'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 against 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 again 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?
Why would Talulla kill him? He was her uncle. But then how often was murder a family matter? She knew from Pitt's cases in the past, very much too often. The next most likely answer would be a robbery, but any thief breaking in would have set the dog into a frenzy.
But then why would Talulla kill Cormac, and why now? Not purely to blame Narraway, surely? How could she even know that he would be there to be blamed?
The answer to that was obvious: it must have been she who had sent the letter luring Narraway to Cormac's house. She of all people would be able to imitate his hand. Narraway might recall it from twenty years ago, but not in such tiny detail that he would recognise a good forgery.
But that still left the question as to why she had chosen to do it now. Cormac was her uncle; they were the only two still alive from the tragedy of twenty years ago. Cormac had no children, and her parents were dead. Surely both of them believed Narraway responsible for that? Why Why would she kill Cormac? would she kill Cormac?
Was Narraway on the brink of finding out something that she could not afford him to know?
That made incomplete sense. If it were true, then surely the obvious thing would be to have killed Narraway?
She recalled the look on Talulla's face as she had seen Narraway standing near Cormac's body. She had been almost hysterical. She might have a great ability to act, but surely not great enough to effect the sweat on her lip and brow, the wildness in her eyes, the catch in her voice as it soared out of control? And yet never once had she looked at Cormac's body, as if she could not bear to or she already knew exactly what she would see? She had not gone to him even to assure herself that he was beyond help. That must be because she already knew it. There had been nothing in her face but hate no grief, no denial.
Charlotte was riding through the handsome streets of Dublin as if it could have been any city on earth. She was oblivious of the sights and sounds, except for a moment of sudden surprise as cold rain spattered through the open window, wetting her face and shoulder.
How much of this whole thing was Talulla responsible for? What about the issue of Mulhare and the embezzled money? She could not possibly have arranged that.
Or was someone in Lisson Grove using Irish passion and loyalties, old wounds opened up again, to further their own need to remove Narraway? If that were possible, not just a part of her fevered imagination, then who else was involved? Who could she ask? Were there any of Narraway's supposed friends actually willing to help him? Or had he wounded or betrayed them all at one time or another, so that when it came to it they would take their revenge? He was totally vulnerable now. Could it be that at last they had stopped quarrelling with each other long enough to conspire to ruin him? Did they hate him more than they loved any kind of honesty? People justified hate in all sorts of ways. It could suspend normal morality. She knew that.
Perhaps that was a superficial judgement and one she had no right to make. What would she have felt, or done, were it all the other way around: if Ireland were the foreigner, the occupier in England? If someone had used and betrayed her family, would she be so loyal to her beliefs in honesty or impartial justice? Perhaps but perhaps not. It was a question she could not answer except with hope that was meaningless without reality.
But Narraway was still innocent of killing Cormac, and, Charlotte realised as she said that to herself, she thought he was no more than partially guilty of the downfall of Kate O'Neil. The O'Neils had tried to use him, turn him to betray his country. They might well be furious that they had failed, but had they the right to exact vengeance for losing?
She needed to ask help from someone, because alone she might as well simply give up and go back to London, leaving Narraway to his fate, and eventually Pitt to his! Before she reached Molesworth Street and even attempted to explain the situation to Mrs Hogan, which she must do, she had decided to ask Fiachra McDaid for help.
'What?' McDaid said incredulously when Charlotte found him at his home and told him what had happened.
'I'm sorry.' She gulped and tried to regain her composure. She had thought herself in perfect control, and realised she was much further from it than she imagined. 'We went to see Cormac O'Neil. At least Victor said he was going alone, but I followed him, just behind-'
'You mean you found a carriage able to keep up with him in Dublin traffic?' McDaid frowned.
'No, no, I knew where he was going. I had been there the evening before myself.'
'To see O'Neil?' He looked incredulous.
'Yes. Please . . . listen.' Her voice was rising again and she made an effort to calm it. 'I arrived moments after he did. I heard the dog begin to bark as he went in, but no shot!'
'It would bark.' The frown deepened on his brow. 'It barks for anyone except Cormac, or perhaps Talulla. She lives close by and looks after it if Cormac is away, which he is from time to time.'
'Not the cleaning woman?' she said quickly.
'No. She's afraid of it.' He looked at her more closely, his face earnest. 'Why? What does it matter?'
She hesitated, still uncertain how far to trust him. It was the only evidence she had that protected Narraway. Perhaps she should keep it to herself.
'I suppose it doesn't,' she said, deliberately looking confused. Then, as coherently as she could, but missing out any further reference to the dog, she told him what had happened. As she did, she watched his face, trying to read the emotions in it, the belief or disbelief, the confusion or understanding, the loss or the triumph.
He listened without interrupting her. 'They think Narraway shot Cormac? Why, for God's sake?'
'In revenge for Cormac having ruined him in London,' she answered. 'That's what Talulla said. It makes a kind of sense.'
'Do you think that's what happened?' he asked.
She nearly said that she knew it was not, then realised her mistake just in time. 'No,' she spoke guardedly now. 'I was just behind him, and I didn't hear a shot. But I don't think he would do that anyway. It doesn't make sense.'
He shook his head. 'Yes it does. Victor loved that job of his. In a way it was all he had.' He looked in conflict, emotions twisting his features. 'I'm sorry. I don't mean to imply that you are not important to him, but I think from what he said that you do not see each other so often.'
Now she was angry. She felt the anger well up inside her, knotting her stomach, making her hands shake, her voice thick as if she were a little drunk. 'No. We don't. But you've known Victor for years. Was he ever a fool?'
'No, never. Many things, good and bad, but never a fool,' he admitted.
'Did he ever act against his own interest, hot-headedly, all feelings and no thought?' She could not imagine it, not the man she knew. Had he once had that kind of runaway passion? Was this supreme control a mask? She found the thought oddly alien, destroying some part of him she would not have wished different.
McDaid laughed abruptly, without joy. 'No. He never forgot his cause. Hell or heaven could dance naked past him and he would not be diverted. Why?'
'Because if he really thought Cormac O'Neil was responsible for ruining him in London, for setting up what looked like embezzlement and seeing that he was blamed, the last thing he would want was Cormac dead,' she answered. 'Then he couldn't tell who helped him, how it was done or where to find the proof of it. It would be-'
'I see,' he interrupted. 'I see.You're right. Victor would never put revenge ahead of getting his job back. Vindicating himself would be the best revenge anyway.'
'So someone else killed Cormac and made it look like Victor,' Charlotte concluded. 'That would be their revenge, wouldn't it.' It was a statement, not a question.
'Yes,' he agreed, his eyes bright, his hands loosely beside him.
'Will you help me find out who?' she asked.
He gestured to one of the big leather chairs in his gracious but very masculine sitting room. She imagined wealthy gentlemen's clubs must be like this inside: worn and comfortable upholstery, lots of wood panelling, brass ornaments except these were silver, and uniquely Celtic.