Betrayal at Lisson Grove (Treason at Lisson Grove)

Or was someone in Lisson Grove using Irish passion and loyalties to further their own need to remove Narraway? Whom could she ask? Were any of Narraway’s supposed friends actually willing to help him? Or had he wounded or betrayed them all at one time or another, so that when it came to it they would take their revenge? He was totally vulnerable now. Could it be that at last they had stopped quarreling with one another long enough to conspire to ruin him?

Perhaps Charlotte had no right to judge Narraway’s Irish enemies. What would she have felt, or done, were it all the other way around: if Ireland were the foreigner, the occupier in England? If someone had used and betrayed her family, would she be so loyal to her beliefs in honesty or impartial justice? Perhaps—but perhaps not. It was impossible to know without one’s having lived that terrible reality.

Yet Narraway was innocent of killing Cormac—and she realized as she said this to herself that she thought he was no more than partially responsible for the downfall of Kate O’Neil. The O’Neils had tried to use him, turn him to betray his country. They might well be furious that they had failed, but had they the right to exact vengeance for losing?

She needed to ask help from someone, because alone she might as well simply give up and go back to London, leaving Narraway to his fate, and eventually Pitt to his. Before she reached Molesworth Street and even attempted to explain the situation to Mrs. Hogan, which she must do, she had decided to ask Fiachra McDaid for help.

“W

HAT?” MCDAID SAID INCREDULOUSLY when she found him at his home and told him what had happened.

“I’m sorry.” She gulped and tried to regain her composure. She had thought herself in perfect control, and realized she was much farther from it than she’d imagined. “We went to see Cormac O’Neil. At least Victor said he was going alone, but I followed him, just behind …”

“You mean you found a carriage able to keep up with him in Dublin traffic?” McDaid frowned.

“No, no I knew where he was going. I had been there the evening before myself …”

“To see O’Neil?” He looked incredulous.

“Yes. Please … listen.” Her voice was rising again, and she made an effort to calm it. “I arrived moments after he did. I heard the dog begin to bark as he went in, but no shot!”

“It would bark.” The frown deepened on his brow. “It barks for anyone except Cormac, or perhaps Talulla. She lives close by and looks after it if Cormac is away, which he is from time to time.”

“Not the cleaning woman?” she said quickly.

“No. She’s afraid of it.” He looked at her more closely, his face earnest. “Why? What does it matter?”

She hesitated, still uncertain how far to trust him. It was the only evidence she had that protected Narraway. Perhaps she should keep it to herself.

“I suppose it doesn’t,” she said, deliberately looking confused. Then, as coherently as she could, but missing out any further reference to the dog, she told him what had happened. As she did, she watched his face, trying to read the emotions in it, the belief or disbelief, the confusion or understanding, the loss or triumph.

He listened without interrupting her. “They think Narraway shot Cormac? Why would he, for God’s sake?”

“In revenge for Cormac having ruined him in London,” she answered. “That’s what Talulla said. It makes a kind of sense.”

“Do you think that’s what happened?” he asked.

She nearly said that she knew it was not, then realized her mistake just in time. “No.” She spoke guardedly now. “I was just behind him, and I didn’t hear a shot. But I don’t think he would do that anyway. It doesn’t make sense.”

He shook his head. “Yes it does. Victor loved that job of his. In a way it was all he had.” He looked conflicted, emotions twisting his features. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to imply that you are not important to him, but I think from what he said that you do not see each other so often.”

Now she was angry. She felt it well up inside her, knotting her stomach, making her hands shake, her voice thick as if she were a little drunk. “No. We don’t. But you’ve known Victor for years. Was he ever a fool?”

“No, never. Many things good and bad, but never a fool,” he admitted.

“Did he ever act against his own interest, hotheadedly, all feelings and no thought?” She could not imagine it, not the man she knew. Had he once had that kind of runaway passion? Was his supreme control a mask?

McDaid laughed abruptly, without joy. “No. He never forgot his cause. Hell or heaven could dance naked past him and he would not be diverted. Why?”

“Because if he really thought Cormac O’Neil was responsible for ruining him in London, for setting up what looked like embezzlement and seeing that he was blamed, the last thing he would want was Cormac dead,” she answered. “He would want Cormac’s full confession, the proof, the names of those who aided—”

“I see,” he interrupted. “I see. You’re right. Victor would never put revenge ahead of getting his job and his honor back.”