Betrayal at Lisson Grove (Treason at Lisson Grove)

“Is a good stopgap,” Croxdale said coolly. “He is not the man for the job in such dangerous times as these. Frankly, he has not the ability to lead, or to make the difficult decisions of such magnitude. He was a good enough lieutenant.”

Pitt’s head swam. He had none of his predecessor’s nerve, confidence, political savvy, or decision-making experience.

“Neither have I the skills,” he protested. “And I haven’t been in the service long enough for the other men to have confidence in me. I will support Austwick as best I can, but I haven’t the abilities to take on the leadership.”

Croxdale smiled. “I thought you would be modest. It is a good quality. Arrogance leads to mistakes. I’m sure you will seek advice, and take it—at least most of the time. But you have never lacked judgment before, or the courage to go with your own beliefs. I know your record, Pitt. Do you imagine you have gone unnoticed in the past?” He asked it gently, as if with a certain degree of amusement.

“I imagine not,” Pitt conceded. “You will know a good deal about anyone, before taking them into the service at all. But—”

“Not in your case,” Croxdale contradicted him. “You were Narraway’s recruit. But I have made it my business to learn far more about you since then. Your country needs you now, Pitt. Narraway has effectively betrayed our trust and has likely fled the country. You were Narraway’s second in command. This is your duty as well as your privilege to serve.” He held out his hand.

Pitt was overwhelmed, not with pleasure or any sense of honor, but with great concern for Narraway, fear for Charlotte, and the knowledge that he did not want this weight of command. It was not in his nature to act with certainty when the balance of judgment was so gray, and the stakes were the lives of other men.

“We look to you, Pitt,” Croxdale said again. “Don’t fail your country, man!”

“No, sir,” Pitt said unhappily. “I will do everything I can, sir …”

“Good.” Croxdale smiled. “I knew you would. That is one thing Narraway was right about. I will inform the necessary people, including the prime minister, of course. Thank you, Pitt. We are grateful to you.”

Pitt accepted: He had little choice. Croxdale began to outline to him exactly what his task would be, his powers, and the rewards.

It was midnight when Pitt walked outside into the lamplit night and found Croxdale’s own carriage waiting to take him home.

C

HARLOTTE WALKED AWAY FROM Cormac O’Neil’s home with as much composure as she could muster, but she had the sinking fear inside her that she looked as afraid and bewildered as she felt, and as helplessly angry. Whatever else Narraway might have been guilty of—and it could have been a great deal—she was certain that he had not killed Cormac O’Neil. She had arrived at the house almost on his heels. She had heard the dog begin to bark as Narraway went into the house, and continue more and more hysterically, knowing there was an intruder, and perhaps already aware of O’Neil’s death.

Had Cormac cried out? Had he even seen his killer, or had he been shot in the back? She had not heard a gun fire, only the dog barking. That was it, of course! The dog had barked at Narraway, but not at whoever had fired the shot.

She stopped in the street, standing rooted to the spot as the realization shook her with its meaning. Narraway could not possibly have shot Cormac. Her certainty was not built on her belief in him but on evidence: facts that were not capable of any other reasonable interpretation. She turned on her heel and stepped out urgently, striding across the street back toward O’Neil’s house, then stopped again just as suddenly. Why should they believe her? She knew that what she said was true, but would anyone else substantiate it?

Of course not! Talulla would contradict it because she hated Narraway. With hindsight, that had been perfectly clear, and predictable. She would be only too delighted if he were hanged for Cormac’s murder. To her it would be justice—the sweeter now after the long delay. She must know he was not guilty because she had been close enough to have heard the dog start to bark herself, but she would be the last person to say so.

Narraway would know that. She remembered his face as he allowed the police to handcuff him. He had looked at Charlotte only once, concentrating everything he had to say in that one glance. He needed her to understand.

He also needed her to keep a very calm mind and to think: to work it out detail by detail and not act before she was certain—not only of the truth, but that she could prove it so it could not be ignored. It is very difficult indeed to make people believe what is against all their emotions: the conviction of friend and enemy years-deep, paid for in blood and loss.

She was still standing on the pavement. A small crowd had gathered because of the violence and the police just over a hundred yards away. They were staring, wondering what was the matter with her.