'Thought he would.'
Gower did not turn either, and barely moved his lips. He could have been drifting into sleep, his weight relaxed against the warm stone. 'There's been some movement while you were gone. One man left, dark hair, very French clothes. Two went in.' His voice became a little higher, more tightly pitched. 'I recognised one of them Pieter Linsky. I'm quite sure. He has a very distinctive face, and a limp from having been shot escaping from an incident in Lille. I think the man with him was Jacob Meister, but that's only a guess.'
Pitt stiffened. He knew the names. Both men were active in socialist movements in Europe, travelling from one country to another fomenting as much trouble as they could, organising demonstrations, strikes, even riots in the cause of various reforms. But underneath all the demands was the underlying wish to overthrow the Establishment, the backbone that dominated society. Linsky in particular was unashamedly a revolutionary.
The remarkable thing was that their ideological differences were so intense it was extraordinary to see them together. The whole socialist movement was as passionate and idealistic as a new religion. There were the founders, who were viewed almost like apostles of the creed; dissenters were heretics. There were divisions and subdivisions, and the rivalries had all the fervour of evangelism. They even used these religious terms to speak of them.
Pitt let out his breath in a sigh. 'I suppose you're sure about Meister as well?'
Gower was motionless, still smiling in the sun, his chest barely rising and falling as he breathed. 'Yes, sir, absolutely. I'll bet that has something to do with what West was going to tell us. Those two together has to mean something pretty big.'
Pitt did not argue. The more he thought of it the more certain he was that it was indeed the storm Narraway had seen coming, and which was about to break over Europe if they did not prevent it.
'We'll watch them,' Pitt said quietly, also trying to appear as if he were relaxed in the sun, enjoying a brief holiday. 'See who else they contact.'
Gower smiled. 'We'll have to be careful. What do you think they're planning?'
Pitt considered in silence, his eyes almost closed as he stared down at the painted wooden door of number seven. All kinds of ideas teemed through his head. A single assassination seemed less likely than a general strike, or even a series of bombings; otherwise a group would not need to gather. In the past, assassinations had been accomplished by a lone gunman, willing to sacrifice his own life. But now . . . who was vulnerable? Whose death would really change anything permanently?
'Strikes?' Gower suggested, interrupting his thought. 'Europe-wide it could bring an industry to its knees.'
'Possibly,' Pitt agreed. His mind went to the big industrial and shipbuilding cities of the north. Or the coalminers of Durham, Yorkshire and Wales. There had been strikes before; they were always broken, and the men and their families suffered.
'Demonstrations?' Gower went on. 'Thousands of people all out at once, in the right places, could block transport, or stop some major event, like the Derby?'
Pitt imagined it: the anger, the frustration of the horseracing and fashionable crowd at such an impertinence. He found himself smiling, but it was with a sour amusement. He had never been part of the society that watched the 'sport of kings', but he had met many of them during his police career. He knew their passion, their weaknesses, their blindness to others, and at times their extraordinary courage. Forcible interruption of one of the great events of the year was not the way to persuade them of anything. Surely any serious revolutionary had long ago learned that.
But what was?
Gower moved, drawing his attention to the fact that he had not replied.
'Meister's style, maybe,' he said aloud. 'But not Linsky's. Something far more violent. And more effective.'
Gower shivered very slightly. 'I wish you hadn't said that. It rather takes the edge off the idea of a week or two in the sun, eating French food and watching the ladies going about their shopping. Have you seen the young girl from number sixteen, with the red hair?'
'To tell you the truth, it wasn't her hair I noticed,' Pitt admitted, grinning broadly.
Gower laughed outright. 'Nor I,' he said. 'I rather like that apricot jam, don't you? And the coffee! Thought I'd miss a decent cup of tea, but I haven't yet.' He was silent again for a few minutes, then he turned his head. 'What do you really think they have planned in England, sir beyond a show of power? What do they want in the long run?'
The 'sir' reminded Pitt of his seniority, and therefore responsibility. It gave him a sharp jolt. There were scores of possibilities, a few of them serious. There had been a considerable rise in political power of left-wing movements in Britain recently. They were very tame compared with the violence of their European counterparts, but that did not mean they would remain that way. James Keir Hardie had stood for Parliament in Scotland, and lost, but three years ago he had stood for a working-class district just outside London, and become the Independent Labour Party's first elected member. Pitt had never met him, but Charlotte's brother-in-law was a member of Parliament, and he had said Keir Hardie was a remarkably decent man, just possessed of a few political notions Jack did not agree with.
Gower was still staring at Pitt, waiting, his face puzzled and keen.
'I think a concerted effort to bring about change would be more likely,' Pitt said slowly, weighing the words as he spoke.
'Change?' Gower said quizzically. 'Is that a euphemism for overthrowing the government?'
'Yes, perhaps it is,' Pitt agreed, realising how afraid he was as he said it. 'An end to hereditary privilege, and the power that goes with it.'
'Dynamiters?' Gower's voice was a whisper, the amusement completely vanished. 'Another blowing up, like the Gunpowder Plot of the early 1600s?'
'I can't see that working,' Pitt replied. 'It would rally everyone against them.We don't like to be pushed. They'll need to be a lot cleverer than that.'
Gower swallowed hard. 'What, then?' he said quietly.
'Something to destroy that power permanently. A change so fundamental it can't be undone.' As he said the words they frightened him. Something violent and alien waited ahead of them. Perhaps they were the only ones who could prevent it.
Gower let out his breath in a sigh. He looked pale. Pitt watched his face, obliquely, as if he were still more absorbed in enjoying the sun, thinking of swivelling round to watch the sailing boats in the harbour again. They would have to rely on each other totally. It was going to be a long, tedious job. They dare not miss anything. The slightest clue could matter. They would be cold at night, possibly hungry or uncomfortable. Always tired. Above all, they must not look suspicious. He was glad he liked Gower's humour, his lightness of touch.There were many men in Special Branch he would have found it much harder to be with.
'That's Linsky now, coming out of the door!' Gower stiffened, and then deliberately forced his body to relax, as if this sharp-nosed man with the sloping forehead and stringy hair were of no more interest than the baker, the postman, or another tourist.
Pitt straightened up, put his hands in his pockets quite casually, going down the steps to the square after him.
Chapter Two.
In the early evening of the day that Pitt and Gower had followed Wrexham to Southampton, Victor Narraway was sitting in his office at Lisson Grove. There was a knock on his door, and, as soon as he answered, one of his more junior men came in.
'Yes?' Narraway said with a touch of impatience. He was waiting for Pitt to report on the information from West, and he was late. Narraway had no wish to speak to Stoker now.
Stoker closed the door behind him and came to stand in front of Narraway's desk. His lean face, with its high-bridged nose, was unusually serious. 'Sir, there was a murder in a brickyard off Cable Road in Shadwell in the middle of the day-'
'Are you sure I care about this, Stoker?' Narraway interrupted.
'Yes, sir,' Stoker said without hesitation. 'The victim had his throat cut, and the man who did it was caught almost in the act, knife still in his hand. He was chased by two men who seem to have followed him to Limehouse, according to the investigation by the local police. Then-'
Narraway interrupted him again impatiently. 'Stoker, I'm waiting for information about a major attack of some sort by socialist revolutionaries, possibly another spate of dynamitings.' Then suddenly he was chilled to the bone. 'Stoker . . .'
'West, sir,' Stoker said immediately. 'The man with his throat cut was West. It looks as if Pitt and Gower went after the man who did it, at least as far as Limehouse, probably across the river to the railway station. From there they could have gone anywhere in the country. There's been no word. No telephone call.'
Narraway felt the sweat break out on his body. It was almost a relief to hear something. But where the hell was Pitt now? Why had he not at least placed a telephone call? The train could have gone anywhere. Even on an all-night train to Scotland he could have got off at one of the stations on the way and called.
Then another thought occurred to him: Dover or any of the other seaports. Folkestone, Southampton. If he were on a ship, then calls would be impossible. That would explain the silence.
'I see. Thank you,' he said aloud.
'Sir.'
'Say nothing to anyone, for the time being.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Thank you. That's all.'
After Stoker had gone Narraway sat still for several minutes. To have lost West, with whatever information he had, was serious. There had been increased activity lately, known troublemakers coming and going more often than usual, a charge of expectancy in the air. He knew all the signs, he just did not know what the target was this time. There were so many possibilities: specific assassination, such as a government minister, an industrialist; a foreign dignitary on British soil that would be a serious embarrassment or the dynamiting of a major landmark. He had relied on Pitt to find out. Perhaps he still might, but without West it would be more difficult.
And of course it was not the only issue at hand. There were always whispers, threats. The air breathed suspicion and betrayal all the time. It was the purpose of Special Branch to detect it before it happened, and prevent at least the worst of it.
But if Pitt had gone to some distant part of the country after the murderer of West, or worse still, across the Channel, and had had no time to tell Narraway, then certainly he would not have had time to tell his wife either. Charlotte would be at home in Keppel Street waiting for him, expecting him, and growing more and more afraid with each passing hour as the silence closed in on her.
Narraway glanced at the long-case clock standing against the wall of his office. Its ornate hands pointed at quarter to seven. On a usual day Pitt would have gone home already, but she might not begin to be anxious for another hour or two.
He thought of her in the kitchen, preparing the evening meal, probably alone. Her children would be occupied with studies for the following day's school. He could picture her easily; in fact the picture was already there in his mind, unbidden. Beauty was very much a personal thing, a matter of taste, the ability to see beyond the obvious into some element of the passions or dreams where the essence of a person was hidden.
Some would not have found Charlotte beautiful. They might have preferred a face more traditional, daintier, less challenging. Narraway found such faces boring. There was a warmth in Charlotte, a laughter he could never quite forget and he had tried. She was quick to anger at times, far too quick to react. Many of her judgements were flawed, in his opinion, but never her courage, never her will.
Someone must tell her that Pitt had gone in hot pursuit of West's murderer no, better leave out the fact that West had been murdered. Pitt had gone in hot pursuit of a man with vital information, possibly across the Channel, and been unable to telephone her to let her know. He could call Stoker back and send him, but she did not know him. She did not know anyone else at Lisson Grove headquarters. It would be the courteous thing to tell her himself. It would not be far out of his way. Well, yes it would, but it would still be the better thing to do.
Pitt, for all his initial ignorance of Special Branch ways, and his occasional political naivety, was one of the best men Narraway had ever known. There was an honesty in him that was exasperating at times, reflecting his origins as a gamekeeper's son. He had been educated in the household of the manor, side by side with the master's son, but never his social equal. It had produced a man by nature a gentleman, and yet with an anger and a compassion Narraway admired. He found himself puzzlingly protective of Pitt against the envy of those who had preceded him in Special Branch, but whom he had overtaken in skill.
Narroway tidied his desk, locked away anything that might be confidential, left his office, and caught a hansom within minutes. He gave the driver Pitt's address in Keppel Street.
Narraway saw the fear in Charlotte's eyes as soon as she opened the door to him. He would never have called merely socially, and she knew that. The strength of her emotion gave him a startling twinge of envy. It was a long time since there had been anyone who would have felt that terror for him.
'I'm sorry to disturb you,' he said with rather stiff formality. 'Events did not go according to plan today, and Pitt and his assistant were obliged to pursue a suspected conspirator without the opportunity to inform anyone of what was happening.'
The anxiety eased out of her eyes. Warmth coming back, flushing the soft honey colour of her skin. 'Where is he?' she asked.
He decided to sound more certain than he was. West's murderer might have fled even as far as Scotland, but France was far more likely. 'France,' he replied. 'Of course he could not telephone from the ferry, and he would not have dared leave in case the man got off as well, and he lost him. I'm sorry.'
She smiled. 'It was very thoughtful of you to have come to tell me. I admit, I was beginning to be concerned.'
The April evening was cold, a sharp wind carrying the smell of rain. Narraway was standing on the doorstep, staring at the light beyond, feeling the warmth. He stepped back deliberately, his thoughts, the temptation, the quickening of his heart frightening him.
'There is no need,' he said hastily. 'Gower is with him; an excellent man, intelligent and quite fluent in French. And I dare say it will be warmer there than it is here.' He smiled. 'And the food is excellent.' She had been preparing dinner. That was clumsy. Thank goodness he was far enough into the darkness that she could not see the blush rise up his face. It would be absurd to try to repair his clumsiness. It would be better to ignore it. 'I will let you know as soon as I hear from him. If this man they are following goes to Paris, it may not be easy for them to be in contact, but please don't fear for him.'
'Thank you. I won't now.'
He knew that was a polite lie. Of course she would fear for Pitt, and miss him. Loving always included the possibility of loss. But the emptiness of not loving was even greater.
He nodded very slightly, just an inclination of his head, then wished her good night. He walked away, feeling as if he were leaving the light behind him.
It was the middle of the following morning when Narraway received the telegram from Pitt in St Malo. He immediately forwarded him sufficient money to last both himself and Gower for at least two weeks. He thought about it as soon as it had been sent, and knew he had been overgenerous. Perhaps that was an indication of the relief he felt to know Pitt was safe. He realised with surprise the effort it had cost him not to allow the fear into his mind. He would have to go back to Keppel Street to tell Charlotte that Pitt had been in touch.
He had returned to his desk after lunch when Charles Austwick came in and closed the door behind him. He was officially Narraway's next-in-command, although in practical terms it had come to be Pitt. Austwick was in his late forties with fair hair, which was receding a little, and a good-looking but curiously unremarkable face. He was intelligent and efficient, and he seemed to be always in control of whatever feelings he might have. Now he looked very directly at Narraway, deliberately so, as if he were uncomfortable and attempting not to show it.
'An ugly situation has arisen, sir,' he said, sitting down before he was invited to. 'I'm sorry, but I have no choice but to address it.'
'Then do so!' Narraway said a little hastily. 'Don't creep around it like a maiden aunt at a wedding. What is it?'
Austwick's face tightened, his lips making a thin line.
'This has to do with informers,' Austwick said coldly. 'Do you remember Mulhare?'
Narraway saw from the gleam of oblique satisfaction in Austwick's pale eyes that it was something to do with Narraway himself, and in which he was vulnerable. He recognised the name with a rush of sadness. Mulhare had been an Irishman who risked his life to do what he thought was the right thing in giving information to the English. It was dangerous enough that he would have to leave Ireland, taking his family with him. Narraway had made sure there were funds provided for him.
'Of course I do,' he said quietly. 'Have they found who killed him? Not that it'll do much good now.' He knew his voice sounded bitter. He had liked Mulhare, and had promised him that he'd be safe.
'That is something of a difficult question,' Austwick replied. 'He never got the money, so he couldn't leave Ireland.'
'Yes, he did,' Narraway contradicted him. 'I dealt with it myself.'
'That's rather the point,' Austwick said. He moved position slightly, scuffing the chair leg on the carpet.
Narraway resented being reminded of his failure. 'If you don't know who killed him, why are you spending time on that now, instead of current things?' he asked abruptly. 'If you have nothing to do, I can certainly find you something. Pitt and Gower are away for a while. Somebody'll have to pick up Pitt's case on the docks.'
'Oh, really?' Austwick barely masked his surprise. 'I didn't know. No one mentioned it!'
Narraway gave him a chill look and ignored the implied rebuke.
Austwick drew in his breath. 'As I said,' he resumed, 'this is something that I regret we have to deal with. Mulhare was betrayed-'
'We know that, for God's sake!' Narraway could hear his own voice thick with emotion. 'His corpse was fished out of Dublin Bay.'
'He never got the money,' Austwick said again.
Narraway clenched his hands under the desk, out of Austwick's sight. 'I paid it myself.' He had done, but indirectly, for good reasons, which he would not tell Austwick.
'But Mulhare never received it,' Austwick replied, his voice conflicted with a mixture of emotions. 'We traced it.'
Narraway was startled. 'To whom? Where is it?'
'It is in one of your bank accounts here in London,' Austwick answered.
Narraway froze. Suddenly, with appalling clarity, he knew what Austwick was doing here, and held at least a hazy idea of what had happened. Austwick suspected, or even believed, that Narraway had taken the money and intentionally left Mulhare to be caught and killed. Was that how little he knew him? Or was it more a measure of his long-simmering resentment, his ambition to take Narraway's place and wield the razor-edged power that he now held?
'Went in and out again,' he said aloud to Austwick. 'We had to move it around a little, or it would have been too easily traceable to Special Branch.'
'Oh, yes,' Austwick agreed bleakly. 'Around to several places. But the trouble is that in the end it went back again.'
'Back again? It went to Mulhare,' Narraway corrected him.
'No, sir, it did not go to Mulhare. It went back into one of your special accounts. One that we had believed closed,' Austwick said. 'It is there now. If Mulhare had received it, he would have left Dublin and he would still be alive. The money went around to several places, making it almost untraceable, as you say, but it ended up right back where it started, with you.'
Narraway drew in his breath to deny it, and saw in Austwick's face that it would be pointless. Whoever had put it there, Austwick believed it was Narraway himself, or he chose to pretend he believed it.
'I did not put it there,' Narraway said, though he thought it would not change anything. The betrayal of Mulhare was repugnant to him, and 'betrayal' was not a word he used easily. 'I paid it to Terence Kelly. He was supposed to have paid it to Mulhare. That was his job. For obvious reasons, I could not give it directly to Mulhare, or I might as well have painted a bull's-eye on his heart.'
'Can you prove that, sir?' Austwick asked politely.
'Of course I can't!' Narraway snapped. Was Austwick being deliberately obtuse? He knew as well as Narraway himself that one did not leave trails to prove such things. What he would be able to prove now, to justify himself, anyone else could have used to damn Mulhare.