Treason at Lisson Grove

by Anne Perry

  “Several very nasty things already have,” she told him.

  “I know. But we must prevent what we can.”

  “I know what happened with Mulhare’s money. I’m pretty sure who was behind it all.”

  “Are you?” There was an eagerness in his voice that he could not hide, even now in this pushing, noisy crowd.

  “I’ll tell you when we are on board. Did you hear the dog?”

  “What dog?”

  “Cormac’s dog.”

  “Of course I did. The poor beast hurled itself at the door almost as soon as I was in the house.”

  “Did you hear the shot?”

  “No. Did you?” He was startled.

  “No,” she said with a smile.

  “Ah!” He was level with her now, and they were at the ticket counter. “I see.” He smiled also, but at the salesman. “Two for the Holyhead boat, please.”

  PITT WAS OVERWHELMED WITH the size and scope of his new responsibilities. There was so much more to consider than the relatively minor issues of whether the socialist plot in Europe was something that could be serious, or only another manifestation of the sporadic violence that had occurred in one place or another for the last several years. Even if some specific act were planned, very possibly it did not concern England.

  The alliance with France required that he pass on any important information to the French authorities, but what did he know that was anything more than speculation? West had been killed before he could tell him whatever it was he knew. With hindsight now, it had presumably been Gower who was a traitor. But had there been more to it than that? Had West also known who else in Lisson Grove was—what? A socialist conspirator? To be bought for money, or power? Or was it not what they wished to gain so much as what they were afraid to lose? Was it blackmail over some real or perceived offense? Was it someone who had been made to appear guilty, as Narraway had, but this person had yielded to pressure in order to save himself?

  Had Narraway been threatened, and defied them? Or had they known better than to try, and he had simply been professionally destroyed, without warning?

  He sat in Narraway’s office, which was now his own: a cold and extraordinarily isolating thought. Would he be ousted next? It was hard to imagine he posed the threat to them that Narraway had, whoever they were. He looked around the room. It was so familiar to him from the other side of the desk that even with his back to the wall he could see in his mind’s eye the pictures Narraway used to have there. They were mostly pencil drawings of bare trees, the branches delicate and complex. There was one exception: an old stone tower by the sea, but again the foreground was in exquisite detail of light and shadow, the sea only a feeling of distance without end.

  He would ask Austwick where they were, and put them back where they belonged. If Narraway ever returned, then Pitt would give them back to him. Narraway’s belongings were part of the furniture of his mind, of his life. They would give Pitt a sense of his presence, and it was both sad and comforting at the same time.

  Narraway would have known what to do about these varied and sometimes conflicting remnants of work that scattered the desk now. Pitt was familiar with some of them, but he had only a vague knowledge of others. They were cases Narraway had dealt with himself.

  Austwick had left him notes, but how could he trust anything Austwick had said? He would be a fool to, without corroboration from someone else, and that would take time he could not afford now. And whom could he trust? There was nothing but to go on. He would have to compare one piece of information with another, canceling out the impossible and then weighing what was left.

  As the morning wore on, and assistants of one sort or another came with new papers, more opinions, he became painfully aware of how isolated Narraway must have been. He was commander now; he was not permitted to reveal vulnerability or confusion. He was not expected to consult. But he badly needed to—and recognized no one he could trust with certainty.

  He looked in the faces of his juniors and saw courtesy, respect for his new position. In a few he also saw envy. Once he recognized an anger that he, such a relative newcomer, should have been promoted before them. In none did he see the kind of respect he needed in order to command their personal loyalty beyond their commitment to the task. That could only exist when it had been earned.

  He would have given most of what he possessed to have Narraway back. Knowing that one misjudgment could now cost him his life, Pitt desperately craved his colleague’s steady, quick-thinking presence and his quiet support.

  Where was Narraway now? Somewhere in Ireland, trying to clear his name of a crime he did not commit? Pitt realized with a chill that he was not certain that Narraway was innocent. Could he have lied, embezzled, betrayed his country, and broken the trust of all he knew? Pitt would never before have believed that Narraway would commit any crime, even out of desperation. But perhaps he would if his life were in jeopardy, or Charlotte’s. That thought hurt Pitt in a way that he could not fight.

  Why had she gone with him? To help fight against injustice, out of loyalty to a friend in desperate need? How like her! But Narraway was Pitt’s friend, not really hers. And yet, remembering a dozen small things, he knew that Narraway was in love with her, and had been for some time.

  He knew exactly when he had first realized it. He had seen Narraway turn to look at her. They had been standing in the kitchen in his own house in Keppel Street. It had been during a bad case, a difficult one. Narraway had come to see him late in the evening over something or other, a new turn in events. They had had tea. The kettle was steaming on the hob. Charlotte had been standing waiting for it to boil again. She had been wearing an old dress, not expecting anyone except Pitt. The lamplight had shone on her hair, bringing up the warm, deep color of it, and on the angle of her cheek. He could see her in his mind’s eye picking up the mitt so as not to burn her hands on the kettle.

  Narraway had said something, and she had looked at him and laughed. In an instant his face had given him away.

  Did she know? It had taken her what seemed like ages to realize that Pitt was in love with her, years ago, in the beginning. But since then they had all changed. She had been awkward, the middle sister of three, the one her mother found so difficult to match with an acceptable husband. Now she knew she was loved. But Pitt knew that her righteous indignation over the injustice against Narraway may have spurred Charlotte to impulsive actions.

  She would be furiously angry that Narraway’s reputation had been damaged, and she would still feel a gratitude to Narraway for having taken Pitt into Special Branch when he so badly needed it. Life could have become very bleak indeed. And if she knew that Narraway loved her that could be an added sense of responsibility, even of debt. To think of it as a debt was ridiculous—she had not asked for his regard, but Pitt knew the fierce protectiveness she felt toward the vulnerable. It was instinctive, defensive, like an animal with cubs. She would act first and think afterward. He loved her for it. He would lose something of infinite value if she were different, more guarded, more sensible. But it was still a liability.

  There were papers piled on the desk in front of him, reports waiting to be made sense of, but still his mind was on Charlotte.

  Where was she? How could he find out without placing her in further danger? Who was he absolutely certain he could trust? A week ago, he would have sent Gower. Unwittingly he would have been giving them the perfect hostage.

  Should he contact the Dublin police? How could he be sure that he could trust them either, in light of all the schemes and plots that seemed to be under way right in his own government branch?

  Perhaps anonymity was her best defense, but his own helplessness was almost like a physical pain. He had all the forces of Special Branch at his fingertips, but no idea whom he could trust.

  There was a knock on his door. The moment he answered it Austwick came in, looking grave and slightly smug. He had more papers in his hand.

  Pitt was glad to be forced back
into the present. “What have you?” he asked.

  Austwick sat down without being asked. Pitt realized he would not have done that with Narraway.

  “More reports from Manchester,” Austwick replied. “It does begin to look as if Latimer is right about this factory in Hyde. They are making guns, despite their denials. And then there’s the mess-up in Glasgow. We need to pay more attention to that, before it gets any bigger.”

  “Last report said it was just young people protesting,” Pitt reminded him. “Narraway had it marked as better left alone.”

  Austwick pulled his face into a grimace of distaste. “Well I think Narraway’s mind was hardly on the country’s interests over the last while. Unfortunately we don’t know how long his … inattention had been going on. Read it yourself and see what you think. I’ve been handling it since Narraway went, and I think he may have made a serious misjudgment. And we can’t afford to ignore Scotland either.”

  Pitt swallowed his response. He did not trust Austwick, but he must not allow the man to see his doubt. All this felt like wasting time, of which he had far too little.

  “What about the other reports from Europe on the socialists?” he asked. “Anything from Germany? And what about the Russian émigrés in Paris?”

  “Nothing significant,” Austwick replied. “And nothing at all from Gower.” He looked at Pitt steadily, concern in his eyes.

  Pitt kept his expression perfectly composed. “He won’t risk communication unless he has something of value to report. It all has to go through the local post office.”

  Austwick shook his head. “I think it’s of secondary importance, honestly. West may have been killed simply on principle when they discovered he was an informant. He may not have possessed the crucial information we assumed he did.”

  Austwick shifted his position a little and looked straight at Pitt. “There have been rumblings about great reform for years, you know. People strike postures and make speeches, but nothing serious happens, at least not here in Britain. I think our biggest danger was three or four years ago. There was a lot of unrest in the East End of London, which I know you are aware of, though much of it took place just before you joined the branch.”

  That was a blatant reminder of how new Pitt was to this job. He saw the flicker of resentment in Austwick’s eyes as he said it. He wondered for a moment if the hostility he sensed was due to Austwick’s personal ambition having been thwarted. Then he remembered Gower bending over West’s body on the ground, and the blood. Either Austwick had nothing to do with it, or he was better at masking his emotions than Pitt had judged. He must be careful.

  “Perhaps we’ll escape it,” he offered.

  Austwick shifted in his chair again. “These are the reports in from Liverpool, and you’ll see some of the references to Ireland. Nothing dangerous as yet, but we need to make note of some of these names, and watch them.” He pushed across more papers, and Pitt bent to read them.

  The afternoon followed the same pattern: more reports both written and verbal. A case of violence in a town in Yorkshire looked as if it was political and turned out not to be. A government minister was robbed in Piccadilly; and investigating it took up the rest of the day. The minister had been carrying sensitive papers. Fortunately it was not Pitt’s decision as to how seriously he should be reprimanded for carelessness. It was, however, up to him to decide with what crime the thief should be charged.

  He weighed it with some consideration. He questioned the man, trying to judge whether he had known his victim was in the government, and if so that his attaché case might contain government papers. He was uncertain, even after several hours, but Narraway would not have asked advice, and neither would he.

  Pitt decided that the disadvantages of letting the public know how easy it was to rob an inattentive minister outweighed the possible error of letting a man be charged with a lesser crime than the one he had intended to commit.

  He went home in the evening tired and with little sense of achievement.

  It changed the moment he opened the front door and Daniel came racing down the hall to greet him.

  “Papa! Papa, I made a boat! Come and look.” He grasped Pitt’s hand and tugged at him.

  Pitt smiled and followed him willingly down to the kitchen, where the rich smell of dinner cooking filled the air. Something was bubbling in a big pan on the stove and the table was littered with pieces of newspapers and a bowl of white paste. Minnie Maude was standing with a pair of scissors in her hands. As usual, her hair was all over the place, pinned up over and over again as she had lost patience with it. In pride of place in the center of the mess was a rather large papier-mâché boat, with two sticks for masts and several different lengths of tapers for bowsprit, yardarms, and a boom.

  Minnie Maude looked abashed to see him, clearly earlier than she had expected.

  “See!” Daniel said triumphantly, pointing to the ship. “Minnie Maude showed me how to do it.” He gave a little shrug. “And Jemima helped a bit … well … a lot.”

  Pitt felt a sudden and overwhelming warmth rush up inside him. He looked at Daniel’s face shining with pride, and then at the boat.

  “It’s magnificent,” he said, emotion all but choking his voice. “I’ve never seen anything better.” He turned to Minnie Maude, who was standing wide-eyed. She was clearly waiting to be criticized for playing when she should have been working, and having dinner on the table for him.

  “Thank you,” he said to her sincerely. “Please don’t move it until it is safe to do so without risk of damage.”

  “What … what about dinner, sir?” she asked, beginning to breathe again.

  “We’ll clear the newspapers and the paste, and eat around it,” he answered. “Where’s Jemima?”

  “She’s reading,” Daniel answered instantly. “She took my Boys’ Own! Why doesn’t she read a girls’ book?”

  “ ’Cos they’re boring,” Jemima answered from the doorway. She had slipped in without anyone hearing her come along the corridor. She looked past Pitt at the table, and the ship at the center. “You’ve got the masts on! That’s beautiful.” She gave Pitt a radiant smile. “Hello, Papa. Look what we made.”

  “I see it,” he replied, putting his arm around her shoulder. “It’s magnificent.”

  “How is Mama?” she asked, an edge of worry in her voice.

  “Well,” he answered, lying smoothly and holding her a little closer. “She’s helping a friend in bad trouble, but she’ll be home soon. Now let’s help clear the table and have dinner.”

  Afterward he sat alone in the parlor as silence settled over the house. Daniel and Jemima had gone up to bed. Minnie Maude had finished in the kitchen and went up as well. He heard every creak of her tread on the stairs. Far from being comforting, the absence of all voices or movement made the heaviness swirl back in again like a fog. The islands of light from the lamps on the wall made the shadows seem deeper than they were. He knew every surface in the room. He also knew they were all immaculately clean, as if Charlotte had been there to supervise this new girl whose only fault was that she was not Gracie. She was good; it was only the familiarity she lacked. The papier-mâché ship made him smile. It wasn’t a trivial thing; it was very important indeed. Minnie Maude Mudway was a success.

  He sat in the armchair, thinking of Jemima’s pride and Daniel’s happiness for as long as he could. Finally he turned his mind to the following day and to the fact that he must go and tell Croxdale the truth about Gower, and the betrayal that might run throughout the service.

  THE FOLLOWING DAY AT Lisson Grove was filled with the same necessary trivia as the one before. There was news from Paris that was only vaguely disturbing: a definite increase in activity among the people Special Branch was watching, though if it had any meaning he was unable to determine what it was. It was much the same sort of thing he might have done had Narraway been there, and he in his own job. The difference was the weight of responsibility, the decisions that he could no longer
refer upward. Now they all came to him. Other men who had previously been his equals were now obliged to report to him, for Pitt needed to know of anything at all that might threaten the safety of Her Majesty’s realm, and her government, the peace and prosperity of Britain.

  Late that morning he finally obtained an interview with Sir Gerald Croxdale. He felt the urgent need to tell Croxdale of Gower’s death, and how it had happened. No report had come in yet, as far as he knew, but it could not be long now.

  Pitt arrived at Whitehall late in the afternoon. The sun was still warm and the air was soft as he walked across from the park and along the street to the appropriate entrance. Several carriages passed him, the women in them wearing wide hats to protect their faces from the light, their muslin sleeves drifting in the breeze. Horse brasses winked with bright reflections, and some doors carried family crests painted on them.

  He was admitted without question. Apparently the footman knew who he was. He was taken straight to Croxdale’s rooms and ushered into his presence after only a matter of moments.

  “How are you, Pitt?” Croxdale said warmly, rising from his seat to shake Pitt’s hand. “Sit down. How is it at Lisson Grove?” His voice was pleasant, almost casual, but he was watching Pitt intently. There was a gravity in him as if he already knew that Pitt had ugly news to tell him.

  It was the opening Pitt needed without having to create it himself.

  “I had hoped to tell you more, sir,” he began. “But the whole episode of seeing West murdered and following Frobisher to France was far more serious than I thought at first.”

  Croxdale frowned, sitting a little more upright in his chair. “In what way? Have you learned what he was going to tell you?”

  “No, sir, I haven’t. At least, I am not certain. But I have a strong idea, and everything I have discovered since returning supports it, but does not provide a conclusion.”