Chapter Ten
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.
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 . . .
‘Something happened in France that made me realise
that it only appeared that Gower and I arrived together as Wrexham
killed West,’ he said. ‘Actually, Gower had been there moments
before and killed him himself—’
‘For God’s sake, man! That’s absurd,’ Croxdale
exploded, almost rising from his seat. ‘You can’t expect me to
believe that! How did you fail . . . ?’ He sat back again,
composing himself with an effort. ‘I’m sorry. This comes as an
appalling shock to me. I . . . I know his family. Are you certain?
It all seems very . . . flimsy.’
‘Yes, sir, I’m afraid I am certain.’ Pitt felt a
stab of pity for the minister. ‘I made an excuse to leave him in
France and return by myself—’
‘You left him?’ Again Croxdale was stunned.
‘I couldn’t arrest him,’ Pitt pointed out. ‘I had
no weapon, and he was a young and very powerful man. The last thing
I wanted to do was inform the local police of who we were, and that
we were there without their knowledge or permission, watching
French citizens.’
‘Yes, of course. I see. I see. Go on.’ Croxdale was
flushed and obviously badly shaken. Pitt could have sympathised at
another time.
‘I told him to remain watching Wrexham and
Frobisher—’
‘Who’s Frobisher?’ Croxdale demanded.
Pitt told him what they knew of Frobisher, and the
other men they had seen coming and going from his house.
Croxdale nodded. ‘So there was some truth to this
business of socialists meeting, and possibly planning
something?’
‘Possibly. Nothing conclusive yet.’
‘And you left Gower there?’
‘I thought so. But when I reached Southampton I
took the train to London. On that train I was attacked, twice, and
very nearly lost my life.’
‘Good God! By whom?’ Croxdale was horrified.
‘Gower, sir. The first time he was interrupted, and
the man who did so paid for his courage with his life. Then Gower
renewed his attack on me, but this time I was ready for him, and it
was he who lost.’
Croxdale wiped his hand across his brow. ‘What
happened to Gower?’
‘It was he who went over onto the track,’ Pitt
replied, his stomach knotting at that memory and the sweat breaking
out on his skin again. He decided not to mention his own arrest,
because then he would have to explain how Vespasia had rescued him,
and he preferred to keep her name out of it altogether.
‘He was . . . killed?’ Croxdale said.
‘At that speed, sir, there can be no doubt.’
Croxdale leaned back. ‘How absolutely fearful.’ He
let out his breath slowly. ‘You are right, of course. We had a
traitor at Lisson Grove. I am profoundly grateful that it was he
and not you who went over onto the tracks. Why on earth did you not
tell me this as soon as you returned?’
‘Because I hoped to learn who was the man behind
Gower before I told you,’ Pitt answered.
Croxdale’s face went white. ‘Behind . . . Gower?’
he said awkwardly.
‘I don’t yet know,’ Pitt admitted. ‘Not for
certain. I never found evidence one way or the other whether
Frobisher was the power behind a new socialist uprising, perhaps
violent, or only a dilettante playing on the edge of the real
plot.’
‘We don’t assume it is trivial,’ Croxdale said
quickly. ‘If Gower . . . I still find it hard to credit . . . but
if Gower murdered two people, and attempted to murder you also,
then it is very real indeed.’ He bit his lip. ‘I assume from what
you say that you did not tell Austwick this?’
‘No. I believe someone made it appear that Narraway
was guilty of embezzlement in order to get him out of the way,
discredit him so deeply that anything he said against them would be
disbelieved.’
‘Who? Someone to do with Frobisher? Or Gower
again?’
‘Neither Frobisher nor Gower had the ability,’ Pitt
pointed out. ‘That has to be someone in Lisson Grove, someone with
a considerable amount of power in order to have access to the
details of Narraway’s banking arrangements.’
Croxdale was staring at him, his face drawn, cheeks
flushed. ‘I see. Yes, of course you are right. Then this socialist
plot seems very deep. Perhaps this Frobisher is as dangerous as you
first thought, and poor West was killed to prevent you from
learning the full extent of it. No doubt Gower kept you along with
him when he went to France so you could be duped into believing
Frobisher harmless, and sending that misinformation back to
London.’ He smiled bleakly, just for an instant. ‘Thank God you
were clever enough to see through it, and agile enough to survive
his attack on you. You are the right man for this job, Pitt.
Whatever else he may be guilty of, Narraway did well when he
brought you into the Service.’
Pitt felt he should thank him for the compliment,
and for his trust, but he wanted to argue and say how little he was
really suited to it. He ended by inclining his head, thanking
Croxdale briefly, and moving on to the more pressing problem of the
present.
‘We need to know very urgently, sir, what
information Gower himself may have passed back to London, and –
more specifically – to whom. I don’t know who I can trust.’
‘No,’ Croxdale said thoughtfully. ‘No, neither do
I. We need to look at this a great deal more closely, Pitt.
Austwick has reported to me at least three times since Narraway
left. I have the papers here. We need to go through all this
information and you must tell me what you know to be accurate, or
inaccurate, and what we still need to test. Some picture should
emerge. I’m sorry, but this may very well require all night. I’ll
have someone fetch us supper.’ He shook his head. ‘God, what a
miserable business.’
There was no question of argument.
Croxdale had other notes, not only of what Austwick
had reported to him, but, going back further, what Narraway also
had written. It was curious looking at the different papers.
Austwick’s writing was neat, his notes carefully thought out and
finely presented. Narraway’s Pitt viewed with a jolt of
familiarity, and a new sense of how alone he was in Narraway’s
place. The writing was smaller, more flowing, as if it were casual,
and yet there were fewer words. There was no hesitation. He had
thought before he began, and there was no attempt to conceal the
fact that he was giving Croxdale only the minimum. Was that an
agreement between them, and Croxdale could read between the lines?
Or had Narraway simply not bothered to conceal the fact that he was
telling only part of what he knew?
Pitt studied Croxdale’s face, and did not know the
answer.
They read them carefully. A servant brought in a
tray of light toast and pâté, then cheese and finally a heavy fruit
cake, along with brandy, which Pitt declined.
It was now totally dark outside. The wind was
rising a little, spattering rain against the windows.
Croxdale put down the last paper. ‘Narraway
obviously thought there was something to this business in Paris,
but not major. Austwick seems to disagree, and thinks there is
nothing but noise and posturing. Unlike Narraway, he believes it
will not affect us here in Britain. What do you think, Pitt?’
It was the question Pitt had dreaded, but it was
inevitable that it would come. There was no room for excuses, no
matter how easy to justify. He would be judged on the accuracy of
his answer. He had lain awake weighing everything he knew, hoping
Croxdale’s information would top the balance one way or the
other.
Again he answered with barely a hesitation. ‘I
think that Narraway was on the brink of finding out something
crucial, and he was got rid of before he could do so.’
Croxdale waited a long time before he
answered.
‘Do you realise that if that is true, then you are
also saying that Austwick is either incompetent to a most serious
degree, or else – far worse than that – he is complicit in what is
going on?’
‘Yes, sir, I’m afraid that has to be the case,’
Pitt agreed. ‘But Gower was reporting to someone, so we know that
at least one person within the service is a traitor.’
‘I’ve known Charles Austwick for years,’ Croxdale
said softly. ‘But perhaps we don’t know anyone as well as we
imagine.’ He sighed. ‘I’ve sent for Stoker. Apparently he’s newly
back from Ireland. He may be able to throw some light on things. Do
you trust him?’
‘Yes. But I trusted Gower, so I’m not sure my
opinion is worth a great deal,’ Pitt said ruefully. ‘Do you?’
Croxdale gave him a bleak smile. ‘Touché.
Let’s at least see what he has to say. And the answer is “no”, I
trust no one. I am painfully aware that we cannot afford to. Not
after Narraway, and not, it would seem, Gower also. Are you sure
you won’t have a brandy?’
‘I’m quite sure, thank you, sir.’
There was a knock on the door and, at Croxdale’s
word, Stoker came in. He looked tired. There were shadows around
his eyes and his face was pinched with fatigue. However, he stood
to attention until Croxdale gave him permission to sit. Stoker
acknowledged Pitt, but only so much as courtesy demanded.
‘When did you get back from Ireland?’ Croxdale
asked him.
‘About two hours ago, sir,’ Stoker replied.
‘Weather’s a bit poor.’
‘Mr Pitt doesn’t believe the charge of embezzlement
against Narraway,’ Croxdale went on. ‘He thinks it is possibly
false, manufactured to get rid of him because he was on the verge
of gaining information about a serious socialist plot of violence
that would affect Britain.’ He was completely ignoring Pitt, his
eyes fixed on Stoker so intently they might have been alone in the
room.
‘Sir?’ Stoker said with amazement, but he did not
look at Pitt either.
‘You worked with Narraway,’ Croxdale continued.
‘Does that seem likely to you? What is the news from Ireland
now?’
Stoker’s jaw tightened as if he were labouring
under some profound emotion. His face was pale as he leaned forward
a little into the light. He seemed leached of colour by exhaustion.
‘I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t see any reason to question the
evidence. It’s amazing what lack of money can do, and how it can
change your view of things.’
Pitt felt as if he had been struck. The sting of
Stoker’s words was hard enough to have been physical. He would
rather it had been.
‘I see,’ Croxdale sighed. ‘And what is the state of
affairs in Dublin at present?’
‘Mr Narraway is in prison accused of murdering
Cormac O’Neil,’ Stoker answered.
‘Murder!’ Croxdale looked aghast.
Pitt’s thoughts were in disarray. The Narraway he
knew was not a murderer. And what of Charlotte? Was she now alone
and frightened? Yet Pitt could not ask Stoker.
‘It seems he quarrelled with him rather publicly,
making no secret of the fact he believed O’Neil to be responsible
for creating the evidence that made it seem he was guilty of
embezzling the money intended for Mulhare. And to be honest, that
could well be true.’
‘Could it?’ Croxdale asked, a lift of hope in his
voice.
‘From what I can make out, yes, sir, it could,’
Stoker replied. ‘Only problem is how he got the information he’d
need to get it into Mr Narraway’s account. I’ve been trying to find
the answer to that, and I think I’ll get there.’
‘Someone at Lisson Grove?’ Croxdale said.
‘No, sir,’ Stoker answered without a flicker in his
face. ‘Not as far as I can see.’
Croxdale’s eyes narrowed. ‘Then who? Who else would
be able to do that?’
Stoker did not hesitate. ‘Looks like it could be
someone at Mr Narraway’s bank, sir. I dare say one time and another
he’s made some enemies. Or it could just be someone willing to be
paid. Nice to think that wouldn’t happen, but maybe a bit innocent.
There’d be those with enough money to buy most things.’
‘I suppose so,’ Croxdale replied. ‘Perhaps Narraway
found out already? That would explain a great deal. What other news
have you from Ireland?’
Stoker told him about Narraway’s connections, who
he had spoken to and their reactions, the confrontation with O’Neil
at the concert. Never once did he mention Charlotte. At least some
of what he described was so unlike Narraway – panicky and
protective – that it seemed as if his whole character had fallen
apart.
Pitt listened with disbelief and mounting anger at
what he felt had to be a betrayal.
‘Thank you, Stoker,’ Croxdale said sadly. ‘A tragic
end to what was a fine career. Give your report on Ireland to Mr
Pitt.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Stoker left, and Croxdale turned to Pitt. ‘I think
that makes the picture clearer. Gower was the traitor, which I
admit I still find hard to credit, but what you say makes it
impossible to deny.We may have the disaster contained, but we can’t
take it for granted. Investigate as fully as you can, Pitt, and
report to me. Keep an eye to what’s going on in Europe, and if
there is anything we should inform the French about, then we’ll do
so. In the meantime there’s plenty of other political trouble to
keep us busy, but I’m sure you know that.’ He rose to his feet,
extending his hand. ‘Take care of yourself, Pitt. You have a
difficult and dangerous job, and your country needs you more than
it will ever appreciate.’
Pitt shook his hand and thanked him, going out into
the night without any awareness of the sudden chill. The coldness
was already inside him. Narraway arrested for murder – it seemed
unbelievable! What Stoker had said of Narraway’s bank betraying him
could be true, although he did not believe it. The rest seemed a
curious set of exaggerations and lies. Pitt could not accept that
Narraway had fallen apart so completely, either to steal anything
in the first place, or to so lose the fundamental values of his
past as to behave in the way Stoker had described. And surely
Stoker must at the very least have noticed Charlotte?
Or was Stoker the traitor at Lisson Grove?
He was floundering, like a man in quicksand. None
of his judgements was sound. He had trusted Stoker, he had even
liked Gower. Narraway he would have sworn his own life on . . . He
admitted, he still would do.
Croxdale’s carriage was waiting to take him home.
He half saw the shadow of a man on the pavement who moved towards
him, but he ignored it. The coachman opened the door for him and he
climbed in, sitting miserable and shivering all the way back to
Keppel Street. He was glad it was late. He did not want to make the
intense effort it would cost to hide his disillusion from Daniel
and Jemima. If he were fortunate, even Minnie Maude would be
asleep.
In the morning he was halfway to Lisson Grove when
he changed his mind and went instead to see Vespasia. It was too
early for any kind of social call, but if he had to wait until she
rose, then he was willing to. His need to speak with her was so
urgent he was prepared to break all the rules of etiquette, even of
consideration, trusting she would see his purpose beyond his
discourtesy.
In fact she was already up and taking breakfast. He
accepted tea, but he had no need to eat.
‘Is your new maid feeding you properly?’Vespasia
asked with a touch of concern.
‘Yes,’ he answered, his own surprise coming through
his voice. ‘Actually, she’s perfectly competent, and seems very
pleasant. It wasn’t . . .’ He saw her wry smile and stopped.
‘It wasn’t to seek recommendation for a new maid
that you came at this hour of the morning,’ she finished for him.
‘What is it, Thomas? You look very troubled indeed. I assume
something new has occurred?’
He told her everything that had happened since they
last spoke, including Narraway’s arrest for murder and Pitt’s own
dismay and disappointment over Stoker’s sudden change of loyalties,
and the brutal details with which he had described Narraway’s
falling apart.
‘I seem to be completely incompetent at judging
anyone’s character,’ he said miserably. He would like to have been
able to say it with some dry wit, but he felt so inadequate that he
was afraid he sounded self-pitying.
Vespasia listened without interrupting. She poured
him more tea, then grimaced that the pot was cold.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said quickly. ‘I don’t need
more.’
‘Let us sum up the situation,’ she said gravely.
‘It would seem unarguable that you were wrong about Gower, as was
everyone else at Lisson Grove, including Victor Narraway. It does
not make you unusually fallible, my dear. And considering that he
was your fellow in the service, you had a right to assume his
loyalty. At that point it was not your job to make such decisions.
Now it is.’
‘I thought Stoker was Narraway’s man too,’ he
pointed out.
‘Possibly, but let us not leap to conclusions. You
know only that he brought news of Victor’s arrest, and that what he
reported to Gerald Croxdale about the embezzlement charge seemed to
blame Victor, and also was untrue in other respects. He made no
mention of Charlotte, as you observed, and yet he must have seen
her. Surely his omission is one you are grateful for?’
‘Yes . . . yes, of course. Although I would give a
great deal to know she is safe.’ That was an understatement perhaps
only Vespasia could measure.
‘Did you say anything to Croxdale about your
suspicions of Austwick?’ she asked.
‘No.’ He explained how reluctant he had been to
give any unnecessary trust. He had guarded everything, fearing that
because Croxdale had known Austwick a long time perhaps he would be
more inclined to trust him than to trust Pitt.
‘Very wise,’ she agreed. ‘Is Croxdale of the
opinion that there is something very serious being planned in
France?’
‘I saw nothing except a couple of faces,’ he
answered. ‘And when I look back, it was Gower who told me they were
Meister and Linsky. There was talk, but no more than usual. There
was a rumour that Jean Jaurès was coming from Paris, but he
didn’t.’
Vespasia frowned. ‘Jacob Meister and Pieter Linsky?
Are you sure?’
‘Yes, that’s what Gower said. I know the names, of
course. But only for just one day, maybe thirty-six hours, then
they left again. They certainly didn’t return to
Frobisher’s.’
Vespasia looked puzzled. ‘And who said Jean Jaurès
was coming?’
‘One of the innkeepers, I think. The men in the
café were talking about it.’
‘You think? A name like Jaurès is mentioned and you
don’t remember by whom?’ she said incredulously.
Again he was struck by his own foolishness. How
easily he was duped. He had not heard it himself Gower had told
him. He admitted this to Vespasia.
‘Did he mention Rosa Luxemburg?’ she asked with a
slight frown.
‘Yes, but not that she was to coming to St
Malo.’
‘But he mentioned her name?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘Jean Jaurès is a passionate socialist, but a
gentle man,’ she explained. ‘He was a campaigner for reform. He
sought office, and on occasion gained it, but he fights for change,
not for overthrow. As far as I know, he is content to keep his
efforts within France. Rosa Luxemburg is different. She is Polish,
now naturalised German, and of a much more international cast of
mind. I have Russian émigré friends who fear that one day
she will cause real violence. In some places, I’m afraid real
violence is almost bound to happen. The oppression in Russia will
end in tragedy.’
‘Stretching as far as Britain?’ he said
dubiously.
‘No, only in so far as the world is sometimes a far
smaller place than we think. There will be refugees, however.
Indeed, London is already full of them.’
‘What did Gower want?’ he asked. ‘Why did he kill
West? Was West going to tell me Gower was a traitor?’
‘Perhaps. But, I admit, none of it makes sufficient
sense to me so far, unless there is something a great deal larger
than a few changes in the laws for French workers, or a rising
unease in Germany and Russia. None of this is new, and none of it
worries Special Branch unduly.’
‘I wish Narraway were here,’ Pitt said with intense
feeling. ‘I don’t know enough for this job. He should have regarded
Austwick as his protégé – unless he knows Austwick is a traitor
too?’
‘I imagine that is possible.’ She was still lost in
thought. ‘And if Victor is innocent, which I do not doubt, then
there was a very clever and carefully thought-out plan to get both
you and he out of London. Why can we not deduce what it is, and
why?’
Pitt went to his office in Lisson Grove, aware as
he walked along the corridors of the eyes of the other men on him,
watching, waiting. Austwick’s particularly.
‘Good morning,’ Austwick said, apparently
forgetting the ‘sir’ he would have added for Narraway.
‘Good morning, Austwick,’ Pitt replied a little
tartly, not looking at him but going on until he reached Narraway’s
office door. He realised he still thought of it as Narraway’s, just
as he still thought of the position as his.
He opened the door and went inside. There was
nothing of Pitt’s here yet – no pictures, no books – but Narraway’s
things had been returned, so that to Pitt it felt as if he were
still expecting the man himself to come back. When that happened he
would not have to pretend to be pleased, and it would not be
entirely for unselfish reasons either. He cared for Narraway, and
he had at least some idea of how much the job meant to him: it was
his vocation, his life. Pitt would be immensely relieved to give it
back to him. It was not within Pitt’s skill or his nature to
perform this job. He regretted that it was now his duty.
He dealt with the most immediate issues of the day
first, passing on all he could to juniors. When that was done, he
told them not to interrupt him. Then he went through all Narraway’s
records of every crime Gower had been involved with over the past
year and a half. He read all the documents, getting a larger
picture concerning European revolutionary attempts to improve the
lot of the working men. He also read the latest report from
Paris.
As he did so, the violence proposed settled over
him like a darkness, senseless and destructive. But the anger at
injustice he could not help sharing. It grieved him that people had
been oppressed and denied a reasonable life for so long that the
change, when it came – and it must – would be fuelled by so much
hatred.
The more he read, the greater the tragedy seemed to
him that the high idealism of the revolution of ’48 had been
crushed with so little legacy of change left behind.
Gower’s own reports were spare, as if he had edited
out any emotive language. At first Pitt thought that was just a
very clear style of writing. Then he began to wonder if it were
more than that: a guarding of Gower’s own feelings, in case he gave
something away unintentionally, or Narraway himself picked up a
connection, an omission, even a false note.
Then he took out Narraway’s own papers. He had read
most of them before, because it was part of his duty in taking over
the position. Many of the cases he was familiar with anyway, from
general knowledge within the Branch. He selected three specifically
to do with Europe and socialist unrest, those associated with
Britain, memberships of socialist political groups such as the
Fabian Society. He compared them with the cases on which Gower had
worked, and looked for any notes that Narraway might have
made.
What were the facts he knew, personally? That Gower
had killed West and made it appear it was Wrexham who had done so.
All doubt left him that it had been extremely quick thinking on
Gower’s part. It had been his intention all the time, and with
Wrexham’s collaboration. Pitt recalled the chase across London and
then on to Southampton. He was bitterly conscious that it had been
too easy. The conclusion was inevitable: Gower and Wrexham were
working together. To what end? Again, looked at from the result, it
could only have been to keep Pitt in St Malo – or, more
specifically, to keep him from being in London, and aware of what
was happening to Narraway.
But to what greater purpose? Was it to do with
socialist uprisings? Or was that also a blind, a piece of
deception?
Who was Wrexham? He was mentioned briefly, twice,
in Gower’s reports. He was a young man of respectable background
who had been to university and dropped out of a modern history
course to travel in Europe. Gower suggested he had been to Germany
and Russia, but seemed uncertain. It was all very vague, and with
little substantiation. Certainly there was nothing to cause
Narraway to have him watched, or enquired into any further.
Presumably it was just sufficient information to allow Gower to say
afterwards that he was a legitimate suspect.
The more he studied what was there, the more Pitt
was certain that there had to be a far deeper plan behind the
random acts he had connected in bits and pieces. The picture was
too sketchy, the rewards too slight to make sense of murder. It was
all disparate, and too small.
The most urgent question was whether Narraway had
been very carefully made to look guilty of theft in order to gain
some kind of revenge for old defeats and failures, or whether the
real intent was to get him dismissed from Lisson Grove and out of
England? The more Pitt looked at it, the more he believed it was
the latter.
If Narraway had been here, what would he have made
of the information? Surely he would have seen the pattern? Why
could Pitt not see it? What was he missing?
He was still comparing one event with another and
searching for the links, the commonality, when there was a sharp
knock on the door. He had asked not to be interrupted. This had
better be something of importance, or he would tear a strip off the
man, whoever he was.
‘Come in,’ he said sharply.
The door opened and Stoker came in, closing it
behind him.
Pitt stared at him coldly.
Stoker ignored his expression. ‘I tried to speak to
you last night,’ he said quietly. ‘I saw Mrs Pitt in Dublin. She
was well and in good spirits. She’s a lady of great courage. Mr
Narraway is fortunate to have her fighting his cause, although I
dare say it’s not for his sake she’s doing it.’
Pitt stared at him. He looked subtly quite
different from the way he had when standing in front of Croxdale
the previous evening. Was that a difference in respect? In loyalty?
Personal feeling? Or because one was the truth and the other
lies?
‘Did you see Mr Narraway?’ Pitt asked him.
‘Yes, but not to speak to. It was the day O’Neil
was shot,’ Stoker answered.
‘By whom?’
‘I don’t know. I think probably Talulla Lawless,
but whether anyone will ever prove that, I don’t know. Mr
Narraway’s in trouble, Mr Pitt. He has powerful enemies—’
‘I know that,’ Pitt interrupted him. ‘Apparently
dating back twenty years.’
‘Not that,’ Stoker said impatiently. ‘Now, here in
Lisson Grove. Someone wanted him discredited and out of England,
and wanted you in France, gone in the other direction, where you
wouldn’t know what was going on here and couldn’t help.’
‘Tell me all you know of what happened in Ireland,’
Pitt demanded. ‘And for heaven’s sake sit down!’ It was not that he
wanted the information in detail so much as he needed the chance to
weigh everything Stoker said, and make some judgement as to the
truth of it, and exactly where Stoker’s loyalties were.
Stoker obeyed without comment.
‘I was there only two days—’ he began.
‘Who sent you?’ Pitt interrupted.
‘No one. I made it look like it was Mr Narraway,
before he went.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I don’t believe he’s guilty any more than
you do,’ Stoker said bitterly. ‘He’s a hard man, clever, cold at
times, in his own way, but he’d never betray his country. They got
rid of him because they knew he’d see what was going on here, and
stop it. They thought you might too, in loyalty to Mr Narraway,
even if you didn’t spot what they’re doing. No offence, sir, but
you don’t know enough yet to see what it is.’
Pitt winced, but he had no argument. It was
painfully true.
‘Mr Narraway seemed to be trying to find out who
set him up to look like he took the money meant for Mulhare,
probably because that would lead back to whoever it is here in
London,’ Stoker went on. ‘I don’t know whether he found out or not,
because they got him by killing O’Neil. They set that up perfectly.
Fixed a quarrel between them in front of a couple o’ score of
people, then somehow got him to go alone to O’Neil’s house, and had
O’Neil shot just before he got there.
‘By all accounts, Mrs Pitt was right on his heels,
but he swore to the police that she wasn’t there at the time, so
they didn’t bother her. She went back to where she was staying, and
that’s the last I know of it. Mr Narraway was arrested and no
doubt, if we don’t do anything, they’ll try him and hang him. But
we’ll have a week or two before that.’ He stopped, meeting Pitt
with steady, demanding eyes.
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.