Betrayal at Lisson Grove (Treason at Lisson Grove)

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.

NARRAWAY WAS INTENSELY RELIEVED to see the familiar coast of Ireland slip away over the horizon with no coast guard or police boat in pursuit of them. At least for a few hours he could turn his attention to what he should do once he arrived at Holyhead. The obvious thing would be to catch the next train to London. Would it be so obvious a move that he might be apprehended? On the other hand, a delay might give anyone still bent on catching him a better chance to cross the Irish Sea in a lighter, perhaps faster boat, and arrest him before he could get any help.

He was standing on the deck gazing westward. Charlotte was beside him. She looked weary, and the marks of fear were still drawn deep into her face. Even so, he found her beautiful. He had long ago grown tired of unspoiled perfection. If that was what one hungered for—the color, the proportion, the smooth skin, the perfect balance of feature—there were works of art all over the world to stare at. Even the poorest man could find a copy for himself.

A real woman had warmth, vulnerability, fears, and blemishes of her own—or else how could she have any gentleness toward those of her mate? Without experience, one was a cup waiting to be filled—well crafted perhaps, but empty. And to a soul of any courage or passion, experience also meant a degree of pain, false starts, occasional bad judgments, a knowledge of loss. Young women were charming for a short while, but very soon they bored him.

He was used to loneliness, but there were times when its burden ached so deeply he could never be unaware of it. Standing on the deck with Charlotte, watching the wind unravel her hair and blow it across her face, was one such time.

She had already told him what she had learned of Talulla, of John Tyrone and the money, and of Fiachra McDaid. It was complicated. Some of the situation he had guessed from what O’Casey had told him, but he had not understood Talulla’s place in it. Had Fiachra not convinced her that her parents were innocent, she would not have blamed Cormac. She would still have blamed Narraway, of course, but that was fair. Kate’s death was as much his fault as anyone’s, insofar as it was foreseeable. He had known how Sean felt about her.

What did Talulla imagine Cormac could have done to save Sean? Sean was a rebel whose wife gave him up to the English. Was that betrayal treason to the spirit of Ireland, or just a practical decision to avoid more pointless, heartbreaking bloodshed? How many people were still alive who would not have been if it had happened? Perhaps half the people she knew.