Betrayal at Lisson Grove (Treason at Lisson Grove)

“I’m sorry, Narraway,” Croxdale said quietly. “You no longer have the confidence of Her Majesty’s government, or of Her Majesty herself. I have no alternative but to remove you from office until such time as you can prove your innocence. I appreciate that that will be more difficult for you without access to your office or the papers in it, but you will appreciate the delicacy of my position. If you have access to the papers, you also have the power to alter them, destroy them, or add to them.”

Narraway was stunned. It was as if he had been dealt a physical blow. Suddenly he could barely breathe. It was preposterous. He was head of Special Branch, and here was this government minister telling him he was dismissed, with no warning, no preparation: just his decision, a word and it was all over.

“I’m sorry,” Croxdale repeated. “This is a somewhat unfortunate way of having to deal with it, but it can’t be helped. You will not go back to Lisson Grove, of course.”

“What?”

“You cannot go back to your office,” Croxdale said patiently. “Don’t oblige me to make an issue of it.”

Narraway rose to his feet, horrified to find that he was a trifle unsteady, as if he had been drinking. He wanted to think of something dignified to say, and above all to make absolutely certain that his voice was level, completely without emotion. He drew in his breath and let it out slowly.

“I will find out who betrayed Mulhare,” he said a little hoarsely. “And also who betrayed me.” He thought of adding something about keeping this as a Special Branch fit to come back to, but it sounded so petty he let it go. “Good day.”

Outside in the street everything looked just as it had when he went in: a hansom cab drawn up at the curb, half a dozen men here and there dressed in striped trousers.

He started to walk without a clear idea of where he intended to go. His lack of direction was immediate, but he thought with a sense of utter emptiness that perhaps it was eternal as well. He was fifty-eight. Half an hour ago he had been one of the most powerful men in Britain. He was trusted absolutely; he held other men’s lives in his hands, he knew the nation’s secrets; the safety of ordinary men and women depended on his skill, his judgment.

Now he was a man without a purpose, without an income—although that was not an immediate concern. The land inherited from his father supported him, not perhaps in luxury, but at least adequately. He had no family alive now, and he realized with a gathering sense of isolation that he had acquaintances, but no close friends. His profession had made it impossible during the years of his increasing power. Too many secrets, too much need for caution.

It would be pathetic and pointless to indulge in self-pity. If he sank to that, what better would he deserve? He must fight back. Someone had done this to him. The only person he would have trusted to help was Pitt, and Pitt was in France.

He was walking quickly up Whitehall, looking neither right nor left, probably passing people he knew and ignoring them. No one would care. In time to come, when it was known he was no longer in power, they would probably be relieved. He was not a comfortable man to be with. Even the most innocent tended to attribute ulterior motive to him, imagining secrets that did not exist.

Whitehall became Parliament Street, then he turned left and continued walking until he was on Westminster Bridge, staring eastward across the wind-ruffled water.

He could not even return to his office. He could not properly investigate who had betrayed Mulhare. Then another thought occurred to him, which was far uglier. Was Mulhare the one who was incidental damage, and Narraway himself the target of the treachery?

As that thought took sharper focus in his mind he wondered bitterly if he really wanted to know the answer. Who was it that he had trusted, and been so horribly mistaken about?

He turned and walked on over the bridge to the far side, and then hailed a hansom, giving the driver his home address.

When he reached his house he poured himself a quick shot of single-malt whiskey, his favorite Macallan. Then went to the safe and took out the few papers he had kept there referring to the Mulhare case. He read them from beginning to end and learned nothing he did not already know, except that the money for Mulhare had been returned to the account within two weeks. He had not known because he had assumed the account closed. There was no notification from the bank.

It was close to midnight and he was still sitting staring at the far wall without seeing it when there came a sharp double tap on the window of the French doors opening onto the garden. It startled him out of his reverie, and he froze for an instant then got to his feet.