Betrayal at Lisson Grove (Treason at Lisson Grove)

The journey was not very long, but to Charlotte it seemed to take ages. They passed down the wide, handsome streets. Some of the roads would have taken seven or eight carriages abreast, but they seemed half deserted compared with the noisy, crushing jams of traffic in London. She was desperate to leave, and yet also torn with regrets. One day she wanted to come back, anonymous and free of burdens, simply to enjoy the city. Now she could only lean forward, peering out and counting the minutes until she reached the dock.

The whole business of alighting with the luggage and the crowds waiting to board the steamer was awkward and very close to desperate. She tried to move the cases without leaving anything where it could be taken, and at the same time keep hold of her reticule and pay for a ticket. In the jostling of people she was bumped and knocked. Twice she nearly lost her own case while trying to move Narraway’s and find money ready to pay the fare.

“Can I help you?” a voice said close to her.

She was about to refuse when she felt his hand over hers and he took Narraway’s case from her. She was furious and ready to cry with frustration. She lifted her foot with its nicely heeled boot and brought it down sharply on his instep.

He gasped with pain, but he did not let go of Narraway’s case.

She lifted her foot to do it again, harder.

“Charlotte, let the damn thing go!” Narraway hissed between his teeth.

She let not only his case go but her own also. She was so angry she could have struck him with an open hand, and so relieved she felt the tears prickle in her eyes and slide down her cheeks.

“I suppose you’ve no money!” she said tartly, choking on the words.

“Not much,” he agreed. “I borrowed enough from O’Casey to get as far as Holyhead. But since you have my luggage, we’ll manage the rest. Keep moving. We need to buy tickets, and I would very much like to catch this steamer. I might not have the opportunity to wait for the next. I imagine the police will think of this. It’s the obvious way to go, but I need to be back in London. I have a fear that something very nasty indeed is going to happen.”

“Several very nasty things already have,” she told him.

“I know. But we must prevent what we can.”

“I know what happened with Mulhare’s money. I’m pretty sure who was behind it all.”

“Are you?” There was an eagerness in his voice that he could not hide, even now in this pushing, noisy crowd.

“I’ll tell you when we are on board. Did you hear the dog?”

“What dog?”

“Cormac’s dog.”

“Of course I did. The poor beast hurled itself at the door almost as soon as I was in the house.”

“Did you hear the shot?”

“No. Did you?” He was startled.

“No,” she said with a smile.

“Ah!” He was level with her now, and they were at the ticket counter. “I see.” He smiled also, but at the salesman. “Two for the Holyhead boat, please.”

PITT WAS OVERWHELMED WITH the size and scope of his new responsibilities. There was so much more to consider than the relatively minor issues of whether the socialist plot in Europe was something that could be serious, or only another manifestation of the sporadic violence that had occurred in one place or another for the last several years. Even if some specific act were planned, very possibly it did not concern England.

The alliance with France required that he pass on any important information to the French authorities, but what did he know that was anything more than speculation? West had been killed before he could tell him whatever it was he knew. With hindsight now, it had presumably been Gower who was a traitor. But had there been more to it than that? Had West also known who else in Lisson Grove was—what? A socialist conspirator? To be bought for money, or power? Or was it not what they wished to gain so much as what they were afraid to lose? Was it blackmail over some real or perceived offense? Was it someone who had been made to appear guilty, as Narraway had, but this person had yielded to pressure in order to save himself?

Had Narraway been threatened, and defied them? Or had they known better than to try, and he had simply been professionally destroyed, without warning?

He sat in Narraway’s office, which was now his own: a cold and extraordinarily isolating thought. Would he be ousted next? It was hard to imagine he posed the threat to them that Narraway had, whoever they were. He looked around the room. It was so familiar to him from the other side of the desk that even with his back to the wall he could see in his mind’s eye the pictures Narraway used to have there. They were mostly pencil drawings of bare trees, the branches delicate and complex. There was one exception: an old stone tower by the sea, but again the foreground was in exquisite detail of light and shadow, the sea only a feeling of distance without end.