by Anne Perry
There was a shadow of fear in Stoker’s eyes. “I’d like reform, sir, for lots of reasons. But I don’t want everything good thrown out at the same time. And violence isn’t the way to do anything, because no matter what you need to do in the first place, it never ends there. Seems to me that if you execute the king, either you end up with a religious dictator like Cromwell who rules over the people more tightly than any king ever did, and then you only have to get rid of him anyway—or else you end up with a monster like Robespierre in Paris, and the Reign of Terror, then Napoleon after that. Then you get a king back in the end anyway. At least for a while. I prefer us as we are, with our faults, rather than all that.”
“So do I,” Pitt agreed. “But we can’t stop it if we don’t know what it is, and when and how it will strike. I don’t think we have very long.”
“No, sir. And if you’ll excuse me spelling it out, we haven’t any allies either, least of all here in Lisson Grove. Whoever blackened Mr. Narraway’s name did a very good job of it, and nobody trusts you, because you’re his man.”
Pitt smiled grimly. “It’s a lot more than that, Stoker. I’m new to this job and I don’t know the history of it and none of the men will trust me above Austwick, for which you can hardly blame them.”
“Is Austwick a traitor, sir?”
“I think so. But he may not be the only one.”
“I know that,” Stoker said very quietly.
NARRAWAY WAS INTENSELY RELIEVED to see the familiar coast of Ireland slip away over the horizon with no coast guard or police boat in pursuit of them. At least for a few hours he could turn his attention to what he should do once he arrived at Holyhead. The obvious thing would be to catch the next train to London. Would it be so obvious a move that he might be apprehended? On the other hand, a delay might give anyone still bent on catching him a better chance to cross the Irish Sea in a lighter, perhaps faster boat, and arrest him before he could get any help.
He was standing on the deck gazing westward. Charlotte was beside him. She looked weary, and the marks of fear were still drawn deep into her face. Even so, he found her beautiful. He had long ago grown tired of unspoiled perfection. If that was what one hungered for—the color, the proportion, the smooth skin, the perfect balance of feature—there were works of art all over the world to stare at. Even the poorest man could find a copy for himself.
A real woman had warmth, vulnerability, fears, and blemishes of her own—or else how could she have any gentleness toward those of her mate? Without experience, one was a cup waiting to be filled—well crafted perhaps, but empty. And to a soul of any courage or passion, experience also meant a degree of pain, false starts, occasional bad judgments, a knowledge of loss. Young women were charming for a short while, but very soon they bored him.
He was used to loneliness, but there were times when its burden ached so deeply he could never be unaware of it. Standing on the deck with Charlotte, watching the wind unravel her hair and blow it across her face, was one such time.
She had already told him what she had learned of Talulla, of John Tyrone and the money, and of Fiachra McDaid. It was complicated. Some of the situation he had guessed from what O’Casey had told him, but he had not understood Talulla’s place in it. Had Fiachra not convinced her that her parents were innocent, she would not have blamed Cormac. She would still have blamed Narraway, of course, but that was fair. Kate’s death was as much his fault as anyone’s, insofar as it was foreseeable. He had known how Sean felt about her.
What did Talulla imagine Cormac could have done to save Sean? Sean was a rebel whose wife gave him up to the English. Was that betrayal treason to the spirit of Ireland, or just a practical decision to avoid more pointless, heartbreaking bloodshed? How many people were still alive who would not have been if it had happened? Perhaps half the people she knew.
But of course she wouldn’t see it that way. She couldn’t afford to. She needed her anger, and it was justified only if her parents were the victims.
And Fiachra? Narraway winced at his own blindness. How desperately he had misread him! He had concealed the passion of his Irish nationalism inside what had seemed to be a concern for the disenfranchised of all nations. The more Narraway thought about it, the more it made sense. Odd how often a sweeping love for all could be willing to sacrifice the one, or the ten, or the score, almost with indifference. Fiachra would see the glory of greater social justice, freedom for Ireland—and the price would slip through his fingers uncounted. He was a dreamer who stepped over the corpses without even seeing them. Under the charm there was ice—and by God he was clever. In law he had committed no crime. If justice ever reached him, it would be for some other reason, at another time.
Narraway looked at Charlotte again. She became aware of his gaze and turned to him.
“There’s no one anywhere on the whole sea,” she said with a slightly rueful smile. “I think we’re safe.”
The inclusion of herself in his escape gave him a sort of warmth that he was aware was ridiculous. He was behaving like a man of twenty.
“So far,” he agreed. “But when we get on the train at Holyhead you would be safer in a different carriage. I doubt there will be anyone looking for me, but it’s not impossible.”
“Who?” she said, as if dismissing the idea. “No one could have gotten here ahead of us.” Before he could answer she went on. “And don’t tell me they anticipated your escape. If they had, they’d have prevented it. Don’t be naïve, Victor. They wanted you hanged. It would be the perfect revenge for Sean.”
He winced. “You’re very blunt.”
“I suppose you just noticed that!” She gave a tiny, twisted smile.
“No, of course not. But that was unusual, even for you.”
“This is an unusual situation,” she said. “At least for me. Should I be trite if I asked you if you do it often?”
“Ah, Charlotte!” He brushed his hand through his heavy hair and turned away, needing to hide the emotion in his face from her. He needed it to be private, but—far more than that—he knew that it would embarrass her to realize how intense were his feelings for her.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly.
Hell, he swore to himself. He had not been quick enough.
“I know it’s serious,” she went on, apparently meaning something quite different.
A wave of relief swept over him, and, perversely, of disappointment. Did some part of him want her to know? If so, it must be suppressed. It would create a difficulty between them that could never be forgotten.
“Yes,” he agreed.
“Will you go to Lisson Grove?” Now she sounded anxious.
“No. I’d rather they didn’t even know I was back in England, and certainly not where.” He saw the relief in her face. “There’s only one person I dare trust totally, and that is Vespasia Cumming-Gould. I shall get off the train one or two stops before London and find a telephone. If I’m lucky I’ll be able to get hold of her straightaway. It’ll be long after dark by then. If not, I’ll find rooms and wait there until I can.”
His voice dropped to a more urgent note. “You should go home. You won’t be in any danger. Or else you could go to Vespasia’s house, if you prefer. Perhaps you should wait and see what she says.” He realized as he spoke that he had no idea what had happened to Pitt, even if he was safe. To send Charlotte back to a house with no one there but a strange maid was possibly a cruel thing to do. She had said before that her sister Emily was away somewhere, similarly her mother. God! What a mess. But if anything had happened to Pitt, no one would be able to comfort her. He could not bear to think of that.
Please heaven whoever was behind this did not think Pitt a sufficient danger to have done anything drastic to him. “We’ll get off a couple of stops before London,” he repeated. “And call Vespasia.”
“Good idea,” she agreed, turning back to watch the gulls circling over the white wake of the ship. The two of them stood side by side in silence, oddly comfo
rted by the endless, rhythmic moving of the water and the pale wings of the birds echoing the curved line of it.
NARRAWAY WAS CONNECTED WITH Vespasia immediately. Only when he heard the sound of her voice, which was thin and a little crackly over the line, did he realize how overwhelmingly glad he was to speak with her.
“Victor! Where on earth are you?” she demanded. Then an instant later: “No. Do not tell me. Are you safe? Is Charlotte safe?”
“Yes, we are both safe,” he answered her. She was the only woman since his childhood who had ever made him feel as if he were accountable to her. “We are not far away, but I thought it better to speak to you before coming the rest of the journey.”
“Don’t,” she said simply. “It would be far better if you were to find some suitable place, which we shall not name, and we shall meet there. A very great deal has happened since you left, but there is far more that is about to happen. I do not know what that is, except that it is of profound importance, and it may be tragically violent. But I daresay you have deduced that for yourself. I rather fear that your whole trip to Ireland was designed to take you away from London. Everything else was incidental.”
“Who’s in charge now?” he asked, the chill seeping into him, even though he was standing in a very comfortable hotel hallway, looking from left to right every few moments to make sure he was still alone and not overheard. “Charles Austwick?”
“No,” she answered, and there was a heaviness in her voice, even over the wires. “That was only temporary. Thomas is back from France. That trip was entirely abortive. He has replaced Austwick, and is now in your office, and hating it.”
Narraway was so stunned for a moment he could think of no words adequate to his emotions—certainly none that he could repeat in front of Vespasia, or Charlotte, were she close enough to hear.
“Victor!” Vespasia said sharply.
“Yes … I’m here. What … what is going on?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But I have a great fear that he has been placed there precisely because he cannot possibly cope with whatever atrocity is being planned. He has no experience in this kind of leadership. He has not the deviousness nor the subtlety of judgment to make the necessary unpleasant decisions. And there is no one there whom he can trust, which at least he knows. I am afraid he is quite appallingly alone, exactly as someone has designed he should be. His remarkable record of success as a policeman, and as a solver of crimes within Special Branch jurisdiction, will justify his being placed in your position. No one will be held to blame for choosing him …”
“You mean he’s there to take the blame when this storm breaks,” Narraway said bitterly.
“Precisely.” Her voice cracked a little. “Victor, we must beat this, and I have very little idea how. I don’t even know what it is they plan, but it is something very, very wrong indeed.”
She was brave; no one he knew had ever had more courage; she was clever and still beautiful … but she was also growing old and at times very much alone. Suddenly he was aware of her vulnerability: of the friends, and even the loves she had cared for passionately, and lost. She was perhaps a decade or so older than he. Suddenly he thought of her not as a force of society, or of nature, but as a woman, as capable of loneliness as he was himself.
“Do you remember the hostelry where we met Somerset Carlisle about eight years ago? We had the most excellent lobster for luncheon?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said unhesitatingly.
“We should meet there as soon as possible,” he told her. “Bring Pitt … please.”
“I shall be there by midnight,” she replied.
He was startled. “Midnight?”
“For heaven’s sake, Victor!” she said tartly. “What do you want to do, wait until breakfast? Don’t be absurd. You had better reserve us three rooms, in case there is any of the night left for sleeping.” Then she hesitated.
He wondered why. “Lady Vespasia?”
She gave a little sigh. “I dislike being offensive, but since I assume that you escaped from … where you were, you have little money, and I daresay are in less than your usually elegant state. You had better give my name, as if you were booking it for me, and tell them that I shall settle when I arrive. Better if you do not give anyone else’s name, your own, or Thomas’s.”
“Actually Charlotte had the foresight to pack my case for me, so I have all the respectable attire I shall need,” he replied with the first flash of amusement he had felt for some time.
“She did what?” Vespasia said coolly.
“She was obliged to leave the lodgings,” he exclaimed, still with a smile. “She did not wish to abandon my luggage, so she took it with her. If you don’t know me better than that, you should at least know her!”
“Quite so,” she said more gently. “I apologize. Indeed, I also know you. I shall see you as close to midnight as I am able to make it. I am very glad you are safe, Victor.”
That meant more to him than he had expected, so much more that he found himself suddenly unable to answer. He replaced the receiver on its hook in silence.
PITT WAS AT HOME, sitting at the kitchen table beginning his supper when Minnie Maude came into the room. Her face was pink, her eyes frightened, her usually untamed hair pulled even looser and badly pinned up at one side.
“What’s the matter?” Pitt said, instantly worried as well.
Minnie Maude took a deep breath and let it out shakily. “There’s a lady ’ere ter see yer, sir. I mean a real lady, like a duchess, or summink. Wot shall I do wif’ ’er, sir?”
“Oh.” Pitt felt a wave of relief wash over him, like warmth from a fire on cold flesh. “Show her in here, and then put the kettle on again.”
Minnie Maude held her guard. “No, sir, I mean a real lady, not jus’ some nice person, like.”
“Tall and slender, and very beautiful, despite the fact that she isn’t young anymore,” Pitt agreed. “And eyes that could freeze you at twenty paces, if you step out of line. Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould. Please ask her to come into the kitchen. She has been in here before. Then make her a cup of tea. We have some Earl Grey. We keep it for her.”
Minnie Maude stared at him as if he had lost his wits.
“Please,” he added.
“Yer’ll pardon me, sir,” Minnie Maude said shakily. “But yer look like yer bin dragged through an ’edge backward.”
Pitt pushed his hand through his hair. “She wouldn’t recognize me if I didn’t. Don’t leave her standing in the hall. Bring her here.”
“She in’t in the ’all, sir. She’s in the parlor,” Minnie Maude told him with disgust at his imagining she would do anything less.
“I apologize. Of course she is. Bring her here anyway.”
Defeated, she went to obey.
Pitt ate the last mouthful of his supper and cleared the table as Vespasia arrived in the doorway.
“I always liked this room,” she observed. “Thank you, Minnie Maude. Good evening, Thomas. I am sorry to have interrupted your dinner, but it is unavoidable.”
Behind him Minnie Maude skirted her and put the kettle onto the hob. Then she began to wash out the teapot in which Pitt’s tea had been, and prepare it to make a different brew for Vespasia. Her back was very straight, and her hands shook just a little.
Pitt did not interrupt Vespasia. He held one of the hard-backed kitchen chairs for her to be seated. She declined to take off her cape.
“I have just heard from Victor,” she told him. “On the telephone, from a railway station not far from the city. Charlotte was with him, and perfectly well. You have no need to concern yourself about her health, or anything else. However there are other matters of very great concern indeed. Matters that require your immediate and total attention.”
“Narraway?” His mind raced. She was being discreet, no doubt aware that Minnie Maude could hear all they said. It would be cruel, pointless, and possibly even dangerous to frighten her unnecessarily. Certainly she di
d not deserve it, apart from the very practical matter that he needed her common sense to care for his household and, most important, his children—at least until Charlotte returned. And, he admitted, he rather liked her. She was good-natured and not without spirit. There was something about her not totally unlike Gracie.
“Indeed.” Vespasia turned to Minnie Maude. “When you have made the tea, will you please go and pack a small case for your master, with what he will need for one night away from home. Clean personal linen and a clean shirt, and his customary toiletries. When you have it, bring it downstairs and leave it in the hall by the bottom step.”
Minnie Maude’s eyes widened. She blinked, as if wondering whether she dare confirm the orders with Pitt, or if she should simply obey them. Who was in charge?
They were giving the poor girl a great deal to become accustomed to in a very short while. He smiled at her. “Please do that, Minnie Maude. It appears I shall have to leave you. But also, I shall return before too long.”
“You may be extremely busy for some time,” Vespasia corrected him. “It is a very good thing that Minnie Maude is a responsible girl. You will need her. Now let us have tea and prepare to leave.”
As soon as the tea was poured and Minnie Maude was out of the room Pitt turned to Vespasia. The look on his face demanded she explain.
“It is a conclusion no longer avoidable that both you and Victor were drawn away from London for a very specific purpose,” she said, sipping delicately at her tea. “Victor was put out of office, with an attempt to have him at least imprisoned in Ireland, possibly hanged. You were lured away from London before that, so you, as the only person at Lisson Grove with an unquestionable personal loyalty to him, and the courage to fight for him, would not be there. He would be friendless, as indeed he was.”
Pitt would have interrupted Narraway to ask why, but he would not dare interrupt Vespasia.
“It appears that Charles Austwick is involved,” she continued. “To what degree, and for what purpose, we do not yet know, but the plot is widespread, dangerous, and probably violent.”
