Betrayal at Lisson Grove (37 page)

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
émigrés
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 attaché 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-mâché 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
! 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-mâché 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.’

‘Stop beating around the bush, man!’ Croxdale said impatiently. ‘What is it?’

Pitt took a deep breath. The risk must be taken. ‘We have at least one traitor at Lisson Grove . . .’

Croxdale froze, his eyes hard. His right hand on top of the desk suddenly became rigid as if he were deliberately forcing himself not to clench it.

‘I presume you mean other than Victor Narraway?’ he said quietly.

Pitt made another decision. ‘I don’t and never have believed that Narraway was a traitor, sir. Whether he is guilty of a misjudgement, or a carelessness, I don’t yet know. But regrettably we all misjudge at times.’

‘Explain yourself!’ Croxdale said between his teeth. ‘If not Narraway – and I reserve judgement on that—then who?’

‘Gower, sir.’

‘Gower?’ Croxdale’s eyes opened wide. ‘Did you say “Gower”?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Pitt could feel his own temper rising. How could Croxdale accept so easily that Narraway was a traitor, and yet be so incredulous that Gower could be? What had Austwick told him? How deep and how clever was this web of treason? Was Pitt rushing in where a wiser, more experienced man would have been careful, laid his ground first? But there was no time to do that. Narraway was outcast, in Ireland, and heaven only knew if Charlotte was safe, or where she was and in what circumstances. Pitt could not afford to seek their enemies cautiously.

Croxdale was frowning at him. Should he tell him the whole story, or simply about the murder of West? Any of it made Pitt look like a fool! But he had been a fool. He had trusted Gower, even liked him. The memory of it was still painful. He could smell the sea air of St Malo, feel the heat of the sun on his face, hear Gower’s voice, his laughter . . .