Charlotte stared at him as if she could barely understand his words, but her mind was racing. Escape. Murdered a man yesterday. It had to be Narraway, didn't it? He must have known even more certainly than she did just how much people hated him, how easy it would be for them to see all the evidence the way they wished to. Who would believe him an Englishman with his past rather than Talulla Lawless, who was Sean O'Neil's daughter perhaps even more importantly, Kate's daughter? Who would want to believe she had shot Cormac?
The driver was still staring at Charlotte, waiting for her decision.
'Thank you . . .' she fumbled for words. She did not want to leave Narraway alone and hunted in Ireland, but there was no way in which she could help him. She had no idea in which direction he would go, north or south, inland, or even across the country to the west. She did not know if he had friends, old allies, anyone to turn to.
Then another thought came to her with a new coldness. When they arrested him, they would have taken his belongings, his money. He would be penniless. How would he survive, let alone travel? She must help him. Except that she had very little money herself.
Please heaven he did not trust any of the people he knew in Dublin! Every one of them would betray him; they couldn't afford not to. They were tied to each other by blood and memory, old grief too deep to forget.
'Miss?' the driver interrupted her thoughts.
Charlotte was marked as Narraway's sister. She would be a liability to him. There was nothing she could do to help here. Her only hope was to go back to London and somehow find Pitt, or at the very least, ask for Aunt Vespasia's help.
'Please take me to the dock,' she said as steadily as she could. 'I think it would be better if I were to catch the next steamer back to England. Whatever dock that is, if you please.'
'Yes, miss.'The driver climbed back onto the box again and urged his horse forwards and round. They made a wide turn in the street and headed away from the police station.
The journey was not very long, but to Charlotte it seemed to take ages. They passed down the wide, handsome streets. Some of the roads would have taken seven or eight carriages abreast, but they seemed half deserted compared with the noisy, crushing jams of traffic in London. She was desperate to leave, and yet also torn with regrets. One day she wanted to come back, anonymous and free of burdens, simply to enjoy it. Now she could only lean forward, peering out and counting the minutes until she reached the dock. The whole business of alighting with the luggage and the crowds waiting to board the steamer was awkward and very close to desperate. She tried to move the cases without leaving anything where it could be taken, and at the same time keep hold of her reticule and pay for a ticket. In the jostling of people she was bumped and knocked. Twice she nearly lost her own case while trying to move Narraway's, and find money ready to pay the fare.
'Can I help you?' a voice said close to her.
She was about to refuse when she felt his hand over hers and he took Narraway's case from her. She was furious and ready to cry with frustration. She lifted her foot with its nicely heeled boot and brought it down sharply on his instep.
He gasped with pain, but he did not let go of Narraway's case.
She lifted her foot to do it again, harder.
'Charlotte, let the damn thing go!' Narraway hissed between his teeth.
She let not only his case go but her own also. She was so angry she could have struck him with an open hand, and so relieved she felt the tears prickle in her eyes and slide down her cheeks.
'I suppose you've no money!' she said tartly, choking on the words.
'Not much,' he agreed. 'I borrowed enough from an old aquaintance of mine, O'Casey, to get as far as Holyhead. But since you have my luggage, we'll manage the rest. Keep moving. We need to buy tickets, and I would very much like to catch this steamer. I might not have the opportunity to wait for the next. I imagine the police will think of this. It's the obvious way to go, but I need to be back in London. I have a fear that something very nasty indeed is going to happen.'
'Several very nasty things already have,' she told him.
'I know. But we must prevent what we can.'
'I know what happened with Mulhare's money. I'm pretty sure who was behind it all.'
'Are you?' There was an eagerness in his voice that he could not hide, even now in this pushing, noisy crowd.
'I'll tell you when we are on board. Did you hear the dog?'
'What dog?'
'Cormac's dog.'
'Of course I did. The poor beast hurled itself at the door almost as soon as I was in the house.'
'Did you hear the shot?'
'No. Did you?' he was startled.
'No,' she said with a smile.
'Ah!' He was level with her now and they were at the ticket counter. 'I see.' He smiled also, but at the salesman. 'Two for the Holyhead boat, please.'
Chapter Ten.
Pitt was overwhelmed with the size and scope of his new responsibilities. There was so much more to consider than the relatively minor issues of whether the socialist plot in Europe was something that could be serious, or only another manifestation of the sporadic violence that had occurred in one place or another for the last several years. Even if some specific act were planned, very possibly it did not concern England.
The alliance with France required that he pass on any important information to the French authorities, but what did he know that was anything more than speculation? West had been killed before he could tell him whatever it was he knew. With hindsight now, it had presumably been Gower who was a traitor. But had there been more to it than that? Had West also known who else in Lisson Grove was what? A socialist conspirator? To be bought for money, or power? Or was it not what they wished to gain so much as what they were afraid to lose? Was it blackmail over some real or perceived offence? Was it someone who had been made to appear guilty, as Narraway had, but this person had yielded to pressure in order to save himself?
Had Narraway been threatened, and defied them? Or had they known better than to try, and he had simply been professionally destroyed, without warning?
Pitt sat in Narraway's office, which was now his own: a cold and extraordinarily isolating thought. Would he be next? It was hard to imagine that he posed the threat to them that Narraway had, whoever they were. He looked around the room. It was so familiar to him from the other side of the desk, that even with his back to the wall he could see in his mind's eye the pictures that Narraway used to have there. They were mostly pencil drawings of bare trees, the branches delicate and complex, the sky behind them only suggested. There was one exception: an old stone tower by the sea, but again the foreground was in exquisite detail of light and shadow, the sea only a feeling of distance without end.
He would ask Austwick where they were, and put them back where they belonged. If Narraway ever returned here, then Pitt would give them back to him. They were his and he must care about them. They were part of the furniture of his mind, of his life. They would give Pitt a sense of his presence, and it was both sad and comforting at the same time.
Narraway would have known what to do about these varied and sometimes conflicting remnants of work that scattered the desk now. Some were reports from local police, some from Special Branch men in various parts of the country; many were from other towns and cities in Europe. Pitt was familiar with some of them, but he had only a vague knowledge of others. They were cases Narraway had dealt with himself.
Austwick had left him notes, but how could he trust anything Austwick had said? He would be a fool to, without corroboration from someone else, and that would take time he could not afford now. And who could he trust? There was nothing but to go on. He would have to proceed with the most urgent cases first, comparing one piece of information with another, cancelling out the impossible and then weighing what was left.
As the morning wore on, and assistants of one sort or another came with new papers, more opinions, he became painfully aware of how isolated Narraway must have been. Some people he could rely on for honesty, but perhaps not for judgement, at least not in all things. Others he dared not even believe as to matters of fact. None dare he confide in. He was commander now. They did not expect him to consult, to defer, to be vulnerable or confused in anything.
He looked in their faces and saw courtesy, respect for his new position. In a few he also saw envy. Once he recognised an anger that he, such a relative newcomer, should have been promoted before his time. In none did he see the kind of respect he needed in order to command their personal loyalty beyond their commitment to the task. That could only exist when it had been earned.
He would have given most of what he possessed to have Narraway back right now. He would even have given away his excellent, expensive boots, which afforded him comfortable feet. No bodily discomfort could threaten as much as the anxiety that he would make a bad judgement, fail to understand the importance of some piece of information, or simply not have the courage, the wisdom and the astuteness of intelligence to make all the right choices. One big mistake could be sufficient to cost someone his life.
Now Narraway was somewhere in Ireland. Why had Charlotte gone with him? To help fight against injustice, out of loyalty to a friend in desperate need? How like her! But Narraway was Pitt's friend, not really hers. And yet now, remembering a dozen small things, he knew that Narraway was in love with her, and had been for some time.
He knew exactly when he had first subconciously noticed it. He had seen Narraway turn to look at her. They had been standing in the kitchen in the house in Keppel Street. It had been during a bad case, a difficult one. Narraway had come to see him late in the evening over something or other, a new turn in events. They had had tea. Charlotte had been standing waiting for the kettle to boil again. She had been wearing an old dress, not expecting anyone except Pitt. The lamplight had shone on her hair, bringing up the warm, deep colour of it, and on the angle of her cheek. He could see her in his mind's eye picking up the mitt so as not to burn her hands on the kettle.
Narraway had said something, and she had looked at him and laughed. In an instant his face had given him away.
Did she know?
It had taken her what seemed like ages to realise that Pitt was in love with her, years ago, in the beginning. But since then they had all changed. She had been awkward, the middle sister of three, the one her mother found so difficult to match with an acceptable husband. But now she knew she was loved and it was impossible she could be unaware of how deeply Pitt cared.
She would be furiously angry at the injustice against Narraway, and she would still feel a gratitude to Narraway for having taken Pitt into Special Branch when he so badly needed it. Life could have become very bleak indeed. And if she knew that Narraway loved her that could be an added sense of responsibility, even of debt. To think of it as a debt was ridiculous she had not asked for his regard but Pitt knew the fierce protectiveness she felt towards the vulnerable. It was instinct, defensive, like an animal with cubs. She would act first, and think afterwards. He loved her for it. He would lose something of infinite value if she were different, more guarded, more sensible. But it was still a liability.
There were papers piled on the desk in front of him, reports waiting to be made sense of, but still his mind was on Charlotte.
Where was she? How could he find out without placing her in further danger? Who was he absolutely certain he could trust? A week ago, he would have sent Gower. Unwittingly he would have been giving them the perfect hostage.
Should he contact the Dublin police? That would hardly be helpful if Narraway were under suspicion of embezzlement.
Perhaps anonymity was Charlotte's best defence, but his own helplessness was almost like a physical pain. He knew nothing, he had all the forces of Special Branch at his fingertips, and no idea whom he could trust.
There was a knock on his door. The moment he answered it Austwick came in, looking grave and slightly smug. He had more papers in his hand.
Pitt was glad to be forced back into the present. 'What have you?' he asked.
Austwick sat down without being asked. Pitt knew he would not have done that with Narraway.
'More reports from Manchester,' Austwick replied. 'It does begin to look as if Latimer is right about this factory in Hyde. They are making guns, in spite of their denials. And then there's the mess-up in Glasgow. We need to pay more attention to that, before it gets any bigger.'
'Last report said it was just young people protesting,' Pitt reminded him. 'Narraway had it marked as better left alone.'
Austwick pulled his face into a grimace of distaste. 'Well, I think Narraway's mind was hardly on the country's interests over the last while. Unfortunately we don't know how long his . . . inattention had been going on. Read it yourself and see what you think. I've been handling it since Narraway went, and I think he may have made a serious misjudgement. And we can't afford to ignore Scotland either.'
Pitt swallowed his response. He did not trust Austwick, but he must not allow him see that. All this felt like wasting time, of which he had far too little.
'What about the other reports from Europe on the socialists?' he asked. 'Anything from Germany? And what about the Russian emigres emigres in Paris?' in Paris?'
'Nothing significant,' Austwick replied. 'And nothing at all from Gower.' He looked at Pitt steadily, concern in his eyes.
Pitt kept his expression perfectly composed. 'He won't risk communication unless he has something of value to report. It all has to go through the local post office.'
Austwick shook his head. 'I think it's of secondary importance, honestly. West may have been killed simply because they discovered he was an informant. It would have been revenge rather than anything important he was going to tell you.'
He shifted his position a little and looked straight at Pitt. 'There have been rumblings about great reform for years, you know. People strike postures and make speeches, but nothing serious happens, at least not here in Britain. I think our biggest danger was three or four years ago. There was plenty of unrest in the East End of London, which I know you are aware of, though a lot of it was just before you joined the Branch.'
That was a reminder of how recent Pitt was to this job. He saw the flicker of resentment in Austwick's eyes as he said it. He wondered for a moment if the unease he was aware of was personal ambition thwarted rather than anything to do with political unrest. Then he remembered Gower bending over West's body on the ground, and the blood. Either Austwick had nothing to do with it, or he was better at masking his emotions than Pitt had judged. He must be careful.
'Perhaps we'll escape it,' he said aloud.
Austwick shifted in his chair again, as if finding it difficult to be comfortable. 'These are the reports in from Liverpool, and you'll see some of the references to Ireland. Nothing dangerous as yet, but we need to make note of some of these names, and watch them.' He pushed across more papers and Pitt bent to read them.
The afternoon followed the same pattern: more reports, both written and verbal. A case of violence in a town in Yorkshire looked as if it were political and turned out not to be. A government minister had been robbed in Piccadilly, and investigating it took up the rest of the day. The minister had been carrying sensitive papers. Fortunately it was not Pitt's decision as to how seriously he should be reprimanded for carelessness. It was, however, up to him to decide with what crime the thief should be charged.
He weighed it with some consideration. He questioned the man, trying to judge whether he had known his victim was in the government, and if so that his attache case might contain government papers. He was uncertain, even after several hours, but Narraway would not have asked advice. If he could not deal with such an event without help, then he was far from equal to the position.
Pitt decided that the disadvantages of letting the public know how easy it was to rob an inattentive minister outweighed the possible error of letting a man be charged with a lesser crime than the one he had intended to commit.
He went home in the evening tired and with little sense of achievement.
It changed the moment he opened the front door and Daniel came racing down the hall to greet him.
'Papa! Papa, I made a boat! Come and look.' He grasped Pitt's hand and tugged at him.
Pitt smiled and followed him willingly down to the kitchen where the rich smell of dinner cooking filled the air. Something was bubbling in a big pan on the stove and the table was littered with pieces of newspapers and a bowl of white paste. Minnie Maude was standing with a pair of scissors in her hands. As usual, her hair was all over the place, pinned up over and over again as she had lost patience with it. In pride of place in the centre of the mess was a rather large papier-mache boat, with two sticks for masts and several different lengths of tapers for bowsprit, yardarms and a boom.
Minnie Maude looked abashed to see him, clearly earlier than she had expected.
'See!' Daniel said triumphantly, pointing to the ship. 'Minnie Maude showed me how to do it.' He gave a little shrug. 'And Jemima helped a bit . . . well . . . a lot.'
Pitt felt a sudden and overwhelming warmth rush up inside him. He looked at Daniel's face shining with pride, and then at the boat.
'It's magnificent,' he said, emotion all but choking his voice. 'I've never seen anything better.' He turned to Minnie Maude, who was standing wide-eyed. She was clearly waiting to be criticised for playing when she should have been working towards having dinner on the table for him.
'Thank you,' he said to her sincerely. 'Please don't move it until it is safe to do so without risk of damage.'
'What . . . what about dinner, sir?' she asked, beginning to breathe again.
'We'll clear the newspapers and the paste, and eat around it,' he answered. 'Where's Jemima?'
'She's reading,' Daniel answered instantly. 'She took my Boy's Own Boy's Own! Why doesn't she read a girls' book?'
''Cos they're boring,' Jemima answered from the doorway. She had slipped in without anyone hearing her come along the corridor. She looked past Pitt at the table, and the ship at the centre. 'You've got the masts on! That's beautiful.' She gave Pitt a radiant smile. 'Hello, Papa. Look what we made.'
'I see it,' he replied, putting his arm around her shoulder. 'It's magnificent.'
'How is Mama?' she asked, an edge of worry in her voice.
'Well,' he answered, lying smoothly and holding her a little closer, 'she's helping a friend in bad trouble, but she'll be home soon. Now let's help clear the table and have dinner.'
Afterwards he sat alone in the parlour, as the silence settled over the house. Daniel and Jemima had gone up to bed. Minnie Maude had finished in the kitchen and went up as well. He heard every creak of her tread on the stairs. Far from being comforting, the absence of all voices or movement made the heaviness swirl back in again like a fog. The islands of light from the lamps on the wall created deeper shadows. He knew every surface in the room. He also knew they were all immaculately clean, as if Charlotte had been there to supervise this new girl whose only fault was that she was not Gracie. But she was good; it was only the familiarity she lacked. The papier-mache ship made him smile. It wasn't a trivial thing, it was very important indeed. Minnie Maude Mudway was a success.
He sat in the armchair, thinking of Jemima and her pride, Daniel's happiness, for as long as he could. Finally he turned his mind to tomorrow, and the fact that he must go and tell Croxdale the truth about Gower, and the betrayal that might run throughout the service.
The following day at Lisson Grove was filled with the same necessary trivia. There was news from Paris, which was only vaguely disturbing. There was a definite increase in activity among the people Special Branch was watching, but if it had any meaning Pitt was unable to determine what it was. It was much the same sort of thing he might have done had Narraway been here, and he in his own job. The difference was the weight of responsibility, the decisions that he could no longer refer upwards. Now they all came to him. Other men who had previously been his equals were now obliged to report to him. They came not always for advice; more often simply so that he was aware of all the different pieces that formed the picture they had of subversion, possible treason, violence before it happened. He must know everything that might threaten the safety of Her Majesty's realm, and her government, the peace and prosperity of Britain.
It was the morning of the day after when he finally obtained an interview with Sir Gerald Croxdale. Pitt was no further forward in understanding the extent of the treachery, but he must tell Croxdale of Gower's death, and how it had happened. No report had come in yet, but it could not be long now.
He arrived at Whitehall late in the afternoon. The sun was still warm and the air was soft as he walked across from the park and along the street to the appropriate entrance. Several carriages passed him, the women in them wearing wide hats to protect their faces from the light, their muslin sleeves drifting in the breeze. Horse brasses winked with bright reflections, and some carriage doors carried painted family crests.
Pitt was admitted without question. Apparently the footman knew who he was. He was taken straight to Croxdale's rooms and kept waiting only a matter of moments.
'How are you, Pitt?' Croxdale said warmly, rising from his seat to shake Pitt's hand. 'Sit down. How is it at Lisson Grove?' His voice was pleasant, almost casual, but he was watching Pitt intently. There was a gravity in him as if he already knew that Pitt had ugly news to tell him.
It was the opening Pitt needed without having to create it himself.
'I had hoped to tell you more, sir,' he began. 'But the whole episode of seeing West murdered, and following Frobisher to France was far more serious than I thought at first.'
Croxdale frowned, sitting a little more upright in his chair. 'In what way? Have you learned what he was going to tell you?'
'No, sir, I haven't. At least, I am not certain. But I have a strong idea, and everything I have discovered since returning supports it, but does not provide a conclusion.'