Betrayal at Lisson Grove (Treason at Lisson Grove)

PITT WALKED BACK ALONG the gently winding road as the sun dropped toward the horizon. The air glowed with that faint gold patina that lends unreality to old paintings. Farmhouses looked huge, comfortable, surrounded by barns and stables. It was too early for the trees to be in full leaf, but clouds of blossom mounded like late snow, taking the delicate colors of the coming sunset. There was no wind, and no sound across the fields but the occasional movement of the huge, patient cows.

In the east, the purple sky darkened.

He went over what they knew in his mind again, carefully, all he had seen or heard himself, and all that Gower had seen and reported.

A carter passed him on the road, the wheels sending up clouds of dust, and he smelled the pleasant odor of horses’ sweat and fresh-turned earth. The man grunted at Pitt in French, and Pitt returned it as well as he could.

The sun was sinking rapidly now, the sky filling with hot color. The soft breeze whispered in the grass and the new leaves on the willows, always the first to open. A flock of birds rose from the small copse of trees a hundred yards away, swirled up into the sky, and circled.

Between them Pitt and Gower had seen just enough to believe it was worth watching Frobisher’s house. If they arrested Wrexham now, it would unquestionably show everyone that Special Branch was aware of their plans, so they would automatically change them.

They should have arrested Wrexham in London a week ago. He would have told them nothing, but they had learned nothing anyway. All they had really done was waste seven days.

How had he allowed that to happen? West had arranged the meeting, promising extraordinary information. Pitt could see the letter in his mind, the scrawled, misspelled words, the smudged ink.

No one else knew of it, except himself and Gower. So how had Wrexham learned of it? Who had betrayed West? It had to be one of the men plotting whatever it was that poor West had been going to reveal.

But this person had not followed West. Pitt and Gower were on his heels from the minute he began to run. If there had been anyone else running they would have seen him. Whoever it was must have been waiting for West. How had they known he would run that way? It was pure chance. He could as easily have gone in any other direction. Pitt and Gower had cornered him there, Pitt along the main street, Gower circling to cut him off.

Had West run into Wrexham by the most hideous mischance?

Pitt retraced in his mind the exact route they had taken. He knew the streets well enough to picture every step, and see the map of it in his mind. He knew where they had first spotted West, where he had started to run, and which way he had gone. There had been no one else in the crowd running. West had darted across the street and disappeared for an instant. Gower had gone after him, jabbing his arm to indicate which way Pitt should go, the shorter way, so they could cut him off.

Then West had seen Gower and swerved. Pitt had lost them both for a few minutes, but he knew the streets well enough to know which way West would go, and had been there within seconds … and Gower had raced up from the right to come up beside Pitt.

But the right doglegged back to the street where Pitt had run the minute before, not the way Gower had gone. Unless he had passed Wrexham? Wrexham had come from the opposite way, not following West at all. So why had West run so frantically, as if he knew death was on his heels?

Pitt stumbled and came to a stop. Because it was not Wrexham whom West was afraid of, it was either Pitt himself, or Gower. He had had no reason to fear Pitt, but Gower was a superb runner. In an un-crowded alley he could break into a full sprint in seconds. He could have been there before, ducked back into the shelter of the alley entrance, and then burst out of it again as Pitt arrived. It was he who had killed West, not Wrexham. West’s blood was already pooled on the stones. Pitt could see it in his mind’s eye. Wrexham was the harmless man he appeared to be, the decoy to lure Pitt to St. Malo, and keep him here, while whatever was really happening came to its climax somewhere else.

It had to be London, otherwise it was pointless to lure Pitt away from it.

Gower. In fifteen or twenty minutes Pitt would be inside the walls of St. Malo again, back to their lodgings. Almost certainly Gower would be there waiting for him. Suddenly he was no longer the pleasant, ambitious young man he had seemed only this morning. Now he was a clever and extremely dangerous stranger, a man Pitt knew only in the most superficial way. He knew that Gower slept well, that his skin burned in the sun, that he liked chocolate cake, that he was occasionally careless when he shaved himself. He was attracted to women with dark hair and he could sing rather well. Pitt had no idea where he came from, what he believed, or even where his loyalties lay—all the things that mattered, that would govern what he would do when the mask was off.