Betrayal at Lisson Grove (40 page)

He must trust Stoker. The advantage outweighed the risk.

‘Then we have about ten days in which to rescue Narraway,’ he replied. ‘Perhaps whoever is behind this will be as aware of that as we are. It is safe to assume that by that time they will have achieved whatever it is they plan, and for which they needed him gone.’

Stoker sat up a little straighter. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘And we have no idea who it is that is planning it,’ Pitt continued. ‘Except that they have great power and authority within the Branch, so we dare not trust anyone. Even Sir Gerald himself may choose to trust this person rather than trust you or me.’

Stoker allowed himself a slight smile. ‘You’re right, sir. And that could be the end of everything, probably of you an’ me, and certainly of Mr Narraway.’

‘Then we are alone in working out what it is.’ Pitt had already made up his mind that if he were to trust Stoker at all, then it might as well be entirely. This was not the time to let Stoker believe he was only half relied on.

Pitt pulled out the papers he had been studying and placed them sideways on the desk so they could both see them.

‘This is the pattern I found so far.’ He pointed to communications, gun smuggling, the movements of known radicals both in Britain and in the continent of Europe.

‘Not much of a pattern,’ Stoker said grimly. ‘It looks pretty much like always to me.’ He pointed. ‘There’s Rosa Luxemburg in Germany and Poland in that part, but she’s been getting noisier for years.There’s Jean Jaurès in France, but he’s harmless enough. Your basic socialist reformer. Bit hard now and then, but what he’s saying is fair enough, if you look at it. Nothing to do with us, though. He’s as French as frogs’ legs.’

‘And here?’ Pitt pointed to some Fabian Society activity in London and Birmingham.

‘They’ll get changes through Parliament, eventually,’ Stoker said. ‘That Keir Hardie’ll do a thing or two, but that’s not our bother either. Personally I wish him good luck. We need a few changes. No, sir, there is something big planned, and pretty bad, an’ we haven’t worked out what it is yet.’

Pitt did not reply. He stared at the reports yet again, rereading the text, studying the geographic patterns of where they originated, who was involved.

Then he saw something curious. ‘Is that Willy Portman?’ he asked Stoker, pointing to a report of known agitators observed in Birmingham.

‘Yes, sir, seems like it. What’s he doing here? Nasty piece of work, Willy Portman. Violent. Nothing good, if he’s involved.’

‘I know,’ Pitt agreed. ‘But that’s not it. This report says he was seen at a meeting with Joe Gallagher. Those two have been enemies for years. What could bring them together?’

Stoker stared at him. ‘There’s more,’ he said very quietly. ‘McLeish was seen in Sheffield with Mick Haddon.’

Pitt knew the names. They were both extremely violent men, and again known to hate each other.

‘And Fenner,’ he added, putting his finger on the page where Fenner’s name was noted. ‘And Guzman, and Scarlatti.That’s the pattern.Whatever it is, it’s big enough to bring these enemies together in a common cause, and here in Britain.’

There was a shadow of fear in Stoker’s eyes. ‘I’d like reform, sir, for lots of reasons. But I don’t want everything good thrown out at the same time. And violence isn’t the way to do anything, because no matter what you need to do in the first place, it never ends there. Seems to me that if you execute the monarch, either you end up with a religious dictator like Cromwell, who rules over the people more tightly than any king ever did – and then you only have to get rid of him anyway – or else you end up with a monster like Robespierre in Paris, and the Reign of Terror, then Napoleon after that. Then you get a king back in the end anyway. At least for a while. I prefer us as we are, with our faults, rather than all that.’

‘So do I,’ Pitt agreed. ‘But we can’t stop it if we don’t know what it is, and when and how it will strike. I don’t think we have very long.’

‘No, sir. And if you’ll excuse me spelling it out, we haven’t any allies either, least of all not here in Lisson Grove. Whoever blackened Mr Narraway’s name did a very good job of it, and nobody trusts you because you’re his man.’

Pitt smiled grimly. ‘It’s a lot more than that, Stoker. I’m new to this job and none of the men will trust me above Austwick, for which you can hardly blame them.’

‘Is Austwick a traitor, sir?’

‘I think so. But he may not be the only one.’

‘I know that,’ Stoker said very quietly.

Narraway was intensely relieved to see the familiar coast of Ireland slip away over the horizon with no coastguard or police boat in pursuit of them. At least for a few hours he could turn his attention to what he should do once he arrived at Holyhead. The obvious thing would be to catch the next train to London. Would it be so obvious a move that he might be apprehended? On the other hand, would delay only give anyone still bent on catching him a better chance to cross the Irish Sea in a lighter, perhaps faster boat, and arrest him before he could get any help?

He was standing on the deck looking westwards. Charlotte was beside him. She looked weary and the marks of fear were still drawn deep into her face. Even so, he found her beautiful. He had long ago grown tired of unspoiled perfection. If that was what one hungered for – the colour, the proportion, the smooth skin, the perfect balance of feature – there were works of art all over the world to stare at. Even the poorest man could find a copy for himself.

A real woman had warmth, vulnerability, fears and blemishes of her own, or else how could she have any gentleness towards yours? Without experience, one was a cup waiting to be filled – well-crafted perhaps, but empty. And to a soul of any courage or passion, experience also meant a degree of pain, false starts, occasional bad judgements, a knowledge of loss. Young women were charming for a short while, but very soon they bored him.

He was used to loneliness, but there were times when its burden ached so deeply he could never be unaware of it. After all, that had happened in Ireland. Now, standing on the deck with Charlotte, watching the wind unravel her hair and blow it across her face was another such time.

She had already told him what she had learned of Talulla, John Tyrone and the money, and of Fiachra McDaid. It was complicated. Some of the situation he had guessed from what O’Casey had told him, but he had not understood Talulla’s place in it. Without her and Fiachra having convinced her that her parents were innocent, she would not have blamed Cormac. She would still have blamed Narraway, of course, but that was fair. Kate’s death was as much his fault as anyone’s, in so far as it was foreseeable. He had known how Sean felt about her.

What did Talulla imagine Cormac could have done to save Sean? Sean was a rebel whose wife gave him up to the English. Was that betrayal, treason to the spirit of Ireland, or just a practical decision to avoid more pointless, heart-breaking bloodshed? How many people were still alive who would not have been if the uprising had happened? Perhaps half the people she knew.

But of course she wouldn’t see it that way. She couldn’t afford to. She needed her anger, and it was justified only if her parents were the victims.

And Fiachra? Narraway winced at his own blindness. How desperately he had misread him! He had concealed the passion of his Irish nationalism inside what had seemed to be a concern for the disenfranchised of all nations. The more Narraway thought about it, the more it made sense. Odd how often a sweeping love for all could be willing to sacrifice the one, or the ten, or the score, almost with indifference. Fiachra would see the glory of greater social justice, freedom for Ireland – and the price would slip through his fingers uncounted. He was a dreamer who stepped over the corpses without even seeing them. Under the charm there was ice – and by God, he was clever. In law he had committed no crime. If justice ever reached him, it would be for some other reason, at another time.

Narraway looked at Charlotte again. She became aware of it and turned to him.

‘There’s no one anywhere on the whole sea,’ she said with a slightly rueful smile. ‘I think we’re safe.’

The inclusion of herself in his escape gave him a sort of warmth that he was aware was ridiculous. He was behaving like a man of twenty.

‘So far,’ he agreed. ‘But when we get on the train at Holyhead you would be safer to be in a different carriage. I doubt there will be anyone looking for me, but it’s not impossible.’

‘Who?’ she said, as if dismissing the idea. ‘No one could have got here ahead of us.’ Before he could answer she went on, ‘And don’t tell me they anticipated your escape. If they had, they’d have prevented it. Don’t be naïve, Victor. They wanted you hanged. It would be the perfect revenge for Sean.’

He winced. ‘You’re very blunt.’

‘I suppose you just noticed that!’ She gave a tiny, twisted smile.

‘No, of course not. But that was unusual, even for you.’

‘This is an unusual situation,’ she said. ‘At least for me. Should I be trite if I asked you if you do it often?’

‘Ah, Charlotte!’ He brushed his hand through his heavy hair and turned away, needing to hide the emotion in his face from her. He needed it to be private, but – far more than that – he knew that it would embarrass her to realise how intense were his feelings for her.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said quickly.

Hell, he swore to himself. He had not been quick enough.

‘I know it’s serious,’ she went on, apparently meaning something quite different.

A wave of relief swept over him, and, perversely, of disappointment. Did some part of him want her to know? If so, it must be suppressed. It would create a difficulty between them that could never be forgotten.

‘Yes,’ he agreed.

‘Will you go to Lisson Grove?’ Now she sounded anxious.

‘No. I’d rather they didn’t even know I was back in England, and certainly not where.’ He saw the relief in her face. ‘There’s only one person I dare trust totally, and that is Vespasia Cumming-Gould. I shall get off the train one or two stations before London and find a telephone. If I’m lucky I’ll be able to get hold of her straight away. It’ll be long after dark by then. If not, I’ll find rooms and wait there until I can.’

His voice dropped to a more urgent note. ‘You should go home. You won’t be in any danger. Or else you could go to Vespasia’s house, if you prefer. Perhaps you should wait and see what she says.’ He realised as he spoke that he had no idea what had happened to Pitt, even if he were safe. To send Charlotte back to a house with no one there but a strange maid was possibly a cruel thing to do. She had said before that her sister Emily was away somewhere, similarly her mother. God! What a mess. But if anything had happened to Pitt, no one would be able to comfort her. He could not bear to think of that.

Please heaven whoever was behind this, they did not think Pitt a sufficient danger to have done anything drastic to him. ‘We’ll get off a couple of stations before London,’ he repeated. ‘And call Vespasia.’

‘Good idea,’ she agreed, turning back to watch the gulls circling over the white wake of the ship. The two of them stood side by side in silence, oddly comforted by the endless, rhythmic moving of the water and the pale wings of the birds echoing the curved line of it.

 

Narraway was connected with Vespasia immediately. Only when he heard the sound of her voice, which was thin and a little crackly over the line, did he realise how overwhelmingly glad he was to speak with her.

‘Victor! Where on earth are you?’ she demanded. Then the instant later: ‘No. Do not tell me. Are you safe? Is Charlotte safe?’

‘Yes, we are both safe,’ he answered her. She was the only woman since his childhood who had ever made him feel as if he were accountable to her. ‘We are not far away, but I thought it better to speak to you before coming the rest of the journey.’

‘Don’t,’ she said simply. ‘It would be far better if you were to find some suitable place, which we shall not name, and we shall meet there. A very great deal has happened since you left, but there is far more that is about to happen. I do not know what that is, except that it is of profound importance, and it may be tragically violent. But I dare say you have deduced that for yourself. I rather fear that your whole trip to Ireland was designed to take you away from London. Everything else was incidental.’

‘Who’s in charge now?’ he asked. A chill seeped into him, even though he was standing in a very comfortable hotel hallway, looking from left to right every few moments to make sure he was still alone and not overheard. ‘Charles Austwick?’

‘No,’ she answered, and there was a heaviness in her voice, even over the wires. ‘That was only temporary. Thomas is back from France. That trip was entirely abortive. He has replaced Austwick, and is now in your office, and hating it.’