by Anne Perry
There was one little man with striped trousers and a banknote in his hat, and beside him a woman with chaotic hair. Behind him was another woman, even thinner, her limbs poking jaggedly.
Even with arms and legs merely suggested, Charlotte knew they were John and Bridget Tyrone, and that Tyrone, being a banker, was important. The other woman had such a savagery about her it immediately suggested Talulla. Beside her was a question mark.
There was no more than that, except a man of whom she could see only the top half, as if he were up to his arms in something. She stared at it until it came to her with a shiver of revulsion. It was Mulhare, drowning — because the money had not been paid.
The little drawing suggested a connection between John Tyrone and Talulla. He was a banker — Charlotte knew that already — but this indicated that that was what mattered about him. Was he the connection to London? Had he the power, through his profession, to move money around from Dublin to London and, with the help of someone in Lisson Grove, to place it back in Narraway’s account?
Then who in Lisson Grove? And why? No one could tell her that but Tyrone himself.
Was it dangerous, absurd, to go to him? She had no one else she could turn to, because she did not know who else was involved. Certainly she could not go back to McDaid. She was growing more and more certain within herself that his remarks about innocent casualties of war were statements of his philosophy, and also a warning to her. He had a purpose, like a juggernaut, which would crush those who got in its way.
Was Talulla the prime mover in Cormac’s death, or only the instrument, used by someone else? Someone like John Tyrone, so harmless-seeming, but with power in Dublin, and in London, power to serve, or even to create a traitor in Lisson Grove?
There seemed to be two choices open to her: go to Tyrone himself; or give up and go home, leaving Narraway here to answer whatever charge they brought against him, presuming he lived long enough to face a trial. Would it be a fair trial, even? Possibly not. The old wounds were raw, and Special Branch would not be on his side. So she really had no choice at all.
The maid who answered the door let her in somewhat reluctantly.
‘I need to speak with Mr Tyrone,’ Charlotte said as soon as she was let into the large, high-ceilinged hall. ‘It is to do with the murder of Mr Mulhare, and now poor Mr O’Neil. It is most urgent.’
‘I’ll ask him, ma’am,’ the maid replied. ‘Who shall I say is calling?’
‘Charlotte Pitt.’ She hesitated only an instant. ‘Victor Narraway’s sister.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ She went across the hall and knocked on a door at the far side. It opened and she spoke for a moment, then returned to Charlotte. ‘If you’ll come with me, ma’am. .’
Charlotte followed her, and the maid knocked on the same door again.
‘Come in.’ Tyrone’s voice was abrupt.
The maid opened it for Charlotte to go past her.Tyrone had obviously been working — there were papers spread across the surface of the large desk.
He stood impatiently, making no attempt to hide the fact that she had interrupted him.
‘I’m sorry,’ she apologised. ‘I know it is late and I have come without invitation, but the matter is urgent. Tomorrow may be impossible for me to rescue what is left of the situation.’
He moved his weight from one foot to the other. ‘I am very sorry for you, Mrs Pitt, but I have no idea how I can help. Perhaps I should send the maid to see where my wife is.’ It was offered more as an excuse than a suggestion. ‘She is calling on a neighbour. She cannot be far.’
‘It is you I need to see,’ she told him. ‘And it might be more suitable for your reputation if the maid were to remain, although my enquiries are confidential.’
‘Then you should call at my place of business, within the usual hours,’ he pointed out.
She gave him a brief, formal smile. ‘Confidential to you, Mr Tyrone. That is why I came here.’
‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’
It was still only a deduction from Narraway’s drawings, but it was all she had left.
She plunged in. ‘The money for Mulhare that you transferred back into my brother’s account in London, which was responsible for Mulhare’s death, and my brother’s professional ruin, Mr Tyrone.’
He might have intended to deny it, but his face gave him away. The shock drained the blood from his skin, leaving him almost grey. He drew in his breath sharply, then changed his mind and said nothing. His eyes flickered; and for an instant Charlotte wondered if he were going to call for some kind of assistance and have her thrown out. Probably no servant would attack her, but if any other of the people involved in the plan were here, it would only increase her danger. McDaid had warned her.
Or did Tyrone even imagine she had had some hand in murdering Cormac O’Neil?
Now her own voice was shaking. ‘Mr Tyrone, too many people have been hurt already, and I’m sure you know poor Cormac was killed this morning. It is time for this to end. I would find it easy to believe that you had no idea what tragedies would follow the transfer of that money. Nor do I find it hard to sympathise with your hatred of those who occupy a country that is rightfully yours. But by using personal murder and betrayal you win nothing. You only bring more tragedy on those you involve. If you doubt me, look at the evidence. All the O’Neils are dead now. Even the loyalty that used to bind them is destroyed. Kate and Cormac have both been murdered, and by the very ones they loved.’
‘Your brother killed Cormac,’ he spoke at last.
‘No, he didn’t. Cormac was already dead by the time we got there.’
He was startled. ‘We? You went with him?’
‘Just after him, but only moments after. .’
‘Then he could have killed him before you got there!’
‘No. I was on his heels. I would have heard the shot. I heard the dog begin to bark as Victor entered.’
He let out a long, slow sigh, as if at last the pieces had settled into a dark picture that, for all its ugliness, still made sense to him. His face looked bruised, as if some familiar pain had returned inside him.
‘You had better come into the study,’ he said wearily. ‘I don’t know what you can do about any of it now. The police believe Narraway shot O’Neil because they want to believe it. He’s earned a long, deep hatred here. They caught him all but in the act. They won’t look any further. You would be wise to go back to London, while you can.’ He led the way across the floor into the study and closed the door. He offered her one of the leather-seated chairs and took the other himself.
‘I don’t know what you think I can do to change anything.’ There was no lift in his voice, no hope.
‘Tell me about transferring the money,’ she answered.
‘And how will that help?’
‘Special Branch in London will know that Victor did not steal it.’ She must remember always to refer to him by his given name. One slip, calling him ‘Mr Narraway’, and she would betray both of them.
He gave a sharp bark of laughter. ‘And when he’s hanged in Dublin for murdering O’Neil, what will that matter to them? There’s a poetic justice to it, but if it’s logic you’re after, the fact that he didn’t steal the money won’t help. O’Neil had nothing to do with it, but Narraway didn’t know that.’
‘Of course he did!’ Charlotte retorted instantly. ‘How do you think I know?’
That caught him off guard; she saw it instantly in his eyes.
‘Then what is it you want me to tell you?’ he asked.
‘Who helped you? Someone in Lisson Grove gave you the account information so you could have it done. And it was nothing to do with helping you. It was to get Victor out of Special Branch. You just served their purpose.’ She had not thought what she was going to say until the words were on her lips. Did she really mean that it was Charles Austwick? It didn’t have to be; there were a dozen others who could have done it, for a dozen other reasons, even one as simple as be
ing paid to. But again that came back to Ireland, and who would pay, and for what reason — just revenge, or an enemy who wanted their own man in Narraway’s place? Or was it simply an ambitious man, or one Narraway suspected of treason or theft, and they struck before he could expose them?
She watched Tyrone, waiting for him to respond.
He was trying to judge how much she knew, but there was also something else in his eyes: a hurt that so far made no sense as part of this old vengeance.
‘Austwick?’ she guessed, before the silence allowed the moment to slip.
‘Yes,’ he said quietly.
‘Did he pay you?’ She could not keep the contempt from her voice.
His head came up sharply. ‘No he did not! I did it because I hate Narraway, and Mulhare, and all other traitors to Ireland.’
‘Victor is not a traitor to Ireland,’ she pointed out. ‘He’s as English as I am. You’re lying.’ She picked a weapon out of her imagination. ‘Did he have an affair with your wife, as well as with Kate O’Neil?’
Tyrone’s face flamed, and he half rose from his chair. ‘If you don’t want me to throw you out of my house, woman, you’ll apologise for that slur on my wife! Your mind’s in the gutter. But then I dare say you know your brother a great deal better than I do. If he is your brother, that is?’
Now Charlotte felt her own face burn. ‘I think perhaps it is your mind that is in the gutter, Mr Tyrone,’ she said with a tremor in her voice, and perhaps guilt, because she knew what Narraway felt for her.
She could think of no defence, so she attacked. ‘Why do you do this for Charles Austwick? What is he to you? An Englishman who wants to gain power and office? And in the very secret service that was formed to defeat Irish hopes of Home Rule.’ That was an exaggeration, she knew. It was formed to combat the bombings and murders intended to terrorise Britain into granting Home Rule to Ireland, but the difference seemed pedantic and hardly mattered now.
Tyrone’s voice was low and bitterly angry. ‘I don’t give a tinker’s curse who runs your wretched services, secret or open. It was my chance to get rid of Narraway. Whatever else Austwick is, he’s a fool by comparison.’
‘You know him?’ She seized the only part of what he was saying that seemed vulnerable, even momentarily.
There was a tiny sound behind her; just the brushing of a silk skirt against the doorjamb.
She turned round and saw Bridget Tyrone standing a yard from her. Suddenly Charlotte was horribly, physically afraid. She could scream her lungs out here and no one would hear her, no one would know. . or care. It took all the strength she had to stand still, and command her voice to be level — or at least something like it.
It would be absurd to pretend Bridget had not overheard the conversation.
Charlotte was trapped, and she knew it. The fury in Bridget’s face was unmistakable. Just as Bridget moved forward, Charlotte did also. She had never before struck another woman. However, when she turned as if to say something to Tyrone and saw him also moving towards her, she swung back, her arm wide. She put all her weight behind it, catching Bridget on the side of the head just as she lunged forward.
Bridget toppled sideways, catching at the small table with books on it and sending it crashing, herself on top of it. She screamed, as much in rage as pain.
Tyrone was distracted, diving to help her. Charlotte ran past, out of the door and across the hall. She flung the front door open, hurtling out into the street without once looking behind her. She kept on running, both hands holding her skirts up so she did not trip. She reached the main crossroads before she was so out of breath she could go no further.
She dropped her skirts out of shaking hands, and started to walk along the dimly lit street with as much dignity as she could muster, keeping an eye to the roadway for cab lights in the hope of getting one to take her home as soon as she could. She would prefer to be right away from the area.
When she saw an unoccupied cab, she gave the driver the Molesworth Street address before climbing in and settling back to try to arrange her thoughts.
The story was still incomplete: bits and pieces that only partially fitted together. Talulla was Sean and Kate’s daughter; when had she known the truth of what had happened, or at least something like it? Perhaps more importantly, who had told her? Had it been with the intention that she should react violently? Did whoever it was know her well enough, and deliberately work on her loneliness, her sense of injustice and displacement, so that she could be provoked into murdering Cormac, and blaming Narraway? To her it could be made to seem a just revenge for the destruction of her family. Sometimes rage is the easiest answer to unbearable pain. Charlotte had seen that too many times before, had even been brushed by it herself long ago, at the time of Sarah’s death. It is instinctive to feel there must be someone to blame for random injustice, and that someone must be made to pay.
Who could have used Talulla that way? And why? Was Cormac the intended victim? Or was he a victim of incidental damage, as Fiachra McDaid had said — one of the casualties in a war for a greater purpose — and Narraway was the real victim? It would be poetic justice if he were hanged for a murder he did not commit. Since Talulla believed Sean innocent of killing Kate, and Narraway guilty, for her that would be elegant, perfect.
But who prompted her to it, gave her the information and stoked her passions, all but guided her hand? And why? Obviously not Cormac. Not John Tyrone, because he seemed to know nothing about it, and Charlotte believed that. Bridget? Perhaps. Certainly she was involved. Her reaction to Charlotte that evening had been too immediate and too violent to spring from ignorance. In fact, looking back at it now, perhaps she had known more than Tyrone himself?
Perhaps Tyrone himself was, at least in part, another victim of incidental damage. Someone to use, because he was vulnerable, more in love with his wife than she was with him, and because he was a banker and had the means.
Charlotte could no longer evade the answer — Fiachra McDaid. Perhaps he had not anything to do with the past at all, or any of the old tragedy, except to use it. And for him winning was all, the means and the casualties nothing.
But how did getting Narraway out of Special Branch help the cause of Ireland? He would only be replaced. But perhaps that was it. Replaced with a traitor, bought and paid for. .
Charlotte was still working on this train of thought when she arrived at Mrs Hogan’s door. She had promised Mrs Hogan she would be gone in a day or two. It would be very difficult to manage her own luggage and Narraway’s as well, and there were other practical considerations to be taken in mind, such as the shortage of money to remain much longer away from home. She had still her tickets to purchase, for the boat and for the train.
When everything was weighed, she had little choice but to go to the police station in the morning and tell them, carefully, all that she believed. However, there was no proof she could show them. The one thing she could possibly verify was that she had arrived at Cormac’s house just after Narraway, and she had heard the dog begin to bark, but no gunshot.
They would ask her why she had not said so at the time. Should she admit that she did not think they would believe her? Is that what an innocent person would do?
She went to sleep uneasily, waking often with the problem still unsolved.
Narraway sat in his cell in the police station less than a mile from where Cormac O’Neil had been murdered. He maintained a motionless pose, but his mind was racing. He must think — plan. Once they moved him to the main prison he would have no chance. He might be lucky to survive long enough to come to trial. And by that time memories would be clouded, people persuaded to forget, or to see things differently. But far worse even than that, whatever was being planned and for which he had been lured to Ireland, and Pitt to France, would have happened, and be irrevocable.
He sat there and remained unmoving for over two hours. No one came to speak to him, or give him food or drink. Slowly a desperate plan took shape in his mind. He wou
ld like to wait for nightfall, but he could not take the risk that they would take him into the main prison before that. Daylight would be much more dangerous, but perhaps that too was necessary. He might have only one chance.
He listened intently for the slightest sound beyond the cell door, any movement at all. He had decided exactly what to do when at last it came. It would have to, eventually.
When they put the heavy key in the lock and swung the door open Narraway was lying on the floor, sprawled in a position that looked as if he had broken his neck. His beautiful white shirt was torn and hanging from the bars on the window above him.
‘Hey! Flaherty!’ the guard called. ‘Come, quick! The stupid bastard’s hanged himself!’ He came over to Narraway and bent to check his pulse. ‘Sweet Mother of God, I think he’s dead!’ he breathed. ‘Flaherty where the devil are you?’
Before Flaherty could come, and there would be two of them to fight, Narraway snapped his body up and caught the guard under the chin so hard his head shot back. Narraway hit him again, sideways, so as to knock him unconscious, but very definitely not kill him. In fact he intended him to be senseless for no more than fifteen or twenty minutes. He needed him alive, and able to walk.
He moved the inert body to the exact spot where he himself had been lying, all but tore the man’s jacket off him and left him in his shirt. He took his keys and barely managed to get behind the door when Flaherty arrived.
Narraway held his breath in case Flaherty had the presence of mind to come in and lock the door, or even worse, stay out and lock it. But he was too horrified by the sight of the other guard on the floor to think so rationally. He covered the few paces to the fallen man, calling his name, and Narraway took his one chance. He slipped around the door, slammed it shut and locked it. He heard Flaherty yelling almost immediately. Good. Someone would let him out within minutes. He needed them in hot pursuit.
