Treason at Lisson Grove

by Anne Perry

  The kettle was boiling and she made the tea, bringing it over to the table to brew. While they were waiting she explained some of the other household arrangements, and where different things were kept.

  “I shall leave you a list of the tradesmen we use, and what they should charge you, although I daresay you are familiar with prices. But they might take advantage, if they think you don’t know.” She went on to tell her of the dishes Daniel and Jemima liked best, and the vegetables they were likely to refuse if they thought they could get away with it. “And rice pudding,” she finished. “That is a treat, not more than twice a week.”

  “Wi’ nutmeg on the top?” Minnie Maude asked.

  Charlotte glanced at Gracie, then smiled, the ease running through her like a warmth inside. “Exactly. I think this is going to work very well.”

  GRACIE AND MINNIE MAUDE returned early in the evening, accompanied by Tellman, who carried Minnie Maude’s luggage. He took it up to the room that not long ago had been Gracie’s, then excused himself to take Gracie home. Minnie Maude began to unpack her belongings and settle in, helped by Jemima, and watched from a respectful distance by Daniel. Clothes were women’s business.

  Once she had made certain that all was well, Charlotte telephoned her great-aunt Vespasia. Immensely relieved to find her at home, she asked if she might visit.

  “You sound very serious,” said Vespasia across the rather crackly wire.

  Charlotte gripped the instrument more tightly in her hand. “I am. I have a great deal to tell you, and some advice to seek. But I would much prefer to tell you in person rather than this way. In fact some of it is most confidential.”

  “Then you had better come to see me,” Vespasia replied. “I shall send my carriage for you. Are you ready now? We shall have supper. I was going to have Welsh rarebit on toast, with a little very good Hock I have, and then apple flan and cream. Apples at this time of year are not fit for anything except cooking.”

  “I would love it,” Charlotte accepted. “I shall just make certain that my new maid is thoroughly settled and aware of what to cook for Daniel and Jemima, then I shall be ready.”

  “I thought you had had her since Gracie’s wedding,” Vespasia exclaimed. “Is she still not able to decide what to prepare?”

  “Mrs. Waterman gave notice last night and left this morning,” Charlotte explained. “Gracie found me someone she has known for years, but the poor girl has only just arrived. In fact she is still unpacking.”

  “Charlotte?” Now Vespasia sounded worried. “Has something happened that is serious?”

  “Yes. Oh … we are all alive and well, but yes, it is serious, and I am in some concern as to whether the course of action I plan is wise or not.”

  “And you are going to ask my advice? It must be serious indeed if you are willing to listen to someone else.” Vespasia was vaguely mocking, though anxiety clearly all but overwhelmed her.

  “I’m not,” Charlotte told her. “I have already given my word.”

  “I shall dispatch my coachman immediately,” Vespasia responded. “If Gracie recommends this new person then she will be good. You had better wear a cape. The evening has turned somewhat cooler.”

  “Yes, yes I will,” Charlotte agreed, then she said good-bye and replaced the receiver on its hook.

  Half an hour later Vespasia’s coachman knocked on the door. Minnie Maude seemed confident enough for Charlotte to leave her, and Daniel and Jemima were not in the least concerned. Indeed, they seemed to be enjoying showing her the cupboards and drawers, and telling her exactly what was kept in each.

  Charlotte answered the door, told the coachman that she would be ready in a moment, then went to the kitchen. She stopped for a moment to stare at Jemima’s earnest face explaining to Minnie Maude which jugs were used to keep the day’s milk and where the milkman was to be found in the morning. Daniel was moving from foot to foot in his urgency to put in his advice as well, and Minnie Maude was smiling at first one, then the other.

  “I may be late back,” Charlotte interrupted. “Please don’t wait up for me.”

  “No, ma’am,” Minnie Maude said quickly. “But I’ll be happy to, if you wish?”

  “Thank you, but please make yourself comfortable,” Charlotte told her. “Good night.”

  She went straight out to the carriage, and for the next half hour rode through the streets to Vespasia’s house in Gladstone Park—which was really not so much a park as a small square with flowering trees. She sat and tried to compose in her mind exactly how she would tell Vespasia what she meant to do.

  At last Charlotte sat in Vespasia’s quiet sitting room. The colors were warm, muted to a familiar gentleness. The curtains were drawn across the window onto the garden, and the fire burned in the hearth with a soft whickering of flames. She looked into Vespasia’s face, and it was not so easy to explain to her the wild decision to which Charlotte had already committed herself.

  Vespasia had been considered by many to be the most beautiful woman of her generation, as well as the most outrageous in her wit and her political opinions—or maybe passions would be a more fitting word. Time had marked her features lightly and, if anything, liberated her temperament even more. She was secure enough in her financial means and her social preeminence not to have to care what other people thought of her, as long as she was certain in her own mind that a course of action was for the best. Criticism might hurt, but it was a long time since it had deterred her.

  Now she sat stiff-backed—she had never lounged in her life—her silver hair coiffed to perfection. A high lace collar covered her throat, and the lamplight gleamed on the three rows of pearls.

  “You had better begin at the beginning,” she told Charlotte. “Supper will be another hour.”

  At least Charlotte knew what the beginning was. “Several evenings ago Mr. Narraway came to see me at home, to tell me that Thomas had been in pursuit of a man who had committed a murder, almost in front of him. He and his junior had been obliged to follow this person and had not had the opportunity to inform anyone of what they were doing. Mr. Narraway knew that they were in France. They sent a telegram. He told me of it so that I would not worry when Thomas did not come home or call me.”

  Vespasia nodded. “It was courteous of him to come himself,” she observed a trifle drily.

  Charlotte caught the tone in her voice, and her eyes widened.

  “He is fond of you, my dear,” Vespasia responded. Her amusement was so slight it could barely be seen, and was gone again the second after. “What has this to do with the maid?”

  Charlotte looked at the drawn curtains, the pale design of flowers on the carpet. “He came again last evening,” she said quietly. “And stayed for much longer.”

  Vespasia’s voice changed almost imperceptibly. “Indeed?”

  Charlotte raised her eyes to meet Vespasia’s. “There appears to have been a conspiracy within Special Branch to make it look as if he embezzled a good deal of money.” She saw Vespasia’s look of disbelief. “They have dismissed him, right there on the spot.”

  “Oh dear,” Vespasia said. “I see why you are distressed. This is very serious indeed. Victor may have his faults, but financial dishonesty is not one of them. Money does not interest him. He would not even be tempted to do such a thing.”

  Charlotte did not find that comforting. What faults was Vespasia implying? It seemed she knew him better than Charlotte had appreciated, even though Vespasia had interested herself in many of Pitt’s cases, and therefore Narraway’s. Then the moment after, studying Vespasia’s expression, Charlotte realized that Vespasia was deeply concerned for him and believed in his innocence.

  Charlotte found the tension in her body easing, and she smiled. “I did not believe it of him either, but there is something in the past that troubles him very much.”

  “There will be a good deal,” Vespasia said with the ghost of a smile. “He is a man of many sides, but the most vulnerable one is his work, because that is
what he cares about.”

  “Then he wouldn’t jeopardize it, would he?” Charlotte pointed out.

  “No. Someone finds it imperative that Victor Narraway be driven out of office, and out of credit with Her Majesty’s government. There are many possible reasons, and I have no idea which of them it is, so I have very little idea where to begin.”

  “We have to help him.” Charlotte hated asking this of Vespasia, but the need was greater than the reluctance. “Not only for his sake, but for Thomas’s. In Special Branch, Thomas is regarded as Mr. Narraway’s man. I know this because, apart from my own sense, Thomas has told me so himself, and so has Mr. Narraway. Aunt Vespasia, if Mr. Narraway is gone, then whoever got rid of him may try to get rid of Thomas as well—”

  “Of course,” Vespasia cut across her. “You do not need to explain it to me, my dear. And Thomas is in France, not knowing what has happened, or that Victor can no longer give him the support from London that he needs.”

  “Have you friends—” Charlotte began.

  “I do not know who has done this, or why,” Vespasia answered even before the question was finished. “So I do not know whom I can trust.”

  “Victor … Mr. Narraway …” Charlotte felt a faint heat in her cheeks. “… said he believed it was an old case in Ireland, twenty years ago, for which someone now seeks revenge. He didn’t tell me much about it. I think it embarrassed him.”

  “No doubt.” Vespasia allowed a bleak spark of humor into her eyes for an instant. “Twenty years ago? Why now? The Irish are good at holding a grudge, or a favor, but they don’t wait on payment if they don’t have to.”

  “ ‘Revenge is a dish best served cold’?” Charlotte suggested wryly.

  “Cold, perhaps, my dear, but this would be frozen. There is more to it than a personal vengeance, but I do not know what. By the way, what has this to do with your maid leaving? Clearly there is something you have … forgotten … to tell me.”

  Charlotte found herself uncomfortable. “Oh … Mr. Narraway called after dark, and clearly since the matter was of secrecy, for obvious reasons he closed the parlor door. I’m afraid Mrs. Waterman thought I was … am … a woman of dubious morals. She doesn’t feel she can remain in a household where the mistress has ‘goings-on,’ as she put it.”

  “Then she is going to find herself considerably restricted in her choice of position,” Vespasia said waspishly. “Especially if her disapproval extends to the master as well.”

  “She didn’t say.” Charlotte bit her lip, but couldn’t conceal her smile. “But she would be utterly scandalized, so much so that she might have left that night, out into the street alone, with her suitcase in her hand, if she had known that I promised Mr. Narraway that I would go to Ireland with him, to do whatever I can to find the truth and help him clear his name. I have to. His enemies are Thomas’s enemies, and Thomas will have no defense against them without Mr. Narraway there. Then what shall we do?”

  Vespasia was silent for several moments. “Be very careful, Charlotte,” she said gravely. “I think you are unaware of how dangerous that could become.”

  Charlotte clenched her hands. “What would you have me do? Sit here in London while Mr. Narraway is unjustly ruined, and then wait for Thomas to be ruined as well? At best he will be dismissed because he was Mr. Narraway’s man, and they don’t like him. At worst he may be implicated in the same embezzlement, and end up charged with theft.” Her voice cracked a little and she realized how tired she was, and how very frightened. “What would you do?”

  Vespasia reached across and touched her very gently, just fingertip-to-fingertip. “Just the same as you, my dear. That’s not the same thing as saying that it is wise. It is simply the only choice you can live with.”

  There was a tap on the door, and the maid announced that supper was ready. They ate in the small breakfast room. Slender-legged Georgian mahogany furniture glowed dark amid golden-yellow walls, as if they were dining in the sunset, although the curtains were closed and the only light came from the mounted gas brackets.

  They did not resume the more serious conversation until they had returned to the sitting room and were assured of being uninterrupted.

  “Do not forget for a moment that you are in Ireland,” Vespasia warned. “Or imagine it is the same as England. It is not. They wear their past more closely wound around themselves than we do. Enjoy it while you are there, but don’t let your guard down for a second. They say you need a long spoon to sup with the devil. Well, you need a strong head to dine with the Irish. They’ll charm the wits out of you, if you let them.”

  “I won’t forget why I’m there,” Charlotte promised.

  “Or that Victor knows Ireland very well, and the Irish also know him?” Vespasia added. “Do not underestimate his intelligence, Charlotte, or his vulnerability. By the way, you have not mentioned how you intend to carry this off without causing a scandal that might not damage Narraway’s good name any further, but would certainly ruin yours. I assume your sense of fear and injustice did not blind you to that?” There was no criticism in her voice, only concern.

  Charlotte felt the blood hot in her face. “Of course not. I can’t take a maid, I don’t have one, or the money to pay her fare if I did. I am going to say I am Mr. Narraway’s sister—half sister. That will make it decent enough.”

  A tiny smile touched the corners of Vespasia’s lips. “Then you had better stop calling him Mr. Narraway and learn to use his given name, or you will certainly raise eyebrows.” She hesitated. “Or perhaps you already do.”

  Charlotte looked into Vespasia’s steady silver-gray eyes, and chose not to respond.

  NARRAWAY CAME EARLY THE following morning in a hansom cab. When she answered the door he hesitated only momentarily. He did not ask her if she were certain of the decision. Perhaps he did not want to give her the chance to waver. He called the cabdriver to put her case on the luggage rack.

  “Do you wish to go and say good-bye?” he asked her. His face looked bleak, with shadows under his eyes as if he had not slept in many nights. “There is time.”

  “No thank you,” she answered. “I have already done so. And I hate long good-byes. I am quite ready to go.”

  He nodded and walked behind her across the footpath. Then he helped her up onto the seat, going around to the other side to sit next to her. The cabbie apparently knew the destination.

  She had already decided not to tell him that she had visited Vespasia. He might prefer to think Vespasia did not know of his dismissal. She also chose not to let him know of Mrs. Waterman’s suspicions. It could prove embarrassing, even as if she herself had considered the journey as something beyond business herself.

  “Perhaps you would tell me something about Dublin,” she requested. “I have never been there, and I realize that beyond the fact that it is the capital of Ireland, I know very little.”

  The idea seemed to amuse him. “We have a long train journey ahead of us, even on the fast train, and then a crossing of the Irish Sea. I hear that the weather will be pleasant. I hope so, because if it is rough, then it can be very violent indeed. There will be time for me to tell you all I know, from 7500 BC until the present day.”

  She was amazed at the age of the city, but she would not allow him to see that he had impressed her so easily. It might look as if she were being deliberately gentle with the grief she knew he must be feeling.

  “Really? Is that because our journey is enormously long after all, or because you know less than I had supposed?”

  “Actually there is something of a gap between 7500 BC and the Celts arriving in 700 BC,” he said with a smile. “And after that not a great deal until the arrival of Saint Patrick in AD 432.”

  “So we can leap eight thousand years without further comment,” she concluded. “After that surely there must be something a little more detailed?”

  “The building of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral in AD 1192?” he suggested. “Unless you want to know about the Vikings, in wh
ich case I would have to look it up myself. Anyway, they weren’t Irish, so they don’t count.”

  “Are you Irish, Mr. Narraway?” she asked suddenly. Perhaps it was an intrusive question, and when he was Pitt’s superior she would not have asked it, but now the relationship was far more equal, and she might need to know. With his intensely dark looks he easily could be.

  He winced slightly. “How formal you are. It makes you sound like your mother. No, I am not Irish, I am as English as you are, except for one great-grandmother. Why do you ask?”

  “Your precise knowledge of Irish history,” she answered. That was not the real reason. She asked because she needed to know more about his loyalties, the truth about what had happened in the O’Neil case twenty years ago.

  “It is my job to know,” he said quietly. “As it was. Would you like to hear about the feud that made the King of Leinster ask Henry the Second of England to send over an army to assist him?”

  “Is it interesting?”

  “The army was led by Richard de Clare, known as Strongbow. He married the king’s daughter and became king himself in 1171, and the Anglo-Normans took control. In 1205 they began to build Dublin Castle. ‘Silken’ Thomas led a revolt against Henry the Eighth in 1534, and lost. Do you begin to see a pattern?”

  “Of course I do. Do they burn the King of Leinster in effigy?”

  He laughed, a brief, sharp sound. “I haven’t seen it done, but it sounds like a good idea. We are at the station. Let me get a porter. We will continue when we are seated on the train.”

  The hansom pulled up as he spoke, and he alighted easily. There was an air of command in him that attracted attention within seconds, and the luggage was unloaded into a wagon, the driver paid, and Charlotte walked across the pavement into the vast Paddington railway station for the Great Western rail to Holyhead.