Betrayal at Lisson Grove (Treason at Lisson Grove)

HOWEVER, AS SOON AS McDaid had left her at Mrs. Hogan’s door, she waited until he had gotten back into the carriage and it was around the corner out of sight, then walked briskly in the opposite direction and hailed the first carriage for hire that she saw. She knew Cormac O’Neil’s town address from Narraway, and she gave it to the driver. She would wait for O’Neil to return, for as long as was necessary.

As it transpired, it was shortly after dusk when she saw Cormac O’Neil climb out of a carriage a hundred yards down the street. He made his way a trifle unsteadily along the footpath toward his front door.

She moved out of the shadows. “Mr. O’Neil?”

He stopped, blinking momentarily.

“Mr. O’Neil,” she repeated. “I wonder if I may speak with you, please? It is very important.”

“Another time,” he said indistinctly. “It’s late.” He started forward to go past her to the door, but she took a step in front of him.

“No, it’s not late, it’s barely supper time, and this is urgent. Please?”

He looked at her. “You’re a handsome enough girl,” he said gently. “But I’m not interested.”

Suddenly she realized that he assumed her to be a prostitute. It was too absurd for her to take offense. But if she laughed she might sound too close to hysteria. She swallowed hard, trying to control the nervous tension all but closing her throat.

“Mr. O’Neil.” She had prepared the lie. It was the only way she could think of that might make him tell her the truth. “I want to ask you about Victor Narraway …”

O’Neil jerked to a stop and swung around to stare at her.

“I know what he did to your family,” she went on a little desperately. “At least I think I do. I was at the recital this afternoon. I heard what you said, and what Miss Lawless said too.”

“Why did you come here?” he demanded. “You’re as English as he is. It’s in your voice, so don’t try to sympathize with me.” Now his tone was stinging with contempt.

She matched his expression just as harshly. “And you think the Irish are the only people who are ever victims?” she said with amazement. “My husband suffered too. I might be able to do something about it, if I know the truth.”

“Something?” he said contemptuously. “What kind of something?”

She knew she must make this passionate, believable; a wound deep enough that he would see her as a victim like himself. Mentally she apologized to Narraway. “Narraway’s already been dismissed from Special Branch,” she said aloud. “Because of the money that was supposed to go to Mulhare. But he has everything else: his home, his friends, his life in London. My family has nothing, except a few friends who know him as I do, and perhaps you? But I need to know the truth …”

He hesitated a moment, then wearily, as if surrendering to something, he fished in his pocket for a key. Fumbling a little, he inserted it in the lock and opened the door for her.

They were greeted immediately by a large dog—a wolfhound of some sort, who gave her no more than a cursory glance before going to O’Neil, wagging its tail and pushing against him, demanding attention.

O’Neil patted its head, talking gently. Then he led the way into the parlor and lit the gas lamps, the dog on his heels. The flames burned up to show a clean, comfortable room with a window onto the area way and then the street. He pulled the curtain across, more for privacy than to keep out the cold, and invited her to sit down.

She did so, soberly thanking him, then waiting for him to compose himself before she began her questions. She was acutely aware that if she made even one ill-judged remark, one clumsy reaction, she could lose him completely, and there would be no opportunity ever to try again.

“It was all over twenty years ago,” he said, looking at her gravely. He sat opposite her, the dog at his feet. In the gaslight it was easy to see that he was laboring to keep some control of his feelings, as if seeing Narraway again had stirred emotions he had struggled hard to bury. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face haggard. His hair stood up on end, crookedly at one side, as though he had run his fingers through it repeatedly. She could not fail to be aware that he had been drinking; these sorrows were not of the kind that drown easily.

“Yes, I know, Mr. O’Neil.” She spoke quietly. “But do you find that time heals? I would like to think so, but I see no evidence of it.”

She settled herself a little more comfortably in the chair and waited for his reply.

“Heals?” he said thoughtfully. “No. Grows a seal over, maybe, but it’s still bleeding underneath.” He looked at her curiously. “What did he do to you?”

She leapt to the future she feared, creating in her mind the worst of it.

“My husband worked in Special Branch too,” she replied. “Nothing to do with Ireland. Anarchists in England, people who set off bombs that killed ordinary women and children, old people, most of them poor.”

O’Neil winced, but he did not interrupt her.