Betrayal at Lisson Grove (Treason at Lisson Grove)

“My father married your mother after my mother died,” he began.

She was about to express sympathy, then realized she had no idea whether it was true, or if he was making it up for the story they must tell. Perhaps better she was not confused with the truth, whatever that was.

“By the time you were born,” he continued. “I was already at university—Cambridge—you should know that. That is why we know each other so little. My father is from Buckinghamshire, but he could perfectly well have moved to London, so you may have grown up wherever you did. Always better to stay with the truth where you can. I know that area. I would have visited.”

“What did he do—our father?” she asked. This all had an air of unreality about it, even ridiculousness, but she knew it mattered, perhaps vitally.

“He had land in Buckinghamshire,” he replied. “He served in the Indian army. You don’t need to have known him well. I didn’t.”

She heard the sharpness of regret in his voice. “He died some time ago. Keep the mother you have. You and I have become acquainted only recently. This trip is in part for that purpose.”

“Why Ireland?” she asked. “Someone is bound to ask me.”

“My mother was Irish,” he replied.

“Really?” She was surprised, but perhaps she should have known it.

“No.” This time he smiled fully, with both sweetness and humor. “But she’s dead too. She won’t mind.”

She felt a strange lurch of pity inside her, an intimate knowledge of loneliness.

“I see,” she said quietly. “And these relatives I am looking for—how is it that I remain here without finding them? In fact, why do I think to find them anyway?”

“Perhaps it is best if you don’t,” he answered. “You merely want to see Dublin. I have told you stories about it, and we have seized the excuse to visit. That will flatter them, and be easy enough to believe. It’s a beautiful city and has a character that is unique.”

She did not argue, but she felt that nothing very much would happen if she did not ask questions. Polite interest could be very easily brushed aside and met with polite and uninformative answers.

CHARLOTTE COLLECTED HER CAPE. They left Molesworth Street and in the pleasant spring evening walked in companionable silence the half mile to the house of Fiachra McDaid.

Narraway knocked on the carved mahogany door, and after a few moments it was opened by an elegant man wearing a casual velvet jacket of dark green. He was quite tall, but even under the drape of the fabric Charlotte could see that he was a little plump around the middle. In the lamplight by the front door his features were melancholy, but as soon as he recognized Narraway, his expression lit with a vitality that made him startlingly attractive. It was difficult to know his age from his face, but he had white wings to his black hair, so Charlotte judged him to be close to fifty.

“Victor!” he said cheerfully, holding out his hand and grasping Narraway’s fiercely. “Wonderful invention, the telephone, but there’s nothing like seeing someone.” He turned to Charlotte. “And you must be Mrs. Pitt, come to our queen of cities for the first time. Welcome. It will be my pleasure to show you some of it. I’ll pick the best bits, and the best people; there’ll be time only to taste it and no more. Your whole life wouldn’t be long enough for all of it. Come in, and have a drink before we start out.” He held the door wide and, after a glance at Narraway, Charlotte accepted.

Inside, the rooms were elegant, very Georgian in appearance. Their contents could easily have been found in a home in any good area of London, except perhaps for some of the pictures on the walls, and a certain character to the silver goblets on the mantel. She was interested in the subtle differences, but had no time to indulge in such trivial matters anyway.

“You’ll be wanting to go to the theater,” Fiachra McDaid went on, looking at Charlotte. He offered her sherry, which she merely sipped. She needed a very clear head, and she had eaten little.

“Naturally,” she answered with a smile. “I could hardly hold my head up in Society at home if I came to Dublin and did not visit the theater.” With a touch of satisfaction she saw an instant of puzzlement in his eyes. What had Narraway told this man of her? For that matter, what did Fiachra McDaid know of Narraway?

The look in McDaid’s eyes, quickly masked, told her that it was quite a lot. She smiled, not to charm but in her own amusement.

He saw it and understood. Yes, most certainly he knew quite a lot about Narraway.

“I imagine everybody of interest is at the theater, at one time or another,” she said.

“Indeed.” McDaid nodded. “And many will be there at dinner tonight at the home of John and Bridget Tyrone. It will be my pleasure to introduce you to them. It is a short carriage ride from here, but certainly too far to return you to Molesworth Street on foot, at what may well be a very late hour.”