by Anne Perry
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, trying to read in his eyes, his gestures, if he knew that that was only half true.
Austwick spoke slowly, as if he also were 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-coloured cravat?
Pitt repeated exactly what he believed had happened at the time he had first notified Narraway that he had to remain in France. He had never submitted more than a superficial report, not trusting detail to the post, and certainly not to anything as public as a telegram, even one in carefully coded language. He said nothing about the facts involving Gower that he now knew.
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 desk top. ‘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 here 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 recognised 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 that 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 Pitt come to his 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; and 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 realised 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 whisky.
‘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 his protege and closest ally?
The butler brought the sandwiches, which were excellent. Pitt took an unaccustomed glass of whisky 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 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 afterwards did we learn what the price had been.’
Pitt did not need to pretend his ignorance, nor 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. He tried to imagine the grief and the guilt of it, whoever was involved, whatever had happened. Was Narraway really as ruthless as that implied? He pictured Narraway’s face in all the circumstances they had known each other, through success and failure, exhaustion, fear, disappointment, the final conclusion of dozens of battles, won or lost. Reading him defied reason: it was instinct, the trust that had grown up over time in all sorts of ways. It took Pitt 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. He either has many enemies there, and is in grave danger, or he has made new allies and, by exposing Mulhare as a traitor, has turned to them and intends to work agai
nst us there.’
Pitt felt as if he had been sandbagged. He struggled to keep any sense of proportion, even of reality. He stared at Croxdale, seeing his face waver and the room seem to swim in and out of his focus.
‘I’m sorry,’ Croxdale said gravely. ‘It has already come as a terrible shock to you. 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 duplicitous 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 ask Croxdale without admitting that he knew this? He would not draw Vespasia into it. She was one element he had in his favour, perhaps the only one.
Croxdale spoke very quietly now, as if he feared some waiting servant might hear him.
‘Pitt, this is very grave indeed. I’m glad you see the depth of it so immediately. We have to regroup our forces to meet this appalling situation. 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 and 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 judgement 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 not the experience of decision-making, the mastery of the political stakes, or the nerve and self-belief to stake his own judgement above that of others and act, swiftly, secretly and with devastating power, as Narraway had had. Only in this moment, looking at Croxdale, did he grasp some of the magnitude of Narraway’s job.
‘Neither have I the skills,’ he said aloud. ‘And I haven’t been in the service long enough for the other men to have confidence in me. I will support Austwick to the best of my ability, 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 judgement 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-’
‘Not in your case,’ Croxdale contradicted him. ‘You were Narraway’s recruit. But I have made it my business to learn far more about you since then. Your country needs you now, Pitt. Narraway has effectively betrayed our trust.You were Narraway’s second-in-command.This is your duty, as well as your privilege to serve.’ He held out his hand.
Pitt was overwhelmed, not with pleasure or any sense of honour, but with mourning for Narraway, fear for Charlotte, and the knowledge that this weight of command, of power for good and ill, he did not want. It was not in his nature to act with certainty when the balance of judgement was so unclear, and the stakes were the lives of other men.
‘We look to you, Pitt,’ Croxdale said again. ‘Don’t fail your country, man!’
‘No, sir,’ Pitt said unhappily. ‘I will do everything I can, sir. .’
‘Good.’ Croxdale smiled. ‘I knew you would. That is one thing Narraway was right about. I will inform the necessary people, including the Prime Minister, of course. Thank you, Pitt. We are grateful to you.’
Pitt accepted: he had little choice. Croxdale began to outline to him exactly what his task would be, his powers, and the rewards.
It was midnight when Pitt walked outside into the lamplit night and found Croxdale’s own carriage waiting to take him home.
Chapter Nine
Charlotte walked away from Cormac O’Neil’s home with as much composure as she could muster, but she had the sinking fear inside her that she looked as afraid and bewildered as she felt, and as helplessly angry. Whatever else Narraway might have been guilty of — and it could have been a great deal — she was certain that he had not killed Cormac O’Neil. She had arrived at the house almost on his heels. She had heard the dog begin to bark as Narraway went into the house, and continue more and more hysterically, knowing there was an intruder, and perhaps already aware of O’Neil’s death.
Had Cormac cried out? Had he even seen his killer, or had he been shot in the back? She had not heard a gun fire. That was it, of course! She had heard the dog bark, but no gunshot. The dog had barked at Narraway, but not at whoever had fired the shot.
She stopped in the street, standing rooted to the spot as the realisation shook her with its meaning. Narraway could not possibly have shot Cormac. Her certainty was not built on her belief in him but on evidence: facts that were not capable of any other reasonable interpretation. She turned on her heel and stepped out urgently, striding across the street back towards O’Neil’s house, then stopped again just as suddenly. Why should they believe her? She knew that what she said was true, but would anyone else substantiate it?
Of course not! Talulla would contradict it because she hated Narraway. With hindsight, that had been perfectly clear, and predictable. She would be only too delighted if he were hanged for Cormac’s murder. To her it would be justice — the sweeter now after the long delay. She must know he was not guilty because she had been close enough to have heard the dog start to bark herself, but she would be the last person to say so.
Narraway would know that. She remembered his face as he allowed the police to handcuff him. He had looked at Charlotte only once, concentrating everything he had to say in that one glance. He needed her to understand.
He also needed her to keep a very calm mind and to think: to work it out detail by detail and not act before she was certain — not only of the truth, but that she could prove it so it could not be ignored. It is very difficult indeed to make people believe what is against all their emotions: the conviction of friend and enemy years deep, paid for in blood and loss.
She was still standing on the pavement. Just over a hundred yards away, a small crowd had gathered because of the violence and the presence of the police. They were staring, wondering what was the matter with her.
She swallowed, straightened her skirt, then turned yet again and walked back towards where she judged to be the best place to find a carriage to take her to Molesworth Street. There were many practical considerations to weigh very carefully. She was completely alone now. There was no one at all she could trust. She must consider whether to remain at Mrs Hogan’s or if it would be safer to move to somewhere else where she would be less exposed. Everyone knew her as Narraway’s half-sister.
But where else could she go? How long would it take anyone to find her a
gain in a town the size of Dublin? She was a stranger, an Englishwoman, on her own. She knew no one except those Narraway had introduced her to. A couple of hours’ enquiring would find her again, and she would merely look ridiculous, and evasive, as if she had something of which to be ashamed.
She was walking briskly along the pavement, trying to appear to know precisely where she was going and to what purpose, although only the former was true. There was a carriage ahead of her setting down a fare, and she could hire him if she were quick enough. She reached him just as he moved his horse forward and began to turn.
‘Sir!’ she called out. ‘Will you be good enough to take me back to Molesworth Street?’
‘Sure, an’ I’ll be happy to,’ he responded, completing his turn and pulling the horse up.
She thanked him and climbed up into the carriage, sitting down with considerable relief, and feeling intensely grateful as the wheels rumbled over the cobbles and they picked up speed. She did not turn to look behind her; she could picture the scene just as clearly as if she could see it. Narraway should still be in the house, manacled like some dangerous criminal. He must feel desperately alone. Was he frightened? Certainly he would never show it.
Charlotte told herself abruptly to stop being so useless and self-indulgent. Pitt was somewhere in France with nobody else to rely on, believing Narraway was still at Lisson Grove. Not ever in his nightmares would he suppose Narraway could be in Ireland under arrest for murder, and Lisson Grove — or at least part of it — in the hands of traitors. Whatever she felt was irrelevant. The only task ahead of her was to rescue Narraway, and to do that she must find the truth and prove it.
Talulla Lawless knew who had killed Cormac because it had to be someone the dog would not bark at: therefore someone who had a right to be in Cormac’s home. The clearest answer was Talulla herself. Cormac lived alone; he had said so the previous evening when Charlotte had asked him. No doubt a local woman would come in every so often and clean for him, and do the laundry. Even assuming she had been here today, however, why on earth would she kill him? Where would she even get a gun?
