Betrayal at Lisson Grove (26 page)

The master of ceremonies appeared, and the babble of talk died away. The performance had begun.

For just over an hour the audience sat absorbed in the sound and the emotion of the music. It had a sweetness and a lilt that made Charlotte smile, and it was no effort at all to appear as if she were totally happy.

However, the moment it ceased and the applause was finished, her mind returned to the reason she was here – and, more urgently, why Narraway was. She remembered the look in Talulla’s face. Perhaps the greatest purpose Charlotte would serve would not be anything to do with Cormac O’Neil, but to support Narraway if Talulla should begin to create a scene.

Giving McDaid no more than a quick smile, she rose to her feet and headed for Talulla, trying to think of something reasonable to say, true or not. She reached her just as Talulla turned to walk away, and only just managed to save her balance. She looked instantly amazed.

‘Oh, I am sorry,’ Charlotte apologised, although actually it had been Talulla who had all but bumped into her. ‘I am afraid my enthusiasm rather got the better of me.’

‘Enthusiasm?’ Talulla said coldly, her face reflecting complete disbelief.

‘For the harpist,’ Charlotte said quickly. ‘I have never heard more delightful music.’ She was fishing desperately for anything to say.

‘Then don’t let me stop you from speaking to her,’ Talulla retorted. ‘I’m sure you’ll find her agreeable.’

‘Do you know her?’ Charlotte asked eagerly.

‘Only by repute, and I shouldn’t wish to trouble her,’ Talulla responded sharply. ‘There must be so many people eager to speak with her.’

‘I would be so grateful if you would introduce me,’ Charlotte asked, ignoring the rebuff.

‘I’m afraid I cannot help you,’ Talulla was making it impossible to conceal her impatience. ‘I am not acquainted with her. Now if you don’t—’

‘Oh!’ Charlotte assumed an expression of dismay. ‘But you said she was most agreeable.’ She made it a challenge, not daring to look towards where she had seen Narraway talking to Ardal Barralet.

‘It was the polite thing to say,’ Talulla snapped. ‘Now really, Mrs Pitt, there is someone I wish to speak to, and I must hurry or they may leave. Excuse me.’ And she all but pushed Charlotte out of the way, obliging her to step aside, or seem to be causing a physical unpleasantness.

Charlotte could see Narraway still talking to Barralet at the far end of the room. Talulla was heading directly towards them. Charlotte went after her, but several steps behind. They were halfway down the aisle between the chairs when Talulla stopped so abruptly that Charlotte was forced to also, or bump into her.

Then she saw why Talulla had halted. A little knot of people had gathered around where Narraway had turned from Ardal Barralet and was facing Cormac O’Neil across a short open space of floor. Phelim O’Conor was looking from one to the other of them and Bridget Tyrone was a little to his right.

For seconds they stood frozen, then Cormac drew in his breath. ‘I never thought you’d dare show your face in Ireland again,’ he said between his teeth, staring at Narraway. ‘Who’ve you come back to betray this time? Mulhare is dead, or didn’t you know that?’ The hatred trembled in his voice; his whole body shook and his words were slurred.

A ripple of emotion ran through the gathering crowd like the passage of a storm through a field of barley.

‘Yes, I know Mulhare is dead,’ Narraway replied, not moving backwards in spite of Cormac’s closeness to him. ‘Someone embezzled the money he should have had so he could go abroad and start a new life.’

‘Someone?’ Cormac sneered. ‘And I suppose you have no idea who?’

‘I hadn’t,’ Narraway answered, still not moving, although Cormac was within two feet of him now. ‘I’m beginning to find out.’

Cormac rolled his eyes. ‘If I didn’t know you, I’d believe that. You stole the money yourself. You betrayed Mulhare just as you betrayed all of us.’

Narraway was white-faced, eyes brilliant. ‘It was a war, Cormac. You lost, that’s all . . .’

‘All!’ Cormac’s face was now contorted with hate. ‘I lost my brother and my sister-in-law, and my country, and you stand here and say “that’s all” . . . ?’ His voice choked.

There was a mutter from everyone around the group closest to him. Charlotte winced. She knew what Narraway meant, but he was rattled, and being clumsy. He knew they were against him, and he could prove nothing. He had no backing from London now; he was alone, and losing.

‘We couldn’t both win.’ Narraway regained his selfcontrol with an effort. ‘That time it was me.You wouldn’t have shouted “betrayal” if it had been you.’

‘It’s my bloody country, you arrogant ape!’ Cormac shouted. ‘How many more of us have to be robbed, cheated and murdered before you get some shadow of a conscience and get the hell out of Ireland?’

‘I’ll go as soon as I prove who took Mulhare’s money,’ Narraway answered. ‘Did you sacrifice him to get your revenge on me? Is that how you know all about it?’

‘Everybody knows all about it,’ Cormac snarled. ‘His body was washed up on the steps of Dublin Harbour, God damn you!’

‘I didn’t betray him!’ Narraway’s voice was shaking and growing louder in spite of his efforts to keep it down. ‘If I’d done it I’d have made a better job. I wouldn’t have left the money in my own damn account for others to find it. Whatever you think of me, Cormac, you know I’m not a fool.’

Cormac was stunned into momentary silence.

It was Talulla who stepped forward. Her face was white to the lips, her eyes sunken like holes in her head.

‘Yes, you are a fool,’ she said between her teeth, facing Narraway, her back to Cormac. ‘An arrogant English fool who thinks we can’t ever get the better of you. Well, one of us did this time.You say you didn’t put the money in your own bank? Apparently someone did, and you got the blame. Your own people think you’re a thief, and no one in Ireland will ever give you information again, so you’ll be no use to London any more. You have Cormac O’Neil to thank for that.’

She drew in her breath, all but choking on it. ‘Don’t you have a saying in England – “He who laughs last, laughs longest”? Well, we’ll be laughing after you are a broken old man with nothing to do and no one who gives a damn about you! Remember it was an O’Neil who did that to you, Narraway!’ She laughed, with a brief, jagged sound, like something tearing inside her. Then she turned and pushed her way through the crowd until she disappeared.

Charlotte stared at Cormac, and Phelim O’Conor, and then at Narraway. They stood pale and shaking. It was Ardal Barralet who spoke.

‘How unfortunate,’ he said drily. ‘I think, Victor, it would have been better if you had not come. Old memories die hard. It seems from what has been said as if this is one part of the war that you lost. Accept it with as much grace as you expected of us, and take your leave, while you can.’

Narraway did not even glance at Charlotte, not drawing her into the embarrassment. He bowed very stiffly. ‘Excuse me.’ He turned and left.

McDaid took Charlotte’s arm, holding her surprisingly hard. She had not even known he was near her. Now she had no choice but to leave with him.

‘He’s a fool,’ McDaid said bitterly as soon as they were sufficiently far from the nearest people that he could speak without being overheard. ‘Did he think anyone would forget his face?’

She knew he was right, but she was angry with him for saying so. She did not know the details of Narraway’s part in the old betrayal, whether he had loved Kate O’Neil, or used her, or even both, but he was the one betrayed this time – and by a lie, not by the truth.

She was allowing emotion and instinct to replace reason in her judgement. Or maybe her belief in him was a return for the loyalty Narraway had shown to Pitt. Pitt was not here to help, to offer any support or advice, so it was necessary that she did it for him. It was not something that was even open to question.

Then another thought came to her, a moment of recollection as clear as lightning in a black storm. Talulla had said that Mulhare’s money had been returned to Narraway’s own bank in London, and now no one in London would trust him. How could she know about the money unless she were intimately involved in having brought that about? She was in her late twenties. At the time of Kate and Sean O’Neil’s deaths she would have been no more than a child, perhaps seven or eight years old.

Was that what Narraway had come here for, to provoke her, unrealisingly, into such self-revelation? What a desperate step to take.

She tried to free her arm from McDaid’s grip, pulling sharply, but he held on.

‘You’re not going after him,’ he said firmly. ‘He did at least do one thing decently: he didn’t involve you. As far as Talulla is concerned, you could be total strangers. Don’t spoil that.’

His words made it worse. It increased her debt; and to deny Narraway would be pointless and desperately ungracious. She snatched her arm from McDaid and this time he let go.

‘I wasn’t going to go after him,’ she said angrily. ‘I’m going home.’

‘To London?’ he said incredulously.

‘To Mrs Hogan’s house in Molesworth Street,’ she snapped. ‘If you would be so kind as to take me . . . I do not wish to have to look for an omnibus. I’ve no idea where I am, or where I’m going.’

‘That I know,’ McDaid agreed ruefully.

 

However, as soon as McDaid had left her at Mrs Hogan’s door, she waited until he had got back into the carriage and it was round the corner out of sight, then she walked briskly in the opposite direction and hailed the first carriage for hire that she saw. She knew Cormac O’Neil’s town address from Narraway, and she gave it to the driver. She would wait for O’Neil to return, for as long as was necessary.

As it transpired, it was shortly after dusk when she saw Cormac O’Neil climb out of a carriage a hundred yards down the street. He made his way a trifle unsteadily along the footpath towards his front door.

Charlotte moved out of the shadows. ‘Mr O’Neil?’

He stopped, blinking momentarily.

‘Mr O’Neil,’ she repeated. ‘I wonder if I may speak with you, please? It is very important.’

‘Another time,’ he said indistinctly. ‘It’s late.’ He started forward to go past her to the door, but she took a step in front of him.

‘No, it’s not late, it’s barely supper time, and this is urgent. Please?’

He looked at her. ‘You’re a handsome enough girl,’ he said gently, ‘but I’m not interested.’

Suddenly she realised that he assumed her to be a prostitute. It was too absurd for her to take offence. But if she laughed she might sound too close to hysteria. She swallowed hard, trying to control the nervous tension all but closing her throat.

‘Mr O’Neil . . .’ she had prepared the lie. It was the only way she could think of that might make him tell her the truth, ‘. . . I want to ask you about Victor Narraway.’

O’Neil jerked to a stop and swung round to stare at her.

‘I know what he did to your family,’ she went on a little desperately. ‘At least I think I do. I was at the recital this afternoon. I heard what you said, and what Miss Lawless said too.’

‘Why did you come here?’ he demanded. ‘You’re as English as he is. It’s in your voice, so don’t try to sympathise with me.’ Now his tone was stinging with contempt.

She matched his expression just as harshly. ‘And you think the Irish are the only people who are ever victims?’ she said with amazement. ‘My husband suffered too. I might be able to do something about it, if I know the truth.’

‘Something?’ he said contemptuously. ‘What kind of something?’

She knew she must make this passionate, believable; a wound deep enough he would see her as a victim like himself. Mentally she apologised to Narraway. ‘Narraway’s already been dismissed from Special Branch,’ she said, ‘because of the money that was supposed to go to Mulhare. But he has everything else: his home, his friends, his life in London. My family has nothing, except a few friends who know him as I do, and perhaps you? But I need to know the truth . . .’

He hesitated a moment, then wearily, as if surrendering to something, he fished in his pocket for a key. Fumbling a little, he inserted it in the lock and opened the door for her.

They were greeted immediately by a large dog – a wolfhound of some sort – who gave her no more than a cursory glance before going to O’Neil, wagging its tail and pushing against him, demanding attention.

O’Neil patted its head, talking gently. Then he led the way into the parlour and lit the gaslamps, the dog on his heels. The flames burned up to show a clean, comfortable room with a window onto the area way and then the street. He pulled the curtain across, more for privacy than to keep out the cold, and invited Charlotte to sit down.

She did so, soberly thanking him, then waiting for him to compose himself before she began her questions. She was acutely aware that if she made even one ill-judged remark, one clumsy reaction, she could lose him completely, and there would be no opportunity ever to try again.

‘It was all over twenty years ago,’ he said, looking at her gravely. He sat opposite her, the dog at his feet. In the gaslight it was easy to see that he was labouring to keep some control of his feelings, as if seeing Narraway again had stirred emotions he had struggled hard to bury. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face haggard. His hair stood up on end, crookedly at one side, as though he had run his fingers through it repeatedly. She could not fail to be aware that he had been drinking, but these sorrows were not of the kind that drown easily.

‘Yes, I know, Mr O’Neil.’ She spoke quietly. There was no need to raise her voice here in this silent house, and the tragedy of the situation demanded respect. ‘Do you find time heals? I would like to think so, but I see no evidence of it.’ She was inventing her own entire situation, and yet she was bitterly aware that the fate she was creating in her mind for Pitt could be paralleled in the future, if Narraway never regained his power in Special Branch, and whoever had engineered his disgrace were to succeed.