Betrayal at Lisson Grove (6 page)

‘Oh, really?’ Austwick barely masked his surprise. ‘I didn’t know. No one mentioned it!’

Narraway gave him a chill look and ignored the implied rebuke.

Austwick drew in his breath. ‘As I said,’ he resumed, ‘this is something that I regret we have to deal with. Mulhare was betrayed—’

‘We know that, for God’s sake!’ Narraway could hear his own voice thick with emotion. ‘His corpse was fished out of Dublin Bay.’

‘He never got the money,’ Austwick said again.

Narraway clenched his hands under the desk, out of Austwick’s sight. ‘I paid it myself.’ He had done, but indirectly, for good reasons, which he would not tell Austwick.

‘But Mulhare never received it,’ Austwick replied, his voice conflicted with a mixture of emotions. ‘We traced it.’

Narraway was startled. ‘To whom? Where is it?’

‘It is in one of your bank accounts here in London,’ Austwick answered.

Narraway froze. Suddenly, with appalling clarity, he knew what Austwick was doing here, and held at least a hazy idea of what had happened. Austwick suspected, or even believed, that Narraway had taken the money and intentionally left Mulhare to be caught and killed. Was that how little he knew him? Or was it more a measure of his long-simmering resentment, his ambition to take Narraway’s place and wield the razor-edged power that he now held?

‘Went in and out again,’ he said aloud to Austwick. ‘We had to move it around a little, or it would have been too easily traceable to Special Branch.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Austwick agreed bleakly. ‘Around to several places. But the trouble is that in the end it went back again.’

‘Back again? It went to Mulhare,’ Narraway corrected him.

‘No, sir, it did not go to Mulhare. It went back into one of your special accounts. One that we had believed closed,’ Austwick said. ‘It is there now. If Mulhare had received it, he would have left Dublin and he would still be alive. The money went around to several places, making it almost untraceable, as you say, but it ended up right back where it started, with you.’

Narraway drew in his breath to deny it, and saw in Austwick’s face that it would be pointless. Whoever had put it there, Austwick believed it was Narraway himself, or he chose to pretend he believed it.

‘I did not put it there,’ Narraway said, though he thought it would not change anything. The betrayal of Mulhare was repugnant to him, and ‘betrayal’ was not a word he used easily. ‘I paid it to Terence Kelly. He was supposed to have paid it to Mulhare. That was his job. For obvious reasons, I could not give it directly to Mulhare, or I might as well have painted a bull’s-eye on his heart.’

‘Can you prove that, sir?’ Austwick asked politely.

‘Of course I can’t!’ Narraway snapped. Was Austwick being deliberately obtuse? He knew as well as Narraway himself that one did not leave trails to prove such things. What he would be able to prove now, to justify himself, anyone else could have used to damn Mulhare.

‘You see it calls into question the whole subject of your judgement,’ Austwick said half apologetically, his bland face grave. ‘It would be highly advisable, sir, for you to find some proof of this, then the matter could be let go.’

Narraway’s mind raced. He knew what was in his bank accounts, both personal and for Special Branch use. Austwick had mentioned one that had been presumed closed. No money had passed through it for some time, but Narraway had deliberately left a few pounds in it, in case he ever wished to use it again. It was a convenience.

‘I’ll check the account,’ he said aloud, his voice cold.

‘That would be a good idea, sir,’ Austwick agreed. ‘Perhaps you will be able to find some proof as to why the money came back to you, and a reason poor Mulhare never received it.’

Narraway realised with the first chill of fear that this was not an invitation; it was a comparatively low-key warning to him, but it was in earnest. It was even possible that his position at Special Branch was in jeopardy. Certainly he had created enemies over the years, both in his rise to leadership, and even more so in the time since then. There were always hard decisions to make; whatever you did could not please everyone. There had to be sacrifices both of ideals and of people. They were dealing with lives, the movements and the tides of history, there was no room for sentimentality.

He had employed Pitt as a favour, when Pitt had challenged his own superiors and been thrown out of the Metropolitan Police. To begin with he had found Pitt unsatisfactory. He lacked the training or the inclination for Special Branch work, but he had learned quickly, and he was a remarkably good detective: persistent, imaginative and with a moral courage Narraway admired. And he liked the man, in spite of his own resolution not to allow personal feelings into anything professional.

He had protected Pitt from the envy and the criticism of others in the Branch. That was partly because Pitt was more than worthy of the place, but also to defend Narraway’s own judgement. But – he admitted it now—it was also for Charlotte’s sake. Without Pitt, he would have no excuse to see her again.

‘I’ll attend to it,’ he answered Austwick at last. ‘As soon as I have a few more answers on this present problem. One of our informants was murdered, which has made things more difficult.’

Austwick rose to his feet. ‘Yes, sir. That would be a good idea. I think the sooner you put people’s minds at rest on the issue, the better it will be. I suggest before the end of this week.’

‘When circumstances allow,’ Narraway replied coolly.

 

Circumstances did not allow. Early the following morning Narraway was sent for to report to the Home Office, directly to Sir Gerald Croxdale, his political superior, the one man to whom he was obliged to answer, without reservation.

Croxdale was in his early fifties, a quiet, persistent politician who had risen in the ranks of the government with remarkable swiftness, not having made great speeches or initiated new laws, nor apparently having used the benefit of patronage from any of the more noted ministers. Croxdale seemed to be his own man. Whatever debts he collected or favours he owed were too discreet for even Narraway to know of, let alone the general public. He had made no individual initiatives that were remarkable, but probably far more important, he had made no visible mistakes. Insiders spoke his name with respect.

Narraway had never seen in him the passion that marked an ambitious man, but he had noted the quick rise to greater power and it earned in him a deeper, if reluctant, respect.

‘Morning, Narraway,’ Croxdale said with an easy smile as he waved him to a brown leather armchair in his large office. Croxdale was a big man, tall and solid. His face was far from handsome in any traditional sense, but he was imposing. His voice was soft, his smile benign. Today he was wearing his usual well-cut but unostentatious suit, and perfectly polished black leather boots. He could have been the second son of any of the great families in the country.

Narraway returned the greeting, and sat down, not comfortably, but a little forward, listening.

‘Bad business about your informant West being killed,’ Croxdale began. ‘I presume he was going to tell you a great deal more about whatever it was that is building up among the militant socialists.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Narraway said bleakly. ‘Pitt and Gower were only seconds too late. They saw West but he was already terrified of something and took to his heels. They caught up with him in a brickyard in Shadwell, only moments after he was killed. The murderer was still bending over him.’ He could feel the heat of the blood in his cheeks as he said it. It was partly anger at having been so close, and yet infinitely far from preventing the death. One minute sooner and West would have been alive, and all his information would be theirs. It was also a sense of failure, as if losing him were an incompetence on the part of his men, and so of himself. Deliberately he met Croxdale’s eyes, refusing to look away. He never made excuses, explicit or implicit.

Croxdale smiled, leaning back and crossing his long legs. ‘Unfortunate, but luck cannot always be on our side. It is the measure of your men that they kept track of the assassin. What is the news now?’

‘I’ve had a couple of telegrams from Pitt in St Malo,’ Narraway answered. ‘Wrexham, the killer, seems to have more or less gone to ground in the house of a British expatriate there. The interesting thing is that he has seen other socialist activists of note.’

‘Who?’ Croxdale asked.

‘Pieter Linsky and Jacob Meister,’ Narraway replied.

Croxdale stiffened, straightening up a little, his face keen with interest. ‘Really? Then perhaps not all is lost.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Tell me, Narraway, do you still believe there is some major action planned?’

‘Yes,’ Narraway said without hesitation. ‘I think West’s murder removes any doubt. He would have told us what it was, and probably who else was involved.’

‘Damn! Well, you must keep Pitt there, and the other chap, what’s his name?’

‘Gower.’

‘Yes, Gower too. Give them all the funds they need. I’ll see to it that that meets no opposition.’

‘Of course,’ Narraway said with some surprise. He had always had complete authority to disburse the funds in his care as he saw fit.

Croxdale pursed his lips and leaned further forward. ‘It is not quite so simple, Narraway,’ he said gravely. ‘We have been looking into the matter of past funds and their use, in connection with other cases, as I dare say you know.’ He interlaced his fingers and looked down at them a moment, then up again quickly. ‘Mulhare’s death has raised some ugly questions, which I’m afraid have to be answered.’

Narraway was surprised. He had not realised it had already gone as far as Croxdale, and before he had even had a chance to look into it more deeply, and prove his own innocence. Was that Austwick’s doing again? Damn the man.

‘They will be,’ he said now to Croxdale. ‘I kept certain movements of the funds secret to protect Mulhare. His enemies would have killed him instantly if they’d known he received English money.’

‘Isn’t that rather what happened?’ Croxdale asked ruefully.

Narraway thought for a moment of denying it. Special Branch knew who had killed Mulhare, but it was only proof they lacked; the deduction was certain in his own mind. But he did not need another moral evasion. His life was too full of shadows. He would not allow Croxdale to provoke him into another. ‘Yes.’

‘We failed him, Narraway,’ Croxdale said sadly.

‘Yes.’

‘How did that happen?’ Croxdale pressed.

‘He was betrayed.’

‘By whom?’

‘I don’t know. When this socialist threat is dealt with, I shall find out, if I can.’

‘If you can,’ Croxdale said gently. ‘Do you doubt it? You have no idea who it was here in London?’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘But you used the word “betrayed”,’ Croxdale persisted. ‘I think advisedly so. Does that not concern you urgently, Narraway? Whom can you trust, in any Irish issue? Of which, God knows, there are more than enough.’

‘The European socialist revolutionaries are our most urgent concern now, sir.’ Narraway also leaned forward. ‘There is a high degree of violence threatened. Men like Linsky, Meister, la Pointe, Corazath, are all quick to use guns and dynamite. Their philosophy is that a few deaths are the price they have to pay for the greater freedom and equality of the people. As long, of course, as the deaths are not their own,’ he added drily.

‘Does that take precedence over treachery within your own people?’ Croxdale asked with quiet, tense amazement. He left it hanging in the air between them, a question that demanded answering.

Narraway had seen the death of Mulhare as tragic, but less urgent than the threat of revolution. He knew how he had guarded the provenance of the money, knowing those of whom Mulhare was afraid. He did not know how someone had made the funds return to Narraway’s own personal account. Above all, he did not know who was responsible, or whether it was incompetence or deliberately done in order to make him look a thief.

‘I’m not yet certain it was betrayal, sir. Perhaps I used the word hastily.’ He kept his voice as level as he could; still, he heard a certain roughness to it. He hoped Croxdale’s less sensitive ear did not catch it.

Croxdale was staring at him. ‘As opposed to what?’

‘Incompetence,’ Narraway replied. ‘We covered the tracks of the transfers very carefully, so no one in Ireland would be able to trace the money back to us. We made it seem like legitimate purchases all the way.’

‘Or at least you thought so,’ Croxdale amended. ‘But Mulhare was still killed. Where is the money now?’

Narraway had hoped to avoid telling him, but perhaps it had always been inevitable that Croxdale would have to know. Maybe he did, and this was a trap. ‘Austwick told me it was back in an account I have ceased using,’ he replied. ‘I don’t know who moved it, but I shall find out.’

Croxdale was silent for several moments. ‘Yes, please do, and with indisputable proof, of course. Quickly, Narraway. We need your skills on this wretched socialist business. It seems the threat is real.’

‘I’ll look into the money as soon as we have learned what West’s killers are planning, and prevented it,’ Narraway answered with a chill inside him. ‘With a little luck, we’ll even catch some of them and be able to put them away.’

Croxdale looked up, his eyes bright and sharp. Suddenly he was no longer an amiable, rather bear-like man but tigerish, the passion in him like a coiled spring, only masked by a superficial ease. ‘Do you imagine that the sacrifice of a few martyrs to the cause will stop anything, Narraway? If so, I’m disappointed in you. Idealists thrive on sacrifice, the more public and the more dramatic the better.’

‘I know that.’ Narraway was stung by the misjudgement. ‘I have no intention of giving them martyrs. Indeed, I have no intention of denying them social reform and a good deal of change, but in pace with the will of the majority of the people in the country, not ahead of it, and not forced on them by a few fanatics. We’ve always changed, but slowly. Look at the history of the revolutions of ’forty-eight. We were about the only major country in Europe who didn’t have an uprising. And by 1850 where were all the idealists from the barricades? Where were all the new freedoms so bloodily won? Every damn one of them gone, and all the old regimes back in power.’