Anne Perry - Betrayal at Lisson Grove

‘West, sir,’ Stoker said immediately. ‘The man with his throat cut was West. It looks as if Pitt and Gower went after the man who did it, at least as far as Limehouse, probably across the river to the railway station. From there they could have gone anywhere in the country. There’s been no word. No telephone call.’

Narraway felt the sweat break out on his body. It was almost a relief to hear something. But where the hell was Pitt now? Why had he not at least placed a telephone call? The train could have gone anywhere. Even on an all-night train to Scotland he could have got off at one of the stations on the way and called.

Then another thought occurred to him: Dover — or any of the other seaports. Folkestone, Southampton. If he were on a ship, then calls would be impossible. That would explain the silence.

‘I see. Thank you,’ he said aloud.

‘Sir.’

‘Say nothing to anyone, for the time being.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Thank you. That’s all.’

After Stoker had gone Narraway sat still for several minutes. To have lost West, with whatever information he had, was serious. There had been increased activity lately, known troublemakers coming and going more often than usual, a charge of expectancy in the air. He knew all the signs, he just did not know what the target was this time. There were so many possibilities: specific assassination, such as a government minister, an industrialist; a foreign dignitary on British soil — that would be a serious embarrassment — or the dynamiting of a major landmark. He had relied on Pitt to find out. Perhaps he still might, but without West it would be more difficult.

And of course it was not the only issue at hand. There were always whispers, threats. The air breathed suspicion and betrayal all the time. It was the purpose of Special Branch to detect it before it happened, and prevent at least the worst of it.

But if Pitt had gone to some distant part of the country after the murderer of West, or worse still, across the Channel, and had had no time to tell Narraway, then certainly he would not have had time to tell his wife either. Charlotte would be at home in Keppel Street waiting for him, expecting him, and growing more and more afraid with each passing hour as the silence closed in on her.

Narraway glanced at the long-case clock standing against the wall of his office. Its ornate hands pointed at quarter to seven. On a usual day Pitt would have gone home already, but she might not begin to be anxious for another hour or two.

He thought of her in the kitchen, preparing the evening meal, probably alone. Her children would be occupied with studies for the following day’s school. He could picture her easily; in fact the picture was already there in his mind, unbidden. Beauty was very much a personal thing, a matter of taste, the ability to see beyond the obvious into some element of the passions or dreams where the essence of a person was hidden.

Some would not have found Charlotte beautiful. They might have preferred a face more traditional, daintier, less challenging. Narraway found such faces boring. There was a warmth in Charlotte, a laughter he could never quite forget — and he had tried. She was quick to anger at times, far too quick to react. Many of her judgements were flawed, in his opinion, but never her courage, never her will.

Someone must tell her that Pitt had gone in hot pursuit of West’s murderer — no, better leave out the fact that West had been murdered. Pitt had gone in hot pursuit of a man with vital information, possibly across the Channel, and been unable to telephone her to let her know. He could call Stoker back and send him, but she did not know him. She did not know anyone else at Lisson Grove headquarters. It would be the courteous thing to tell her himself. It would not be far out of his way. Well, yes it would, but it would still be the better thing to do.

Pitt, for all his initial ignorance of Special Branch ways, and his occasional political naivety, was one of the best men Narraway had ever known. There was an honesty in him that was exasperating at times, reflecting his origins as a gamekeeper’s son. He had been educated in the household of the manor, side by side with the master’s son, but never his social equal. It had produced a man by nature a gentleman, and yet with an anger and a compassion Narraway admired. He found himself puzzlingly protective of Pitt against the envy of those who had preceded him in Special Branch, but whom he had overtaken in skill.

Narroway tidied his desk, locked away anything that might be confidential, left his office, and caught a hansom within minutes. He gave the driver Pitt’s address in Keppel Street.

Narraway saw the fear in Charlotte’s eyes as soon as she opened the door to him. He would never have called merely socially, and she knew that. The strength of her emotion gave him a startling twinge of envy. It was a long time since there had been anyone who would have felt that terror for him.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ he said with rather stiff formality. ‘Events did not go according to plan today, and Pitt and his assistant were obliged to pursue a suspected conspirator without the opportunity to inform anyone of what was happening.’

The anxiety eased out of her eyes. Warmth coming back, flushing the soft honey colour of her skin. ‘Where is he?’ she asked.

He decided to sound more certain than he was. West’s murderer might have fled even as far as Scotland, but France was far more likely. ‘France,’ he replied. ‘Of course he could not telephone from the ferry, and he would not have dared leave in case the man got off as well, and he lost him. I’m sorry.’

She smiled. ‘It was very thoughtful of you to have come to tell me. I admit, I was beginning to be concerned.’

The April evening was cold, a sharp wind carrying the smell of rain. Narraway was standing on the doorstep, staring at the light beyond, feeling the warmth. He stepped back deliberately, his thoughts, the temptation, the quickening of his heart frightening him.

‘There is no need,’ he said hastily. ‘Gower is with him; an excellent man, intelligent and quite fluent in French. And I dare say it will be warmer there than it is here.’ He smiled. ‘And the food is excellent.’ She had been preparing dinner. That was clumsy. Thank goodness he was far enough into the darkness that she could not see the blush rise up his face. It would be absurd to try to repair his clumsiness. It would be better to ignore it. ‘I will let you know as soon as I hear from him. If this man they are following goes to Paris, it may not be easy for them to be in contact, but please don’t fear for him.’

‘Thank you. I won’t now.’

He knew that was a polite lie. Of course she would fear for Pitt, and miss him. Loving always included the possibility of loss. But the emptiness of not loving was even greater.

He nodded very slightly, just an inclination of his head, then wished her good night. He walked away, feeling as if he were leaving the light behind him.

It was the middle of the following morning when Narraway received the telegram from Pitt in St Malo. He immediately forwarded him sufficient money to last both himself and Gower for at least two weeks. He thought about it as soon as it had been sent, and knew he had been overgenerous. Perhaps that was an indication of the relief he felt to know Pitt was safe. He realised with surprise the effort it had cost him not to allow the fear into his mind. He would have to go back to Keppel Street to tell Charlotte that Pitt had been in touch.

He had returned to his desk after lunch when Charles Austwick came in and closed the door behind him. He was officially Narraway’s next-in-command, although in practical terms it had come to be Pitt. Austwick was in his late forties with fair hair, which was receding a little, and a good-looking but curiously unremarkable face. He was intelligent and efficient, and he seemed to be always in control of whatever feelings he might have. Now he looked very directly at Narraway, deliberately so, as if he were uncomfortable and attempting not to show it.