Treason at Lisson Grove

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 offense? 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?

He sat in Narraway’s office, which was now his own: a cold and extraordinarily isolating thought. Would he be ousted next? It was hard to imagine 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 Narraway used to have there. They were mostly pencil drawings of bare trees, the branches delicate and complex. 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, then Pitt would give them back to him. Narraway’s belongings 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. 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 whom could he trust? There was nothing but to go on. He would have to compare one piece of information with another, canceling 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. He was commander now; he was not permitted to reveal vulnerability or confusion. He was not expected to consult. But he badly needed to—and recognized no one he could trust with certainty.

He looked in the faces of his juniors and saw courtesy, respect for his new position. In a few he also saw envy. Once he recognized an anger that he, such a relative newcomer, should have been promoted before them. 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. Knowing that one misjudgment could now cost him his life, Pitt desperately craved his colleague’s steady, quick-thinking presence and his quiet support.

Where was Narraway now? Somewhere in Ireland, trying to clear his name of a crime he did not commit? Pitt realized with a chill that he was not certain that Narraway was innocent. Could he have lied, embezzled, betrayed his country, and broken the trust of all he knew? Pitt would never before have believed that Narraway would commit any crime, even out of desperation. But perhaps he would if his life were in jeopardy, or Charlotte’s. That thought hurt Pitt in a way that he could not fight.

Why had she 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, 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 realized it. He had seen Narraway turn to look at her. They had been standing in the kitchen in his own 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. The kettle was steaming on the hob. Charlotte had been standing waiting for it 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 color 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 realize 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. Now she knew she was loved. But Pitt knew that her righteous indignation over the injustice against Narraway may have spurred Charlotte to impulsive actions.

She would be furiously angry that Narraway’s reputation had been damaged, 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 toward the vulnerable. It was instinctive, defensive, like an animal with cubs. She would act first and think afterward. 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? How could he be sure that he could trust them either, in light of all the schemes and plots that seemed to be under way right in his own government branch?

Perhaps anonymity was her best defense, but his own helplessness was almost like a physical pain. He had all the forces of Special Branch at his fingertips, but 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 realized 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, despite 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 misjudgment. And we can’t afford to ignore Scotland either.”

Pitt swallowed his response. He did not trust Austwick, but he must not allow the man to see his doubt. 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 on principle when they discovered he was an informant. He may not have possessed the crucial information we assumed he did.”

Austwick 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 a lot of unrest in the East End of London, which I know you are aware of, though much of it took place just before you joined the branch.”

That was a blatant reminder of how new 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 hostility he sensed was due to Austwick’s personal ambition having been thwarted. 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 offered.

Austwick shifted in his chair again. “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 was political and turned out not to be. A government minister was 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, and neither would he.

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 center 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 criticized for playing when she should have been working, and 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 Boys’ 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 center. “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.”

Afterward he sat alone in the parlor as 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 made the shadows seem deeper than they were. 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. 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’s pride and Daniel’s happiness for as long as he could. Finally he turned his mind to the following day and to 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 as the one before. There was news from Paris that was only vaguely disturbing: a definite increase in activity among the people Special Branch was watching, though if it had any meaning he was unable to determine what it was. It was much the same sort of thing he might have done had Narraway been there, and he in his own job. The difference was the weight of responsibility, the decisions that he could no longer refer upward. Now they all came to him. Other men who had previously been his equals were now obliged to report to him, for Pitt needed to know of anything at all that might threaten the safety of Her Majesty’s realm, and her government, the peace and prosperity of Britain.

Late that morning he finally obtained an interview with Sir Gerald Croxdale. He felt the urgent need to tell Croxdale of Gower’s death, and how it had happened. No report had come in yet, as far as he knew, but it could not be long now.

Pitt 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 doors carried family crests painted on them.

He was admitted without question. Apparently the footman knew who he was. He was taken straight to Croxdale’s rooms and ushered into his presence after 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. “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 misjudgment, 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 judgment 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, 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, laying his ground first? But there was no time to do that. Narraway was considered a fugitive by his former colleagues in the Special Branch 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 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.

“Something happened in France that made me realize 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 him. “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 sympathized 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?”

“He 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 him briefly, and moving on to the more urgent 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, now leaning back again in his chair. “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 farther, of 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 saw with a jolt of familiarity, and a renewed sense of his friend’s absence. Narraway’s penmanship was smaller, more flowing than his successor’s. There was no hesitation. He had written his note with forethought, 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 fruitcake—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 St. Malo, but not major. Austwick seems to disagree, and thinks that it 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 tip 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 gotten rid of before he could do so.”

Croxdale waited a long time before he answered.

“Do you realize 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 as well,” 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 laboring under some profound emotion. His face was pale as he leaned forward a little into the light. He seemed leached of color 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.

Stoker continued, a grim weariness in his voice. “Sir, there is more. I deeply regret that I must bear this grave news, gentlemen, but yesterday O’Neil was murdered, and the police immediately arrested Narraway. He was on the scene and practically caught red-handed. He had the grace not to deny it. He is now in prison in Dublin awaiting trial.”

Pitt felt as if he had been sandbagged. He struggled to keep any sense of proportion, even of reality. He stared at Stoker, then turned to Croxdale. Their faces wavered and the room seem to swim in and out of his focus.

“My word,” Croxdale said slowly. “This comes as a terrible shock.” He turned to Pitt. “You could have had no idea of this side of Narraway, and I admit, neither had I. I feel remiss to have had such a man in charge of our most sensitive service during my period of office. His extraordinary skill completely masked this darker, and clearly very violent side of his nature.”

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

Stoker gazed downward, his voice quieter, as though he too were stunned. “I am afraid it’s true, sir. We were all deceived as to his character. The case against him is as plain as day. It seems Narraway quarreled with O’Neil rather publicly, making no secret of the fact that 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 slight 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 daresay 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, whom he had spoken to and their reactions, the confrontation with O’Neil at the soirée. 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 Paris 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. Make as full an investigation 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 of, 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. 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. Pitt could not possibly believe that Narraway was a cold-blooded murderer. 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 judgments 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. Something had to be amiss. The Narraway that Pitt had known would never kill for any reason other than self-defense.

Croxdale’s carriage was waiting to take him home. He half saw the shadow of a man on the pavement who moved toward 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 was 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 that 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 his 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.

She 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 inarguable 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 was wrong about Stoker,” he pointed out.

“Possibly, but let us not leap to conclusions. You know only that what he reported to Gerald Croxdale 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 rumor that Jean Jaures 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 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 Jaures was coming?”

“One of the innkeepers, I think. The men in the café were talking about it.”

“You think? A name like Jaures 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 it to Vespasia.

“Did he mention Rosa Luxemburg?” she asked with a slight frown.

“Yes, but not that she was coming to St. Malo.”

“But he mentioned her name?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Jean Jaures is a passionate socialist, but a gentle man,” she explained. “He was 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 naturalized 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 insofar 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,” he said with intense feeling. “I don’t know enough for this job. He should have left it with Austwick—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 him 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 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 realized 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 were returned, 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 workingmen. He also read Stoker’s 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 it had oppressed people and denied them a reasonable life for so long that the change, when it came—and it must—would be fueled by so much hatred.

The more he read, the greater a 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 was more: 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 in 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. Had it been his intention all the time—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. On the rare occasions when it seemed Wrexham had eluded them, it was Gower and not Pitt who had found the trail again. 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 inquired into any further. Presumably it was just sufficient information to allow Gower to say afterward that he was a legitimate suspect.

Had he intended to turn on him in France?

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 random, 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 links 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 daresay 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. “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 judgment as to the truth of it, and exactly where Stoker’s loyalties lay.

Stoker obeyed without comment. Possibly he knew the reason Pitt asked, but if so there was nothing in his face to betray it. “I was only there 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 offense, 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 Dublin 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.

The weight of leadership settled on Pitt like a leaden coat. There was no one beyond himself to turn to, no one else’s opinion to listen to and use as a balance. Whoever had designed this so that it was he, and not Narraway, that they had to face, was supremely clever.

He must trust Stoker. The advantage outweighed the risk.

“Then we have ten days in which to rescue Narraway,” he replied. “Perhaps whoever it is 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 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, the gun smuggling, the movements of known radicals both in Britain and on 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 Jaures 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 frog’s 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 that 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 king, 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 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 I don’t know the history of it 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.