Betrayal at Lisson Grove (Treason at Lisson Grove)

“I’ll go back to London and see what they have at Lisson Grove,” he answered. “They may have much more detailed information they haven’t given us. You stay here and watch Frobisher and Wrexham. I know that will be more difficult on your own, but I haven’t seen them do anything after dark other than entertain a little.” He wanted to add more, to explain, but it would cause suspicion. He was Gower’s superior. He did not have to justify himself. To do so would be to break the pattern, and if Gower was clever that in itself would alarm him.

“Yes, sir, if you think that’s best. When will you be back? Shall I keep the room on here for you?” Gower asked.

“Yes—please. I don’t suppose I’ll be more than a couple of days, maybe three. I feel we’re working in the dark at the moment.”

“Right, sir. Fancy a spot of dinner now? I found a new café today. Has the best mussel soup you’ve ever tasted.”

“Good idea.” Pitt rose to his feet a little stiffly. “I’ll leave first ferry in the morning.”

THE FOLLOWING DAY WAS misty and a lot cooler. Pitt deliberately chose the first crossing to avoid having to breakfast with Gower. He was afraid in the affected casualness of it he might try too hard, and make some slip so small Gower picked it up—while Pitt had no idea anything had changed.

Or had Gower suspected something already? Did he know, even as Pitt walked down to the harbor along ancient, now-familiar streets, that the pretense was over? He had a desperate instinct to swing around and see if anyone were following him. Would he pick out Gower’s fair head, taller than the average, and know it was he? Or might he already have changed his appearance and be yards away, and Pitt had no idea?

But his allies, Frobisher’s men, or Wrexham’s, could be anyone: the hold man in the fisherman’s jersey lounging in a doorway taking his first cigarette of the day; the man on the bicycle bumping over the cobbles; even the young woman with the laundry. Why suppose that Gower himself would follow him? Why suppose that he had noticed anything different at all? The new realization loomed gigantic to him, filling his mind, driving out almost everything else. But how self-centered to suppose that Gower had nothing more urgent to consume his thoughts! Perhaps Pitt and what he knew, or believed he knew, were irrelevant anyway.

He increased his pace and passed a group of travelers heaving along shopping bags and tightly packed portmanteaux. On the dockside he glanced around as if to search for someone he knew, and was flooded with relief when he saw only strangers.

He stood in the queue to buy his ticket, and then again to get on board. Once he felt the slight sway of the deck under his feet, the faint movement, even here in the harbor, it was as if he had reached some haven of safety. The gulls wheeled and circled overhead, crying harshly. Here on the water the wind was sharper, salt-smelling.

Pitt stood on the deck by the railing, staring at the gangway and the dockside. To anyone else, he hoped he looked like someone looking back at the town with pleasure, perhaps at a holiday well spent, possibly even at friends he might not see again for another year. Actually he was watching the figures on the quay, searching for anyone familiar, any of the men he had seen arriving or leaving Frobisher’s house, or for Gower himself.

Twice he thought he saw him, and it turned out to be a stranger. It was simply the fair hair, an angle of shoulder or head. He was angry with himself for the fear; he knew the danger was largely in his mind. Perhaps it was so deep because until the walk back to the town yesterday evening it had never entered his mind that Gower had killed West, and Wrexham was either a co-conspirator or even a perfectly innocent man, a tissue-paper socialist posing as a fanatic, like Frobisher himself. It was his own blindness that dismayed him. How stupid he had been, how insensitive to possibilities. He would be ashamed to tell Narraway, but he would have to; there would be no escaping it.

At last they cast off and moved out into the bay. Pitt remained where he was at the rail, watching the towers and walls of the city recede. The sunlight was bright on the water, glittering sharp. They passed the rocky outcrops, tide slapping around the feet of the minor fortress built there, guarding the approaches. There were few sailing boats this early: just fishermen pulling up the lobster pots that had been out all night.