Betrayal at Lisson Grove (36 page)

‘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.’

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.’

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.