Betrayal at Lisson Grove (Treason at Lisson Grove)

“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.