Betrayal at Lisson Grove (Treason at Lisson Grove)

“At this time o’ night, sir?”

“There’s always someone there. Please, just call.”

“If that’s what yer want, we’ll call.”

“Thank you.” Pitt sat down on the hard wooden bench in the cell and waited. He must stay calm. It would all be explained in a matter of minutes. This part of the nightmare would be over. There was still Gower’s treachery and his death; now, in the silence of the cell, he had time to think of it more deeply.

He should not have been surprised that Gower came after him. The pleasant, friendly face Gower had shown in France, indeed all the time they had worked together over the last few months, might have been part of his real character, but it was superficial, merely a skin over a very different man beneath.

Pitt thought of his quick humor, how he had watched the girl in the red dress, admiring her, taking pleasure in her easy walk, the swing of her skirt, imagining what she would be like to know. He remembered how Gower liked the fresh bread. He drank his coffee black, even though he pulled his mouth at its bitterness, and still went back for more. He pictured how he stood smiling with his face to the sun, watched the sailing boats on the bay, and knew the French names for all the different kinds of seafood.

People fought for their own causes for all kinds of reasons. Maybe Gower believed in his goal as much as Pitt did; they were just utterly different. Pitt had liked him, even enjoyed his company. How had he not seen the ruthlessness that had let him kill West, and then turn on Pitt so stealthily?

Except perhaps it had not been easy? Gower might have lain awake all night wretched, seeking another way and not finding it. Pitt would never know. It was painful to realize that so much was not as he had trusted, and his own judgment was nowhere near the truth. He could imagine what Narraway would have to say about that.

The constable came back, stopping just outside the bars. He did not have the keys in his hand.

Pitt’s heart sank. Suddenly he felt confused and a little sick.

“Sorry, sir,” the constable said unhappily. “I called the number you gave. It was a branch o’ the police all right, but they said as they’d got no one there called Narraway, an’ they couldn’t ’elp yer.”

“Of course Narraway’s there!” Pitt said desperately. “He’s head of Special Branch! Call again. You must have had the wrong number. This is impossible.”

“It were the right number, sir,” the constable repeated stolidly. “It was Special Branch, like you said. An’ they told me they got no one there called Victor Narraway. I asked ’em careful, sir, an’ they were polite, but very definite. There in’t no Victor Narraway there. Now you settle down, sir. Get a bit o’ rest. We’ll see what we can do in the morning. I’ll get you a cup o’ tea, an’ mebbe a sandwich, if yer like?”

Pitt was numb. The nightmare was getting worse. His imagination created all kinds of horror. What had happened to Narraway? How wide was this conspiracy? Perhaps he should have realized that if they removed Pitt himself to France on a pointless errand, then of course they would have gotten rid of Narraway as well. There was no purpose in removing Pitt otherwise. He was only a kind of backup: a right-hand man possibly, but not more than that. Narraway was the real threat to them.

“Yer want a cup o’ tea, sir?” the constable repeated. “Yer look a bit rough, sir. An’ a sandwich?”

“Yes …,” Pitt said slowly. The man’s humanity made it all the more grotesque, yet he was grateful for it. “I would. Thank you, Constable.”

“Yer just rest, sir. Don’t give yerself so much trouble. I’ll get yer a sandwich. Would ’am be all right?”

“Very good, thank you.” Pitt sat down on the cot to show that he had no intention of causing any problem for them. He was numb anyway. He did not even know whom to fight: certainly not this man who was doing his best to exercise both care and a degree of decency in handling a prisoner he believed had just committed a double murder.

It was a long and wretched night. He slept little, and when he did his dreams were full of fear, shifting darkness, and sudden explosions of sound and violence. When he woke in the morning his head throbbed, and his whole body was bruised and aching from the fight. It was painful to stand up when the constable came back again with another cup of tea.

“We’ll take yer ter the magistrate later on,” he said, watching Pitt carefully. “Yer look awful!”

Pitt tried to smile. “I feel awful. I need to wash and shave, and I look as if I’ve slept in my clothes, because I have.”

“Comes with being in jail, sir. ’ave a cup o’ tea. It’ll ’elp.”

“Yes, I expect it will, even if not much,” Pitt accepted. He stood well back from the door so the constable could place it inside without risking an attack. It was the usual way of doing things.

The constable screwed up his face. “Yer bin in the cells before, in’t yer,” he observed.