The irate and terrified passengers who had witnessed half the events had seen Pitt on the platform with the first man who had gone over, and then alone with Gower just before he had been pitched over as well.

‘I know what I saw!’ one of them stated. He stood as far away from Pitt as he could, his face a mask of horror in the railway platform gaslight. ‘He threw them both over. You want to watch yourselves or he’ll have you too! He’s insane! He has to be. Threw them over, one after the other.’

‘We were fighting!’ Pitt protested. ‘He attacked me, but I won!’

‘Which one of them would that be, sir?’ one of the constables asked him. ‘The first one, or the second one?’

‘The second one,’ Pitt answered, but he heard the note of desperation in his own voice. It sounded ridiculous, even to him.

‘Maybe he didn’t like it that you’d thrown the first man off the train,’ the constable said reasonably. ‘’E was tryin’ to arrest you. Good citizen doin’ ’is duty.’

‘He attacked me the first time,’ Pitt tried to explain. ‘The other man was trying to rescue me, and he lost the fight!’

‘But when this second man attacked you, you won, right?’ the constable said with open disbelief.

‘Obviously, since I’m here,’ Pitt snapped. ‘If you undo the manacles, I’ll show you my warrant card. I’m a member of Special Branch.’

‘Yes, sir,’ the constable said sarcastically. ‘They always go around throwin’ people off trains. Very special, they are.’

Pitt barely controlled his temper. ‘Look in my pocket, inside my coat, up at the top,’ he said between his teeth. ‘You’ll find my card.’

The constables looked at each other. ‘Yeah? An’ why would you be pitchin’ people off trains, sir?’

‘Because the man attacked me,’ Pitt said again. ‘He is a dangerous man planning violence here.’ He knew as he said it how absurd that sounded, considering that Gower was dead on the track, and Pitt was standing here alive and unhurt, apart from a few bruises, which were on his body and invisible under his clothes.

‘Look,’ he tried again, ‘Gower attacked me. The stranger came to my rescue, but Gower was stronger than he and he lost the fight. I couldn’t save him. Then Gower attacked me again, but this time I was ready. I won. Look for my warrant card. That’ll prove who I am.’

The constables exchanged glances again. Then one of them very gingerly approached Pitt and held his coat open with one hand, while the other felt inside his inner pocket.

‘There in’t nothin’ there, sir,’ he said, removing his hand quickly.

‘There’s my warrant card and my passport,’ Pitt said with a sense of rising panic. It had to be. He had had them both when he got onto the train at Shoreham. He remembered putting them back, as always.

‘No, sir,’ the constable repeated. ‘Your pocket’s empty, sir. There in’t nothin’ in it at all. Now why don’t you come quietly? No use in causing a lot o’ fuss. Just gets people ’urt, and I can promise you, sir, it’ll be you as comes off worst.’ He turned to the other passenger. ‘Thank you for yer trouble, sir. We got yer name and address. We’ll be in touch with yer when we needs more.’

Pitt drew in his breath to try reasoning further, and realised the futility of it. He knew what must have happened. Either his warrant card and passport had fallen out of his pocket in the fight, which didn’t seem likely – not from a deep pocket so well concealed – or else Gower had taken the precaution of picking it during the struggle. They had stood very close, struggling together. Pitt had been thinking of saving his own life, not being robbed. He turned to the constable closest to him.

‘I’ve just come in from France, through Southampton,’ he said with sudden hope. ‘I had to have my passport then, or they wouldn’t have let me in. My warrant card was with it. Can’t you see that I’ve been robbed?’

The constable stared at him, shaking his head. ‘I only know as you’re on the train, sir. I don’t know where you got on, or where you was before that. You just come quietly, and we’ll get you sorted at the police station. Don’t give us any more trouble, sir. Believe me, yer got enough already.’

Pitt made no protest as they led him away. It would be pointless, he would probably get hurt, and it would be grotesquely undignified. As it was, a crowd was gathering watching him. At this moment it was impossible for him to feel sorry Gower was dead. The other passenger he grieved for with a dull, angry pain. ‘Do you have a telephone at the police station?’ he demanded.

‘Yes, sir, o’ course we do. If yer got family, we’ll call them for yer an’ let ’em know where you are,’ the policeman promised.

‘Thank you.’

But when they arrived at the police station and Pitt was led in, a constable closely at either side of him, he was put straight into a cell and the door locked.

‘My phone call!’ he persisted.

‘We’ll make it for yer, sir. ’Oo shall we call, then?’

Pitt had considered it. If he called Charlotte she would be frightened and very distressed, and there was nothing she could do. Far better he call Narraway, who would straighten out the whole hideous mess, and could tell Charlotte about it afterwards. ‘Victor Narraway,’ he answered.

‘’E related to yer?’ the constable asked suspiciously.

‘Brother-in-law,’ Pitt lied quickly. He gave them the Lisson Grove number. ‘That’s his work. It’s where he’ll be, or they’ll know where to find him.’

‘At this time o’ night, sir?’

‘There’s always someone there. Please, just call.’

‘If that’s what you want, we’ll call.’

‘Thank you.’ Pitt sat down on the hard, wooden bench in the cell and waited. He must stay calm. It would all be explained in a matter of minutes. This part of the nightmare would be over. There was still Gower’s treachery and his death; now, in the silence of the cell, he had time to think of it more deeply.

He should not have been surprised that Gower came after him. The pleasant, friendly face Gower had shown in France, indeed all the time they had worked together over the last few months, might have been part of his real character, but it was superficial, merely a skin over a very different man beneath.

Pitt thought of his quick humour, how he had watched the girl in the pink dress, admiring her, taking pleasure in her easy walk, the swing of her skirt, imagining what she would be like to know. He remembered how Gower liked the fresh bread. He drank his coffee black, even though he pulled his mouth at its bitterness, and still went back for more. He pictured how he stood smiling with his face to the sun, watched the sailing boats on the bay, and knew the French names for all the different kinds of seafood.

People fought for their own causes for all kinds of reasons. Maybe Gower believed in his goal as much as Pitt did; they were just utterly different. Pitt had liked him, even enjoyed his company. How had he not seen the ruthlessness that could kill West, and then turn on Pitt so easily?

Except perhaps it had not been easy? Gower might have lain awake all night wretched, seeking another way and not finding it. Pitt would never know. It was painful to realise that so much was not as you had trusted, and your own judgement was nowhere near the truth. He could imagine what Narraway would have to say about that.

The constable came back, stopping just outside the bars. He did not have the keys in his hand.

Pitt’s heart sank. Suddenly he felt confused and a little sick.

‘Sorry, sir,’ the constable said unhappily. ‘I called the number you gave. It was a branch o’ the police all right, but they said as they’d got no one there called Narraway, an’ they couldn’t ’elp yer.’

‘Of course Narraway’s there!’ Pitt said desperately. ‘He’s head of Special Branch! Call again. You must have had the wrong number. This is impossible.’

‘It were the right number, sir,’ the constable repeated stolidly. ‘It was Special Branch, like you said. An’ they told me they got no one there called Victor Narraway. I asked ’em careful, sir, an’ they were polite, but very definite. There in’t no Victor Narraway there. Now you settle down, sir. Get a bit o’ rest. We’ll see what we can do in the morning. I’ll get you a cup o’ tea, an’ mebbe a sandwich, if yer like?’

Pitt was numb. The nightmare was getting worse. His imagination created all kinds of horror. What had happened to Narraway? How wide was this conspiracy? Perhaps he should have realised that if they removed Pitt himself to France on a pointless errand, then of course they would have got rid of Narraway as well. There was no purpose in removing Pitt otherwise. He was only a kind of backup : a right-hand man, possibly, but not more than that. Narraway was the real threat to them.

‘Yer want a cup o’ tea, sir?’ the constable repeated. ‘Yer look a bit rough, sir. An’ a sandwich?’

‘Yes . . .’ Pitt said slowly. The man’s humanity made it all the more grotesque, yet he was grateful for it. ‘I would. Thank you, Constable.’

‘Yer just rest, sir. Don’t give yerself so much trouble. I’ll get yer a sandwich. Would ’am be all right?’

‘Very good, thank you.’ Pitt sat down on the cot to show that he had no intention of causing any problems for them. He was numb anyway. He did not even know who to fight: certainly not this man who was doing his best to exercise both care and a degree of decency in handling a prisoner he believed had just committed a double murder.

It was a long and wretched night. He slept little, and when he did his dreams were full of fear, shifting darkness and sudden explosions of sound and violence. When he woke in the morning his head throbbed, and his whole body was bruised and aching from the fight. It was painful to stand up when the constable came back again with another cup of tea.

‘We’ll take yer ter the magistrate later on,’ he said, watching Pitt carefully. ‘Yer look awful!’

Pitt tried to smile. ‘I feel awful. I need to wash and shave, and I look as if I’ve slept in my clothes, because I have.’

‘Comes with being in gaol, sir. ’Ave a cup o’ tea. It’ll’elp.’

‘Yes, I expect it will, even if not much,’ Pitt accepted. He stood well back from the door so the constable could place it inside without risking an attack. It was the usual way of doing things.

The constable screwed up his face. ‘Yer bin in the cells before, in’t yer,’ he observed.

‘No,’ Pitt replied, ‘but I’ve been on your side of them often enough, as I told you. I’m a policeman myself. I have another number I would like you to call, seeing that Mr Narraway doesn’t seem to be there. Please. I need to let someone know where I am. My wife and family, at least.’

‘’Oo would that be, sir?’ The constable put down the tea and backed out of the cell again, closing and locking the door. ‘You give me the number and I’ll do it. Everyone deserves that much.’

‘Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould,’ Pitt replied. ‘I’ll write the number down for you, if you give me a pencil.’

‘You jus’ tell me, sir. I’ll write it down.’

Pitt obeyed; there was no point in arguing.

The man returned ten minutes later, his face wide-eyed and a trifle pale.

‘She says as she knows yer, sir. Described yer to a T, she did. Says as ye’re one o’ the best policemen in London, an’ Mr Narraway’s ’oo yer said ’e were, but summink’s ’appened to ’im. She’s sending a Member o’ Parliament down ter get yer out of’ere, an’ as we’d better treat yer proper, or she’ll be ’avin’ a word wi’ the Chief Constable. I dunno if she’s real, sir. I ’ope yer understand I gotter keep yer in ’ere till this gentleman comes, wi’ proof ’e’s wot ’e says ’e is, an’ all. ’E could be anyone, but I know I got two dead bodies on the tracks.’

‘Of course,’ Pitt said wearily. He would not tell him that Gower was Special Branch, and Pitt had not known that he was a traitor until the day before yesterday. ‘Of course I’ll wait here,’ he added. ‘I’d be obliged if you didn’t take me before the magistrate until the man arrives that Lady Vespasia sends.’

‘Yes, sir, I think as we can arrange that.’ He sighed. ‘I think as we’d better. Next time yer come from Southampton, sir, I’d be obliged if yer’d take some other line!’

Pitt managed a lopsided smile. ‘Actually, I’d prefer this one. Given the circumstances, you’ve been very fair.’

The constable was lost for words. He struggled, but clearly nothing he could think of seemed adequate.

It was nearly two hours later that Mr Somerset Carlisle, MP came sauntering into the police station, elegantly dressed, his curious face filled with a rueful amusement. Many years ago he had committed a series of outrages in London, to draw attention to an injustice against which he had no other weapon. Pitt had been the policeman who led the investigation. The murder had been solved, and he had seen no need to pursue the man who had so bizarrely brought it to public attention. Carlisle had remained grateful, and become an ally in several cases since then.

On this occasion, he had with him all his identification of the considerable office he held. Within ten minutes Pitt was a free man, brushing aside the apologies of the local police and assuring them that they had performed their duties excellently, and found no fault with them.

‘What the devil’s going on?’ Carlisle asked as they walked outside into the sun and headed in the direction of the railway station. ‘Vespasia called me in great agitation this morning, saying you had been charged with a double murder! You look like hell. Do you need a doctor?’ There was laughter in his voice, but his eyes reflected a very real anxiety.

‘A fight,’ Pitt explained briefly. He found walking with any grace very difficult. He had not realised at the time how bruised he was. ‘On the platform at the back of a railway carriage travelling at considerable speed.’ He told Carlisle very briefly what had happened.

Carlisle nodded. ‘It’s a very dark situation. I don’t know the whole story, but I’d be very careful what you do, Pitt. Vespasia told me to get you to her house, not Lisson Grove. In fact, she advised very strongly against going there at all.’

Pitt was cold. The sunlit street, the clatter of traffic all seemed unreal. ‘What’s happened to Narraway?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve heard whispers, but I don’t know the truth. If anyone does, it’ll be Vespasia. But I’ll take you to my flat first. Clean you up a bit. You look as if you’ve spent the night in gaol!’

Pitt did not grace the observation with a reply.

Vespasia was dressed in silver grey, with the long ropes of pearls he was so accustomed to seeing her wear. She looked calm, as she always did, and her beauty still moved him with a certain awe. However, he knew her well enough to see the profound anxiety in her eyes. It alarmed him, and he was too tired to hide it.

She looked him up and down. ‘I see Somerset lent you a shirt and cravat,’ she observed with a faint smile.

‘Is it so obvious?’ he asked, standing in front of her.

‘Of course. You would never choose a shirt of that shade, or a cravat with a touch of wine in it. But it becomes you very well. Please sit down. It is uncomfortable craning my neck to look up at you.’

He would never have seated himself before she gave her permission, but he was glad to do so, in the chair opposite her.

The formalities were over and they would address the issues that burdened them both.

‘Where have you been?’ she asked. She gave no thought even to the possibility that he might consider it confidential from her. She knew more about the power and danger of secrets than most ministers of government.

‘In St Malo,’ he replied. He was embarrassed by his own failure to see through the subterfuge more rapidly. However, he did not avoid her eyes as he told her about himself and Gower chasing through the streets, their brief parting, then their meeting and almost instantly finding Wrexham crouched over the corpse of West, his neck slashed open and blood covering the stones.

Vespasia winced, but did not interrupt him.

He described their pursuit of Wrexham to the East End, and then in the train to Southampton, and on the ferry across to France. He found himself explaining too fully why they had not arrested Wrexham until it sounded miserably like excuses.

‘Thomas,’ she interrupted gently, ‘common sense justifies your actions, as seen at the time. You do not need to dot the i’s and cross the t’s for me. You were aware of a socialist conspiracy and you believed it to be more important than one grisly murder in London. What did you learn in St Malo?’

‘Very little,’ he replied. ‘We saw one or two known socialist agitators in the first couple of days . . . at least I think we did.’

‘You think?’

He explained to her that it was Gower who had made the identification, and he had accepted it.

‘I see. Who did he say they were?’

He was about to say that she would not know their names, then he remembered her own radical part in the revolutions of ’48, which had swept across every country in Western Europe except Britain. She had been in Italy, manning the barricades for that brief moment of hope in a new freedom. It was possible she had not lost all interest.

‘Jacob Meister and Pieter Linsky,’ he replied. ‘But they didn’t come back again.’

She frowned. The tension increased in the rigidity of her shoulders, the way her hands in her lap gripped each other.

‘You know of them?’ he concluded.

‘Of course,’ she said drily. ‘And many others. They are dangerous, Thomas. There is a new radicalism awakening in Europe. The next insurrections will not be like ’forty-eight. It is a different breed. There will be more violence: I think perhaps it will be much more. The Russian monarchy cannot last a lot longer unless it learns to change. The oppression is fearful. I have a few friends left who are able to write occasionally – old friends, who tell me the truth. There is desperate poverty. The Tsar has lost all sense of reality and is totally out of touch with his people – as are all his ministers and advisers. The gulf between the obscenely rich and the literally starving is so great it will eventually swallow them all. The only thing we do not know is when.’

The thought was chilling, but he did not even question it.

‘And I am afraid the news is not good here. But you already know something of it.’

‘Only that Narraway is out of Lisson Grove,’ Pitt replied. ‘I have no idea why, or what happened.’

‘I know why,’ she sighed, and he saw the sadness in her eyes. She looked pale, and tired. ‘He has been charged with the embezzlement of a considerable amount of money, which—’

‘What?’ It was absurd. Ordinarily he would not have dreamed of interrupting her – it was a break of courtesy unimaginable to him – but the disbelief was too urgent to remain concealed.

A flicker of amusement sparkled in her eyes, and vanished as quickly. ‘I am aware of the absurdity, Thomas. Victor has several faults, but petty theft is not among them.’

‘You said a large amount.’

‘Large to steal. It cost a man’s life because he did not have it. But if Victor were to steal, it would be the crown jewels, or something really worth the price of his position in Special Branch. I doubt anything short of the Queen’s crown would be sufficient for him. Someone engineered this very astutely. I have my ideas as to who it may have been, but they are no more than ideas, insubstantial and possibly quite mistaken.’

‘Where is Narraway?’

‘In Ireland,’ she told him.

‘In prison?’ he asked. ‘And why Ireland?’ He must find out. He had expected him to be in London.

‘Not in prison so far as I know, but I have not heard. He went of his own will, because he believes that whoever was the author of his misfortune is Irish, and the answer to that person’s identity is to be found there.’ She bit her lip very slightly. For her it was a gesture of anxiety so deep he could not recall having seen her do it before.

‘Aunt Vespasia?’ He leaned forward a little.

‘He believed it personal,’ she continued. ‘An act of revenge for an old injury. At the time I thought he might have been correct, although it was a long time to wait for such perceived justice, and the Irish have never been noted for their patience, especially for revenge. I assumed some new circumstance must have made it possible . . .’

‘You say “assumed”—were you wrong?’ he asked.

‘After what you have told me of your experience in France, and of this man Gower, who was your assistant, and of whom neither you nor anyone else in Special Branch appeared to have any suspicions, I think Victor was mistaken,’ she said gravely. ‘I fear this trumped-up allegation may have had nothing to do with personal revenge, but have been a means of removing him from command of the situation in London, and replacing him with either someone of far less competence or – very much worse – of sympathy with the socialist cause. It looks as if you were removed to France for the same reason.’

Pitt smiled with a bitter humour. ‘I am not of Narraway’s experience or power,’ he told her honestly. ‘I am not worth their trouble to remove.’

‘You are too modest, my dear.’ She regarded him with amused affection. ‘Surely you would have fought for Victor. I think you are fond of him, but even if I am wrong in that, you owe him a great loyalty. He took you into Special Branch when the Metropolitan Police dismissed you, and you had too many enemies to return there. He took some risk doing so, and made more enemies of his own. It is not appreciated in certain circles. Most of those men are gone now, but at the time it was a dangerous act. You have more than repaid him with your ability, but you can now repay the courage. I do not imagine you think differently.’

Her eyes were steady on his. ‘Added to which, you have enemies in Special Branch yourself, because of the favour he showed you, and your somewhat rapid rise. With Victor gone, you will be very fortunate indeed if you survive him for long. Even if you do, you will be forever watching over your shoulder and waiting for the unseen blow. If you do not know that, you are far more naïve than I think you.’

‘The loyalty would have been enough,’ he told her. ‘But, yes, of course I am aware that without Narraway’s protection I won’t last long.’

Her voice was very gentle. ‘My dear, it is imperative, for many reasons, that we do what we can to clear Victor’s name. I am glad you see it so clearly.’

He felt a sudden chill, a warning.

She inclined her head in assent. ‘Then you will understand why Charlotte has gone to Ireland with Victor to help him in any way she can. He will find it hard enough on his own. She may be his eyes and ears in places he is unable to go himself.’

For a moment Pitt did not even understand, as if her words were half in a foreign language. The key words were plain enough – Charlotte, Narraway and Ireland – but the whole of it made no sense.

‘Charlotte’s gone to Ireland?’ he repeated. ‘She can’t have! What on earth could she do? She doesn’t know Ireland and she certainly doesn’t know anything about Narraway’s past, his old cases, or anyone else in Special Branch.’ He hesitated to tell her she had misunderstood. It sounded so rude, but it was the only explanation.

‘Thomas,’ Vespasia said gravely, ‘the situation is very serious. Victor is helpless. He is closed out of his office and all access to any assistance from Special Branch. We know that at least one person there, highly placed, is a thief and a traitor. We do not know who it is. Charles Austwick is in charge—’

‘Austwick?’

‘Yes. You see how serious it is? Do you imagine that without your help Austwick will find the traitor? Apparently none of you, including Victor, were aware of Gower’s treason. Who else would betray you? Charlotte is at least in part aware of the danger, including the danger to you personally. She went with Victor partly out of loyalty to him, but mostly to save his career because she is very sharply aware that yours depends upon it also. And another element, which you may not yet have had time to consider: if Victor can be made to appear guilty of theft, how difficult would it be for the same people to make you appear guilty with him?’

It was a nightmare again: frightening, irrational. Pitt was exhausted, aching with the pain of disillusion and the horror of his own violence. His body was bruised and so tired he could sleep sitting in this comfortable chair, if only he could relax long enough. And yet fear knotted the muscles in his back, his shoulders and his neck, and his head throbbed. This last piece of news made his whole situation worse. He struggled to make sense of it.

‘Where is she? Is she safe?’ Safe was a stupid word to use if she was in Ireland with Narraway.

‘Thomas, Victor is out there with her. He won’t let any harm come to her if he can prevent it,’ Vespasia said softly.

Pitt knew Narraway was in love with Charlotte, but he did not want to hear it. ‘If he cared, he wouldn’t have—’ he began.

‘Allowed her to go?’ she finished for him. ‘Thomas, she has gone in order to honour her friendship and loyalty, and above all to protect her husband’s career, and therefore the family’s means of survival. What do you imagine he could have said or done that would have stopped her?’

‘Not told her he was going in the first place!’ he snapped.

‘Really?’ Vespasia raised her silver eyebrows. ‘And left her wondering why you did not come home after chasing your informant through the streets? Not that night, or for days afterwards? She might have gone to Lisson Grove and asked, by which time she would be frantic with fear. And she would have been met with the news that Narraway was gone and you were nowhere to be found, and there was no one in Lisson Grove to help or support you. Do you feel that would have been preferable?’

‘No . . .’ He felt foolish – panicky. What should he do? He wanted to go immediately to Ireland and make sure Charlotte was safe, but even an instant’s reflection told him that might do at least as much harm as good. And anyway, the heart of the problem was not there but in London. He had no idea what Narraway’s old case was; there were so many. And it now looked as if that were a red herring anyway. If, however, it was what had lured Narraway to Ireland, and Pitt to France, by reacting thoughtlessly he would be playing directly into the conspirators’ hands. It was an irresponsible, hot-headed thing even to think of.

‘I’ll go home and see Daniel and Jemima,’ he said more calmly. ‘If they have had a week of Mrs Waterman, they may be feeling pretty desperate. She is not an easy woman. I must speak to Charlotte about that when she gets home.’

‘You don’t need to concern yourself—’ Vespasia began.

‘You don’t know the woman—’ he started.

‘She is irrelevant,’ Vespasia told him. ‘She left.’

‘What? Then—’

Vespasia raised her hand. ‘That is the other thing I was going to tell you. She has been replaced by a new maid, on the recommendation of Gracie. She seems a very competent girl, and Gracie looks in on them every day. I have been in touch with Gracie. All is well. In fact, I must say that I rather like the sound of young Minnie Maude. She has character.’

Pitt was dizzy. Everything seemed to be shifting. The moment he looked at it, it changed, as if someone had struck the kaleidoscope and all the pieces had shattered and reformed in a different pattern.

‘Minnie Maude?’ he said stumblingly. ‘For God’s sake, how old is she?’ To him, Gracie herself was little more than a child. His own intelligence told him that was because he had known her since she was thirteen, and she had not grown much taller than she was then. He knew her ability and her courage through experience. Who was this Minnie Maude left alone in charge of his children? She could be anyone!

‘About twenty,’ Vespasia replied. ‘Gracie has known her since she was eight. She has courage and sense. There is nothing to concern yourself about, Thomas. As I said, I kept a discreet eye on the girl via Gracie and everything was satisfactory. Perhaps just as importantly, both Daniel and Jemima like her. Do you imagine I would allow the situation to remain if that were not so?’

Now he felt clumsy and deeply ungracious. ‘No.’ He knew an apology was appropriate. His fear had made him foolish, and rude. ‘Of course not. I’m sorry. I . . .’ He hunted for words.

She smiled. It was a sudden, beautiful gesture that lit her face and restored everything of the beauty that had made her famous. ‘I would think less of you were you to take it for granted,’ she said. ‘Now, before you leave, would you like tea? And are you hungry? If you are I shall have whatever you care for prepared. In the meantime we need to discuss what is to be done next. It is now up to you to address the real issue behind all this ploy and counterploy by whoever is the traitor at Lisson Grove.’

Her words were suddenly and hideously sobering. How like Vespasia to discuss the fate of revolution, murder, and treason in high places over tea and a plate of sandwiches in the withdrawing room. It restored a certain sanity to the world. At least something was as it should be.

Pitt drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, steadying himself. ‘Thank you. I should very much like a good cup of tea. The prison in Shoreham had only the most moderate amenities. And a sandwich would be excellent.’

He stood on the step shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his mind racing over what changes he might find: what small things uncared for, changed so it was no longer the home he was used to, and which he realised he loved fiercely, exactly as it was. Except, of course, Charlotte should be there. Without her, nothing was more than a shell.

The door opened and a young woman stood just inside, her expression guarded.

‘Yes, sir?’ She said it politely, but stood squarely blocking the way in. ‘Can I ’elp yer?’ She was not pretty but she had beautiful hair: thick and curling and of a rich, bright colour. And she had the freckles on her face that so often went with such vividness. She was far taller than Gracie, but slender. However, she had the same direct, almost defiant gaze.

‘Are you Minnie Maude?’ he asked.

‘Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but that in’t yer business,’ she replied. ‘If yer want the master, yer gimme a card, an’ I’ll ask ’im to call on yer.’

He could not help smiling. ‘I’ll give you a card, by all means.’ He fished for one in his pocket and passed it to her, then wondered if she could read. He had become used to Gracie reading, since Charlotte had taught her.

Minnie Maude looked at the card, then up at him, then at the card again.

He smiled at her.

The blush spread up her cheeks in a hot tide. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she stumbled over the words. ‘I din’t know yer.’

‘Don’t be sorry,’ he said quickly. ‘You shouldn’t allow anyone in unless you know who they are, and not just because they say so.’

She stood back, allowing him to pass. He went into the familiar hallway, and immediately smelled the lavender floor polish. The hall mirror was clean, the surfaces free of dust. Jemima’s shoes were placed neatly side by side under the coat stand.

He walked down to the kitchen and looked around. Everything was as it should be: blue-and-white ringed plates on the Welsh dresser, copper pans on the wall, kitchen table scrubbed, the stove burning warm but not over-hot. He could smell newly baked bread and the clean, comfortable aroma of fresh laundry hanging from the airing rail up near the ceiling. He was home again. There was nothing wrong, except that his family was not there. But he knew where Charlotte was, and the children were at school.

‘Would you like a cup o’ tea, sir?’ Minnie Maude asked in an uncertain voice.

He did not really need one so soon after leaving Vespasia’s, but he felt she would like to do something familiar and useful.

‘Thank you,’ he accepted. He had been obliged to buy several necessities for the days he had been in France, including the case in which he now carried them. ‘I have a little laundry in my bag, but I don’t know whether I shall be home for dinner or not. I’m sorry. If I am, something cold to eat will do very well.’

‘Yes, sir. Would you like some cold mutton an’ ’ot bubble and squeak? That’s wot Daniel an’ Jemima’ll be’avin’, as it’s wot they like. ’Ceptin’ they like eggs wif it.’

‘Eggs will be excellent, thank you.’ He meant it. It sounded familiar, comfortable and very good.

Vespasia had warned Pitt not to go to Lisson Grove, but he had no choice, and at least now he was far more aware of the situation. He could not learn what was really planned, rather than the bluff that had taken him to France and kept him there so long. He was still both angry and embarrassed by the ease with which he had been duped.

Also he could do nothing to help Narraway – and now, obviously, Charlotte as well – without information he could learn only there.

And of course there was the question of explaining what had happened to Gower. He had no idea how badly he had been disfigured by the fall from the train, but every effort would be made to identify him, and the police were bound to succeed sooner or later. Indeed, when he reached Lisson Grove he might find that it had already happened.

What should his story be? How much of the truth could he tell without losing every advantage of surprise that he had? He did not know who his enemies were, but they certainly knew him. His instinct was to affect as much ignorance as possible. The less they considered him a worthwhile opponent, the less likely they were to eliminate him. It would be a manner of camouflage, at least for a while.

He should be open and honest about the attack on the train. It was a matter of record with the police. But it would be easy enough – highly believable, in fact – to claim that he had no idea who the man was; remove every thought that it was personal.

He had last seen Gower in St Malo, when they agreed that Pitt should come home to see what Lisson Grove knew of any conspiracy, and that Gower should remain in France and watch Frobisher and Wrexham, and anyone else of interest. Naturally, Pitt would know nothing of Narraway’s disgrace, and be thoroughly shocked.

He arrived just before four o’clock. He went in through the door, past the man on duty just inside, and asked to see Narraway.

He was told to wait, as he had expected, but it was a surprisingly short time before Charles Austwick himself came down and conducted Pitt up to what used to be Narraway’s office. Pitt noticed immediately that all signs of Narraway were gone: his pictures; the photograph of his mother, which used to sit on top of the bookcase; the few personal books of poetry and memoirs; the engraved brass bowl from his time in North Africa.

He stared at Austwick, allowing his sense of loss to show in his face, hoping Austwick would see it as confusion.

‘Sit down, Pitt.’ Austwick waved him to the chair opposite the desk. ‘Of course you’re wondering what the devil’s going on. I’m afraid I have some shocking news for you.’

Pitt forced himself to look alarmed, as if his imagination were racing. ‘Something has happened to Mr Narraway? Is he hurt? Ill?’

‘I’m afraid in some ways it is worse than that,’ Austwick said sombrely. ‘Narraway appears to have stolen a rather large amount of money, and – when faced with it – he disappeared. We believe he has gone to Ireland. Obviously he has been dismissed from the service, and – at least for the time being – I have replaced him. I am sure that is temporary, but until further notice, you will report to me. I’m sorry. It must be a great blow to you, indeed it is to all of us. I don’t think anyone imagined Narraway, of all people, would give in to that kind of temptation.’

Pitt’s mind raced. How should he respond? He had thought it was all worked out in his mind, but sitting here in Narraway’s office, subtly but so completely changed, he was uncertain again. Was Austwick the traitor? If so, then he was a far cleverer man than Pitt had thought. But Pitt had had no idea that there was a traitor at all, and he had trusted Gower. What was his judgement worth?

‘I can see that you’re stunned,’ Austwick said patiently. ‘We’ve had a little while to get used to the idea. We knew almost as soon as you had gone. By the way, where is Gower?’

Pitt inhaled deeply, and plunged in. ‘I left him in France, in St Malo,’ he replied. He watched Austwick’s face as closely as he dared, trying to read in his eyes, his gestures, if he knew that that was only half true.

Austwick spoke slowly, as if he also were measuring what he said, and he seemed to be watching Pitt just as closely. Had he noticed Somerset Carlisle’s beautifully cut shirt? Or his wine-coloured cravat?

Pitt repeated exactly what he believed had happened at the time he had first notified Narraway that he had to remain in France. He had never submitted more than a superficial report, not trusting detail to the post, and certainly not to anything as public as a telegram, even one in carefully coded language. He said nothing about the facts involving Gower that he now knew.

Austwick listened attentively. His expression did not betray whether he knew anything further or not.

‘I see,’ he said at last, drumming his fingers silently on the desk top. ‘So you left Gower there in the hope that there might yet be something worthwhile to observe?’

‘Yes . . . sir.’ He added the ‘sir’ with difficulty. There was a slowly mounting rage inside him that this man was sitting here in Narraway’s chair, behind his desk. Was he also a pawn in this game, or was he the one playing it with the opposing pieces?

‘Do you think that is likely?’ Austwick asked. ‘You say you saw nothing after that first sighting of . . . who did you say? Meister and Linsky, was it?’

‘Yes,’ Pitt agreed. ‘There were plenty of people coming and going all the time, but neither of us recognised anyone else. It’s possible that was coincidence. On the other hand, West was murdered, and the man who killed him, very brutally and openly, fled to that house. There has to be a reason for that.’

Austwick appeared to consider it for several moments. Finally he looked up, his lips pursed. ‘You’re right. There is certainly something happening, and there is a good chance that it concerns violence that may affect us here in England, even if it begins in France. We have our allies to consider, and what our failure to warn them may do to our relationship. I would certainly feel a distinct sense of betrayal if they were to have wind of such a threat against us, and keep silent about it.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Pitt agreed, although the words all but stuck in his throat. He rose to his feet. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have several matters to attend to.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Austwick agreed. He seemed calm, even assured. Pitt found himself shaking with anger as he left the room, making an effort to close the door softly.

Croxdale’s home in Hampstead was old and very handsome, overlooking the Heath. The garden trees were coming into leaf and the air seemed to be full of birdsong.

Pitt was shown in by the butler. He found Croxdale standing in his library, which had long windows onto the lawn at the back of the house. At present the curtains were open; and the evening sky beyond was pale with the last light. Croxdale turned from gazing at it as Pitt came in. He offered his hand.

‘Miserable time,’ he said sympathetically. ‘Pretty bad shock to all of us. I’ve known Narraway for years. Difficult man, not really a team player, but brilliant, and I’d always thought he was sound. But it seems as if a man can never entirely leave his past behind.’ He gestured to one of the armchairs beside the fire. ‘Do sit down. Tell me what happened in St Malo. By the way, have you had any dinner?’

Pitt realised with surprise that he had not. He had not even thought of eating, and his body was clenched with anxiety as different possibilities poured through his mind. Now he was fumbling for a gracious answer.

‘Sandwich?’ Croxdale offered. ‘Roast beef acceptable?’

Experience told Pitt it was better to eat than try to think rationally on an empty stomach. ‘Thank you, sir.’

Croxdale rang the bell and when the butler appeared again he requested roast beef sandwiches and whisky.

‘Now,’ he sat back as soon as the door was closed, ‘tell me about St Malo.’

Pitt offered him the same edited version he had given Austwick. He was not yet ready to tell anyone the whole truth. Croxdale had known Victor Narraway far longer than he had known Pitt. If he would believe that Narraway had stolen money, why should he think any better of Pitt, who was his protégé and closest ally?

The butler brought the sandwiches, which were excellent. Pitt took an unaccustomed glass of whisky with it, but declined a second. To have the fire inside him was good, his heart beating a little faster. However, to be fuzzy-headed could be disastrous.

Croxdale considered in silence for some time before he replied. Pitt waited him out.

‘I am certain you have done the right thing,’ Croxdale said at length. ‘The situation requires very careful watching, but at this point we cannot afford your absence from Lisson Grove. This fearful business with Narraway has changed all our priorities.’

Pitt was aware that Croxdale was watching him far more closely than at a glance it might seem. He tried to keep his expression respectful, concerned but not as if he were already aware of the details.

Croxdale sighed. ‘I imagine it comes as a shock to you, as it does to me. Perhaps we should all have seen some warning, but I admit I did not. Of course, we are aware of people’s financial interests – we would be remiss not to be. Narraway has no urgent need of money, as far as we know. This whole business with O’Neil is long-standing, some twenty years or more.’ He looked closely at Pitt, his brows drawn together. ‘Did he tell you anything about it?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Old case. All very ugly, but I thought it was over at the time. We all did. Very briefly, Narraway was in charge of the Irish situation, and we knew there was serious trouble brewing. As indeed there was. He foiled it so successfully that there was never any major news about it. Only afterwards did we learn what the price had been.’

Pitt did not need to pretend his ignorance, nor the growing fear inside him, chilling his body.

Croxdale shook his head minutely, his face clouded with unhappiness. ‘Narraway used one of their own against them, a woman named Kate O’Neil. The details I don’t know, and I prefer to be able to claim ignorance. The end of it was that the woman’s husband killed her, rather messily, and was tried and hanged for it.’

Pitt was stunned. He tried to imagine the grief and the guilt of it, whoever was involved, whatever had happened. Was Narraway really as ruthless as that implied? He pictured Narraway’s face in all the circumstances they had known each other, through success and failure, exhaustion, fear, disappointment, the final conclusion of dozens of battles, won or lost. Reading him defied reason: it was instinct, the trust that had grown up over time in all sorts of ways. It took Pitt a painful and uncertain effort to conceal his feelings. He tried to look confused.

‘If all this happened twenty years ago, what is it that has changed now?’ he asked.

Croxdale was only momentarily taken aback. ‘We don’t know,’ he replied. ‘Presumably something in O’Neil’s own situation.’

‘I thought you said he was hanged?’

‘Oh, yes, the husband was: that was Sean O’Neil. But his brother, Cormac, is still very much alive. They were unusually close, even for an Irish family,’ Croxdale explained.

‘Then why did Cormac wait twenty years for his revenge? I assume you are saying that Narraway took the money in some way because of O’Neil?’

Croxdale hesitated, then looked at Pitt guardedly. ‘You know, I have no idea. Clearly we need to know a good deal more than we do at present. I assume it is to do with O’Neil because Narraway went almost immediately to Ireland. He either has many enemies there, and is in grave danger, or he has made new allies and, by exposing Mulhare as a traitor, has turned to them and intends to work against us there.’

Pitt felt as if he had been sandbagged. He struggled to keep any sense of proportion, even of reality. He stared at Croxdale, seeing his face waver and the room seem to swim in and out of his focus.

‘I’m sorry,’ Croxdale said gravely. ‘It has already come as a terrible shock to you. You could have had no idea of this side of Narraway, and I admit, neither had I. I feel remiss to have had such a man in charge of our most sensitive service during my period of office. His extraordinary skill completely masked this darker, and clearly very duplicitous side of his nature.’

Pitt refused to believe it, partly because he could not bear it. Charlotte was in Ireland with Narraway. What had happened to her? How could he ask Croxdale without admitting that he knew this? He would not draw Vespasia into it. She was one element he had in his favour, perhaps the only one.

Croxdale spoke very quietly now, as if he feared some waiting servant might hear him.

‘Pitt, this is very grave indeed. I’m glad you see the depth of it so immediately. We have to regroup our forces to meet this appalling situation. There seem to be plots on all sides. I’m sure what you and Gower were witness to is part of some larger, and possibly very dangerous plan. The socialist tide has been rising for some time in Europe, as we are all aware. I can no longer have Narraway in charge, obviously. I need the very best I can find, a man I can trust morally and intellectually, whose loyalty is beyond question and who has no ghosts from the past to sabotage our present attempts to safeguard our country, and all it stands for.’

Pitt blinked. ‘Of course.’ Did that mean that Croxdale knew Austwick was the traitor? Pitt had been avoiding the issue, waiting, judging pointlessly. It was a relief. Croxdale was clever, more reliable than he had thought. Then how could he think such things of Narraway?

But what was Pitt’s judgement to rely on? He had trusted Gower!

Croxdale was still looking at him intently.

Pitt could think of nothing to say.

‘We need a man who knows what Narraway was doing and can pick up the reins he dropped,’ Croxdale said. ‘You are the only man who fits that description, Pitt. It’s a great deal to ask of you, but there is no one else, and your skills and integrity are things about which I believe Narraway was both right and honest.’

‘But . . . Austwick . . .’ Pitt stammered. ‘He—’

‘Is a good stopgap,’ Croxdale said coolly. ‘He is not the man for the job in such dangerous times as these. Frankly, he has not the ability to lead, or to make the difficult decisions of such magnitude. He was a good enough lieutenant.’

Pitt’s head swam. He had not the experience of decision-making, the mastery of the political stakes, or the nerve and self-belief to stake his own judgement above that of others and act, swiftly, secretly and with devastating power, as Narraway had had. Only in this moment, looking at Croxdale, did he grasp some of the magnitude of Narraway’s job.

‘Neither have I the skills,’ he said aloud. ‘And I haven’t been in the service long enough for the other men to have confidence in me. I will support Austwick to the best of my ability, but I haven’t the abilities to take on the leadership.’

Croxdale smiled. ‘I thought you would be modest. It is a good quality. Arrogance leads to mistakes. I’m sure you will seek advice, and take it – at least most of the time. But you have never lacked judgement before, or the courage to go with your own beliefs. I know your record, Pitt. Do you imagine you have gone unnoticed in the past?’ He asked it gently, as if with a certain degree of amusement.

‘I imagine not,’ Pitt conceded. ‘You will know a good deal about anyone, before taking them into the service at all. But—’

‘Not in your case,’ Croxdale contradicted him. ‘You were Narraway’s recruit. But I have made it my business to learn far more about you since then. Your country needs you now, Pitt. Narraway has effectively betrayed our trust.You were Narraway’s second-in-command.This is your duty, as well as your privilege to serve.’ He held out his hand.

Pitt was overwhelmed, not with pleasure or any sense of honour, but with mourning for Narraway, fear for Charlotte, and the knowledge that this weight of command, of power for good and ill, he did not want. It was not in his nature to act with certainty when the balance of judgement was so unclear, and the stakes were the lives of other men.

‘We look to you, Pitt,’ Croxdale said again. ‘Don’t fail your country, man!’

‘No, sir,’ Pitt said unhappily. ‘I will do everything I can, sir . . .’

‘Good.’ Croxdale smiled. ‘I knew you would. That is one thing Narraway was right about. I will inform the necessary people, including the Prime Minister, of course. Thank you, Pitt. We are grateful to you.’

Pitt accepted: he had little choice. Croxdale began to outline to him exactly what his task would be, his powers, and the rewards.

It was midnight when Pitt walked outside into the lamplit night and found Croxdale’s own carriage waiting to take him home.