by Anne Perry
Now he felt clumsy and deeply ungracious. He knew an apology was appropriate; his fear had made him foolish and rude. “Of course not. I’m sorry. I …” He hunted for words.
She smiled. It was a sudden, beautiful gesture that lit her face and restored everything of the beauty that had made her famous. “I would think less of you were you to take it for granted,” she said. “Now, before you leave, would you like tea? And are you hungry? If you are I shall have whatever you care for prepared. In the meantime we need to discuss what is to be done next. It is now up to you to address the real issue behind all this ploy and counterploy by whoever is the traitor at Lisson Grove.”
Her words were sobering. How like Vespasia to discuss the fate of revolution, murder, and treason in high places over tea and a plate of sandwiches in the withdrawing room. It restored a certain sanity to the world. At least something was as it should be. He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, steadying himself.
“Thank you. I should very much like a good cup of tea. The prison in Shoreham had only the most moderate amenities. And a sandwich would be excellent.”
PITT ARRIVED HOME AT Keppel Street in the early afternoon. Both Daniel and Jemima were still at school. He knocked on the door, rather than use his key and startle this Minnie Maude in whom Vespasia seemed to have so much confidence.
He stood on the step shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his mind racing over what changes he might find: what small things uncared for, changed so it was no longer the home he was used to, and which he realized he loved fiercely, exactly as it was. Except, of course, Charlotte should be there. Without her nothing was more than a shell.
The door opened and a young woman stood just inside, her expression guarded.
“Yes, sir.” She said it politely, but stood squarely blocking the way in. “Can I ’elp yer?” She was not pretty but she had beautiful hair: thick and curling and of a rich, bright color. And she had the freckles on her face that so often went with such vividness. She was far taller than Gracie and slender; however, she had the same direct, almost defiant gaze.
“Are you Minnie Maude?” he asked.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but that in’t yer business,” she replied. “If yer want the master, yer gimme a card, an’ I’ll ask ’im to call on yer.”
He could not help smiling. “I’ll give you a card, by all means.” He fished for one in his pocket and passed it to her, then wondered if she could read. He had become used to Gracie reading, since Charlotte had taught her.
Minnie Maude looked at the card, then up at him, then at the card again.
He smiled at her.
The blush spread up her cheeks in a hot tide. “I’m sorry, sir.” She stumbled over the words. “I din’t know yer.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he said quickly. “You shouldn’t allow anyone in unless you know who they are, and not just because they say so.”
She stood back, allowing him to pass. He went into the familiar hallway, and immediately smelled the lavender floor polish. The hall mirror was clean, the surfaces free of dust. Jemima’s shoes were placed neatly side by side under the coat stand.
He walked down to the kitchen and looked around. Everything was as it should be: blue-and-white-ringed plates on the Welsh dresser, copper pans on the wall, kitchen table scrubbed, the stove burning warm but not overhot. He could smell newly baked bread and the clean, comfortable aroma of fresh laundry hanging from the airing rail up near the ceiling. He was home again. There was nothing wrong, except that his family was not there. But he knew where Charlotte was, and the children were at school.
“Would you like a cup o’ tea, sir?” Minnie Maude asked in an uncertain voice.
He did not really need one so soon after leaving Vespasia’s, but he felt she would like to do something familiar and useful.
“Thank you,” he accepted. He had been obliged to buy several necessities for the days he had been in France, including the case in which he now carried them. “I have a little laundry in my bag, but I don’t know whether I shall be home for dinner or not. I’m sorry. If I am, something cold to eat will do very well.”
“Yes, sir. Would you like some cold mutton an’ ’ot bubble and squeak? That’s wot Daniel an’ Jemima’ll be ’avin’, as it’s wot they like. ’Ceptin’ they like eggs wif it.”
“Eggs will be excellent, thank you.” He meant it. Eggs sounded familiar, comfortable, and very good.
VESPASIA HAD WARNED PITT not to go to Lisson Grove, but he had no choice; he could do nothing to help Narraway and Charlotte, without information held there.
Of course there was the question of explaining what had happened to Gower. Pitt had no idea how badly he had been disfigured by the fall from the train, but every effort would be made to identify him. Indeed, by the time Pitt reached Lisson Grove he might find that it had already been done.
What should his story be? How much of the truth could he tell without losing every advantage of surprise that he had? He did not know who his enemies were, but they certainly knew him. His instinct was to affect as much ignorance as possible. The less they considered him a worthwhile opponent, the less likely they’d be to eliminate him. Feigning ignorance would be a manner of camouflage, at least for a while.
He should be open and honest about the attack on the train. It was a matter of record with the police. But it would be easy enough, highly believable in fact, to claim that he had no idea who the man was. Remove every thought that it was personal.
He had last seen Gower in St. Malo, when they agreed that Pitt should come home to see what Lisson Grove knew of any conspiracy, and Gower should remain in France and watch Frobisher and Wrexham, and anyone else of interest. Naturally he would know nothing of Narraway’s disgrace, and be thoroughly shocked.
He arrived just before four o’clock. He went in through the door, past the man on duty just inside, and asked to see Narraway.
He was told to wait, as he had expected, but it was a surprisingly short time before Charles Austwick himself came down and conducted Pitt up to what used to be Narraway’s office. Pitt noticed immediately that all signs of Narraway were gone: his pictures, the photograph of his mother that used to sit on top of the bookcase, the few personal books of poetry and memoirs, the engraved brass bowl from his time in North Africa.
Pitt stared at Austwick, allowing his sense of loss to show in his face, hoping Austwick would see it as confusion.
“Sit down, Pitt.” Austwick waved him to the chair opposite the desk. “Of course you’re wondering what the devil’s going on. I’m afraid I have some shocking news for you.”
Pitt forced himself to look alarmed, as if his imagination were racing. “Something has happened to Mr. Narraway? Is he hurt? Ill?”
“I’m afraid in some ways it is worse than that,” Austwick said somberly. “Narraway appears to have stolen a rather large amount of money, and—when faced with the crime—he disappeared. We don’t know where he is. Obviously he has been dismissed from the service, and at least for the time being I have replaced him. I am sure that is temporary, but until further notice you will report to me. I’m sorry. It must be a great blow to you, indeed it is to all of us. I don’t think anyone imagined that Narraway, of all people, would give in to that kind of temptation.”
Pitt’s mind raced. How should he respond? He had thought it was all worked out in his mind, but sitting here in Narraway’s office, subtly but so completely changed, he was uncertain again. Was Austwick the traitor? If so then he was a far cleverer man than Pitt had thought. But Pitt had had no idea that there was a traitor at all, and he had trusted Gower. What was his judgment worth?
“I can see that you’re stunned,” Austwick said patiently. “We’ve had a little while to get used to the idea. We knew almost as soon as you had gone. By the way, where is Gower?”
Pitt inhaled deeply, and plunged in. “I left him in France, in St. Malo,” he replied. He watched Austwick’s face as closely as he dared, tryin
g to read in his eyes, his gestures, if he knew that that was only half true.
Austwick spoke slowly, as if he also was measuring what he said, and he seemed to be watching Pitt just as closely. Had he noticed Somerset Carlisle’s beautifully cut shirt? Or his wine-colored cravat?
Pitt repeated exactly what he believed had happened at the time he had first notified Narraway that he had to remain in France.
Austwick listened attentively. His expression did not betray whether he knew anything further or not.
“I see,” he said at last, drumming his fingers silently on the desktop. “So you left Gower there in the hope that there might yet be something worthwhile to observe?”
“Yes … sir.” He added the sir with difficulty. There was a slowly mounting rage inside him that this man was sitting there in Narraway’s chair, behind his desk. Was he also a pawn in this game, or was he the one playing it with the opposing pieces?
“Do you think that is likely?” Austwick asked. “You say you saw nothing after that first sighting of … who did you say? Meister and Linsky, was it?”
“Yes,” Pitt agreed. “There were plenty of people coming and going all the time, but neither of us recognized anyone else. It’s possible that was coincidence. On the other hand, West was murdered, and the man who killed him, very brutally and openly, fled to that house. There has to be a reason for that.”
Austwick appeared to consider it for several moments. Finally he looked up, his lips pursed. “You’re right. There is certainly something happening, and there is a good chance it concerns violence that may affect us here in England, even if it begins in France. We have our allies to consider, and what our failure to warn them may do to our relationship. I would certainly feel a distinct sense of betrayal if they were to have wind of such a threat against us, and keep silent about it.”
“Yes, sir,” Pitt agreed, although the words all but stuck in his throat. He rose to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I have several matters to attend to.”
“Yes, of course,” Austwick agreed. He seemed calm, even assured. Pitt found himself shaking with anger as he left the room, making an effort to close the door softly.
THAT EVENING HE WENT to see the minister, Sir Gerald Croxdale. Croxdale himself had suggested that he come to the house. If the matter were as private and as urgent as Pitt had said, then it would be better if their meeting were not observed by others.
Croxdale’s home in Hampstead was old and very handsome, overlooking the heath. The garden trees were coming into leaf, and the air seemed to be full of birdsong.
Pitt was shown in by the butler. He found Croxdale standing in his library, which had long windows onto the lawn at the back of the house. At present the curtains were open; the evening sky beyond was pale with the last light. Croxdale turned from gazing at it as Pitt came in. He offered his hand.
“Miserable time,” he said sympathetically. “Pretty bad shock to all of us. I’ve known Narraway for years. Difficult man, not really a team player, but brilliant, and I’d always thought he was sound. But it seems as if a man can never entirely leave his past behind.” He gestured to one of the armchairs beside the fire. “Do sit down. Tell me what happened in St. Malo. By the way, have you had any dinner?”
Pitt realized with surprise that he had not. He had not even thought of eating, and his body was clenched with anxiety as different possibilities poured through his mind. Now he was fumbling for a gracious answer.
“Sandwich?” Croxdale offered. “Roast beef acceptable?”
Experience told Pitt it was better to eat than try to think rationally on an empty stomach. “Thank you, sir.”
Croxdale rang the bell, and when the butler appeared again he requested roast beef sandwiches and whiskey.
“Now.” He sat back as soon as the door was closed. “Tell me about St. Malo.”
Pitt offered him the same edited version he had given Austwick. He was not yet ready to tell anyone the whole truth. Croxdale had known Victor Narraway far longer than he had known Pitt. If he would believe that Narraway had stolen money, why should he think any better of Pitt, who was Narraway’s protégé and closest ally?
The butler brought the sandwiches, which were excellent. Pitt took an unaccustomed glass of whiskey with it, but declined a second. To have the fire inside him was good, his heart beating a little faster. However, to be fuzzy-headed could be disastrous.
Croxdale considered in silence for some time before he replied. Pitt waited him out.
“I am certain you have done the right thing,” Croxdale said at length. “The situation requires very careful watching, but at this point we cannot afford your absence from Lisson Grove. This fearful business with Narraway has changed all our priorities.”
Pitt was aware that Croxdale was watching him far more closely than at a glance it might seem. He tried to keep his expression respectful, concerned, but not as if he were already aware of the details.
Croxdale sighed. “I imagine it comes as a shock to you, as it does to me. Perhaps we should all have seen some warning, but I admit I did not. Of course we are aware of people’s financial interests—we would be remiss not to be. Narraway has no urgent need of money, as far as we know. This whole business with O’Neil is of long standing, some twenty years or more.” He looked closely at Pitt, his brows drawn together. “Did he tell you anything about it?”
“No, sir.”
“Old case. All very ugly, but I thought it was over at the time. We all did. Very briefly, Narraway was in charge of the Irish situation, and we knew there was serious trouble brewing. As indeed there was. He foiled it so successfully that there was never any major news about it. Only afterward did we learn what the price had been.”
Pitt did not need to pretend his ignorance, or the growing fear inside him, chilling his body.
Croxdale shook his head minutely, his face clouded with unhappiness. “Narraway used one of their own against them, a woman named Kate O’Neil. The details I don’t know, and I prefer to be able to claim ignorance. The end of it was that the woman’s husband killed her, rather messily, and was tried and hanged for it.”
Pitt was stunned. Was Narraway really as ruthless as that story implied? He pictured Narraway’s face in all the circumstances they had known each other through: success and failure; exhaustion, fear, disappointment; the conclusion of dozens of battles, won or lost. Reading Narraway defied reason: It was instinct, the trust that had grown up over time in all sorts of ways. It took him a painful and uncertain effort to conceal his feelings. He tried to look confused.
“If all this happened twenty years ago, what is it that has changed now?” he asked.
Croxdale was only momentarily taken aback. “We don’t know,” he replied. “Presumably something in O’Neil’s own situation.”
“I thought you said he was hanged?”
“Oh yes, the husband was; that was Sean O’Neil. But his brother Cormac is still very much alive. They were unusually close, even for an Irish family,” Croxdale explained.
“Then why did Cormac wait twenty years for his revenge? I assume you are saying that Narraway took the money in some way because of O’Neil?”
Croxdale hesitated, then looked at Pitt guardedly. “You know, I have no idea. Clearly we need to know a good deal more than we do at present. I assume it is to do with O’Neil because Narraway went almost immediately to Ireland.”
This question nagged at Pitt, but Croxdale cleared his throat and continued on, once again in his usual tones of assuredness.
“This regrettable defection of Narraway’s has astounded us all, but at the same time, we must keep sight of the greater threat: the ominous socialist activity cropping up. There seem to be plots on all sides. I’m sure what you and Gower were witness to is part of some larger and possibly very dangerous plan. The socialist tide has been rising for some time in Europe, as we are all aware. I can no longer have Narraway in charge, obviously. I need the very best I can find, a man I can trust morally a
nd intellectually, whose loyalty is beyond question and who has no ghosts from the past to sabotage our present attempts to safeguard our country, and all it stands for.”
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—”
