Betrayal at Lisson Grove (Treason at Lisson Grove)

CHARLOTTE WALKED AWAY FROM Cormac O’Neil’s home with as much composure as she could muster, but she had the sinking fear inside her that she looked as afraid and bewildered as she felt, and as helplessly angry. Whatever else Narraway might have been guilty of—and it could have been a great deal—she was certain that he had not killed Cormac O’Neil. She had arrived at the house almost on his heels. She had heard the dog begin to bark as Narraway went into the house, and continue more and more hysterically, knowing there was an intruder, and perhaps already aware of O’Neil’s death.

Had Cormac cried out? Had he even seen his killer, or had he been shot in the back? She had not heard a gun fire, only the dog barking. That was it, of course! The dog had barked at Narraway, but not at whoever had fired the shot.

She stopped in the street, standing rooted to the spot as the realization shook her with its meaning. Narraway could not possibly have shot Cormac. Her certainty was not built on her belief in him but on evidence: facts that were not capable of any other reasonable interpretation. She turned on her heel and stepped out urgently, striding across the street back toward O’Neil’s house, then stopped again just as suddenly. Why should they believe her? She knew that what she said was true, but would anyone else substantiate it?

Of course not! Talulla would contradict it because she hated Narraway. With hindsight, that had been perfectly clear, and predictable. She would be only too delighted if he were hanged for Cormac’s murder. To her it would be justice—the sweeter now after the long delay. She must know he was not guilty because she had been close enough to have heard the dog start to bark herself, but she would be the last person to say so.

Narraway would know that. She remembered his face as he allowed the police to handcuff him. He had looked at Charlotte only once, concentrating everything he had to say in that one glance. He needed her to understand.

He also needed her to keep a very calm mind and to think: to work it out detail by detail and not act before she was certain—not only of the truth, but that she could prove it so it could not be ignored. It is very difficult indeed to make people believe what is against all their emotions: the conviction of friend and enemy years-deep, paid for in blood and loss.

She was still standing on the pavement. A small crowd had gathered because of the violence and the police just over a hundred yards away. They were staring, wondering what was the matter with her.

She swallowed, straightened her skirt, then turned yet again and walked back toward where she judged to be the best place to find a carriage to take her to Molesworth Street. There were many practical considerations to weigh very carefully. She was completely alone now. There was no one at all she could trust. She must consider whether to remain at Mrs. Hogan’s or if it would be safer to move somewhere else where she would be less exposed. Everyone knew she was Narraway’s sister.

But where else could she go? How long would it take anyone to find her again in a town the size of Dublin? She was a stranger, an Englishwoman, on her own. She knew no one except those Narraway had introduced her to. A couple of hours’ inquiries would find her again, and she would merely look ridiculous, and evasive, as if she had something of which to be ashamed.

She was walking briskly along the pavement, trying to appear to know precisely where she was going and to what purpose. The former was true. There was a carriage ahead of her setting down a fare, and she could hire it if she was quick enough. She reached the carriage just as it began to move.

“Sir!” she called out. “Will you be good enough to take me to Molesworth Street?”

“Sure, an’ I’ll be happy to,” the driver responded, completing his turn and pulling the horse up.

She thanked him and climbed up into the carriage, feeling intensely grateful as the wheels rumbled over the cobbles and they picked up speed. She did not turn to look behind her; she could picture the scene just as clearly as if she were gazing upon it. Narraway should still be in the house, manacled like any other dangerous criminal. He must feel desperately alone. Was he frightened? Certainly he would never show any such weakness.

She told herself abruptly to stop being so useless and self-indulgent. Pitt was somewhere in France with nobody else to rely on, believing Narraway was still at Lisson Grove. Not even in his nightmares would he suppose Narraway could be in Ireland under arrest for murder, and Lisson Grove in the hands of traitors. Whatever she felt was irrelevant. The only task ahead was to rescue Narraway, and to do that she must find the truth and prove it.

Talulla Lawless knew who had killed Cormac because it had to be someone the dog would not bark at: therefore someone who had a right to be in Cormac’s home. The clearest answer was Talulla herself. Cormac lived alone; he had said so the previous evening when Charlotte had asked him. No doubt a local woman would come in every so often and clean for him, and do the laundry.

Why would Talulla kill him? He was her uncle. But then how often was murder a family matter? She knew from Pitt’s cases in the past, very much too often. The next most likely answer would be a robbery, but any thief breaking in would have set the dog into a frenzy.

Still, why would Talulla kill him, and why now? Not purely to blame Narraway, surely? How could she even know that he would be there to be blamed?

The answer to that was obvious: It must have been she who had sent the letter luring Narraway to Cormac’s house. She of all people would be able to imitate his hand. Narraway might recall it from twenty years ago, but not in such minute detail that he would recognize a good forgery.

That still left the question as to why she had chosen to do it now. Cormac was her uncle; they were the only two still alive from the tragedy of twenty years ago. Cormac had no children, and her parents were dead. Surely both of them believed Narraway responsible for that? Why would she kill Cormac?

Was Narraway on the brink of finding out something Talulla could not afford him to know?

That made incomplete sense. If it were true, then surely the obvious thing would be to have killed Narraway?

She recalled the look on Talulla’s face as she had seen Narraway standing near Cormac’s body. She had been almost hysterical. She might have a great ability to act, but surely not great enough to effect the sweat on her lip and brow, the wildness in her eyes, the catch in her voice as it soared out of control? And yet never once had she looked at Cormac’s body—perhaps she already knew exactly what she would see? She had not gone to him even to assure herself that he was beyond help. There had been nothing in her face but hate—no grief, no denial.

Charlotte was oblivious to the handsome streets of Dublin as the carriage drove on. It could have been any city on earth, so absorbed was she in thought. She was startled by a spatter of cold rain through the open window that wet her face and shoulder.

How much of this whole thing was Talulla responsible for? What about the issue of Mulhare and the embezzled money? She could not possibly have arranged that.

Or was someone in Lisson Grove using Irish passion and loyalties to further their own need to remove Narraway? Whom could she ask? Were any of Narraway’s supposed friends actually willing to help him? Or had he wounded or betrayed them all at one time or another, so that when it came to it they would take their revenge? He was totally vulnerable now. Could it be that at last they had stopped quarreling with one another long enough to conspire to ruin him?

Perhaps Charlotte had no right to judge Narraway’s Irish enemies. What would she have felt, or done, were it all the other way around: if Ireland were the foreigner, the occupier in England? If someone had used and betrayed her family, would she be so loyal to her beliefs in honesty or impartial justice? Perhaps—but perhaps not. It was impossible to know without one’s having lived that terrible reality.

Yet Narraway was innocent of killing Cormac—and she realized as she said this to herself that she thought he was no more than partially responsible for the downfall of Kate O’Neil. The O’Neils had tried to use him, turn him to betray his country. They might well be furious that they had failed, but had they the right to exact vengeance for losing?

She needed to ask help from someone, because alone she might as well simply give up and go back to London, leaving Narraway to his fate, and eventually Pitt to his. Before she reached Molesworth Street and even attempted to explain the situation to Mrs. Hogan, which she must do, she had decided to ask Fiachra McDaid for help.

“WHAT?” MCDAID SAID INCREDULOUSLY when she found him at his home and told him what had happened.

“I’m sorry.” She gulped and tried to regain her composure. She had thought herself in perfect control, and realized she was much farther from it than she’d imagined. “We went to see Cormac O’Neil. At least Victor said he was going alone, but I followed him, just behind …”

“You mean you found a carriage able to keep up with him in Dublin traffic?” McDaid frowned.

“No, no I knew where he was going. I had been there the evening before myself …”

“To see O’Neil?” He looked incredulous.

“Yes. Please … listen.” Her voice was rising again, and she made an effort to calm it. “I arrived moments after he did. I heard the dog begin to bark as he went in, but no shot!”

“It would bark.” The frown deepened on his brow. “It barks for anyone except Cormac, or perhaps Talulla. She lives close by and looks after it if Cormac is away, which he is from time to time.”

“Not the cleaning woman?” she said quickly.

“No. She’s afraid of it.” He looked at her more closely, his face earnest. “Why? What does it matter?”

She hesitated, still uncertain how far to trust him. It was the only evidence she had that protected Narraway. Perhaps she should keep it to herself.

“I suppose it doesn’t,” she said, deliberately looking confused. Then, as coherently as she could, but missing out any further reference to the dog, she told him what had happened. As she did, she watched his face, trying to read the emotions in it, the belief or disbelief, the confusion or understanding, the loss or triumph.

He listened without interrupting her. “They think Narraway shot Cormac? Why would he, for God’s sake?”

“In revenge for Cormac having ruined him in London,” she answered. “That’s what Talulla said. It makes a kind of sense.”

“Do you think that’s what happened?” he asked.

She nearly said that she knew it was not, then realized her mistake just in time. “No.” She spoke guardedly now. “I was just behind him, and I didn’t hear a shot. But I don’t think he would do that anyway. It doesn’t make sense.”

He shook his head. “Yes it does. Victor loved that job of his. In a way it was all he had.” He looked conflicted, emotions twisting his features. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to imply that you are not important to him, but I think from what he said that you do not see each other so often.”

Now she was angry. She felt it well up inside her, knotting her stomach, making her hands shake, her voice thick as if she were a little drunk. “No. We don’t. But you’ve known Victor for years. Was he ever a fool?”

“No, never. Many things good and bad, but never a fool,” he admitted.

“Did he ever act against his own interest, hotheadedly, all feelings and no thought?” She could not imagine it, not the man she knew. Had he once had that kind of runaway passion? Was his supreme control a mask?

McDaid laughed abruptly, without joy. “No. He never forgot his cause. Hell or heaven could dance naked past him and he would not be diverted. Why?”

“Because if he really thought Cormac O’Neil was responsible for ruining him in London, for setting up what looked like embezzlement and seeing that he was blamed, the last thing he would want was Cormac dead,” she answered. “He would want Cormac’s full confession, the proof, the names of those who aided—”

“I see,” he interrupted. “I see. You’re right. Victor would never put revenge ahead of getting his job and his honor back.”

“So someone else killed Cormac and made it look like Victor,” she concluded. “That would be their revenge, wouldn’t it.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes,” he agreed, his eyes bright, his hands loosely beside him.

“Will you help me find out who?” she asked.

He gestured to one of the big leather chairs in his gracious but very masculine sitting room. She imagined wealthy gentlemen’s clubs must be like this inside: worn and comfortable upholstery, lots of wood paneling, brass ornaments—except these were silver, and uniquely Celtic.

She sat down obediently.

He sat opposite her, leaning forward a little. “Have you any idea who already?”

Her mind raced. How should she answer, how much of the truth? Could he help at all if she lied to him?

“I have lots of ideas, but they don’t add up,” she replied, hoping to conceal her knowledge of the facts. “I know who hated Victor, but I don’t know who hated Cormac.”

A moment of humor touched his face, and then vanished. It looked like self-mockery.

“I don’t expect you to know,” she said quietly. “Or you would have warned him. But perhaps with hindsight you might understand something now. Talulla is Sean and Kate’s daughter, brought up away from Dublin after her parents’ deaths.” She saw instantly in his eyes that he had known that.

“She is, poor child,” he agreed.

“You didn’t warn Victor of that, did you?” It sounded more like an accusation than she had intended it to.

McDaid looked down for a moment, then back up at her. “No. I thought she had suffered enough.”

“Another one of your innocent casualties,” she observed, remembering what he had said during their carriage ride in the dark. Something in that had disturbed her, a resignation she could not share. All casualties still upset her; but then her country was not at war, not occupied by another people.

“I don’t make judgments as to who is innocent and who guilty, Mrs. Pitt, just what is necessary, and that only when I have no choice.”

“Talulla was a child!”

“Children grow up.”

Did he know, or guess, whether Talulla had killed Cormac? She looked at him steadily and found herself a little afraid. The intelligence in him was overwhelming, rich with understanding of terrible irony. And it was not himself he was mocking: it was her, and her naïveté. She was quite certain of that now. He was a thought, a word ahead of her all the time. She had already said too much, and he knew perfectly well that she was sure Talulla had shot Cormac.

“Into what?” she said aloud. “Into a woman who would shoot her uncle’s head to pieces in order to be revenged on the man she thinks betrayed her mother?”

That surprised him, just for an instant. Then he covered it. “Of course she thinks that,” he replied. “She can hardly face thinking that Kate went with him willingly. In fact if he’d asked her, maybe she would have gone to England with him. Who knows?”

“Do you?” she said immediately.

“I?” His eyebrows rose. “I have no idea.”

“Is that why Sean killed her, really?”

“Again, I have no idea.”

She did not know whether to believe him or not. He had been charming to her, generous with his time and excellent company, but behind the smiling façade he was a complete stranger. She had no idea what was going on in his thoughts.

“More incidental damage,” she said aloud. “Kate, Sean, Talulla, now Cormac. Incidental to what, Mr. McDaid? Ireland’s freedom?”

“Could we have a better cause, Mrs. Pitt?” he said gently. “Surely Talulla can be understood for wanting that? Hasn’t she paid enough?”

But it didn’t make sense, not completely. Who had moved the money meant for Mulhare back into Narraway’s account? Was that done simply in order to lure him to Ireland for this revenge? Wouldn’t Talulla’s rage have been satisfied by killing Narraway herself? Why on earth make poor Cormac the sacrifice? If she wanted Narraway to suffer, she could have shot him somewhere uniquely painful, so he would be disabled, mutilated, die slowly. There were plenty of possibilities.

And why now? There had to be a reason.

McDaid was still watching her, waiting.

“Yes, I imagine she has paid enough,” she said, answering his question. “And Cormac? Hasn’t he too?”

“Ah yes … poor Cormac,” McDaid said softly. “He loved Kate, you know. That’s why he could never forgive Narraway. She cared for Cormac, but she would never have loved him … mostly I suppose because he was Sean’s brother. Cormac was the better man, I think. Maybe in the end, Kate thought so too.”

“That doesn’t answer why Talulla shot him,” Charlotte pointed out.

“Oh, you’re right. Of course it doesn’t …”

“Another victim of incidental damage?” she said with a touch of bitterness. “Whose freedom do you fight for at such a cost? Is that not a weight of grief to carry forever?”

His eyes flashed for a moment, then the anger was gone again. But it had been real.

“Cormac was guilty too,” he said grimly.

“Of what? Surviving?” she asked.

“Yes, but more than that. He didn’t do much to save Sean. He barely tried. If he’d told the truth, Sean might have been a hero, not a man who murdered his wife in a jealous rage.”

“Perhaps to Cormac he was a man who murdered his wife in a jealous rage,” she pointed out. “People react slowly sometimes when they are shattered with grief. Cormac might have been too shocked to do anything useful. What could it have been anyway? Didn’t Sean himself tell the truth as to why he killed Kate?”

“He barely said anything,” McDaid admitted, this time looking down at the floor, not at her.

“Stunned too,” she said. “But someone told Talulla that Cormac should have saved her father, and she believed them. Easier to think of your father as a hero betrayed than as a jealous man who killed his wife in a rage because she cuckolded him with his enemy, and an Englishman at that.”

McDaid looked at her with another momentary flare of anger. Then he masked it so completely she might almost have thought it was her imagination.

“It would seem so,” he agreed. “But how do we prove any of that?”

She felt the coldness sweep over her. “I don’t know. I’m trying to think.”

“Be careful, Mrs. Pitt,” he said gently. “I would not like you to be incidental damage as well.”

She managed to smile just as if she did not even imagine that his words could be as much a threat as a warning. She felt as if it were a mask on his face: transparent, ghostly. “Thank you. I shall be cautious, I promise, but it is kind of you to care.” She rose to her feet, vigilant not to sway. “Now I think I had better go back to my lodgings. It has been a … a terrible day.”

When she reached Molesworth Street again, Mrs. Hogan came out to see her immediately. She looked awkward, her hands winding around each other, twisting her apron.

Charlotte addressed the subject before Mrs. Hogan could search for the words.

“You have heard about Mr. O’Neil,” she said gravely. “A very terrible thing to have happened. I hope Mr. Narraway will be able to help them. He has some experience in such tragedies. But I quite understand if you would prefer that I move out of your house in the meantime. I will have to find something, of course, until I get my passage back home. I daresay it will take me a day or two. In the meantime I will pack my brother’s belongings and put them in my own room, so you may let his rooms to whomsoever you wish. I believe we are paid for another couple of nights at least?” Please heaven within a couple of days she would be a great deal further on in her decisions, and at least one other person in Dublin would know for certain that Narraway was innocent.

Mrs. Hogan was embarrassed. The issue had been taken out of her hands and she did not know how to rescue it. As Charlotte had hoped, she settled for the compromise. “Thank you, that would be most considerate, ma’am.”

“If you will be kind enough to lend me the keys, I’ll do it straightaway.” Charlotte held out her hand.

Reluctantly Mrs. Hogan passed them over.

Charlotte unlocked the door and went inside, closing it behind her. Instantly she felt intrusive. She would pack his clothes, of course, and have someone take the case to her room, unless she could drag it there herself.

But far more important than shirts, socks, personal linen, were whatever papers he might have. Had he committed anything to writing? Would it even be in a form she could understand? If only she could at least ask Pitt! She had never missed him more. But then of course if he were here, she would be at home in London, not trying desperately to carry out a task for which she was so ill suited. She was in a foreign country where she was considered the enemy, and justly so. The weight of centuries of history was against her.

She opened the case, then went to the wardrobe and took out Narraway’s suits and shirts, folded them neatly, and packed them. Then, feeling as if she were prying, she opened the drawers in the chest. She took out his underwear and packed it also, making sure she had his pajamas from under the pillow on the bed. She included his extra pair of shoes, wrapped in a cloth to keep them from marking anything, and put them in as well.

She collected the toiletries, a hairbrush, a toothbrush, razor, and small clothes brush. He was an immaculate man. How he would hate being locked up in a cell with no privacy, and probably little means to wash.

The few papers there were in the top drawer of the dresser. Thank heaven they were not locked in a briefcase. But that probably indicated that they would mean nothing to anyone else.

Back in her own room, with Narraway’s case propped in the corner, she looked at the few notes he had made. They were a curious reflection on his character, a side of him she had not even guessed at before. They were mostly little drawings, very small indeed, but very clever. They were little stick men, but imbued with such movement and personality that she recognized instantly who they were.

There was one little man with striped trousers and a banknote in his hat, and beside him a woman with chaotic hair. Behind him was another woman, even thinner, her limbs poking jaggedly.

Even with arms and legs merely suggested, Charlotte knew they were John and Bridget Tyrone, and that Tyrone’s being a banker was important. The other woman had such a savagery about her it immediately suggested Talulla. Beside her was a question mark. There was no more than that, except a man of whom she could see only the top half, as if he was up to his arms in something. She stared at it until it came to her with a shiver of revulsion. It was Mulhare, drowning—because the money had not been paid.

The little drawing suggested a connection between John Tyrone and Talulla. He was a banker—was he the link to London? Had he the power, through his profession, to move money around from Dublin to London and, with the help of someone in Lisson Grove, to place it back in Narraway’s account?

Then who in Lisson Grove? And why? No one could tell her that but Tyrone himself.

Was it dangerous, absurd, to go to him? She had no one else she could turn to, because she did not know who else was involved. Certainly she could not go back to McDaid. She was growing more and more certain within herself that his remarks about accidental damage to the innocent were statements of his philosophy, and also a warning to her.

Was Talulla the prime mover in Cormac’s death, or only an instrument, used by someone else? Someone like John Tyrone, so harmless seeming, but powerful enough in Dublin and in London even to create a traitor in Lisson Grove?

There seemed to be two choices open to her: go to Tyrone himself; or give up and go home, leaving Narraway here to answer whatever charge they brought against him, presuming he lived long enough to face a trial. Would it be a fair trial, even? Possibly not. The old wounds were raw, and Special Branch would not be on his side. So Charlotte really had no choice at all.

THE MAID WHO ANSWERED the door let her in somewhat reluctantly.

“I need to speak with Mr. Tyrone,” Charlotte said as soon as she was into the large, high-ceilinged hall. “It is to do with the murder of Mr. Mulhare, and now poor Mr. O’Neil. It is most urgent.”

“I’ll ask him, ma’am,” the maid replied. “Who shall I say is calling?”

“Charlotte Pitt.” She hesitated only an instant. “Victor Narraway’s sister.”

“Yes, ma’am.” She went across the hall and knocked on a door at the far side. It opened and she spoke for a moment, then returned to Charlotte. “If you’ll come with me, ma’am.”

Charlotte followed her, and the maid knocked on the same door again.

“Come in.” Tyrone’s voice was abrupt.

The maid opened it for Charlotte to go past her. Tyrone had obviously been working—there were papers spread across the surface of the large desk.

He stood impatiently, making no attempt to hide the fact that she had interrupted him.

“I’m sorry,” she began. “I know it is late and I have come without invitation, but the matter is urgent. Tomorrow may be impossible for me to rescue what is left of the situation.”

He moved his weight from one foot to the other. “I am very sorry for you, Mrs. Pitt, but I have no idea how I can help. Perhaps I should send the maid to see where my wife is.” It was offered more as an excuse than a suggestion. “She is calling on a neighbor. She cannot be far.”

“It is you I need to see,” she told him. “And it might be more suitable for your reputation if the maid were to remain, although my inquiries are confidential.”

“Then you should call at my place of business, within the usual hours,” he pointed out.

She gave him a brief, formal smile. “Confidential to you, Mr. Tyrone. That is why I came here.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

It was still only a deduction from Narraway’s drawings, but it was all she had left.

She plunged in. “The money for Mulhare that you transferred back into my brother’s account in London, which was responsible for Mulhare’s death, and my brother’s professional ruin, Mr. Tyrone.”

He might have intended to deny it, but his face gave him away. The shock drained the blood from his skin, leaving him almost gray. He drew in his breath sharply, then changed his mind and said nothing. His eyes flickered; and for an instant Charlotte wondered if he was going to call for some kind of assistance and have her thrown out. Probably no servant would attack her, but if any other of the people involved in the plan were—it would only increase her danger. McDaid had warned her.

Or did Tyrone imagine she had even had some hand in murdering Cormac O’Neil?

Now her own voice was shaking. “Mr. Tyrone, too many people have been hurt already, and I’m sure you know poor Cormac was killed this morning. It is time for this to end. I would find it easy to believe that you had no idea what tragedies would follow the transfer of that money. Nor do I find it hard to sympathize with your hatred of those who occupy a country that is rightfully yours. But by using personal murder and betrayal you win nothing. You only bring more tragedy on those you involve. If you doubt me, look at the evidence. All the O’Neils are dead now. Even the loyalty that used to bind them is destroyed. Kate and Cormac have both been murdered, and by the very ones they loved.”

“Your brother killed Cormac,” he said at last.

“No, he didn’t. Cormac was already dead by the time we got there.”

He was startled. “We? You went with him?”

“Just after him, but only moments after …”

“Then he could have killed him before you got there!”

“No. I was on his heels. I would have heard the shot. I heard the dog begin to bark as Victor entered.”

He let out a long, slow sigh, as if at last the pieces had settled into a dark picture that, for all its ugliness, still made sense to him. His face looked bruised, as if some familiar pain had returned inside him.

“You had better come into the study,” he said wearily. “I don’t know what you can do about any of it now. The police believe Narraway shot O’Neil because they want to believe it. He’s earned a long, deep hatred here. They caught him all but in the act. They won’t look any further. You would be wise to go back to London while you can.” He led the way across the floor into the study and closed the door. He offered her one of the leather-seated chairs and took the other himself.

“I don’t know what you think I can do to change anything.” There was no lift in his voice, no hope.

“Tell me about transferring the money,” she answered.

“And how will that help?”

“Special Branch in London will know that Victor did not steal it.” She must remember always to refer to him by his given name. One slip calling him Mr. Narraway and she would betray both of them.

He gave a sharp bark of laughter. “And when he’s hanged in Dublin for murdering O’Neil, what will that matter to him? There’s a poetic justice to it, but if it’s logic you’re after, the fact that he didn’t steal the money won’t help. O’Neil had nothing to do with it, but Narraway didn’t know that.”

“Of course he did!” she retorted instantly. “How do you think I know?”

That caught him off guard; she saw it instantly in his eyes.

“Then what is it you want me to tell you?” he asked.

“Who helped you? Someone in Lisson Grove gave you the account information so you could have it done. And it was nothing to do with helping you. It was to get Victor out of Special Branch. You just served their purpose.” She had not thought what she was going to say until the words were on her lips. Did she really mean that it was Charles Austwick? It didn’t have to be; there were a dozen others who could have done it, for a dozen other reasons, even one as simple as being paid to. But again that came back to Ireland, and who would pay, and for what reason—just revenge, or an enemy who wanted their own man in Narraway’s place? Or was it simply an ambitious man, or one Narraway suspected of treason or theft, and they struck before he could expose them?

She watched Tyrone, waiting for him to respond.

He was trying to judge how much she knew, but there was also something else in his eyes: a hurt that so far made no sense as part of this old vengeance.

“Austwick?” she guessed, before the silence allowed the moment to slip.

“Yes,” he said quietly.

“Did he pay you?” She could not keep the contempt from her voice.

His head came up sharply. “No he did not! I did it because I hate Narraway, and Mulhare, and all other traitors to Ireland.”

“Victor is not a traitor to Ireland,” she pointed out. “He’s as English as I am. You’re lying.” She picked a weapon out of her imagination. “Did he have an affair with your wife, as well as with Kate O’Neil?”

Tyrone’s face flamed, and he half rose from his chair. “If you don’t want me to throw you out of my house, woman, you’ll apologize for that slur on my wife! Your mind’s in the gutter. But then I daresay you know your brother a great deal better than I do. If he is your brother, that is?”

Now Charlotte felt her own face burn. “I think perhaps it is your mind that is in the gutter, Mr. Tyrone,” she said with a tremor in her voice, and perhaps guilt, because she knew what Narraway felt for her.

Unable to piece together a defense, she attacked. “Why do you do this for Charles Austwick? What is he to you? An Englishman who wants to gain power and office? And in the very secret service that was formed to defeat Irish hopes of Home Rule.” That was an exaggeration, she knew. It was formed to combat the bombings and murders intended to terrorize Britain into granting Home Rule to Ireland, but the difference hardly mattered now.

Tyrone’s voice was low and bitterly angry. “I don’t give a tinker’s curse who runs your wretched services, secret or open. It was my chance to get rid of Narraway. Whatever else Austwick is, he’s a fool by comparison.”

“You know him?” She seized the only part of what he was saying that seemed vulnerable, even momentarily.

There was a tiny sound behind her; just the brushing of a silk skirt against the doorjamb.

She turned around and saw Bridget Tyrone standing a yard from her. Suddenly she was horribly, physically afraid. She could scream her lungs out here and no one would hear her, no one would know … or care. It took all the strength she had to stand still, and command her voice to be level—or at least something like it.

It would be absurd to pretend Bridget had not overheard the conversation.

Charlotte was trapped, and she knew it. The fury in Bridget’s face was unmistakable. Just as Bridget moved forward, Charlotte did also. She had never before struck another woman. However, when she turned as if to say something to Tyrone and saw him also moving toward her, she swung back, her arm wide. She put all her weight behind it, catching Bridget on the side of the head just as she lunged forward.

Bridget toppled sideways, catching at the small table with books on it and sending it crashing, herself on top of it. She screamed, as much in rage as pain.

Tyrone was distracted, diving to help her. Charlotte ran past, out of the door and across the hall. She flung the front door open, hurtling out into the street without once looking behind her. She kept on running, both hands holding her skirts up so she did not trip. She reached the main crossroads before she was so out of breath she could go no farther.

She dropped her skirt out of shaking hands and started to walk along the dimly lit street with as much dignity as she could muster, keeping an eye to the roadway for carriage lights in the hope of getting one to take her home as soon as it could. She would prefer to be far away from the area.

When she saw an unoccupied cab, she gave the driver the Molesworth Street address before climbing in and settling back to try to arrange her thoughts.

The story was still incomplete: bits and pieces that only partially fit together. Talulla was Sean and Kate’s daughter. When had she known the truth of what had happened, or at least something like it? Perhaps more important, who had told her? Had it been with the intention that she should react violently? Did they know her well enough, and deliberately work on her loneliness, her sense of injustice and displacement, so that she could be provoked into murdering Cormac and blaming Narraway? To her it could be made to seem a just revenge for the destruction of her family. Sometimes rage is the easiest answer to unbearable pain. Charlotte had seen that too many times before, even been brushed by it herself long ago, at the time of Sarah’s death. It is instinctive to feel that someone must be made to pay.

Who could have used Talulla that way? And why? Was Cormac the intended victim? Or was he a victim of incidental damage, as Fiachra McDaid had said—one of the fallen in a war for a greater purpose—and Narraway the real victim? It would be a poetic justice if he were hanged for a murder he did not commit. Since Talulla believed Sean innocent of killing Kate, and Narraway guilty, for her that would be elegant, perfect.

But who prompted her to it, gave her the information and stoked her passions, all but guided her hand? And why? Obviously not Cormac. Not John Tyrone, because he seemed to know nothing about it, and Charlotte believed that. Bridget? Perhaps. Certainly she was involved. Her reaction to Charlotte that evening had been too immediate and too violent to spring from ignorance. In fact, looking back at it now, perhaps she had known more than Tyrone himself. Was Tyrone, at least in part, another victim of incidental damage? Someone to use, because he was vulnerable, more in love with his wife than she was with him, and because he was a banker and had the means?

She could no longer evade the answer—Fiachra McDaid. Perhaps he had nothing to do with the past at all, or any of the old tragedy, except to use it. And for him winning was all, the means and the casualties nothing.

How did getting Narraway out of Special Branch help the cause of Ireland, though? He would only be replaced. But perhaps that was it. Replaced with a traitor, bought and paid for. She was still working on this train of thought when she arrived at Mrs. Hogan’s door. She had promised Mrs. Hogan she would be gone by the next day. It would be very difficult to manage her own luggage and Narraway’s as well, and there were other practical considerations to be taken in mind, such as the shortage of money to remain much longer away from home. She had still her tickets to purchase, for the boat and for the train.

When everything was weighed, she had little choice but to go to the police station in the morning and tell them, carefully, all that she believed. However, she had no proof she could show them. That she had arrived at Cormac’s house just after Narraway but had heard no gunshot, just the dog barking—why should her story convince them?

The police would ask her why she had not given this account at the time. Should she admit that she had not thought they would believe her? Is that what an innocent person would do?

She went to sleep uneasily, waking often with the problem still unsolved.

NARRAWAY SAT IN HIS cell in the police station less than a mile from where Cormac O’Neil had been murdered. He maintained a motionless pose, but his mind was racing. He must think—plan. Once they moved him to the main prison he would have no chance. He might be lucky to survive long enough to come to trial. And by that time memories would be clouded, people persuaded to forget, or to see things differently. But far worse even than that, whatever was being planned and for which he had been lured to Ireland, and Pitt to France, would have happened, and be irretrievable.

He sat there and remained unmoving for more than two hours. No one came to speak to him or give him food or drink. Slowly a desperate plan took shape in his mind. He would like to wait for nightfall, but he could not take the risk that they would take him into the main prison before that. Daylight would be much more dangerous, but perhaps that too was necessary. He might have only one chance.

He listened intently for the slightest sound beyond the cell door, any movement at all. He had decided exactly what to do when at last it came. It would have to, eventually.

When they put the heavy key in the lock and swung the door open Narraway was lying on the floor, sprawled in a position that looked as if he had broken his neck. His beautiful white shirt was torn and hanging from the bars on the window above him.

“Hey! Flaherty!” the guard called. “Come, quick! The stupid bastard’s hung himself!” He came over to Narraway and bent to check his pulse. “Sweet Mother of God, I think he’s dead!” he breathed. “Flaherty, where the devil are you?”

Before Flaherty could come, and there would be two of them to fight, Narraway snapped his body up and caught the guard under the chin so hard his head shot back. Narraway hit him again, sideways, so as to knock him unconscious, but very definitely not kill him. In fact he intended him to be senseless for no more than fifteen or twenty minutes. He needed him alive, and able to walk.

He moved the inert body to the exact spot where he himself had been lying, all but tore the man’s jacket off him, and left him in his shirt. He took his keys and barely managed to get behind the door when Flaherty arrived.

Narraway held his breath in case Flaherty had the presence of mind to come in and lock the door or, even worse, stay out and lock it. But he was too horrified by the sight of the other guard on the floor to think so rationally. He covered the few paces to the fallen man, calling his name, and Narraway took his one chance. He slipped around the door, slammed it shut, and locked it. He heard Flaherty yelling almost immediately. Good. Someone would let him out within minutes. He needed them in hot pursuit.

He was very careful indeed going out of the police station, twice standing motionless on corners while people moved past him, following the shouting and the hurried footsteps.

Outside in the street, he ran. He wanted to draw attention to himself, to be remembered. Someone had to tell them which way he had gone.

He could afford no delay, no hesitation.

It was wet. The rain came down in a steady drizzle. The gutters were awash and very quickly he was soaked, his hair sticking to his brow, his bare neck cold without his shirt. People looked at him but no one stood in his way. Perhaps they thought he was drunk.

He had to go around Cormac’s house, in case there were still police there. He could not be stopped now. He slowed to a walk and crossed the road away from it, then back again, without seeing anyone, and in at the gate of Talulla’s house and up to the front door. If she did not answer he would have to break a window and force his way in. His whole plan rested on confronting her when the police caught up with him.

He knocked loudly.

There was no answer. What if she were not here, but with friends? Could she be, so soon after killing Cormac? Surely she would need to be alone? And she had to take care of the dog. Wouldn’t she be waiting until the police left so she could take whatever she wanted, or needed to protect, of the records of her parents that Cormac had kept?

He banged again.

Again—silence.

Was she there already? He had seen no police outside. She might be upstairs here in her own house, lying down, emotionally exhausted from murder and the ultimate revenge.

He took off the jacket. Standing in the rain, bare-chested, he wrapped the jacket around his fist and with as little noise as possible broke a side window, unlocked it, and climbed inside. He put the jacket on again and walked softly across the floor to look for her.

He searched from top to bottom. There was no one there. He had not expected a maid. Talulla would have given her the day off so she could not witness anything to do with Cormac’s murder, not hear any shots, any barking dog.

He let himself out of the back door and ran swiftly to Cormac’s house. Time was getting short. The police could not be far behind him. Hurry! Hurry!

He wasted no time knocking on the door. She would almost certainly not answer. And he had no time to wait.

He took off the jacket again, shivering with cold now, and perhaps also with fear. He smashed another window and within seconds was inside. At once the dog started barking furiously.

He looked around him. He went into some kind of pantry. He must get as far as the kitchen before she found him. If she let the dog attack him he had to be ready. And why would she not? He had broken into the house. He was already accused of Cormac’s murder. She would have every possible justification.

He opened the door quickly and found himself in the scullery, the kitchen beyond. He darted forward and grabbed at a small, hard-backed wooden chair just as Talulla opened the door from the farther side and the dog leapt forward, still barking hysterically.

She stopped, stunned to see him.

He lifted the chair, its thin, sharp legs pointed toward the dog.

“I don’t want to hurt the animal,” he said, having to raise his voice to be heard above it. “Call it off.”

“So you can kill me too?” she shouted back at him.

“Don’t be so damn stupid!” He heard the rage trembling in his own voice, abrasive, almost out of control. “You killed him yourself, to get your revenge at last.”

She smiled, a hard, glittering expression, vibrant with hate. “Well, I have, haven’t I? They’ll hang you, Victor Narraway. And the ghost of my father will laugh. I’ll be there to watch you—that I swear.” She turned to the dog. “Quiet, girl,” she ordered. “Don’t attack him. I want him alive to suffer trial and disgrace. Ripping his throat out would be too quick, too easy.” She looked back at him.

But the dog was distracted by something else now. It swung its head around and stared toward the front door, hackles raised, a low growl in its throat.

“Too easy?” Narraway heard his voice rising, the desperation in it palpable. She must hear it too.

She did, and her smile widened. “I want to see you hang, see your terror when they put the noose around your neck, see you struggle for breath, gasping, your tongue purple, filling your mouth and poking out. You won’t charm the women then, will you? Do you soil yourself when you hang? Do you lose all control, all dignity?” She was screeching now, her face twisted with the pain of her own imagination.

“Actually the function of the noose and the drop of the trapdoor is to break your neck,” he replied. “You are supposed to die instantly. Does that take the pleasure away for you?”

She stared at him, breathing heavily. The dog now was fully concentrated on the front door, the growl low in its throat, lips curled back off the teeth.

If she realized there was someone at the front, please God in heaven, the police, then she would stop, perhaps even claim he had attacked her. But this was the moment of her private triumph, when she could tell him exactly how she had brought about his ruin.

He made a sudden movement toward her.

The dog swung around, barking again.

He raised the chair, legs toward it, just in case it leapt.

“Frightened, Victor?” she said with relish.

“Why now?” he asked, trying to keep his voice level. He nearly succeeded, but she must have seen the sheen of sweat on his face. “It was McDaid, wasn’t it? He told you something? What? Why does he want all this? He used to be my friend.”

“You’re pathetic!” she said, all but choking over her words. “He hates you as much as we all do!”

“What did he tell you?” he persisted.

“How you seduced my whore of a mother and then betrayed her. You killed her, and let my father hang for it!” She was sobbing now.

“Then why kill poor Cormac?” he asked. “Was he expendable, simply to create a murder for which you could blame me? It had to be you who killed him, you’re the only one the dog wouldn’t bark at, because you feed her when Cormac’s away. She’s used to you in the house. She’d have raised the roof if it had been me.”

“Very clever,” she agreed. “But by the time you come to trial, no one else will know that. And no one will believe your sister, if that’s who she is, because they’ll all know she would lie for you.”

“Did you kill Cormac just to get me?” he asked again.

“No! I killed him because he didn’t raise a hand to save my father! He did nothing! Absolutely nothing!”

“You were only a child, not even eight years old,” he pointed out.

“McDaid told me!” she sobbed.

“Ah yes, McDaid—the Irish hero who wants to turn all Europe upside down in a revolution to change the social order, sweep away the old, and bring in the new. And do you imagine that will bring Ireland freedom? To him you are expendable, Talulla, just as I am, or your parents, or anyone else.”

It was at that point that she let go of the dog’s collar and shrieked at it to attack, just as the police threw open the door to the hall and Narraway raised the chair as the dog leapt and sent him flying to land hard on his back, half winding him.

One of the policemen grabbed the animal by its collar, all but choking it. The other seized hold of Talulla.

Narraway climbed to his feet, coughing and gasping to get his breath.

“Thank you,” he said hoarsely. “I hope you have been here rather longer than it would appear.”

“Long enough,” the elder of the two responded. “But there’ll still be one or two charges for you to answer, like assaulting a policeman while in custody, and escaping custody. If I were you, I’d run like hell and never come back to Ireland, Mr. Narraway.”

“Very good advice.” Narraway stood to attention, gave the man a smart salute, then turned and ran, exactly as he had been told.

————

IN THE MORNING THERE was no alternative for Charlotte but to have a hasty breakfast, pay Mrs. Hogan the last night for which she owed her. Then, with Mrs. Hogan’s assistance, she sent for a carriage to take her and all the baggage as far as the police station where Narraway was held.

It was a miserable ride. She had come up with no better solution than simply to tell the police that she had further information on the death of Cormac O’Neil, and hope that she could persuade someone with judgment and influence to listen to her.

As she drew closer and closer the idea seemed to grow even more hopeless.

The carriage was about a hundred yards away from the police station. She was dreading being put out on the footpath with more luggage than she could possibly carry, and a story she was already convinced no one would believe. Then abruptly the carriage pulled up short and the driver leaned down to speak to someone Charlotte could only partially see.

“We are not there yet!” she said desperately. “Please go farther. I cannot possibly carry these cases so far. In fact I can’t carry them at all.”

“Sorry, miss,” the driver said sadly, as if he felt a real pity for her. “That was the police. Seems there’s been an escape of a very dangerous prisoner in the night. They just discovered it, an’ the whole street’s blocked off.”

“A prisoner?”

“Yes, miss. A terrible, dangerous man, they say. Murdered a man yesterday, near shot his head off, an’ now he’s gone like magic. Just disappeared. Went to see him this morning, and his cell is empty. They’re not allowing any carriages through.”

Charlotte stared at him as if she could barely understand his words, but her mind was racing. Escape. Murdered a man yesterday. It had to be Narraway, didn’t it? He must have known even more certainly than she did just how much people hated him, how easy it would be for them to see all the evidence the way they wished to. Who would believe him—an Englishman with his past—rather than Talulla Lawless, who was Sean O’Neil’s daughter and, perhaps even more important, Kate’s daughter? Who would want to believe she shot Cormac?

The driver was still staring at Charlotte, waiting for her decision.

“Thank you,” she said, fumbling for words. She did not want to leave Narraway alone and hunted in Ireland, but there was no way in which she could help him. She had no idea which way he would go, north or south, inland, or even across the country to the west. She did not know if he had friends, old allies, anyone to turn to.

Then another thought came to her with a new coldness. When they arrested him, they would have taken his belongings, his money. He would be penniless. How would he survive, let alone travel? She must help him.

Please heaven he did not trust any of the people he knew in Dublin! Every one of them would betray him. They were tied to one another by blood and memory, old grief too deep to forget.

“Miss?” The driver interrupted her thoughts.

Charlotte had little money either. She was marked as Narraway’s sister. She would be a liability to him. There was nothing she could do to help here. Her only hope was to go back to London and somehow find Pitt or, at the very least, Aunt Vespasia.

“Please take me to the dock,” she said as steadily as she could. “I think it would be better if I caught the next steamer back to England. Whatever dock that is, if you please.”

“Yes, miss.” He climbed back over the box again and urged his horse forward and around. They made a wide turn in the street heading away from the police station.

The journey was not very long, but to Charlotte it seemed to take ages. They passed down the wide, handsome streets. Some of the roads would have taken seven or eight carriages abreast, but they seemed half deserted compared with the noisy, crushing jams of traffic in London. She was desperate to leave, and yet also torn with regrets. One day she wanted to come back, anonymous and free of burdens, simply to enjoy the city. Now she could only lean forward, peering out and counting the minutes until she reached the dock.

The whole business of alighting with the luggage and the crowds waiting to board the steamer was awkward and very close to desperate. She tried to move the cases without leaving anything where it could be taken, and at the same time keep hold of her reticule and pay for a ticket. In the jostling of people she was bumped and knocked. Twice she nearly lost her own case while trying to move Narraway’s and find money ready to pay the fare.

“Can I help you?” a voice said close to her.

She was about to refuse when she felt his hand over hers and he took Narraway’s case from her. She was furious and ready to cry with frustration. She lifted her foot with its nicely heeled boot and brought it down sharply on his instep.

He gasped with pain, but he did not let go of Narraway’s case.

She lifted her foot to do it again, harder.

“Charlotte, let the damn thing go!” Narraway hissed between his teeth.

She let not only his case go but her own also. She was so angry she could have struck him with an open hand, and so relieved she felt the tears prickle in her eyes and slide down her cheeks.

“I suppose you’ve no money!” she said tartly, choking on the words.

“Not much,” he agreed. “I borrowed enough from O’Casey to get as far as Holyhead. But since you have my luggage, we’ll manage the rest. Keep moving. We need to buy tickets, and I would very much like to catch this steamer. I might not have the opportunity to wait for the next. I imagine the police will think of this. It’s the obvious way to go, but I need to be back in London. I have a fear that something very nasty indeed is going to happen.”

“Several very nasty things already have,” she told him.

“I know. But we must prevent what we can.”

“I know what happened with Mulhare’s money. I’m pretty sure who was behind it all.”

“Are you?” There was an eagerness in his voice that he could not hide, even now in this pushing, noisy crowd.

“I’ll tell you when we are on board. Did you hear the dog?”

“What dog?”

“Cormac’s dog.”

“Of course I did. The poor beast hurled itself at the door almost as soon as I was in the house.”

“Did you hear the shot?”

“No. Did you?” He was startled.

“No,” she said with a smile.

“Ah!” He was level with her now, and they were at the ticket counter. “I see.” He smiled also, but at the salesman. “Two for the Holyhead boat, please.”