Betrayal at Lisson Grove (Treason at Lisson Grove)

Warmth returned to her face, flushing the soft honey color of her skin. “Where is he?” she asked.

He decided to sound more certain than he was. West’s murderer might have fled to Scotland, but France was far more likely. “France,” he replied. “Of course he could not telephone from the ferry, and he would not have dared leave in case the man got off as well, and he lost him. I’m sorry.”

She smiled. “It was very thoughtful of you to come tell me. I admit, I was beginning to be concerned.”

The April evening was cold, a sharp wind carrying the smell of rain. He was standing on the doorstep staring at the light beyond. He stepped back, deliberately, his thoughts, the temptation, the quickening of his heart frightening him.

“There is no need,” he said hastily. “Gower is with him; an excellent man, intelligent and quite fluent in French. And I daresay it will be warmer there than it is here.” He smiled. “And the food is excellent.” She had been preparing dinner. That was clumsy. Thank goodness he was far enough into the darkness that she could not see the blush rise up his face. “I will let you know as soon as I hear from him. If this man they are following goes to Paris, it may not be easy for them to be in contact, but please don’t fear for him.”

“Thank you. I won’t now.”

He knew that was a polite lie. Of course she would fear for Pitt, and miss him. Loving always included the possibility of loss. But the emptiness of not loving was even greater.

He nodded very slightly, just an inclination of his head, then wished her good night. He walked away, feeling as if he were leaving the light behind him.

IT WAS THE MIDDLE of the following morning when Narraway received the telegram from Pitt in St. Malo. He immediately forwarded him sufficient money to last both men for at least two weeks. He thought about it as soon as it had been sent, and knew he had been overgenerous. Perhaps that was an indication of the relief he felt to know Pitt was safe. He would have to go back to Keppel Street to tell Charlotte that Pitt had been in touch.

He had returned to his desk after lunch when Charles Austwick came in and closed the door behind him. He was officially Narraway’s next in command, although in practical terms it had come to be Pitt. Austwick was in his late forties with fair hair that was receding a little, and a good-looking but curiously unremarkable face. He was intelligent and efficient, and he seemed to be always in control of whatever feelings he might have. Now he looked very directly at Narraway, deliberately so, as if he was uncomfortable and attempting not to show it.

“An ugly situation has arisen, sir,” he said, sitting down before he was invited to. “I’m sorry, but I have no choice but to address it.”

“Then do so!” Narraway said a little hastily. “Don’t creep around it like a maiden aunt at a wedding. What is it?”

Austwick’s face tightened, his lips making a thin line.

“This has to do with informers,” Austwick said coldly. “Do you remember Mulhare?”

Narraway recognized the name with a rush of sadness. Mulhare had been an Irishman who risked his life to give information to the English. It was dangerous enough that he would have to leave Ireland, taking his family with him. Narraway had made sure there were funds provided for him.

“Of course I do,” he said quietly. “Have they found who killed him? Not that it’ll do much good now.” He knew his voice sounded bitter. He had liked Mulhare, and had promised him that he’d be safe.

“That is something of a difficult question,” Austwick replied. “He never got the money, so he couldn’t leave Ireland.”

“Yes, he did,” Narraway contradicted him. “I dealt with it myself.”

“That’s rather the point,” Austwick said. He moved position slightly, scuffing the chair leg on the carpet.

Narraway resented being reminded of his failure. It was a loss that would continue to hurt. “If you don’t know who killed him, why are you spending time on that now, instead of current things?” he asked abruptly. “If you have nothing to do, I can certainly find you something. Pitt and Gower are away for a while. Somebody’ll have to pick up Pitt’s case on the docks.”

“Oh really?” Austwick barely masked his surprise. “I didn’t know. No one mentioned it!”

Narraway gave him a chill look and ignored the implied rebuke.

Austwick drew in his breath. “As I said,” he resumed, “this is something I regret we have to deal with. Mulhare was betrayed—”

“We know that, for God’s sake!” Narraway could hear his own voice thick with emotion. “His corpse was fished out of Dublin Bay.”

“He never got the money,” Austwick said again.

Narraway clenched his hands under the desk, out of Austwick’s sight. “I paid it myself.”

“But Mulhare never received it,” Austwick replied. “We traced it.”

Narraway was startled.

“To whom? Where is it?”

“I have no idea where it is now,” Austwick answered. “But it was in one of your bank accounts here in London.”