'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 being 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 would 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.
He was very careful indeed going out of the police station, twice standing motionless on corners while people moved past him, following the shouting and the hurried footsteps.
Outside in the street, quite deliberately, he ran. He wanted to be remembered. Someone had to tell them which way he had gone, if they didn't work it out for themselves, and they could only do that if they knew enough of the facts.
On the chance that they did know, he could afford no delay, no hesitation.
It was wet. The rain came down in a steady drizzle. The gutters were awash and very quickly he was soaked, his hair sticking to his brow, his bare neck cold without his shirt. People looked at him but no one stood in his way. Perhaps they thought he was drunk.
He had to go around Cormac's house, in case there were still police there. He could not be stopped now. He slowed to a walk and crossed the road away from it, then back again, without seeing anyone, and in at the gate of Talulla's house and up to the front door. If she did not answer he would have to break a window and force his way in. His whole plan rested on confronting her when the police caught up with him.
He knocked loudly.
There was no answer. What if she were not here, but with friends? Could she be, so soon after killing Cormac? Surely she would need to be alone? And she had to take care of the dog. Wouldn't she be waiting until the police left so she could take whatever she wanted, or needed to protect, of the records of her parents that he had kept?
He banged again.
Again silence.
Was she there already? He had seen no police outside. She might be upstairs here in her own house, lying down, emotionally exhausted from murder and the ultimate revenge.
He took off his jacket and, standing in the rain, bare-chested, he wrapped the jacket around his fist and with as little noise as possible, he broke a side window and unlocked it and climbed inside. He put his jacket on again and walked softly across the floor to look for her.
He searched from top to bottom. There was no one here. He had not expected a maid. Talulla would have given her the day off so she could not witness anything to do with Cormac's murder, not hear any shots, any barking dog.
He let himself out of the back door and ran swiftly to Cormac's house. Time was getting short. The police could not be far behind him. Hurry! Hurry!
He wasted no time knocking on the door. She would almost certainly not answer. And he had no time to wait.
He took off his jacket again, shivering with cold now, and perhaps also with fear. He smashed another window, and within seconds was inside. At once the dog started barking furiously.
He looked around him. He was in some kind of pantry. He must get as far as the kitchen before she found him. If she let the dog attack him he had to be ready. And why would she not? He had broken into the house. He was already accused of Cormac's murder. She would have every possible justification.
He opened the door quickly and found himself in the scullery, the kitchen beyond. He darted forward and grabbed at a small, hard-backed wooden chair just as Talulla opened the door from the further side and the dog leaped forward, still barking hysterically.
She stopped, stunned to see him.
He lifted the chair, its thin, sharp legs pointed towards the dog.
'I don't want to hurt the animal,' he said, having to raise his voice to be heard above it. 'Call her off.'
'So you can kill me too?' she shouted back at him.
'Don't be so damn stupid!' He heard the rage trembling in his own voice, abrasive, almost out of control. 'You killed him yourself, to get your revenge at last.'
She smiled, a hard, glittering expression, vibrant with hate. 'Well, I have done, haven't I? They'll hang you, Victor Narraway. And the ghost of my father will laugh. I'll be there to watch you that I swear.' She turned to the dog. 'Quiet, girl,' she ordered. 'Don't attack him. I want him alive to suffer trial and disgrace. Ripping his throat out would be too quick, too easy.' She looked back at Narraway.
But the dog was distracted by something else now. It swung its head round and stared towards the front door, hackles raised, a low growl in its throat.
'Too easy?' Narraway heard his voice rising, the desperation in it palpable. She must hear it too.
She did, and her smile widened. 'I want to see you hang, see your terror when they put the noose around your neck, see you struggle for breath, gasping, your tongue purple, filling your mouth and poking out. You won't charm the women then, will you? Do you soil yourself when you hang? Do you lose all control, all dignity?' She was screeching now, her face twisted with the pain of her own imagination.
'Actually, the function of the noose and the drop of the trapdoor is to break your neck,' he replied. 'You are supposed to die instantly. Does that take the pleasure away for you?'
She stared at him, breathing heavily. The dog now was fully concentrated on the front door, the growl low in its throat, lips curled back off the teeth.
If she realised there was someone at the front please God in heaven, the police then she would stop, perhaps even claim he had attacked her. But this was the moment of her private triumph, when she could tell him exactly how she had brought about his ruin.
He made a sudden movement towards her.
The dog swung round, barking again.
Narraway raised the chair, legs towards it, just in case it leaped.
'Frightened, Victor?' she said with relish.
'Why now?' he asked, trying to keep his voice level. He nearly succeeded, but she must have seen the sheen of sweat on his face. 'It was McDaid, wasn't it? He told you something? What? Why does he want all this? He used to be my friend.'
'You're pathetic!' she said, all but choking over her words. 'He hates you as much as we all do!'
'What did he tell you?' he persisted.
'How you seduced my whore of a mother and then betrayed her. You killed her, and let my father hang for it!' She was sobbing now.
'Then why kill poor Cormac?' he asked. 'Was he expendable, simply to create a murder for which you could blame me? It had to be you who killed him, you're the only one the dog wouldn't bark at, because you feed her when Cormac's away. She's used to you in the house. She'd have raised the roof if it had been me.'
'Very clever,' she agreed. 'But by the time you come to trial, no one else will know that. And no one will believe your sister, if that's who she is, because they'll all know she would speak for you.'
'Did you kill Cormac just to get me?' he asked again.
'No! I killed him because he didn't raise a hand to try to save my father! He did nothing! Absolutely nothing!'
'You were only five or six years old,' he pointed out.
'McDaid told me!' she sobbed.
'Ah yes, McDaid the Irish hero who wants to turn all Europe upside down in a revolution to change the social order, sweep away the old and bring in the new. And do you imagine that will bring Ireland freedom? To him you are expendable, Talulla, just as I am, or your parents, or anyone else.'
It was at that point that she let go of the dog's collar and shrieked at it to attack, just as the police threw open the door to the hall and Narraway raised the chair as the dog leaped and sent him flying, to land hard on his back, all but winding him.
One of the policemen grabbed the animal by its collar, half choking it. The other seized hold of Talulla.
Narraway climbed to his feet, coughing and gasping to get his breath.
'Thank you,' he said hoarsely. 'I hope you have been there rather longer than it would appear.'
'Long enough,' the elder of the two responded. 'But there'll still be one or two charges for you to answer, like assaulting a policeman while in custody, and escaping custody. If I were you, I'd run like hell, and never come back to Ireland, Mr Narraway.'
'Very good advice.' Narraway stood to attention, gave the man a smart salute, then turned and ran, exactly as he had been told.
In the morning there was no alternative for Charlotte but to have a hasty breakfast, then, with Mrs Hogan's assistance, send for a carriage to take herself and all the baggage as far as the police station where Narraway was held.
It was a miserable ride. She had come up with no better solution than simply to tell the police that she had further information on the death of Cormac O'Neil, and hope that she could persuade someone with judgement and influence to listen to her.
As she drew closer and closer the idea seemed to grow even more hopeless.
The carriage was about a hundred yards away from the police station. She was dreading being put out on the footpath with more luggage than she could possibly carry, and a story she was already convinced no one would believe. Then abruptly the carriage pulled up short and the driver leaned down to speak to someone Charlotte could only partially see.
'We are not there yet!' she said desperately. 'Please go further. I cannot possibly carry these cases so far. In fact, I can't carry them at all.'
'Sorry, miss,' the driver said sadly, as if he felt a real pity for her. 'That was the police. Seems there's been an escape of a very dangerous prisoner in the night. They just discovered it, an' the whole street's blocked off.'
'A prisoner?'
'Yes, miss. A terrible dangerous man, they say. Murdered a man yesterday, near shot his head off, an' now he's gone like magic. Just disappeared. Went to see him this morning, and his cell is empty. They're not allowing any carriages through.'