Betrayal at Lisson Grove (Treason at Lisson Grove)

“Of course. You would never choose a shirt of that shade, or a cravat with a touch of wine in it. But it becomes you very well. Please sit down. It is uncomfortable craning my neck to look up at you.”

He would never have seated himself before she gave her permission, but he was glad to do so, in the chair opposite her. The formalities were over, and they would address the issues that burdened them both.

“Where have you been?” she asked. Her imperious tone swept aside the possibility that the answer was confidential even though she knew more about the power and danger of secrets than most ministers of government.

“In St. Malo,” he replied. He was embarrassed now by his prior failure to see through the subterfuge more rapidly. However, he did not avoid her eyes as he told her about himself and Gower chasing through the streets, their brief parting, then their meeting and almost instantly finding Wrexham crouched over the corpse of West, his neck slashed open and blood covering the stones.

Vespasia winced but did not interrupt him.

He described their pursuit of Wrexham to the East End, and then the train to Southampton, and the ferry across to France. He found himself explaining too fully why they had not arrested Wrexham until it sounded miserably like excuses.

“Thomas,” she interrupted gently. “Common sense justifies your actions, as seen at the time. You were aware of a socialist conspiracy, and you believed it to be more important than one grisly murder in London. What did you learn in St. Malo?”

“Very little,” he replied. “We saw one or two known socialist agitators in the first couple of days … at least I think we did.”

“You think?” she questioned.

He explained to her that it was Gower who had made the identification, and he had accepted it.

“I see. Who did he say they were?”

He was about to say that she would not know their names, then remembered her own radical part in the revolutions of 1848 that had swept across every country in Western Europe, except Britain. She had been in Italy, manning the barricades for that brief moment of hope in a new freedom. It was possible she had not lost all interest. “Jacob Meister and Pieter Linsky,” he replied. “But they didn’t come back again.”

She frowned. Pitt noticed how she tensed her shoulders involuntarily, the way her hands in her lap gripped each other.

“You know of them?” he concluded.

“Of course,” she said drily. “And many others. They are dangerous, Thomas. There is a new radicalism awakening in Europe. The next insurrections will not be like ’48. They will be of a different breed. There will be more violence; I think perhaps it will be much more. The Russian monarchy cannot last a much longer in its current state. The oppression is fearful. I have a few friends left who are able to write occasionally, old friends, who tell me the truth. There is desperate poverty. The tsar has lost all sense of reality and is totally out of touch with his people—as are all his ministers and advisers. The gulf between the obscenely rich and the starving is so great it will eventually swallow them all. The only question is when.”

The thought was chilling, but he did not argue, or even question it.

“And I am afraid the news is not good here,” Vespasia continued. “But you already know something of it.”

“Only that Narraway is out of Lisson Grove,” he replied. “I have no idea why, or what happened.”

“I know why.” She sighed, and he saw the sadness in her eyes. She looked pale and tired. “He has been charged with the embezzlement of a considerable amount of money, which—”

“What?” It was absurd. Ordinarily he would not have dreamed of interrupting her—it was a breach of courtesy unimaginable to him—but Pitt’s disbelief was too urgent to be stifled.

A flicker of amusement sparkled in her eyes, and vanished as quickly. “I am aware of the absurdity, Thomas. Victor has several faults, but petty theft is not among them.”

“You said a large amount.”

“Large to steal. It cost a man’s life because he did not have it. Someone engineered this very astutely. I have my ideas as to who it may have been, but they are no more than ideas, insubstantial, and quite possibly mistaken.”

“Where is Narraway?” he demanded.

“In Ireland,” she told him.

“Why Ireland?” he asked.

“Because he believes that whoever was the author of his misfortune is Irish, and that the culprit is to be found there.” She bit her lip very slightly. It was a gesture of anxiety so deep, he could not recall having seen her do it before.

“Aunt Vespasia?” He leaned forward a little.

“He believed it personal,” she continued. “An act of revenge for an old injury. At the time I thought he might have been correct, although it was a long time to wait for such perceived justice, and the Irish have never been noted for their patience, especially for revenge. I assumed some new circumstance must have made it possible …”

“You said assumed—were you wrong?” he asked.