by Anne Perry
“I didn’t—” Pitt began, but he didn’t get to finish the sentence. Two burly men were crowding behind the guard, one of them with a walking stick, the other with a sharp-ended umbrella, both held up as weapons.
“We’re gonna put yer in my van,” the guard went on. “An’ if we ’ave ter knock yer senseless ter do it, just gimme the excuse is all I ask. I liked Mr. Summers. ’e were a good man, an’ all.”
Pitt had no wish to be beaten into submission. Dazed, aching, and appalled at what he had done, he went without resisting.
“YOU CAN’T COME,” CHARLOTTE said vehemently. It was early afternoon and she was standing in the dining room of Mrs. Hogan’s lodging house, dressed in her best spring costume, wearing the magnificent blouse. She was rather uncomfortably aware of how well it suited her. With a plain dark skirt the effect was dramatic, to say the very least. “Someone is bound to know you,” she added, forcing her attention to the matter in hand.
Narraway had obviously taken care to prepare himself for the occasion also. His shirt was immaculate, his cravat perfectly tied, his thick hair exactly in place.
“I have to,” he replied. “I must see Talulla Lawless. I can only see her in a public place, or she will accuse me of assaulting her. She has already tried it once, and warned me she will do it again if I attempt to see her alone. I know she is going to be there this afternoon. It’s a recital. Most people will be watching the musicians.”
“It will only need one person to recognize you and they will tell the others,” she pointed out. “Then what will I be able to do of any value? They’ll know the reason behind everything I say.”
“I will not go with you. The charade of your being my sister is for Mrs. Hogan.” He smiled bleakly. “You will go to the recital with Fiachra McDaid. He’s coming to meet you here—” He glanced at the clock on the mantel shelf. “—in ten minutes or so. I’ll go alone. I have to, Charlotte. I think Talulla is crucial to this. Too many of my investigations come back to her. She is the one thread that connects everyone involved.”
“Can’t I do it?” she persisted.
He smiled briefly. “Not this time, my dear.”
She did not argue any further, even though she was sure he was not telling her the entire truth. But it was foolish to come here at all if they were unprepared to take any risks. She smiled back at him, just in a very tiny gesture, and gave a little nod. “Then be careful.”
His eyes softened. He seemed to be about to say something half mocking, but there was a sharp tap on the door. Mrs. Hogan came in, her hair as usual falling out of its pins, her white apron crisply starched.
“Mr. McDaid is here for you, Mrs. Pitt.” It was impossible to tell from her expression what her thoughts were, except that she was having an effort keeping them under control.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hogan,” Charlotte said politely. “I shall be there immediately.” She met Narraway’s eyes. “Please be careful,” she said again. Then, before he could respond, she picked up her skirt perhaps half an inch and swept out the door Mrs. Hogan was holding open for her.
Fiachra McDaid was standing in the hall next to the longcase clock, which read five minutes ahead of the one in the dining room. He was smartly dressed, but he could not manage the same casual elegance as Narraway.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Pitt,” he said pleasantly. “I hope you’ll enjoy the music. It’ll be another side of Dublin for you to see, and a fine day for it. And talking of the weather, have you been outside the city yet? While it’s so agreeable, how about a trip to Droghada, and the ruins of Mellifont, the oldest abbey in Ireland—1142, it was, on the orders of Saint Malachy. Or if that is too recent for you, how about the Hill of Tara? It was the center of Ireland under the High Kings, until the eleventh century when Christianity came and brought an end to their power.”
“It sounds marvelous,” she said with as much enthusiasm as she could manage, taking his arm and walking toward the front door. She did not look back to see if Narraway was watching her. “Are they far from the city?”
“A little distance, but it’s well worth it,” McDaid replied. “There’s far more to Ireland than Dublin, you know.”
“Of course. I appreciate your generosity in sharing it. Do tell me more about these places.”
He accepted, and on the short journey to the hall where the recital was to take place, she listened with an air of complete attention. Indeed, at any other time she would have been as interested as she now pretended to be. The pride in his voice was unmistakable, and the love for his people and their history. He had a remarkable compassion for the poor and the dispossessed, which she could not help but admire.
When they arrived, the crowds were already beginning to gather, and they were obliged to find their seats if they wished to be well placed toward the front. Charlotte was pleased to do so, in order to be as far from Narraway as possible, so no one might think they were with each other—except McDaid, of course, and she had to trust in his discretion.
The other ladies were dressed very fashionably, and in the bronze-and-black-striped blouse she felt the equal of any of them. It still gave her a twinge of guilt that Narraway had paid for it, and she had no idea what words she would use to explain it to Pitt. But for the moment she indulged the pleasure of seeing both men and women glance at her, then look a second time with appreciation, or envy. She smiled a little, not too much, in case it looked like self-satisfaction, just enough to lift the corners of her mouth into a pleasant expression and return the nods of greeting from those she had met before.
She chose a chair, then sat as straight-backed as she could and affected an interest in the arrangements of the seats where the musicians were to play.
She noticed Dolina Pearse and only just avoided meeting her eyes. Next to her, Talulla Lawless was discreetly surveying the room, apparently looking for someone. Charlotte tried to follow her direction, and felt her breath catch in her throat as she saw Narraway arrive. The light was bright for a moment on the silver at his temples as he leaned forward to listen to someone. Talulla stiffened, her face set rigid. Then she smiled and turned back to the man beside her. It was a moment before Charlotte recognized him as Phelim O’Conor. He moved away and took his seat, and Talulla returned to hers.
The master of ceremonies appeared, and the babble of talk died away. The performance had begun.
For just over an hour they sat absorbed in the sound and the emotion of the music. It had a sweetness and a lilt that made Charlotte smile, and it was no effort at all to appear as if she were totally happy.
But the moment it ceased and the applause was finished, her mind returned to the reason she was here—and, more urgently, why Narraway was. She remembered the look on Talulla’s face. Perhaps the greatest purpose Charlotte would serve would not be anything to do with Cormac O’Neil, but to support Narraway if Talulla should begin to create a scene.
Giving McDaid no more than a quick smile, she rose to her feet and headed for Talulla, trying to think of something reasonable to say, true or not. She reached her just as Talulla turned to walk away, and only just managed to save her balance. She looked instantly amazed.
“Oh, I am sorry,” Charlotte apologized, although actually it had been Talulla who had nearly bumped into her. “I am afraid my enthusiasm rather got the better of me.”
“Enthusiasm?” Talulla said coldly, her face reflecting complete disbelief.
“For the harpist,” Charlotte said quickly. “I have never heard more delightful music.” She was fishing desperately for anything to say.
“Then don’t let me stop you from speaking to her,” Talulla retorted. “I’m sure you’ll find her agreeable.”
“Do you know her?” Charlotte asked eagerly.
“Only by repute, and I shouldn’t wish to trouble her,” Talulla responded sharply. “There must be so many people eager to speak with her.”
“I would be so grateful if you would introduce me,” Charlotte asked, ignoring the rebuff.
/> “I’m afraid I cannot help you,” Talulla was making it impossible to conceal her impatience. “I am not acquainted with her. Now, if you don’t—”
“Oh!” Charlotte assumed an expression of dismay. “But you said she was most agreeable.” She made it a challenge, not daring to look toward where she had seen Narraway talking to Ardal Barralet.
“It was the polite thing to say,” Talulla snapped. “Now really, Mrs. Pitt, there is someone I wish to speak to, and I must hurry or he may leave. Excuse me.” And she all but pushed Charlotte out of the way, obliging her to step aside.
Charlotte could see Narraway still talking to Barralet at the far end of the room. Talulla was heading directly toward them. Charlotte went after her, but several steps behind. They were halfway down the aisle between the chairs when Talulla stopped abruptly.
Then Charlotte saw why. A little knot of people had gathered around where Narraway had turned from Ardal Barralet and was facing Cormac O’Neil across a short open space of floor. Phelim O’Conor was looking from one to the other of them and Bridget Tyrone was just to his right.
For seconds they stood frozen. Then Cormac drew in his breath. “I never thought you’d dare show your face in Ireland again,” he said between his teeth, staring at Narraway. “Who’ve you come back to betray this time? Mulhare is dead, or didn’t you know that?” The hatred trembled in his voice; his whole body shook and his words were slurred.
A ripple of emotion ran through the gathering crowd like the passage of a storm through a field of barley.
“Yes, I know Mulhare is dead,” Narraway replied, not moving backward despite Cormac’s closeness to him. “Someone embezzled the money he should have had so he could go abroad and start a new life.”
“Someone?” Cormac sneered. “And I suppose you have no idea who?”
“I hadn’t,” Narraway answered, still not moving, although Cormac was within two feet of him now. “I’m beginning to find out.”
Cormac rolled his eyes. “If I didn’t know you, I’d believe that. You stole the money yourself. You betrayed Mulhare just as you betrayed all of us.”
Narraway was white-faced, eyes brilliant. “It was a war, Cormac. You lost, that’s all—”
“All!” Cormac’s face was now contorted with hate. “I lost my brother, and my sister-in-law, and my country, and you stand here and say that’s all …” His voice choked.
There was a mutter from everyone around the group closest to him. Charlotte winced. She knew what Narraway meant, but he was rattled and being clumsy. He knew they were against him, and he could prove nothing. He had no backing from London now; he was alone, and losing.
“We couldn’t both win.” Narraway regained his self-control with an effort. “That time it was me. You wouldn’t have shouted betrayal if it had been you.”
“It’s my bloody country, you arrogant ape!” Cormac shouted. “How many more of us have to be robbed, cheated, and murdered before you get some shadow of a conscience and get the hell out of Ireland?”
“I’ll go as soon as I prove who took Mulhare’s money,” Narraway answered. “Did you sacrifice him to get your revenge on me? Is that how you know all about it?”
“Everybody knows all about it,” Cormac snarled. “His body was washed up on the steps of Dublin Harbor, God damn you!”
“I didn’t betray him!” Narraway’s voice was shaking and growing louder despite his efforts to keep it down. “If I’d done it I’d have made a better job. I wouldn’t have left the money in my own damn account for others to find it. Whatever you think of me, Cormac, you know I’m not a fool.”
Cormac was stunned into momentary silence.
It was Talulla who stepped forward. Her face was white to the lips, her eyes sunken like holes in her head.
“Yes, you are a fool,” she said between her teeth, facing Narraway, her back to Cormac. “An arrogant English fool who thinks we can’t ever get the better of you. Well, one of us did this time. You say you didn’t put the money in your own bank? Apparently someone did, and you got the blame. Your own people think you’re a thief, and no one in Ireland will ever give you information again, so you’ll be no use to London anymore. You have Cormac O’Neil to thank for that.”
She drew in her breath, all but choking on it. “Don’t you have a saying in England—‘He who laughs last, laughs longest’? Well, we’ll be laughing after you are a broken old man with nothing to do and no one who gives a damn about you! Remember it was an O’Neil who did that to you, Narraway!” She laughed with a brief, jagged sound, like something tearing inside her. Then she turned and pushed her way through the crowd until she disappeared.
Charlotte stared at Cormac, and Phelim O’Conor, and then at Narraway. They stood pale and shaking. It was Ardal Barralet who spoke.
“How unfortunate,” he said drily. “I think, Victor, it would have been better if you had not come. Old memories die hard. It seems from what has been said as if this is one part of the war you lost. Accept it with as much grace as you expected of us, and take your leave while you can.”
Narraway did not even glance at Charlotte, not drawing her into the embarrassment. He bowed very stiffly. “Excuse me.” He turned and left.
McDaid took Charlotte’s arm, holding her surprisingly hard. She had not even known he was near her. Now she had no choice but to leave with him.
“He’s a fool,” McDaid said bitterly as soon as they were sufficiently far from the nearest people that he could speak without being overheard. “Did he think anyone would forget his face?”
She knew he was right, but she was angry with him for saying so. She did not know the details of Narraway’s part in the old betrayal, whether he had loved Kate O’Neil, or used her, or even both, but he was the one betrayed this time—and by a lie, not by the truth.
She was allowing emotion and instinct to replace reason in her judgment. Or maybe her belief in him was a return for the loyalty Narraway had shown to Pitt. Pitt was not here to help, to offer any support or advice, so it was necessary that she do it for him.
Then another thought came to her, a moment of recollection as clear as lightning in a black storm. Talulla had said that Mulhare’s money had been returned to Narraway’s own bank in London, and now no one in London would trust him. How could she know, unless she were intimately involved in having brought that about? She was in her late twenties. At the time of Kate and Sean O’Neil’s deaths she was no more than a child, perhaps six or seven years old.
Was that what Narraway had come here for: to provoke her, un-realizingly, into such self-revelation? What a desperate step to take.
She tried to free her arm from McDaid’s grip, pulling sharply, but he held on.
“You’re not going after him,” he said firmly. “He did at least do one thing decently: He didn’t involve you. As far as Talulla is concerned, you could be total strangers. Don’t spoil that.”
His words made it worse. It increased her debt; and to deny Narraway that would be pointless and desperately ungracious. She snatched her arm from McDaid, and this time he let go.
“I wasn’t going to go after him,” she said angrily. “I’m going home.”
“To London?” he said incredulously.
“To Mrs. Hogan’s house in Molesworth Street,” she snapped. “If you would be so kind as to take me. I do not wish to have to look for an omnibus. I’ve no idea where I am, or where I’m going.”
“That I know,” McDaid agreed ruefully.
HOWEVER, AS SOON AS McDaid had left her at Mrs. Hogan’s door, she waited until he had gotten back into the carriage and it was around the corner out of sight, then walked briskly in the opposite direction and hailed the first carriage for hire that she saw. She knew Cormac O’Neil’s town address from Narraway, and she gave it to the driver. She would wait for O’Neil to return, for as long as was necessary.
As it transpired, it was shortly after dusk when she saw Cormac O’Neil climb out of a carriage a hundred yards down the stre
et. He made his way a trifle unsteadily along the footpath toward his front door.
She moved out of the shadows. “Mr. O’Neil?”
He stopped, blinking momentarily.
“Mr. O’Neil,” she repeated. “I wonder if I may speak with you, please? It is very important.”
“Another time,” he said indistinctly. “It’s late.” He started forward to go past her to the door, but she took a step in front of him.
“No, it’s not late, it’s barely supper time, and this is urgent. Please?”
He looked at her. “You’re a handsome enough girl,” he said gently. “But I’m not interested.”
Suddenly she realized that he assumed her to be a prostitute. It was too absurd for her to take offense. But if she laughed she might sound too close to hysteria. She swallowed hard, trying to control the nervous tension all but closing her throat.
“Mr. O’Neil.” She had prepared the lie. It was the only way she could think of that might make him tell her the truth. “I want to ask you about Victor Narraway …”
O’Neil jerked to a stop and swung around to stare at her.
“I know what he did to your family,” she went on a little desperately. “At least I think I do. I was at the recital this afternoon. I heard what you said, and what Miss Lawless said too.”
“Why did you come here?” he demanded. “You’re as English as he is. It’s in your voice, so don’t try to sympathize with me.” Now his tone was stinging with contempt.
She matched his expression just as harshly. “And you think the Irish are the only people who are ever victims?” she said with amazement. “My husband suffered too. I might be able to do something about it, if I know the truth.”
“Something?” he said contemptuously. “What kind of something?”
She knew she must make this passionate, believable; a wound deep enough that he would see her as a victim like himself. Mentally she apologized to Narraway. “Narraway’s already been dismissed from Special Branch,” she said aloud. “Because of the money that was supposed to go to Mulhare. But he has everything else: his home, his friends, his life in London. My family has nothing, except a few friends who know him as I do, and perhaps you? But I need to know the truth …”
