by Anne Perry
That surprised him, just for an instant. Then he covered it. “Of course she thinks that,” he replied. “She can hardly face thinking that Kate went with him willingly. In fact if he’d asked her, maybe she would have gone to England with him. Who knows?”
“Do you?” she said immediately.
“I?” His eyebrows rose. “I have no idea.”
“Is that why Sean killed her, really?”
“Again, I have no idea.”
She did not know whether to believe him or not. He had been charming to her, generous with his time and excellent company, but behind the smiling façade he was a complete stranger. She had no idea what was going on in his thoughts.
“More incidental damage,” she said aloud. “Kate, Sean, Talulla, now Cormac. Incidental to what, Mr. McDaid? Ireland’s freedom?”
“Could we have a better cause, Mrs. Pitt?” he said gently. “Surely Talulla can be understood for wanting that? Hasn’t she paid enough?”
But it didn’t make sense, not completely. Who had moved the money meant for Mulhare back into Narraway’s account? Was that done simply in order to lure him to Ireland for this revenge? Wouldn’t Talulla’s rage have been satisfied by killing Narraway herself? Why on earth make poor Cormac the sacrifice? If she wanted Narraway to suffer, she could have shot him somewhere uniquely painful, so he would be disabled, mutilated, die slowly. There were plenty of possibilities.
And why now? There had to be a reason.
McDaid was still watching her, waiting.
“Yes, I imagine she has paid enough,” she said, answering his question. “And Cormac? Hasn’t he too?”
“Ah yes … poor Cormac,” McDaid said softly. “He loved Kate, you know. That’s why he could never forgive Narraway. She cared for Cormac, but she would never have loved him … mostly I suppose because he was Sean’s brother. Cormac was the better man, I think. Maybe in the end, Kate thought so too.”
“That doesn’t answer why Talulla shot him,” Charlotte pointed out.
“Oh, you’re right. Of course it doesn’t …”
“Another victim of incidental damage?” she said with a touch of bitterness. “Whose freedom do you fight for at such a cost? Is that not a weight of grief to carry forever?”
His eyes flashed for a moment, then the anger was gone again. But it had been real.
“Cormac was guilty too,” he said grimly.
“Of what? Surviving?” she asked.
“Yes, but more than that. He didn’t do much to save Sean. He barely tried. If he’d told the truth, Sean might have been a hero, not a man who murdered his wife in a jealous rage.”
“Perhaps to Cormac he was a man who murdered his wife in a jealous rage,” she pointed out. “People react slowly sometimes when they are shattered with grief. Cormac might have been too shocked to do anything useful. What could it have been anyway? Didn’t Sean himself tell the truth as to why he killed Kate?”
“He barely said anything,” McDaid admitted, this time looking down at the floor, not at her.
“Stunned too,” she said. “But someone told Talulla that Cormac should have saved her father, and she believed them. Easier to think of your father as a hero betrayed than as a jealous man who killed his wife in a rage because she cuckolded him with his enemy, and an Englishman at that.”
McDaid looked at her with another momentary flare of anger. Then he masked it so completely she might almost have thought it was her imagination.
“It would seem so,” he agreed. “But how do we prove any of that?”
She felt the coldness sweep over her. “I don’t know. I’m trying to think.”
“Be careful, Mrs. Pitt,” he said gently. “I would not like you to be incidental damage as well.”
She managed to smile just as if she did not even imagine that his words could be as much a threat as a warning. She felt as if it were a mask on his face: transparent, ghostly. “Thank you. I shall be cautious, I promise, but it is kind of you to care.” She rose to her feet, vigilant not to sway. “Now I think I had better go back to my lodgings. It has been a … a terrible day.”
When she reached Molesworth Street again, Mrs. Hogan came out to see her immediately. She looked awkward, her hands winding around each other, twisting her apron.
Charlotte addressed the subject before Mrs. Hogan could search for the words.
“You have heard about Mr. O’Neil,” she said gravely. “A very terrible thing to have happened. I hope Mr. Narraway will be able to help them. He has some experience in such tragedies. But I quite understand if you would prefer that I move out of your house in the meantime. I will have to find something, of course, until I get my passage back home. I daresay it will take me a day or two. In the meantime I will pack my brother’s belongings and put them in my own room, so you may let his rooms to whomsoever you wish. I believe we are paid for another couple of nights at least?” Please heaven within a couple of days she would be a great deal further on in her decisions, and at least one other person in Dublin would know for certain that Narraway was innocent.
Mrs. Hogan was embarrassed. The issue had been taken out of her hands and she did not know how to rescue it. As Charlotte had hoped, she settled for the compromise. “Thank you, that would be most considerate, ma’am.”
“If you will be kind enough to lend me the keys, I’ll do it straightaway.” Charlotte held out her hand.
Reluctantly Mrs. Hogan passed them over.
Charlotte unlocked the door and went inside, closing it behind her. Instantly she felt intrusive. She would pack his clothes, of course, and have someone take the case to her room, unless she could drag it there herself.
But far more important than shirts, socks, personal linen, were whatever papers he might have. Had he committed anything to writing? Would it even be in a form she could understand? If only she could at least ask Pitt! She had never missed him more. But then of course if he were here, she would be at home in London, not trying desperately to carry out a task for which she was so ill suited. She was in a foreign country where she was considered the enemy, and justly so. The weight of centuries of history was against her.
She opened the case, then went to the wardrobe and took out Narraway’s suits and shirts, folded them neatly, and packed them. Then, feeling as if she were prying, she opened the drawers in the chest. She took out his underwear and packed it also, making sure she had his pajamas from under the pillow on the bed. She included his extra pair of shoes, wrapped in a cloth to keep them from marking anything, and put them in as well.
She collected the toiletries, a hairbrush, a toothbrush, razor, and small clothes brush. He was an immaculate man. How he would hate being locked up in a cell with no privacy, and probably little means to wash.
The few papers there were in the top drawer of the dresser. Thank heaven they were not locked in a briefcase. But that probably indicated that they would mean nothing to anyone else.
Back in her own room, with Narraway’s case propped in the corner, she looked at the few notes he had made. They were a curious reflection on his character, a side of him she had not even guessed at before. They were mostly little drawings, very small indeed, but very clever. They were little stick men, but imbued with such movement and personality that she recognized instantly who they were.
There was one little man with striped trousers and a banknote in his hat, and beside him a woman with chaotic hair. Behind him was another woman, even thinner, her limbs poking jaggedly.
Even with arms and legs merely suggested, Charlotte knew they were John and Bridget Tyrone, and that Tyrone’s being a banker was important. The other woman had such a savagery about her it immediately suggested Talulla. Beside her was a question mark. There was no more than that, except a man of whom she could see only the top half, as if he was up to his arms in something. She stared at it until it came to her with a shiver of revulsion. It was Mulhare, drowning—because the money had not been paid.
The little drawing suggested a connection between
John Tyrone and Talulla. He was a banker—was he the link to London? Had he the power, through his profession, to move money around from Dublin to London and, with the help of someone in Lisson Grove, to place it back in Narraway’s account?
Then who in Lisson Grove? And why? No one could tell her that but Tyrone himself.
Was it dangerous, absurd, to go to him? She had no one else she could turn to, because she did not know who else was involved. Certainly she could not go back to McDaid. She was growing more and more certain within herself that his remarks about accidental damage to the innocent were statements of his philosophy, and also a warning to her.
Was Talulla the prime mover in Cormac’s death, or only an instrument, used by someone else? Someone like John Tyrone, so harmless seeming, but powerful enough in Dublin and in London even to create a traitor in Lisson Grove?
There seemed to be two choices open to her: go to Tyrone himself; or give up and go home, leaving Narraway here to answer whatever charge they brought against him, presuming he lived long enough to face a trial. Would it be a fair trial, even? Possibly not. The old wounds were raw, and Special Branch would not be on his side. So Charlotte really had no choice at all.
THE MAID WHO ANSWERED the door let her in somewhat reluctantly.
“I need to speak with Mr. Tyrone,” Charlotte said as soon as she was into the large, high-ceilinged hall. “It is to do with the murder of Mr. Mulhare, and now poor Mr. O’Neil. It is most urgent.”
“I’ll ask him, ma’am,” the maid replied. “Who shall I say is calling?”
“Charlotte Pitt.” She hesitated only an instant. “Victor Narraway’s sister.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She went across the hall and knocked on a door at the far side. It opened and she spoke for a moment, then returned to Charlotte. “If you’ll come with me, ma’am.”
Charlotte followed her, and the maid knocked on the same door again.
“Come in.” Tyrone’s voice was abrupt.
The maid opened it for Charlotte to go past her. Tyrone had obviously been working—there were papers spread across the surface of the large desk.
He stood impatiently, making no attempt to hide the fact that she had interrupted him.
“I’m sorry,” she began. “I know it is late and I have come without invitation, but the matter is urgent. Tomorrow may be impossible for me to rescue what is left of the situation.”
He moved his weight from one foot to the other. “I am very sorry for you, Mrs. Pitt, but I have no idea how I can help. Perhaps I should send the maid to see where my wife is.” It was offered more as an excuse than a suggestion. “She is calling on a neighbor. She cannot be far.”
“It is you I need to see,” she told him. “And it might be more suitable for your reputation if the maid were to remain, although my inquiries are confidential.”
“Then you should call at my place of business, within the usual hours,” he pointed out.
She gave him a brief, formal smile. “Confidential to you, Mr. Tyrone. That is why I came here.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
It was still only a deduction from Narraway’s drawings, but it was all she had left.
She plunged in. “The money for Mulhare that you transferred back into my brother’s account in London, which was responsible for Mulhare’s death, and my brother’s professional ruin, Mr. Tyrone.”
He might have intended to deny it, but his face gave him away. The shock drained the blood from his skin, leaving him almost gray. He drew in his breath sharply, then changed his mind and said nothing. His eyes flickered; and for an instant Charlotte wondered if he was going to call for some kind of assistance and have her thrown out. Probably no servant would attack her, but if any other of the people involved in the plan were—it would only increase her danger. McDaid had warned her.
Or did Tyrone imagine she had even had some hand in murdering Cormac O’Neil?
Now her own voice was shaking. “Mr. Tyrone, too many people have been hurt already, and I’m sure you know poor Cormac was killed this morning. It is time for this to end. I would find it easy to believe that you had no idea what tragedies would follow the transfer of that money. Nor do I find it hard to sympathize with your hatred of those who occupy a country that is rightfully yours. But by using personal murder and betrayal you win nothing. You only bring more tragedy on those you involve. If you doubt me, look at the evidence. All the O’Neils are dead now. Even the loyalty that used to bind them is destroyed. Kate and Cormac have both been murdered, and by the very ones they loved.”
“Your brother killed Cormac,” he said at last.
“No, he didn’t. Cormac was already dead by the time we got there.”
He was startled. “We? You went with him?”
“Just after him, but only moments after …”
“Then he could have killed him before you got there!”
“No. I was on his heels. I would have heard the shot. I heard the dog begin to bark as Victor entered.”
He let out a long, slow sigh, as if at last the pieces had settled into a dark picture that, for all its ugliness, still made sense to him. His face looked bruised, as if some familiar pain had returned inside him.
“You had better come into the study,” he said wearily. “I don’t know what you can do about any of it now. The police believe Narraway shot O’Neil because they want to believe it. He’s earned a long, deep hatred here. They caught him all but in the act. They won’t look any further. You would be wise to go back to London while you can.” He led the way across the floor into the study and closed the door. He offered her one of the leather-seated chairs and took the other himself.
“I don’t know what you think I can do to change anything.” There was no lift in his voice, no hope.
“Tell me about transferring the money,” she answered.
“And how will that help?”
“Special Branch in London will know that Victor did not steal it.” She must remember always to refer to him by his given name. One slip calling him Mr. Narraway and she would betray both of them.
He gave a sharp bark of laughter. “And when he’s hanged in Dublin for murdering O’Neil, what will that matter to him? There’s a poetic justice to it, but if it’s logic you’re after, the fact that he didn’t steal the money won’t help. O’Neil had nothing to do with it, but Narraway didn’t know that.”
“Of course he did!” she retorted instantly. “How do you think I know?”
That caught him off guard; she saw it instantly in his eyes.
“Then what is it you want me to tell you?” he asked.
“Who helped you? Someone in Lisson Grove gave you the account information so you could have it done. And it was nothing to do with helping you. It was to get Victor out of Special Branch. You just served their purpose.” She had not thought what she was going to say until the words were on her lips. Did she really mean that it was Charles Austwick? It didn’t have to be; there were a dozen others who could have done it, for a dozen other reasons, even one as simple as being paid to. But again that came back to Ireland, and who would pay, and for what reason—just revenge, or an enemy who wanted their own man in Narraway’s place? Or was it simply an ambitious man, or one Narraway suspected of treason or theft, and they struck before he could expose them?
She watched Tyrone, waiting for him to respond.
He was trying to judge how much she knew, but there was also something else in his eyes: a hurt that so far made no sense as part of this old vengeance.
“Austwick?” she guessed, before the silence allowed the moment to slip.
“Yes,” he said quietly.
“Did he pay you?” She could not keep the contempt from her voice.
His head came up sharply. “No he did not! I did it because I hate Narraway, and Mulhare, and all other traitors to Ireland.”
“Victor is not a traitor to Ireland,” she pointed out. “He’s as English as I am. You’re lying
.” She picked a weapon out of her imagination. “Did he have an affair with your wife, as well as with Kate O’Neil?”
Tyrone’s face flamed, and he half rose from his chair. “If you don’t want me to throw you out of my house, woman, you’ll apologize for that slur on my wife! Your mind’s in the gutter. But then I daresay you know your brother a great deal better than I do. If he is your brother, that is?”
Now Charlotte felt her own face burn. “I think perhaps it is your mind that is in the gutter, Mr. Tyrone,” she said with a tremor in her voice, and perhaps guilt, because she knew what Narraway felt for her.
Unable to piece together a defense, she attacked. “Why do you do this for Charles Austwick? What is he to you? An Englishman who wants to gain power and office? And in the very secret service that was formed to defeat Irish hopes of Home Rule.” That was an exaggeration, she knew. It was formed to combat the bombings and murders intended to terrorize Britain into granting Home Rule to Ireland, but the difference hardly mattered now.
Tyrone’s voice was low and bitterly angry. “I don’t give a tinker’s curse who runs your wretched services, secret or open. It was my chance to get rid of Narraway. Whatever else Austwick is, he’s a fool by comparison.”
“You know him?” She seized the only part of what he was saying that seemed vulnerable, even momentarily.
There was a tiny sound behind her; just the brushing of a silk skirt against the doorjamb.
She turned around and saw Bridget Tyrone standing a yard from her. Suddenly she was horribly, physically afraid. She could scream her lungs out here and no one would hear her, no one would know … or care. It took all the strength she had to stand still, and command her voice to be level—or at least something like it.
It would be absurd to pretend Bridget had not overheard the conversation.
Charlotte was trapped, and she knew it. The fury in Bridget’s face was unmistakable. Just as Bridget moved forward, Charlotte did also. She had never before struck another woman. However, when she turned as if to say something to Tyrone and saw him also moving toward her, she swung back, her arm wide. She put all her weight behind it, catching Bridget on the side of the head just as she lunged forward.
