by Anne Perry
Pitt blinked. “Of course.” Did that mean that Croxdale knew Austwick was the traitor? Pitt had been avoiding the issue, waiting, judging pointlessly. It was a relief. Croxdale was clever, more reliable than he had thought. Then how could he think such things of Narraway?
But what was Pitt’s judgment to rely on? He had trusted Gower!
Croxdale was still looking at him intently.
Pitt could think of nothing to say.
“We need a man who knows what Narraway was doing and can pick up the reins he dropped,” Croxdale said. “You are the only man who fits that description, Pitt. It’s a great deal to ask of you, but there is no one else, and your skills and integrity are things about which I believe Narraway was both right and honest.”
“But … Austwick …,” Pitt stammered. “He …”
“Is a good stopgap,” Croxdale said coolly. “He is not the man for the job in such dangerous times as these. Frankly, he has not the ability to lead, or to make the difficult decisions of such magnitude. He was a good enough lieutenant.”
Pitt’s head swam. He had none of his predecessor’s nerve, confidence, political savvy, or decision-making experience.
“Neither have I the skills,” he protested. “And I haven’t been in the service long enough for the other men to have confidence in me. I will support Austwick as best I can, but I haven’t the abilities to take on the leadership.”
Croxdale smiled. “I thought you would be modest. It is a good quality. Arrogance leads to mistakes. I’m sure you will seek advice, and take it—at least most of the time. But you have never lacked judgment before, or the courage to go with your own beliefs. I know your record, Pitt. Do you imagine you have gone unnoticed in the past?” He asked it gently, as if with a certain degree of amusement.
“I imagine not,” Pitt conceded. “You will know a good deal about anyone, before taking them into the service at all. But—”
“Not in your case,” Croxdale contradicted him. “You were Narraway’s recruit. But I have made it my business to learn far more about you since then. Your country needs you now, Pitt. Narraway has effectively betrayed our trust and has likely fled the country. You were Narraway’s second in command. This is your duty as well as your privilege to serve.” He held out his hand.
Pitt was overwhelmed, not with pleasure or any sense of honor, but with great concern for Narraway, fear for Charlotte, and the knowledge that he did not want this weight of command. It was not in his nature to act with certainty when the balance of judgment was so gray, and the stakes were the lives of other men.
“We look to you, Pitt,” Croxdale said again. “Don’t fail your country, man!”
“No, sir,” Pitt said unhappily. “I will do everything I can, sir …”
“Good.” Croxdale smiled. “I knew you would. That is one thing Narraway was right about. I will inform the necessary people, including the prime minister, of course. Thank you, Pitt. We are grateful to you.”
Pitt accepted: He had little choice. Croxdale began to outline to him exactly what his task would be, his powers, and the rewards.
It was midnight when Pitt walked outside into the lamplit night and found Croxdale’s own carriage waiting to take him home.
CHARLOTTE WALKED AWAY FROM Cormac O’Neil’s home with as much composure as she could muster, but she had the sinking fear inside her that she looked as afraid and bewildered as she felt, and as helplessly angry. Whatever else Narraway might have been guilty of—and it could have been a great deal—she was certain that he had not killed Cormac O’Neil. She had arrived at the house almost on his heels. She had heard the dog begin to bark as Narraway went into the house, and continue more and more hysterically, knowing there was an intruder, and perhaps already aware of O’Neil’s death.
Had Cormac cried out? Had he even seen his killer, or had he been shot in the back? She had not heard a gun fire, only the dog barking. That was it, of course! The dog had barked at Narraway, but not at whoever had fired the shot.
She stopped in the street, standing rooted to the spot as the realization shook her with its meaning. Narraway could not possibly have shot Cormac. Her certainty was not built on her belief in him but on evidence: facts that were not capable of any other reasonable interpretation. She turned on her heel and stepped out urgently, striding across the street back toward O’Neil’s house, then stopped again just as suddenly. Why should they believe her? She knew that what she said was true, but would anyone else substantiate it?
Of course not! Talulla would contradict it because she hated Narraway. With hindsight, that had been perfectly clear, and predictable. She would be only too delighted if he were hanged for Cormac’s murder. To her it would be justice—the sweeter now after the long delay. She must know he was not guilty because she had been close enough to have heard the dog start to bark herself, but she would be the last person to say so.
Narraway would know that. She remembered his face as he allowed the police to handcuff him. He had looked at Charlotte only once, concentrating everything he had to say in that one glance. He needed her to understand.
He also needed her to keep a very calm mind and to think: to work it out detail by detail and not act before she was certain—not only of the truth, but that she could prove it so it could not be ignored. It is very difficult indeed to make people believe what is against all their emotions: the conviction of friend and enemy years-deep, paid for in blood and loss.
She was still standing on the pavement. A small crowd had gathered because of the violence and the police just over a hundred yards away. They were staring, wondering what was the matter with her.
She swallowed, straightened her skirt, then turned yet again and walked back toward where she judged to be the best place to find a carriage to take her to Molesworth Street. There were many practical considerations to weigh very carefully. She was completely alone now. There was no one at all she could trust. She must consider whether to remain at Mrs. Hogan’s or if it would be safer to move somewhere else where she would be less exposed. Everyone knew she was Narraway’s sister.
But where else could she go? How long would it take anyone to find her again in a town the size of Dublin? She was a stranger, an Englishwoman, on her own. She knew no one except those Narraway had introduced her to. A couple of hours’ inquiries would find her again, and she would merely look ridiculous, and evasive, as if she had something of which to be ashamed.
She was walking briskly along the pavement, trying to appear to know precisely where she was going and to what purpose. The former was true. There was a carriage ahead of her setting down a fare, and she could hire it if she was quick enough. She reached the carriage just as it began to move.
“Sir!” she called out. “Will you be good enough to take me to Molesworth Street?”
“Sure, an’ I’ll be happy to,” the driver responded, completing his turn and pulling the horse up.
She thanked him and climbed up into the carriage, feeling intensely grateful as the wheels rumbled over the cobbles and they picked up speed. She did not turn to look behind her; she could picture the scene just as clearly as if she were gazing upon it. Narraway should still be in the house, manacled like any other dangerous criminal. He must feel desperately alone. Was he frightened? Certainly he would never show any such weakness.
She told herself abruptly to stop being so useless and self-indulgent. Pitt was somewhere in France with nobody else to rely on, believing Narraway was still at Lisson Grove. Not even in his nightmares would he suppose Narraway could be in Ireland under arrest for murder, and Lisson Grove in the hands of traitors. Whatever she felt was irrelevant. The only task ahead was to rescue Narraway, and to do that she must find the truth and prove it.
Talulla Lawless knew who had killed Cormac because it had to be someone the dog would not bark at: therefore someone who had a right to be in Cormac’s home. The clearest answer was Talulla herself. Cormac lived alone; he had said so the previous evening when Charlotte
had asked him. No doubt a local woman would come in every so often and clean for him, and do the laundry.
Why would Talulla kill him? He was her uncle. But then how often was murder a family matter? She knew from Pitt’s cases in the past, very much too often. The next most likely answer would be a robbery, but any thief breaking in would have set the dog into a frenzy.
Still, why would Talulla kill him, and why now? Not purely to blame Narraway, surely? How could she even know that he would be there to be blamed?
The answer to that was obvious: It must have been she who had sent the letter luring Narraway to Cormac’s house. She of all people would be able to imitate his hand. Narraway might recall it from twenty years ago, but not in such minute detail that he would recognize a good forgery.
That still left the question as to why she had chosen to do it now. Cormac was her uncle; they were the only two still alive from the tragedy of twenty years ago. Cormac had no children, and her parents were dead. Surely both of them believed Narraway responsible for that? Why would she kill Cormac?
Was Narraway on the brink of finding out something Talulla could not afford him to know?
That made incomplete sense. If it were true, then surely the obvious thing would be to have killed Narraway?
She recalled the look on Talulla’s face as she had seen Narraway standing near Cormac’s body. She had been almost hysterical. She might have a great ability to act, but surely not great enough to effect the sweat on her lip and brow, the wildness in her eyes, the catch in her voice as it soared out of control? And yet never once had she looked at Cormac’s body—perhaps she already knew exactly what she would see? She had not gone to him even to assure herself that he was beyond help. There had been nothing in her face but hate—no grief, no denial.
Charlotte was oblivious to the handsome streets of Dublin as the carriage drove on. It could have been any city on earth, so absorbed was she in thought. She was startled by a spatter of cold rain through the open window that wet her face and shoulder.
How much of this whole thing was Talulla responsible for? What about the issue of Mulhare and the embezzled money? She could not possibly have arranged that.
Or was someone in Lisson Grove using Irish passion and loyalties to further their own need to remove Narraway? Whom could she ask? Were any of Narraway’s supposed friends actually willing to help him? Or had he wounded or betrayed them all at one time or another, so that when it came to it they would take their revenge? He was totally vulnerable now. Could it be that at last they had stopped quarreling with one another long enough to conspire to ruin him?
Perhaps Charlotte had no right to judge Narraway’s Irish enemies. What would she have felt, or done, were it all the other way around: if Ireland were the foreigner, the occupier in England? If someone had used and betrayed her family, would she be so loyal to her beliefs in honesty or impartial justice? Perhaps—but perhaps not. It was impossible to know without one’s having lived that terrible reality.
Yet Narraway was innocent of killing Cormac—and she realized as she said this to herself that she thought he was no more than partially responsible for the downfall of Kate O’Neil. The O’Neils had tried to use him, turn him to betray his country. They might well be furious that they had failed, but had they the right to exact vengeance for losing?
She needed to ask help from someone, because alone she might as well simply give up and go back to London, leaving Narraway to his fate, and eventually Pitt to his. Before she reached Molesworth Street and even attempted to explain the situation to Mrs. Hogan, which she must do, she had decided to ask Fiachra McDaid for help.
“WHAT?” MCDAID SAID INCREDULOUSLY when she found him at his home and told him what had happened.
“I’m sorry.” She gulped and tried to regain her composure. She had thought herself in perfect control, and realized she was much farther from it than she’d imagined. “We went to see Cormac O’Neil. At least Victor said he was going alone, but I followed him, just behind …”
“You mean you found a carriage able to keep up with him in Dublin traffic?” McDaid frowned.
“No, no I knew where he was going. I had been there the evening before myself …”
“To see O’Neil?” He looked incredulous.
“Yes. Please … listen.” Her voice was rising again, and she made an effort to calm it. “I arrived moments after he did. I heard the dog begin to bark as he went in, but no shot!”
“It would bark.” The frown deepened on his brow. “It barks for anyone except Cormac, or perhaps Talulla. She lives close by and looks after it if Cormac is away, which he is from time to time.”
“Not the cleaning woman?” she said quickly.
“No. She’s afraid of it.” He looked at her more closely, his face earnest. “Why? What does it matter?”
She hesitated, still uncertain how far to trust him. It was the only evidence she had that protected Narraway. Perhaps she should keep it to herself.
“I suppose it doesn’t,” she said, deliberately looking confused. Then, as coherently as she could, but missing out any further reference to the dog, she told him what had happened. As she did, she watched his face, trying to read the emotions in it, the belief or disbelief, the confusion or understanding, the loss or triumph.
He listened without interrupting her. “They think Narraway shot Cormac? Why would he, for God’s sake?”
“In revenge for Cormac having ruined him in London,” she answered. “That’s what Talulla said. It makes a kind of sense.”
“Do you think that’s what happened?” he asked.
She nearly said that she knew it was not, then realized her mistake just in time. “No.” She spoke guardedly now. “I was just behind him, and I didn’t hear a shot. But I don’t think he would do that anyway. It doesn’t make sense.”
He shook his head. “Yes it does. Victor loved that job of his. In a way it was all he had.” He looked conflicted, emotions twisting his features. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to imply that you are not important to him, but I think from what he said that you do not see each other so often.”
Now she was angry. She felt it well up inside her, knotting her stomach, making her hands shake, her voice thick as if she were a little drunk. “No. We don’t. But you’ve known Victor for years. Was he ever a fool?”
“No, never. Many things good and bad, but never a fool,” he admitted.
“Did he ever act against his own interest, hotheadedly, all feelings and no thought?” She could not imagine it, not the man she knew. Had he once had that kind of runaway passion? Was his supreme control a mask?
McDaid laughed abruptly, without joy. “No. He never forgot his cause. Hell or heaven could dance naked past him and he would not be diverted. Why?”
“Because if he really thought Cormac O’Neil was responsible for ruining him in London, for setting up what looked like embezzlement and seeing that he was blamed, the last thing he would want was Cormac dead,” she answered. “He would want Cormac’s full confession, the proof, the names of those who aided—”
“I see,” he interrupted. “I see. You’re right. Victor would never put revenge ahead of getting his job and his honor back.”
“So someone else killed Cormac and made it look like Victor,” she concluded. “That would be their revenge, wouldn’t it.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes,” he agreed, his eyes bright, his hands loosely beside him.
“Will you help me find out who?” she asked.
He gestured to one of the big leather chairs in his gracious but very masculine sitting room. She imagined wealthy gentlemen’s clubs must be like this inside: worn and comfortable upholstery, lots of wood paneling, brass ornaments—except these were silver, and uniquely Celtic.
She sat down obediently.
He sat opposite her, leaning forward a little. “Have you any idea who already?”
Her mind raced. How should she answer, how much of the truth? Could he help a
t all if she lied to him?
“I have lots of ideas, but they don’t add up,” she replied, hoping to conceal her knowledge of the facts. “I know who hated Victor, but I don’t know who hated Cormac.”
A moment of humor touched his face, and then vanished. It looked like self-mockery.
“I don’t expect you to know,” she said quietly. “Or you would have warned him. But perhaps with hindsight you might understand something now. Talulla is Sean and Kate’s daughter, brought up away from Dublin after her parents’ deaths.” She saw instantly in his eyes that he had known that.
“She is, poor child,” he agreed.
“You didn’t warn Victor of that, did you?” It sounded more like an accusation than she had intended it to.
McDaid looked down for a moment, then back up at her. “No. I thought she had suffered enough.”
“Another one of your innocent casualties,” she observed, remembering what he had said during their carriage ride in the dark. Something in that had disturbed her, a resignation she could not share. All casualties still upset her; but then her country was not at war, not occupied by another people.
“I don’t make judgments as to who is innocent and who guilty, Mrs. Pitt, just what is necessary, and that only when I have no choice.”
“Talulla was a child!”
“Children grow up.”
Did he know, or guess, whether Talulla had killed Cormac? She looked at him steadily and found herself a little afraid. The intelligence in him was overwhelming, rich with understanding of terrible irony. And it was not himself he was mocking: it was her, and her naïveté. She was quite certain of that now. He was a thought, a word ahead of her all the time. She had already said too much, and he knew perfectly well that she was sure Talulla had shot Cormac.
“Into what?” she said aloud. “Into a woman who would shoot her uncle’s head to pieces in order to be revenged on the man she thinks betrayed her mother?”
