Treason at Lisson Grove

by Anne Perry

  “Stop beating around the bush, man!” Croxdale said impatiently. “What is it?”

  Pitt took a deep breath. “We have at least one traitor at Lisson Grove …”

  Croxdale froze, his eyes hard. His right hand on top of the desk suddenly became rigid as if he were deliberately forcing himself not to clench it.

  “I presume you mean other than Victor Narraway?” he said quietly.

  Pitt made another decision. “I don’t and never have believed that Narraway was a traitor, sir. Whether he is guilty of a misjudgment, or a carelessness, I don’t yet know. But regrettably we all misjudge at times.”

  “Explain yourself!” Croxdale said between his teeth. “If not Narraway, and I reserve judgment on that, then who?”

  “Gower, sir.”

  “Gower?” Croxdale’s eyes opened wide. “Did you say Gower?”

  “Yes, sir.” Pitt could feel his own temper rising. How could Croxdale accept so easily that Narraway was a traitor, yet be so incredulous that Gower could be? What had Austwick told him? How deep and how clever was this web of treason? Was Pitt rushing in where a wiser, more experienced man would have been careful, laying his ground first? But there was no time to do that. Narraway was considered a fugitive by his former colleagues in the Special Branch and heaven only knew if Charlotte was safe, or where she was and in what circumstances. Pitt could not afford to seek their enemies cautiously.

  Croxdale was frowning at him. Should he tell him the whole story, or simply the murder of West? Any of it made Pitt look like a fool! But he had been a fool. He had trusted Gower, even liked him. The memory of it was still painful.

  “Something happened in France that made me realize it only appeared that Gower and I arrived together as Wrexham killed West,” he said. “Actually Gower had been there moments before and killed him himself.”

  “For God’s sake, man! That’s absurd,” Croxdale exploded, almost rising from his seat. “You can’t expect me to believe that! How did you fail …” He sat back again, composing himself with an effort. “I’m sorry. This comes as an appalling shock to me. I … I know his family. Are you certain? It all seems very … flimsy.”

  “Yes, sir, I’m afraid I am certain.” Pitt felt a stab of pity for him. “I made an excuse to leave him in France and return by myself—”

  “You left him?” Again Croxdale was stunned.

  “I couldn’t arrest him,” Pitt pointed out. “I had no weapon, and he was a young and very powerful man. The last thing I wanted to do was inform the local police of who we were, and that we were there without their knowledge or permission, watching French citizens …”

  “Yes, of course. I see. I see. Go on.” Croxdale was flushed and obviously badly shaken. Pitt could have sympathized at another time.

  “I told him to remain watching Wrexham and Frobisher …”

  “Who’s Frobisher?” Croxdale demanded.

  Pitt told him what they knew of Frobisher, and the other men they had seen coming and going from his house.

  Croxdale nodded. “So there was some truth to this business of socialists meeting, and possibly planning something?”

  “Possibly. Nothing conclusive yet.”

  “And you left Gower there?”

  “I thought so. But when I reached Southampton I took the train to London. On that train I was attacked, twice, and very nearly lost my life.”

  “Good God! By whom?” Croxdale was horrified.

  “Gower, sir. The first time he was interrupted, and the man who did so paid for his courage with his life. Then Gower renewed his attack on me, but this time I was ready for him, and it was he who lost.”

  Croxdale wiped his hand across his brow. “What happened to Gower?”

  “He went over onto the track,” Pitt replied, his stomach knotting at that memory and the sweat breaking out on his skin again. He decided not to mention his own arrest, because then he would have to explain how Vespasia had rescued him, and he preferred to keep her name out of it altogether.

  “He was … killed?” Croxdale said.

  “At that speed, sir, there can be no doubt.”

  Croxdale leaned back. “How absolutely fearful.” He let out his breath slowly. “You are right, of course. We had a traitor at Lisson Grove. I am profoundly grateful that it was he and not you who went over onto the tracks. Why on earth did you not tell me this as soon as you returned?”

  “Because I hoped to learn who was the man behind Gower before I told you,” Pitt answered.

  Croxdale’s face went white. “Behind … Gower?” he said awkwardly.

  “I don’t yet know,” Pitt admitted. “Not for certain. I never found evidence one way or the other whether Frobisher was the power behind a new socialist uprising, perhaps violent, or only a dilettante playing on the edge of the real plot.”

  “We don’t assume it is trivial,” Croxdale said quickly. “If Gower … I still find it hard to credit … but if Gower murdered two people, and attempted to murder you also, then it is very real indeed.” He bit his lip. “I assume from what you say that you did not tell Austwick this?”

  “No. I believe someone made it appear that Narraway was guilty of embezzlement in order to get him out of the way, discredit him so deeply that anything he said against them would be disbelieved.”

  “Who? Someone to do with Frobisher? Or Gower again?”

  “Neither Frobisher nor Gower had the ability,” Pitt pointed out. “That has to be someone in Lisson Grove, someone with a considerable amount of power in order to have access to the details of Narraway’s banking arrangements.”

  Croxdale was staring at him, his face drawn, cheeks flushed. “I see. Yes, of course you are right. Then this socialist plot seems very deep. Perhaps this Frobisher is as dangerous as you first thought, and poor West was killed to prevent you from learning the full extent of it. No doubt Gower kept you along with him when he went to France so you could be duped into believing Frobisher harmless, and sending that misinformation back to London.” He smiled bleakly, just for an instant. “Thank God you were clever enough to see through it, and agile enough to survive his attack on you. You are the right man for this job, Pitt. Whatever else he may be guilty of, Narraway did well when he brought you into the service.”

  Pitt felt he should thank him for the compliment, and for his trust, but he wanted to argue and say how little he was really suited to it. He ended by inclining his head, thanking him briefly, and moving on to the more urgent problem of the present.

  “We need to know very urgently, sir, what information Gower himself may have passed back to London, and—more specifically—to whom. I don’t know who I can trust.”

  “No,” Croxdale said thoughtfully, now leaning back again in his chair. “No, neither do I. We need to look at this a great deal more closely, Pitt. Austwick has reported to me at least three times since Narraway left. I have the papers here. We need to go through all this information and you must tell me what you know to be accurate, or inaccurate, and what we still need to test. Some picture should emerge. I’m sorry, but this may very well require all night. I’ll have someone fetch us supper.” He shook his head. “God, what a miserable business.”

  There was no question of argument.

  Croxdale had other notes not only of what Austwick had reported to him but, going back farther, of what Narraway also had written. It was curious looking at the different papers. Austwick’s writing was neat, his notes carefully thought out and finely presented. Narraway’s Pitt saw with a jolt of familiarity, and a renewed sense of his friend’s absence. Narraway’s penmanship was smaller, more flowing than his successor’s. There was no hesitation. He had written his note with forethought, and there was no attempt to conceal the fact that he was giving Croxdale only the minimum. Was that an agreement between them, and Croxdale could read between the lines? Or had Narraway simply not bothered to conceal the fact that he was telling only part of what he knew?

  Pitt studied Croxdale’s face, and did no
t know the answer.

  They read them carefully. A servant brought in a tray of light toast and pâté, then cheese and finally a heavy fruitcake—along with brandy, which Pitt declined.

  It was now totally dark outside. The wind was rising a little, spattering rain against the windows.

  Croxdale put down the last paper. “Narraway obviously thought there was something to this business in St. Malo, but not major. Austwick seems to disagree, and thinks that it is nothing but noise and posturing. Unlike Narraway, he believes it will not affect us here in Britain. What do you think, Pitt?”

  It was the question Pitt had dreaded, but it was inevitable that it would come. There was no room for excuses, no matter how easy to justify. He would be judged on the accuracy of his answer. He had lain awake weighing everything he knew, hoping Croxdale’s information would tip the balance one way or the other.

  Again he answered with barely a hesitation. “I think that Narraway was on the brink of finding out something crucial, and he was gotten rid of before he could do so.”

  Croxdale waited a long time before he answered.

  “Do you realize that if that is true, then you are also saying that Austwick is either incompetent to a most serious degree, or else—far worse than that—he is complicit in what is going on?”

  “Yes, sir, I’m afraid that has to be the case,” Pitt agreed. “But Gower was reporting to someone, so we know that at least one person within the service is a traitor.”

  “I’ve known Charles Austwick for years,” Croxdale said softly. “But perhaps we don’t know anyone as well as we imagine.” He sighed. “I’ve sent for Stoker. Apparently he’s newly back from Ireland. He may be able to throw some light on things. Do you trust him?”

  “Yes. But I trusted Gower as well,” Pitt said ruefully. “Do you?”

  Croxdale gave him a bleak smile. “Touché. Let’s at least see what he has to say. And the answer is no, I trust no one. I am painfully aware that we cannot afford to. Not after Narraway, and not it would seem Gower also. Are you sure you won’t have a brandy?”

  “I’m quite sure, thank you, sir.”

  There was a knock on the door and, at Croxdale’s word, Stoker came in. He looked tired. There were shadows around his eyes, and his face was pinched with fatigue. However, he stood to attention until Croxdale gave him permission to sit. Stoker acknowledged Pitt, but only so much as courtesy demanded.

  “When did you get back from Ireland?” Croxdale asked him.

  “About two hours ago, sir,” Stoker replied. “Weather’s a bit poor.”

  “Mr. Pitt doesn’t believe the charge of embezzlement against Narraway,” Croxdale went on. “He thinks it is possibly false, manufactured to get rid of him because he was on the verge of gaining information about a serious socialist plot of violence that would affect Britain.” He was completely ignoring Pitt, his eyes fixed on Stoker so intently they might have been alone in the room.

  “Sir?” Stoker said with amazement, but he did not look at Pitt either.

  “You worked with Narraway,” Croxdale continued. “Does that seem likely to you? What is the news from Ireland now?”

  Stoker’s jaw tightened as if he were laboring under some profound emotion. His face was pale as he leaned forward a little into the light. He seemed leached of color by exhaustion. “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t see any reason to question the evidence. It’s amazing what lack of money can do, and how it can change your view of things.”

  Pitt felt as if he had been struck. The sting of Stoker’s words was hard enough to have been physical. He would rather it had been.

  Stoker continued, a grim weariness in his voice. “Sir, there is more. I deeply regret that I must bear this grave news, gentlemen, but yesterday O’Neil was murdered, and the police immediately arrested Narraway. He was on the scene and practically caught red-handed. He had the grace not to deny it. He is now in prison in Dublin awaiting trial.”

  Pitt felt as if he had been sandbagged. He struggled to keep any sense of proportion, even of reality. He stared at Stoker, then turned to Croxdale. Their faces wavered and the room seem to swim in and out of his focus.

  “My word,” Croxdale said slowly. “This comes as a terrible shock.” He turned to Pitt. “You could have had no idea of this side of Narraway, and I admit, neither had I. I feel remiss to have had such a man in charge of our most sensitive service during my period of office. His extraordinary skill completely masked this darker, and clearly very violent side of his nature.”

  Pitt refused to believe it, partly because he could not bear it. Charlotte was in Ireland with Narraway. What had happened to her? How could he find out without admitting that he knew this? He would not draw Vespasia into it. She was one element he had in his favor, perhaps the only one.

  Stoker gazed downward, his voice quieter, as though he too were stunned. “I am afraid it’s true, sir. We were all deceived as to his character. The case against him is as plain as day. It seems Narraway quarreled with O’Neil rather publicly, making no secret of the fact that he believed O’Neil to be responsible for creating the evidence that made it seem he was guilty of embezzling the money intended for Mulhare. And to be honest, that could well be true.”

  “Could it? Croxdale asked, a slight lift of hope in his voice.”

  “From what I can make out, yes, sir, it could,” Stoker replied. “Only problem is how he got the information he’d need to get it into Mr. Narraway’s account. I’ve been trying to find the answer to that, and I think I’ll get there.”

  “Someone at Lisson Grove?” Croxdale said.

  “No, sir,” Stoker answered without a flicker in his face. “Not as far as I can see.”

  Croxdale’s eyes narrowed. “Then who? Who else would be able to do that?”

  Stoker did not hesitate. “Looks like it could be someone at Mr. Narraway’s bank, sir. I daresay one time and another, he’s made some enemies. Or it could just be someone willing to be paid. Nice to think that wouldn’t happen, but maybe a bit innocent. There’d be those with enough money to buy most things.”

  “I suppose so,” Croxdale replied. “Perhaps Narraway found out already? That would explain a great deal. What other news have you from Ireland?”

  Stoker told him about Narraway’s connections, whom he had spoken to and their reactions, the confrontation with O’Neil at the soirée. Never once did he mention Charlotte. At least some of what he described was so unlike Narraway, panicky and protective, that it seemed as if his whole character had fallen apart.

  Pitt listened with disbelief and mounting anger at what he felt had to be a betrayal.

  “Thank you, Stoker,” Croxdale said sadly. “A tragic end to what was a fine career. Give your report on Paris to Mr. Pitt.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Stoker left, and Croxdale turned to Pitt. “I think that makes the picture clearer. Gower was the traitor, which I admit I still find hard to credit, but what you say makes it impossible to deny. We may have the disaster contained, but we can’t take it for granted. Make as full an investigation as you can, Pitt, and report to me. Keep an eye to what’s going on in Europe and if there is anything we should inform the French of, then we’ll do so. In the meantime there’s plenty of other political trouble to keep us busy, but I’m sure you know that.” He rose to his feet, extending his hand. “Take care of yourself, Pitt. You have a difficult and dangerous job, and your country needs you more than it will ever appreciate.”

  Pitt shook his hand and thanked him, going out into the night without any awareness of the sudden chill. The coldness was already inside him. What Stoker had said of Narraway’s bank betraying him could be true, although he did not believe it. The rest seemed a curious set of exaggerations and lies. Pitt could not accept that Narraway had fallen apart so completely, either to steal anything in the first place, or to so lose the fundamental values of his past as to behave in the way Stoker had described. Pitt could not possibly believe that Narraway was a cold-blooded
murderer. And surely Stoker must at the very least have noticed Charlotte?

  Or was Stoker the traitor at Lisson Grove?

  He was floundering, like a man in quicksand. None of his judgments was sound. He had trusted Stoker, he had even liked Gower. Narraway he would have sworn his own life on … He admitted, he still would. Something had to be amiss. The Narraway that Pitt had known would never kill for any reason other than self-defense.

  Croxdale’s carriage was waiting to take him home. He half saw the shadow of a man on the pavement who moved toward him, but he ignored it. The coachman opened the door for him and he climbed in, sitting miserable and shivering all the way back to Keppel Street. He was glad it was late. He did not want to make the intense effort it would cost to hide his disillusion from Daniel and Jemima. If he was fortunate, even Minnie Maude would be asleep.

  IN THE MORNING HE was halfway to Lisson Grove when he changed his mind and went instead to see Vespasia. It was too early for any kind of social call, but if he had to wait until she rose, then he was willing to. His need to speak with her was so urgent he was prepared to break all the rules of etiquette, even of consideration, trusting that she would see his purpose beyond his discourtesy.

  In fact she was already up and taking breakfast. He accepted tea, but he had no need to eat.

  “Is your new maid feeding you properly?” Vespasia asked with a touch of concern.

  “Yes,” he answered, his own surprise coming through his voice. “Actually she’s perfectly competent, and seems very pleasant. It wasn’t …” He saw her wry smile and stopped.

  “It wasn’t to seek recommendation for a new maid that you came at this hour of the morning,” she finished for him. “What is it, Thomas? You look very troubled indeed. I assume something new has occurred?”

  He told her everything that had happened since they last spoke, including his dismay and disappointment over Stoker’s sudden change of loyalties, and the brutal details with which he had described Narraway’s falling apart.

  “I seem to be completely incompetent at judging anyone’s character,” he said miserably. He would like to have been able to say it with some dry wit, but he felt so inadequate that he was afraid he sounded self-pitying.