Betrayal at Lisson Grove (Treason at Lisson Grove)

There was one little man with striped trousers and a banknote in his hat, and beside him a woman with chaotic hair. Behind him was another woman, even thinner, her limbs poking jaggedly.

Even with arms and legs merely suggested, Charlotte knew they were John and Bridget Tyrone, and that Tyrone’s being a banker was important. The other woman had such a savagery about her it immediately suggested Talulla. Beside her was a question mark. There was no more than that, except a man of whom she could see only the top half, as if he was up to his arms in something. She stared at it until it came to her with a shiver of revulsion. It was Mulhare, drowning—because the money had not been paid.

The little drawing suggested a connection between John Tyrone and Talulla. He was a banker—was he the link to London? Had he the power, through his profession, to move money around from Dublin to London and, with the help of someone in Lisson Grove, to place it back in Narraway’s account?

Then who in Lisson Grove? And why? No one could tell her that but Tyrone himself.

Was it dangerous, absurd, to go to him? She had no one else she could turn to, because she did not know who else was involved. Certainly she could not go back to McDaid. She was growing more and more certain within herself that his remarks about accidental damage to the innocent were statements of his philosophy, and also a warning to her.

Was Talulla the prime mover in Cormac’s death, or only an instrument, used by someone else? Someone like John Tyrone, so harmless seeming, but powerful enough in Dublin and in London even to create a traitor in Lisson Grove?

There seemed to be two choices open to her: go to Tyrone himself; or give up and go home, leaving Narraway here to answer whatever charge they brought against him, presuming he lived long enough to face a trial. Would it be a fair trial, even? Possibly not. The old wounds were raw, and Special Branch would not be on his side. So Charlotte really had no choice at all.

THE MAID WHO ANSWERED the door let her in somewhat reluctantly.

“I need to speak with Mr. Tyrone,” Charlotte said as soon as she was into the large, high-ceilinged hall. “It is to do with the murder of Mr. Mulhare, and now poor Mr. O’Neil. It is most urgent.”

“I’ll ask him, ma’am,” the maid replied. “Who shall I say is calling?”

“Charlotte Pitt.” She hesitated only an instant. “Victor Narraway’s sister.”

“Yes, ma’am.” She went across the hall and knocked on a door at the far side. It opened and she spoke for a moment, then returned to Charlotte. “If you’ll come with me, ma’am.”

Charlotte followed her, and the maid knocked on the same door again.

“Come in.” Tyrone’s voice was abrupt.

The maid opened it for Charlotte to go past her. Tyrone had obviously been working—there were papers spread across the surface of the large desk.

He stood impatiently, making no attempt to hide the fact that she had interrupted him.

“I’m sorry,” she began. “I know it is late and I have come without invitation, but the matter is urgent. Tomorrow may be impossible for me to rescue what is left of the situation.”

He moved his weight from one foot to the other. “I am very sorry for you, Mrs. Pitt, but I have no idea how I can help. Perhaps I should send the maid to see where my wife is.” It was offered more as an excuse than a suggestion. “She is calling on a neighbor. She cannot be far.”

“It is you I need to see,” she told him. “And it might be more suitable for your reputation if the maid were to remain, although my inquiries are confidential.”

“Then you should call at my place of business, within the usual hours,” he pointed out.

She gave him a brief, formal smile. “Confidential to you, Mr. Tyrone. That is why I came here.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

It was still only a deduction from Narraway’s drawings, but it was all she had left.

She plunged in. “The money for Mulhare that you transferred back into my brother’s account in London, which was responsible for Mulhare’s death, and my brother’s professional ruin, Mr. Tyrone.”

He might have intended to deny it, but his face gave him away. The shock drained the blood from his skin, leaving him almost gray. He drew in his breath sharply, then changed his mind and said nothing. His eyes flickered; and for an instant Charlotte wondered if he was going to call for some kind of assistance and have her thrown out. Probably no servant would attack her, but if any other of the people involved in the plan were—it would only increase her danger. McDaid had warned her.

Or did Tyrone imagine she had even had some hand in murdering Cormac O’Neil?