Betrayal at Lisson Grove

by Anne Perry

  He felt easier now. France seemed very far away, and he had had no glimpse of Gower on the boat. He must have satisfied him with his explanation.

  The station was unusually busy, crowded with people all seemingly in an ill humour. He discovered why when he bought his ticket for London.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ the ticket seller said wearily. ‘We got a problem at Shoreham-by-Sea, so there’s a delay.’

  ‘How long a delay?’

  ‘Can’t say, sir. Maybe an hour or more.’

  ‘But the train is running?’ Pitt insisted. Suddenly he was anxious to leave Southampton, as if it were still dangerous.

  ‘Yes, sir, it will be. D’yer want a ticket fer it or not?’

  ‘Yes, I do. There’s no other way to London, is there?’

  ‘No, sir, not unless yer want ter take a different route. Some folk are doing that, but it’s longer, an’ more expensive. Trouble’ll be cleared soon, I dare say.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll have one ticket to London, please.’

  ‘Return, sir? Would you like first, second or third class?’

  ‘Just one way, thank you, and second class will be fine.’

  He paid for it and went back towards the platform, which was getting steadily more and more crowded. He couldn’t even pace backward and forward to release some of the tension that was mounting inside him, as it seemed to be for everyone else. Women were trying to comfort fretful children; businessmen pulled pocket watches out of their waistcoats and stared at the time again and again. Pitt kept glancing around him, but there was no sign of Gower, although he was not sure if he would have noticed him in the ever-increasing crowd.

  He bought a sandwich and a pint of cider at two o’clock, when there was still no news. At three he eventually took the train to Worthing, and hoped to catch another train from there, perhaps to London via a different route. At least leaving Southampton gave him an illusion of achieving something. As he made his way towards a seat in the last carriage, again he had the feeling of having escaped.

  The carriage was nearly full. He was fortunate there was room for him to sit. Everyone else had been waiting for some time and they were all tired, anxious and looking forward to getting home. Even if this train did not take them all the way, at least they were moving. One woman held a crying two-year-old, trying to comfort her. The little girl was rubbing her eyes and sniffing. It made Pitt think of Jemima at that age. How long ago that seemed. Pitt guessed she had been on holiday and was now confused as to where she was going next, and why. He had some sympathy for her, and it made him engage the mother in conversation for the first two stops. Then the movement of the train and the rhythmic clatter over the connections on the rail lulled the child to sleep, and the mother finally relaxed.

  Several people got off at Bognor Regis, and more at Angmering. By the time they reached Worthing and stopped altogether, there were only half a dozen people left in Pitt’s carriage.

  ‘Sorry, gents,’ the guard said, tipping his cap back a little and scratching his head. ‘This is as far as we go till they get the track cleared at Shoreham.’

  There was a lot of grumbling, but the few passengers remaining got out of the carriage. They walked up and down the platform restlessly, bothered the porters and the guard asking questions to which no one had answers, or went into the waiting room with passengers from the other carriages.

  Pitt picked up someone else’s discarded newspaper and glanced through it. Nothing in particular caught his eye, and he kept looking up every time someone passed, in the hope that there was news of the train leaving again.

  Once or twice, as the long afternoon wore on, he got up and walked the length of the platform. With difficulty he resisted the temptation to pester the guard, but he knew that the poor man was probably as frustrated as everyone else, and would have been only too delighted to have news to give people.

  Finally, as the sun was on the horizon, they boarded a new train and slowly pulled out of the station. The relief was absurdly out of proportion. They had been in no hardship and no danger, yet people were smiling, talking to each other, even laughing.

  The next stop was Shoreham-by-Sea, where the trouble had been, then Hove. By then it was dusk, the light golden and casting heavy shadows. For Pitt this hour of the evening had a peculiar beauty, almost with a touch of sadness that sharpened its emotional power. He felt it even more in the autumn, when the harvest fields in the country were stubbled gold, the stooks like some remnant of an earlier forgotten age, more barbaric, without the inroads of civilisation on the land. He thought of his childhood at the big house where his parents had worked, of the woods and fields, and a sense of belonging.

  Suddenly the carriage enclosed him. He stood up and went to the end and through the door onto the small platform before the next carriage. It was mostly for men to light cigars without the smoke being unpleasant to other passengers, but it was a good place to stand and feel the rush of air, and smell the ploughed earth and the damp of the woods as they passed. Not many trains had these spaces. He had heard somewhere that it was an American invention. He liked it very much.

  The air was quite cold, but there was a sweetness to it and he was happy to remain there, even though it grew darker quickly, heavy clouds rolling in from the north. Probably some time in the night it would rain.

  He considered what he would tell Narraway of what now seemed to be an abortive trip to France, and how he would explain his conclusions about Gower and his own blindness in not having understood the truth from the beginning. Then he thought with intense pleasure of seeing Charlotte, and of being at home where he had only to look up and she would be there, smiling at him. If she thought he had been stupid, she would not say so – at least not at first. She would let him say it, and then ruefully agree. That would take away most of the sting.

  It was nearly dark now; the clouds had brought the night unnaturally soon.

  Without any warning he was aware of someone behind him. With the rattle of the wheels he had not heard the carriage door open. He half turned, but was too late. The weight was there in the middle of his back, his right arm was locked in a fierce grip, his left pinned against the rail by his own body.

  He tried to step backwards onto the instep of the man, shock him with the pain of it. He felt the man wince, but there was no easing of the hold of him. He was being pushed forward, twisted a little. His arm was crushed on the rail and he gasped to get his breath. He was pushed so his head was far out over the speeding ground. The wind was cold on his face, smuts from the engine striking him, stinging. Any minute he was going to lose his balance and then it would be a second, two, and he would be over the edge and down onto the sleepers. At this speed he would be killed. The fall would probably snap his spine. The man was strong and heavy. The weight of him was driving the breath out of Pitt’s chest, and he had no leverage to fight back. It would be over in seconds.

  Then there was a slam of carriage doors, and a wild shout. The pressure on Pitt’s back was worse, driving the last bit of air out of his lungs. He heard a cry, and realised it was from himself. The weight lifted suddenly and he gasped, hanging onto the rail, scrambling to turn round, coughing violently. The man who had attacked him was struggling with someone else, who was portly, thick-waisted. He could see only shadows and outlines in the dark. The man’s hat flew off and was carried away. He was already getting the worst of the fight, backing towards the rail at the other side. In the momentary light from the door his face was contorted with anger and the beginning of terror as he knew he was losing.

  Pitt straightened up and threw himself at the attacker. He had no weapon except his fists. He struck the man low in the chest, as hard as he could, hoping to wind him. He heard him grunt and he pitched forward, but only a step. The fat man slithered sideways and down onto one knee. At least that way he would not overbalance across the rail and onto the track.

  Pitt followed his attacker, striking again, but the man must have expected it. He went down al
so and Pitt’s blow only caught the edge of his shoulder. The man twisted with it, but for no more than a moment. Then he lunged back at Pitt, his head down, catching Pitt in the stomach and sending him sprawling. The carriage door was slamming open and closed.

  The fat man scrambled to his feet and charged, his face red, shouting something indistinguishable over the howl of the wind and roar and clatter of the train. He dived at Pitt’s attacker, who stepped out of the way, and then swivelled round and raised himself. He grasped the fat man and heaved him over the rail to fall, screaming, arms flailing helplessly, out onto the track.

  For a second Pitt was frozen with horror. Then he turned and stared at the man who had attacked him. He was only an outline in the dark, but he did not need to hear him speak to recognise him.

  ‘How did you know?’ Gower asked, curiosity keen, his voice almost normal.

  Pitt was struggling to get his breath. His lungs hurt, his ribs ached where the rail had bruised him, but all he could think of was the man who had tried to rescue him, and whose broken body was now lying on the track.

  Gower took a step towards him. ‘The man you walked ten miles to see, did he tell you something?’

  ‘Only that Frobisher was a paper tiger,’ Pitt replied, his mind racing now. ‘Wrexham can’t have taken so long to work that out, so maybe he always knew it. Then I thought perhaps he was just the same. I thought I saw him cut West’s throat, but when I went over it step by step, I didn’t. It just looked like it. Actually West’s blood was already pooled on the stones. You were the one who had the chase, all the way to the ferry. I thought you were clever, but then I realised how easy it had been. It was always you who found him when we lost him, or who stopped us actually catching him. The whole pursuit was performed for my benefit, to get me away from London.’

  Gower gave a short burst of laughter. ‘The great Pitt, whom Narraway sets so much store by. Took you over a week to work that out! You’re getting slow. Or perhaps you always were. Just lucky.’

  Then suddenly he flung himself forward, arms outstretched to grasp Pitt by the throat, but Pitt was ready this time. He ducked and charged, low, with his head down. He caught Gower in the belly just above the waist, and heard him gasp. He straightened his legs, lifting Gower off the ground. His own impetus carried him on, high over the rail and into the darkness. Pitt did not even see him land, but he knew with a violent sorrow that it had to have killed him instantly. No one could survive such an impact.

  He straightened up slowly, his legs weak, his body shaking. He had to cling onto the rail to support himself.

  The carriage door slammed shut again, then opened. The guard stood there, wide-eyed, terrified, the lantern in his hand, the carriage lights yellow behind him.

  ‘Ye’re a lunatic!’ he cried, stuttering over his words.

  ‘He was trying to kill me!’ Pitt protested, taking a step forward.

  The guard jerked the lantern up as if it were some kind of shield. ‘Don’t you touch me!’ His voice was shrill with terror. ‘I got ’alf a dozen good men ’ere ’oo’ll tie yer down, so I ’ave. Ye’re a bleedin’ madman. Yer killed poor Mr Summers as well, ’oo only came out there ter’elp the other gent.’

  ‘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.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘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 striped 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 recognise you and they will tell the others,’ Charlotte 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 mantelshelf, ‘. . . 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 keep coming 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 of the door, which Mrs Hogan was holding open for her.

  Fiachra McDaid was standing in the hall next to the long 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 Drogheda, and the ruins of Mellifont, the oldest abbey in Ireland – 1142, it was, on the orders of St Malachy. Or if that is too recent for you, how about the Hill of Tara? It was the centre of Ireland under the High Kings, until the eleventh century when Christianity came and brought an end to their power.’

  ‘It sounds marvellous,’ she said with as much enthusiasm as she could manage, taking his arm and walking towards the front door. She did not look back to see if Narraway were 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 that she could not help but admire.

  When they arrived, the crowds were already beginning to gather and they w
ere obliged to take their seats if they wished to be well placed towards 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, but in the bronze and black striped blouse Charlotte 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 selfsatisfaction, 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 very discreetly gazing around 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 recognised him as Phelim O’Conor. Then he moved away and took his seat, and Talulla went to hers.

  The master of ceremonies appeared, and the babble of talk died away. The performance had begun.

  For just over an hour the audience 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.

  However, 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 in 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.