Betrayal at Lisson Grove (Treason at Lisson Grove)

He was admitted without question. Apparently the footman knew who he was. He was taken straight to Croxdale’s rooms and ushered into his presence after only a matter of moments.

“How are you, Pitt?” Croxdale said warmly, rising from his seat to shake Pitt’s hand. “Sit down. How is it at Lisson Grove?” His voice was pleasant, almost casual, but he was watching Pitt intently. There was a gravity in him as if he already knew that Pitt had ugly news to tell him.

It was the opening Pitt needed without having to create it himself.

“I had hoped to tell you more, sir,” he began. “But the whole episode of seeing West murdered and following Frobisher to France was far more serious than I thought at first.”

Croxdale frowned, sitting a little more upright in his chair. “In what way? Have you learned what he was going to tell you?”

“No, sir, I haven’t. At least, I am not certain. But I have a strong idea, and everything I have discovered since returning supports it, but does not provide a conclusion.”

“Stop beating around the bush, man!” Croxdale said impatiently. “What is it?”

Pitt took a deep breath. “We have at least one traitor at Lisson Grove …”

Croxdale froze, his eyes hard. His right hand on top of the desk suddenly became rigid as if he were deliberately forcing himself not to clench it.

“I presume you mean other than Victor Narraway?” he said quietly.

Pitt made another decision. “I don’t and never have believed that Narraway was a traitor, sir. Whether he is guilty of a misjudgment, or a carelessness, I don’t yet know. But regrettably we all misjudge at times.”

“Explain yourself!” Croxdale said between his teeth. “If not Narraway, and I reserve judgment on that, then who?”

“Gower, sir.”

“Gower?” Croxdale’s eyes opened wide. “Did you say Gower

?”

“Yes, sir.” Pitt could feel his own temper rising. How could Croxdale accept so easily that Narraway was a traitor, yet be so incredulous that Gower could be? What had Austwick told him? How deep and how clever was this web of treason? Was Pitt rushing in where a wiser, more experienced man would have been careful, laying his ground first? But there was no time to do that. Narraway was considered a fugitive by his former colleagues in the Special Branch and heaven only knew if Charlotte was safe, or where she was and in what circumstances. Pitt could not afford to seek their enemies cautiously.

Croxdale was frowning at him. Should he tell him the whole story, or simply the murder of West? Any of it made Pitt look like a fool! But he had been a fool. He had trusted Gower, even liked him. The memory of it was still painful.

“Something happened in France that made me realize it only appeared that Gower and I arrived together as Wrexham killed West,” he said. “Actually Gower had been there moments before and killed him himself.”

“For God’s sake, man! That’s absurd,” Croxdale exploded, almost rising from his seat. “You can’t expect me to believe that! How did you fail …” He sat back again, composing himself with an effort. “I’m sorry. This comes as an appalling shock to me. I … I know his family. Are you certain? It all seems very … flimsy.”

“Yes, sir, I’m afraid I am certain.” Pitt felt a stab of pity for him. “I made an excuse to leave him in France and return by myself—”

“You left him?” Again Croxdale was stunned.

“I couldn’t arrest him,” Pitt pointed out. “I had no weapon, and he was a young and very powerful man. The last thing I wanted to do was inform the local police of who we were, and that we were there without their knowledge or permission, watching French citizens …”

“Yes, of course. I see. I see. Go on.” Croxdale was flushed and obviously badly shaken. Pitt could have sympathized at another time.

“I told him to remain watching Wrexham and Frobisher …”

“Who’s Frobisher?” Croxdale demanded.

Pitt told him what they knew of Frobisher, and the other men they had seen coming and going from his house.

Croxdale nodded. “So there was some truth to this business of socialists meeting, and possibly planning something?”

“Possibly. Nothing conclusive yet.”

“And you left Gower there?”

“I thought so. But when I reached Southampton I took the train to London. On that train I was attacked, twice, and very nearly lost my life.”

“Good God! By whom?” Croxdale was horrified.

“Gower, sir. The first time he was interrupted, and the man who did so paid for his courage with his life. Then Gower renewed his attack on me, but this time I was ready for him, and it was he who lost.”

Croxdale wiped his hand across his brow. “What happened to Gower?”

“He went over onto the track,” Pitt replied, his stomach knotting at that memory and the sweat breaking out on his skin again. He decided not to mention his own arrest, because then he would have to explain how Vespasia had rescued him, and he preferred to keep her name out of it altogether.

“He was … killed?” Croxdale said.

“At that speed, sir, there can be no doubt.”