Betrayal at Lisson Grove (Treason at Lisson Grove)

“But you used the word betrayed,” Croxdale persisted. “I think advisedly so. Does that not concern you urgently, Narraway? Whom can you trust, in any Irish issue?—of which, God knows, there are more than enough.”

“The European socialist revolutionaries are our most urgent concern now, sir.” Narraway also leaned forward. “There is a high degree of violence threatened. Men like Linsky, Meister, la Pointe, Corazath, are all quick to use guns and dynamite. Their philosophy is that a few deaths are the price they have to pay for the greater freedom and equality of the people. As long, of course, as the deaths are not their own,” he added drily.

“Does that take precedence over treachery among your own people?” He left it hanging in the air between them, a question that demanded answering.

Narraway had seen the death of Mulhare as tragic, but less urgent than the threat of the broader socialist plot that loomed. He knew how he had guarded the provenance of the money, and did not know how someone had made the funds appear to return to Narraway’s own personal account. Above all he did not know who was responsible, or whether it was done through incompetence—or deliberately in order to make him look a thief.

“I’m not yet certain it was betrayal, sir. Perhaps I used the word hastily.” He kept his voice as level as he could; still, there was a certain roughness to it. He hoped Croxdale’s less sensitive ear did not catch it.

Croxdale was staring at him. “As opposed to what?”

“Incompetence,” Narraway replied. “And this time we covered the tracks of the transfers very carefully, so no one in Ireland would be able to trace it back to us. We made it seem like legitimate purchases all the way.”

“Or at least you thought so,” Croxdale amended. “But Mulhare was still killed. Where is the money now?”

Narraway had hoped to avoid telling him, but perhaps it had always been inevitable that Croxdale would have to know. Maybe he did, and this was a trap. “Austwick told me it was back in an account I had ceased using,” he replied. “I don’t know who moved it, but I shall find out.”

Croxdale was silent for several moments. “Yes, please do, and with indisputable proof, of course. Quickly, Narraway. We need your skills on this wretched socialist business. It seems the threat is real.”

“I’ll look into the money as soon as we have learned what West’s killers are planning,” Narraway answered. “With a little luck, we’ll even catch some of them and be able to put them away.”

Croxdale looked up, his eyes bright and sharp. Suddenly he was no longer an amiable, rather bearlike man but tigerish, the passion in him like a coiled spring, masked only by superficial ease. “Do you imagine that a few martyrs to the cause will stop anything, Narraway? If so, I’m disappointed in you. Idealists thrive on sacrifice, the more public and the more dramatic the better.”

“I know that.” Narraway was stung by the misjudgment. “I have no intention of giving them martyrs. Indeed, I have no intention of denying them social reform and a good deal of change, but in pace with the will of the majority of the people in the country, not ahead of it, and not forced on them by a few fanatics. We’ve always changed, but slowly. Look at the history of the revolutions of 1848. We were about the only major country in Europe that didn’t have an uprising. And by 1850, where were all the idealists from the barricades? Where were all the new freedoms so bloodily won? Every damn one of them gone, and all the old regimes back in power.”

Croxdale was looking at him intensely, his expression unreadable.

“We had no uprising,” Narraway went on, his voice dropped a level but the heat still there. “No deaths, no grand speeches, just quiet progress, a step at a time. Boring, perhaps unheroic, but also bloodless—and more to the point, sustainable. We aren’t back under the old tyrannies. As governments go, ours is not bad.”

“Thank you,” Croxdale said drily.

Narraway gave one of his rare, beautiful smiles. “My pleasure, sir.”

Croxdale sighed. “I wish it were so simple. I’m sorry, Narraway, but you will solve this miserable business of the money that should have gone to Mulhare immediately. Austwick will take over the socialist affair until you have it dealt with, which includes inarguable proof that someone else placed it in your account, and you were unaware of it until Austwick told you. It will also include the name of whoever is responsible for this, because they have jeopardized the effectiveness of one of the best heads of Special Branch that we have had in the last quarter century, and that is treason against the country, and against the queen.”

For a moment Narraway did not grasp what Croxdale was saying. He sat motionless in the chair, his hands cold, gripping the arms as if to keep his balance. He drew in his breath to protest but saw in Croxdale’s face that it would be pointless. The decision was made, and final.