple of telegrams from Pitt in St. Malo,” Narraway answered. “Wrexham, the killer, seems to have more or less gone to ground in the house of a British expatriate there. The interesting thing is that they have seen other socialist activists of note.”
“Who?” Croxdale asked.
“Pieter Linsky and Jacob Meister,” Narraway replied.
Croxdale stiffened, straightening up a little, his face keen with interest
. “Really? Then perhaps not all is lost.” He lowered his voice. “Tell me, Narraway, do you still believe there is some major action planned?”
“Yes,” Narraway said without hesitation. “I think West’s murder removes any doubt. He would have told us what it was, and probably who else was involved.”
“Damn! Well you must keep Pitt there, and the other chap, what’s his name?”
“Gower.”
“Yes, Gower too. Give them all the funds they need. I’ll see to it that that meets no opposition.”
“Of course,” Narraway said with some surprise. He had always had complete authority to disburse the funds in his care as he saw fit.
Croxdale pursed his lips and leaned farther forward. “It is not quite so simple, Narraway,” he said gravely. “We have been looking into the matter of past funds and their use, in connection with other cases, as I daresay you know.” He interlaced his fingers and looked down at them a moment, then up again quickly. “Mulhare’s death has raised some ugly questions, which I’m afraid have to be answered.”
Narraway was stunned. He had not realized the matter had already gone as far as Croxdale, and before he had even had a chance to look into it more deeply, and prove his own innocence. Was that Austwick’s doing again? Damn the man.
“It will be,” he said now to Croxdale. “I kept certain movements of the funds secret, to protect Mulhare. They’d have killed him instantly if they’d known he received English money.”
“Isn’t that rather what happened?” Croxdale asked ruefully.
Narraway thought for a moment of denying it. They knew who had killed Mulhare, but it was only proof they lacked; the deduction was certain in his own mind. But he did not need another moral evasion. His life was too full of shadows. He would not allow Croxdale to provoke him into another. “Yes.”
“We failed him, Narraway,” Croxdale said sadly.
“Yes.”
“How did that happen?” Croxdale pressed.
“He was betrayed.”
“By whom?”
“I don’t know. When this socialist threat is dealt with, I shall find out, if I can.”
