Betrayal at Lisson Grove (Treason at Lisson Grove)

Pitt’s mind raced. How should he respond? He had thought it was all worked out in his mind, but sitting here in Narraway’s office, subtly but so completely changed, he was uncertain again. Was Austwick the traitor? If so then he was a far cleverer man than Pitt had thought. But Pitt had had no idea that there was a traitor at all, and he had trusted Gower. What was his judgment worth?

“I can see that you’re stunned,” Austwick said patiently. “We’ve had a little while to get used to the idea. We knew almost as soon as you had gone. By the way, where is Gower?”

Pitt inhaled deeply, and plunged in. “I left him in France, in St. Malo,” he replied. He watched Austwick’s face as closely as he dared, trying to read in his eyes, his gestures, if he knew that that was only half true.

Austwick spoke slowly, as if he also was measuring what he said, and he seemed to be watching Pitt just as closely. Had he noticed Somerset Carlisle’s beautifully cut shirt? Or his wine-colored cravat?

Pitt repeated exactly what he believed had happened at the time he had first notified Narraway that he had to remain in France.

Austwick listened attentively. His expression did not betray whether he knew anything further or not.

“I see,” he said at last, drumming his fingers silently on the desktop. “So you left Gower there in the hope that there might yet be something worthwhile to observe?”

“Yes … sir.” He added the sir with difficulty. There was a slowly mounting rage inside him that this man was sitting there in Narraway’s chair, behind his desk. Was he also a pawn in this game, or was he the one playing it with the opposing pieces?

“Do you think that is likely?” Austwick asked. “You say you saw nothing after that first sighting of … who did you say? Meister and Linsky, was it?”

“Yes,” Pitt agreed. “There were plenty of people coming and going all the time, but neither of us recognized anyone else. It’s possible that was coincidence. On the other hand, West was murdered, and the man who killed him, very brutally and openly, fled to that house. There has to be a reason for that.”

Austwick appeared to consider it for several moments. Finally he looked up, his lips pursed. “You’re right. There is certainly something happening, and there is a good chance it concerns violence that may affect us here in England, even if it begins in France. We have our allies to consider, and what our failure to warn them may do to our relationship. I would certainly feel a distinct sense of betrayal if they were to have wind of such a threat against us, and keep silent about it.”

“Yes, sir,” Pitt agreed, although the words all but stuck in his throat. He rose to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I have several matters to attend to.”

“Yes, of course,” Austwick agreed. He seemed calm, even assured. Pitt found himself shaking with anger as he left the room, making an effort to close the door softly.

THAT EVENING HE WENT to see the minister, Sir Gerald Croxdale. Croxdale himself had suggested that he come to the house. If the matter were as private and as urgent as Pitt had said, then it would be better if their meeting were not observed by others.

Croxdale’s home in Hampstead was old and very handsome, overlooking the heath. The garden trees were coming into leaf, and the air seemed to be full of birdsong.

Pitt was shown in by the butler. He found Croxdale standing in his library, which had long windows onto the lawn at the back of the house. At present the curtains were open; the evening sky beyond was pale with the last light. Croxdale turned from gazing at it as Pitt came in. He offered his hand.

“Miserable time,” he said sympathetically. “Pretty bad shock to all of us. I’ve known Narraway for years. Difficult man, not really a team player, but brilliant, and I’d always thought he was sound. But it seems as if a man can never entirely leave his past behind.” He gestured to one of the armchairs beside the fire. “Do sit down. Tell me what happened in St. Malo. By the way, have you had any dinner?”

Pitt realized with surprise that he had not. He had not even thought of eating, and his body was clenched with anxiety as different possibilities poured through his mind. Now he was fumbling for a gracious answer.

“Sandwich?” Croxdale offered. “Roast beef acceptable?”

Experience told Pitt it was better to eat than try to think rationally on an empty stomach. “Thank you, sir.”

Croxdale rang the bell, and when the butler appeared again he requested roast beef sandwiches and whiskey.

“Now.” He sat back as soon as the door was closed. “Tell me about St. Malo.”

Pitt offered him the same edited version he had given Austwick. He was not yet ready to tell anyone the whole truth. Croxdale had known Victor Narraway far longer than he had known Pitt. If he would believe that Narraway had stolen money, why should he think any better of Pitt, who was Narraway’s protégé and closest ally?