by Anne Perry
Pitt’s heart sank. Suddenly he felt confused and a little sick.
“Sorry, sir,” the constable said unhappily. “I called the number you gave. It was a branch o’ the police all right, but they said as they’d got no one there called Narraway, an’ they couldn’t ’elp yer.”
“Of course Narraway’s there!” Pitt said desperately. “He’s head of Special Branch! Call again. You must have had the wrong number. This is impossible.”
“It were the right number, sir,” the constable repeated stolidly. “It was Special Branch, like you said. An’ they told me they got no one there called Victor Narraway. I asked ’em careful, sir, an’ they were polite, but very definite. There in’t no Victor Narraway there. Now you settle down, sir. Get a bit o’ rest. We’ll see what we can do in the morning. I’ll get you a cup o’ tea, an’ mebbe a sandwich, if yer like?”
Pitt was numb. The nightmare was getting worse. His imagination created all kinds of horror. What had happened to Narraway? How wide was this conspiracy? Perhaps he should have realized that if they removed Pitt himself to France on a pointless errand, then of course they would have gotten rid of Narraway as well. There was no purpose in removing Pitt otherwise. He was only a kind of backup: a right-hand man possibly, but not more than that. Narraway was the real threat to them.
“Yer want a cup o’ tea, sir?” the constable repeated. “Yer look a bit rough, sir. An’ a sandwich?”
“Yes …,” Pitt said slowly. The man’s humanity made it all the more grotesque, yet he was grateful for it. “I would. Thank you, Constable.”
“Yer just rest, sir. Don’t give yerself so much trouble. I’ll get yer a sandwich. Would ’am be all right?”
“Very good, thank you.” Pitt sat down on the cot to show that he had no intention of causing any problem for them. He was numb anyway. He did not even know whom to fight: certainly not this man who was doing his best to exercise both care and a degree of decency in handling a prisoner he believed had just committed a double murder.
It was a long and wretched night. He slept little, and when he did his dreams were full of fear, shifting darkness, and sudden explosions of sound and violence. When he woke in the morning his head throbbed, and his whole body was bruised and aching from the fight. It was painful to stand up when the constable came back again with another cup of tea.
“We’ll take yer ter the magistrate later on,” he said, watching Pitt carefully. “Yer look awful!”
Pitt tried to smile. “I feel awful. I need to wash and shave, and I look as if I’ve slept in my clothes, because I have.”
“Comes with being in jail, sir. ’ave a cup o’ tea. It’ll ’elp.”
“Yes, I expect it will, even if not much,” Pitt accepted. He stood well back from the door so the constable could place it inside without risking an attack. It was the usual way of doing things.
The constable screwed up his face. “Yer bin in the cells before, in’t yer,” he observed.
“No,” Pitt replied. “But I’ve been on your side of them often enough, as I told you. I’m a policeman myself. I have another number I would like you to call, seeing that Mr. Narraway doesn’t seem to be there. Please. I need to let someone know where I am. My wife and family, at least.”
“ ’Oo would that be, sir?” The constable put down the tea and backed out of the cell again, closing and locking the door. “You give me the number and I’ll do it. Everyone deserves that much.”
“Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould,” Pitt replied. “I’ll write the number down for you, if you give me a pencil.”
“You jus’ tell me, sir. I’ll write it down.”
Pitt obeyed. There was no point in arguing.
The man returned ten minutes later, his face wide-eyed and a trifle pale.
“She says as she knows yer, sir. Described yer to a T, she did. Says as ye’re one o’ the best policemen in London, an’ Mr. Narraway’s ’oo yer said ’e were, but summink’s ’appened to ’im. She’s sending a Member o’ Parliament down ter get yer out of ’ere, an’ as we’d better treat yer proper, or she’ll be ’avin’ a word wi’ the chief constable. I dunno if she’s real, sir. I ’ope yer understand I gotter keep yer in ’ere till this gentleman comes, wi’ proof ’e’s wot ’e says ’e is, an’ all. ’e could be anyone, but I know I got two dead bodies on the tracks.”
“Of course,” Pitt said wearily. He would not tell him that Gower was Special Branch, and Pitt had not known that he was a traitor until yesterday. “Of course I’ll wait here,” he said aloud. “I’d be obliged if you didn’t take me before the magistrate until the man arrives that Lady Vespasia sends.”
“Yes, sir, I think as we can arrange that.” He sighed. “I think as we’d better. Next time yer come from Southampton, sir, I’d be obliged if yer’d take some other line!”
Pitt managed a lopsided smile. “Actually I’d prefer this one. Given the circumstances, you’ve been very fair.”
The constable was lost for words. He struggled, but clearly nothing he could think of seemed adequate.
It was nearly two hours later that Mr. Somerset Carlisle, MP, came sauntering into the police station, elegantly dressed, his curious face filled with a rueful amusement. Many years ago he had committed a series of outrages in London, to draw attention to an injustice against which he had no other weapon. Pitt had been the policeman who led the investigation. The murder had been solved, and he had seen no need to pursue the man who had so bizarrely brought it to public attention. Carlisle had remained grateful, becoming an ally in several cases since then.
On this occasion he had with him all his identification verifying the considerable office he held. Within ten minutes Pitt was a free man, brushing aside the apologies of the local police and assuring them that they had performed their duties excellently, and he found no fault with them.
“What the devil’s going on?” Carlisle asked as they walked outside into the sun and headed in the direction of the railway station. “Vespasia called me in great agitation this morning, saying you had been charged with a double murder! You look like hell. Do you need a doctor?” There was laughter in his voice, but his eyes reflected a very real anxiety.
“A fight,” Pitt explained briefly. He found walking with any grace very difficult. He had not realized at the time how bruised he was. “On the platform at the back of a railway carriage traveling at considerable speed.” He told Carlisle very briefly what had happened.
Carlisle nodded. “It’s a very dark situation. I don’t know the whole story, but I’d be very careful what you do, Pitt. Vespasia told me to get you to her house, not Lisson Grove. In fact she advised me strongly against letting you go there at all.”
Pitt was cold. The sunlit street, the clatter of traffic all seemed unreal. “What’s happened to Narraway?”
“I don’t know. I’ve heard whispers, but I don’t know the truth. If anyone does, it’ll be Vespasia. But I’ll take you to my flat first. Clean you up a bit. You look as if you’ve spent the night in jail!”
TWO HOURS LATER, HE was washed, shaved, and dressed in a clean shirt, provided by Carlisle, as well as clean socks and underwear. Pitt alighted from the hansom cab outside Vespasia’s house and walked up to the front door. She was expecting him, and he was taken straight to her favorite sitting room, which looked onto the garden. There was a bowl of fresh narcissi on the table, their scent filling the air. Outside the breeze very gently stirred the new leaves on the trees.
Vespasia was dressed in silver-gray, with the long ropes of pearls he was so accustomed to seeing her wear. She looked calm, as she always did, and her beauty still moved him with a certain awe. However, he knew her well enough to see the profound anxiety in her eyes. It alarmed him, and he was too tired to hide it.
She looked him up and down. “I see Somerset lent you a shirt and cravat,” she observed with a faint smile.
“Is it so obvious?” he asked, standing in front of her.
“Of course. You would never cho
ose a shirt of that shade, or a cravat with a touch of wine in it. But it becomes you very well. Please sit down. It is uncomfortable craning my neck to look up at you.”
He would never have seated himself before she gave her permission, but he was glad to do so, in the chair opposite her. The formalities were over, and they would address the issues that burdened them both.
“Where have you been?” she asked. Her imperious tone swept aside the possibility that the answer was confidential even though she knew more about the power and danger of secrets than most ministers of government.
“In St. Malo,” he replied. He was embarrassed now by his prior failure to see through the subterfuge more rapidly. However, he did not avoid her eyes as he told her about himself and Gower chasing through the streets, their brief parting, then their meeting and almost instantly finding Wrexham crouched over the corpse of West, his neck slashed open and blood covering the stones.
Vespasia winced but did not interrupt him.
He described their pursuit of Wrexham to the East End, and then the train to Southampton, and the ferry across to France. He found himself explaining too fully why they had not arrested Wrexham until it sounded miserably like excuses.
“Thomas,” she interrupted gently. “Common sense justifies your actions, as seen at the time. You were aware of a socialist conspiracy, and you believed it to be more important than one grisly murder in London. What did you learn in St. Malo?”
“Very little,” he replied. “We saw one or two known socialist agitators in the first couple of days … at least I think we did.”
“You think?” she questioned.
He explained to her that it was Gower who had made the identification, and he had accepted it.
“I see. Who did he say they were?”
He was about to say that she would not know their names, then remembered her own radical part in the revolutions of 1848 that had swept across every country in Western Europe, except Britain. She had been in Italy, manning the barricades for that brief moment of hope in a new freedom. It was possible she had not lost all interest. “Jacob Meister and Pieter Linsky,” he replied. “But they didn’t come back again.”
She frowned. Pitt noticed how she tensed her shoulders involuntarily, the way her hands in her lap gripped each other.
“You know of them?” he concluded.
“Of course,” she said drily. “And many others. They are dangerous, Thomas. There is a new radicalism awakening in Europe. The next insurrections will not be like ’48. They will be of a different breed. There will be more violence; I think perhaps it will be much more. The Russian monarchy cannot last a much longer in its current state. The oppression is fearful. I have a few friends left who are able to write occasionally, old friends, who tell me the truth. There is desperate poverty. The tsar has lost all sense of reality and is totally out of touch with his people—as are all his ministers and advisers. The gulf between the obscenely rich and the starving is so great it will eventually swallow them all. The only question is when.”
The thought was chilling, but he did not argue, or even question it.
“And I am afraid the news is not good here,” Vespasia continued. “But you already know something of it.”
“Only that Narraway is out of Lisson Grove,” he replied. “I have no idea why, or what happened.”
“I know why.” She sighed, and he saw the sadness in her eyes. She looked pale and tired. “He has been charged with the embezzlement of a considerable amount of money, which—”
“What?” It was absurd. Ordinarily he would not have dreamed of interrupting her—it was a breach of courtesy unimaginable to him—but Pitt’s disbelief was too urgent to be stifled.
A flicker of amusement sparkled in her eyes, and vanished as quickly. “I am aware of the absurdity, Thomas. Victor has several faults, but petty theft is not among them.”
“You said a large amount.”
“Large to steal. It cost a man’s life because he did not have it. Someone engineered this very astutely. I have my ideas as to who it may have been, but they are no more than ideas, insubstantial, and quite possibly mistaken.”
“Where is Narraway?” he demanded.
“In Ireland,” she told him.
“Why Ireland?” he asked.
“Because he believes that whoever was the author of his misfortune is Irish, and that the culprit is to be found there.” She bit her lip very slightly. It was a gesture of anxiety so deep, he could not recall having seen her do it before.
“Aunt Vespasia?” He leaned forward a little.
“He believed it personal,” she continued. “An act of revenge for an old injury. At the time I thought he might have been correct, although it was a long time to wait for such perceived justice, and the Irish have never been noted for their patience, especially for revenge. I assumed some new circumstance must have made it possible …”
“You said assumed—were you wrong?” he asked.
“After what you have told me of your experience in France, and of this man Gower, who was your assistant, and of whom neither you nor anyone else in Special Branch appeared to have any suspicions, I think Victor was mistaken,” she said gravely. “I fear it may have had nothing to do with personal revenge, but have been a means of removing him from command of the situation in London, and replacing him with someone either of far less competence or—very much worse—of sympathy with the socialist cause. It looks as if you were removed to France for the same reason.”
He smiled with a bitter humor. “I am not of Narraway’s experience or power,” he told her honestly. “I am not worth their trouble to remove.”
“You are too modest, my dear.” She regarded him with amused affection. “Surely you would have fought for Victor. Even if you were not as fond of him as I believe you to be, you would do it out of loyalty. He took you into Special Branch when the Metropolitan Police dismissed you, and you had too many enemies to return there. He took some risk doing so, and made more enemies of his own. Most of those men are gone now, but at the time it was a dangerous act. You have more than repaid him with your ability, but you can now repay the courage. I do not imagine you think differently.”
Her eyes were steady on his. “Added to which, you have enemies in Special Branch yourself, because of the favor he showed you, and your somewhat rapid rise. With Victor gone, you will be very fortunate indeed if you survive him for long. Even if you do, you will be forever watching over your shoulder and waiting for the unseen blow. If you do not know that, you are far more naïve than I think you.”
“My loyalty to Narraway would have been enough, to bring me to his aid,” he told her. “But yes, of course I am aware that without his protection I won’t last long.”
Her voice was very gentle. “My dear, it is imperative, for many reasons, that we do what we can to clear Victor’s name. I am glad you see it so clearly.”
He felt a sudden chill, a warning.
She inclined her head in assent. “Then you will understand why Charlotte has gone to Ireland with Victor to help him in any way she can. He will find it hard enough on his own. She may be his eyes and ears in places he is unable to go himself.”
For a moment he did not even understand, as if her words were half in a foreign language. The key words were plain enough—Charlotte, Narraway, and Ireland—but the whole of it made no sense.
“Charlotte’s gone to Ireland?” he repeated. “She can’t have! What on earth could she do? She doesn’t know Ireland, and she certainly doesn’t know anything about Narraway’s past, his old cases, or anyone else in Special Branch.” He hesitated to tell her she had misunderstood. It would sound so rude, but it was the only explanation.
“Thomas,” Vespasia said gravely. “The situation is very serious. Victor is helpless. He is closed out of his office and all access to any assistance from Special Branch. We know that at least one person there, highly placed, is a thief and a traitor. We do not know who it is. Charles Austwick is in
charge …”
“Austwick?”
“Yes. You see how serious it is? Do you imagine that without your help he will find the traitor? Apparently none of you, including Victor, were aware of Gower’s treason. Who else would betray you? Charlotte is at least in part aware of the danger, including the danger to you personally. She went with Victor partly out of loyalty to him, but mostly to save his career because she is very sharply aware that yours depends upon it also. And another element that you may not yet have had time to consider: If Victor can be made to appear guilty of theft, how difficult would it be for the same people to make you appear guilty with him?”
It was a nightmare again: frightening, irrational. Pitt was exhausted, aching with the pain of disillusion and the horror of his own violence. His body was bruised and so tired he could sleep sitting in this comfortable chair, if only he could relax long enough. And yet fear knotted the muscles in his back, his shoulders, and his neck, and his head throbbed. This last piece of news made the situation immeasurably worse. He struggled to make sense of it.
“Where is she? Is she safe …?” Safe was a stupid word to use if she was in Ireland with Narraway.
“Thomas, Victor is out there with her. He won’t let any harm come to her if he can prevent it,” Vespasia said softly.
Pitt knew Narraway was in love with her, but he did not want to hear it. “If he cared, he wouldn’t have …,” he began.
“Allowed her to go?” she finished for him. “Thomas, she has gone in order to honor her friendship and loyalty, and above all to protect her husband’s career, and therefore the family’s means of survival. What do you imagine he could have said or done that would have stopped her?”
“Not told her he was going in the first place!” he snapped.
“Really?” She raised her silver eyebrows. “And left her wondering why you did not come home after chasing your informant through the streets? Not that night, or the entire following week? She might have gone to Lisson Grove and asked, by which time she would be frantic with fear. And she would have been met with the news that Narraway was gone and you were nowhere to be found, and there was no one in Lisson Grove to help or support you. Do you feel that would have been preferable?”
