Treason at Lisson Grove: A Charlotte and Thomas Pitt Novel Read online

  “So we can leap eight thousand years without further comment,” she concluded. “After that surely there must be something a little more detailed?”

  “The building of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral in AD 1192?” he suggested. “Unless you want to know about the Vikings, in which case I would have to look it up myself. Anyway, they weren’t Irish, so they don’t count.”

  “Are you Irish, Mr. Narraway?” she asked suddenly. Perhaps it was an intrusive question, and when he was Pitt’s superior she would not have asked it, but now the relationship was far more equal, and she might need to know. With his intensely dark looks he easily could be.

  He winced slightly. “How formal you are. It makes you sound like your mother. No, I am not Irish, I am as English as you are, except for one great-grandmother. Why do you ask?”

  “Your precise knowledge of Irish history,” she answered. That was not the real reason. She asked because she needed to know more about his loyalties, the truth about what had happened in the O’Neil case twenty years ago.

  “It is my job to know,” he said quietly. “As it was. Would you like to hear about the feud that made the King of Leinster ask Henry the Second of England to send over an army to assist him?”

  “Is it interesting?”

  “The army was led by Richard de Clare, known as Strongbow. He married the king’s daughter and became king himself in 1171, and the Anglo-Normans took control. In 1205 they began to build Dublin Castle. ‘Silken’ Thomas led a revolt against Henry the Eighth in 1534, and lost. Do you begin to see a pattern?”

  “Of course I do. Do they burn the King of Leinster in effigy?”

  He laughed, a brief, sharp sound. “I haven’t seen it done, but it sounds like a good idea. We are at the station. Let me get a porter. We will continue when we are seated on the train.”

  The hansom pulled up as he spoke, and he alighted easily. There was an air of command in him that attracted attention within seconds, and the luggage was unloaded into a wagon, the driver paid, and Charlotte walked across the pavement into the vast Paddington railway station for the Great Western rail to Holyhead.

  It had great arches, as if it were some half-finished cathedral, and a roof so high it dwarfed the massed people all talking and clattering their way to the platform. There was a sense of excitement in the air, and a good deal of noise and steam and grit.

  Narraway took her arm. For a moment his grasp felt strange and she was about to object, then she realized how foolish that would be. If they were parted in the crowd they might not find each other again until after the train had pulled out. He had the tickets, and he must know which platform they were seeking.

  They passed groups of people, some greeting one another, some clearly stretching out a reluctant parting. Every so often the sound of belching steam and the clang of doors drowned out everything else. Then a whistle would blast shrilly, and one of the great engines would come to life beginning the long pull away from the platform.

  It was not until they had found their train and were comfortably seated that they resumed any kind of conversation. She found him courteous, even considerate, but she could not help being aware of his inner tensions, the quick glances, the concern, the way his hands were hardly ever completely still.

  It would be a long journey to Holyhead on the west coast. It was up to her to make it as agreeable as possible, and also to learn a good deal more about exactly what he wanted her to do.

  Sitting on the rather uncomfortable seat, upright, with her hands folded in her lap, she realized she must look very prim. It was not an image she liked, and yet now that they were embarked on this adventure together, each for their own reasons, she must be certain not to make any irretrievable mistakes, first of all in the nature of her feelings. She liked Victor Narraway. He was highly intelligent, and he could be very amusing at rare times, but she knew only one part of his life.

  Still, she knew that there must be more, the private man. Somewhere beneath the pragmatism there had been dreams.

  “Thank you for the lesson on ancient Irish history,” she began, feeling clumsy. “But I need to know far more than I do about the specific matter that we are going to investigate; otherwise I may not recognize something important if I hear it. I cannot possibly remember everything to report it accurately to you.”

  “Of course not.” He was clearly trying to keep a straight face, and not entirely succeeding. “I will tell you as much as I can. You understand there are aspects of it that are still sensitive … I mean politically.”

  She studied his face, and knew that he also meant they were personally painful. “Perhaps you could tell me something of the political situation?” she suggested. “As much as is public knowledge—to those who were interested,” she added. Now it was her turn to mock herself very slightly. “I’m afraid I was more concerned with dresses and gossip at the time of the O’Neil case.” She would have been about fifteen. “And thinking whom I might marry, of course.”

  “Of course,” he nodded. “A subject that engages most of us, from time to time. All you need to know of the political background is that Ireland, as always, was agitating for Home Rule. Various British prime ministers had attempted to put it through Parliament, and it proved their heartbreak, and for some their downfall. This is the time of the spectacular rise of Charles Stewart Parnell. He was to become leader of the Home Rule Party in ’77.”

  “I remember that name,” she agreed.

  “Naturally, but this was long before the scandal that ruined him.”

  “Did he have anything to do with what happened with the O’Neil family?”

  “Nothing at all, at least not directly. But the fire and hope of a new leader was in the air, and Irish independence at last, and everything was different because of it.” He looked out the window at the passing countryside, and she knew he was seeing another time and place.

  “But we had to prevent it?” she assumed.

  “I suppose it came to that, yes. We saw it as the necessity to keep the peace. Things change all the time, but how its done must be controlled. There is no point in leaving a trail of death behind you in order merely to exchange one form of tyranny for another.”

  “You don’t have to justify it to me,” she told him. “I am aware enough of the feeling. I only wish to understand something of the O’Neil family, and why one of them should hate you personally so much that twenty years later you believe he would stoop to manufacturing evidence that you committed a crime. What sort of a man was he then? Why has he waited so long to do this?”

  Narraway turned his head away from the sunlight coming through the carriage window. He spoke reluctantly. “Cormac? He was a good-looking man, very strong, quick to laugh, and quick to anger—but it was usually only on the surface, and gone before he would dwell on it. But he was intensely loyal, to Ireland above all, then to his family. He and his brother Sean were very close.” He smiled. “Quarreled like Kilkenny cats, as they say, but let anyone else step in and they’d turn on them like furies.”

  “How old was he then?” she asked.

  “Close to forty,” he replied without hesitation.

  She wondered if he knew that from records, or if he had been close enough to Cormac O’Neil that such things were open between them. She had the increasing feeling that this was far more than a Special Branch operation. There was deep, many-layered personal emotion as well, and Narraway would only ever tell her what he had to.

  “Were they from an old family?” she pursued. “Where did they live, and how?”

  He looked out the window again. “Cormac had land to the south of Dublin—Slane. Interesting place. Old family? Aren’t we all supposed to go back to Adam?”

  “He doesn’t seem to have bequeathed the heritage to us equally,” she answered.

  “I’m sorry. Am I being evasive?”

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “Cormac had enough means not to have to work more than in an occasional overseeing capacity. He and
Sean between them owned a brewery as well. I daresay you know the waters of the Liffey River are famous for their softness. You can make ale anywhere, but nothing else has quite the flavor of that made with Liffey water. But you want to know what they were like.”

  “Yes,” she answered. “Don’t you need me to seek him out? Because if he hates you as deeply as you think, he will tell you nothing that could help.”

  The light vanished from his face. “If it’s Cormac, he’s thought this out very carefully. He must have known all about Mulhare and the whole operation: the money, the reason for paying it as I did, and how any interference would cost Mulhare his life.”

  “And he must also have been able to persuade someone in Lisson Grove to help him,” she pointed out.

  He winced. “Yes. I’ve thought about that a lot.” Now his face was very somber indeed. “I’ve been piecing together all I know: Mulhare’s connections; what I did with the money to try to make certain it would never be traced back to Special Branch, or to me personally, all the past friends and enemies I’ve made, where it happened. It always comes back to O’Neil.”

  “Why would anyone at Lisson Grove be willing to help O’Neil?” she asked. It was like trying to take gravel out of a wound, only far deeper than a scraped knee or elbow. She thought of Daniel’s face as he sat on one of the hard-backed kitchen chairs, dirt and blood on his legs, while she tried to clean where he had torn the skin off, and pick out the tiny stones. There had been tears in his eyes and he had stared resolutely at the ceiling, trying to stop them from spilling over and giving him away.

  “Many reasons,” Narraway replied. “You cannot do a job like mine without making enemies. You hear things about people you might very much prefer not to know, but that is a luxury you sacrifice when you accept the responsibility.”

  “I know that,” she told him.

  His eyes wandered a little. “Really? How do you know that, Charlotte?”

  She saw the trap and slipped around it. “Not from Thomas. He doesn’t discuss his cases since he joined Special Branch. And anyway, I don’t think you can explain to someone else such a complicated thing.”

  He was watching her intently now. His eyes were so dark it was hard to read the expression in them. The lines in his face showed all the emotions that had passed over them through the years: the anxiety, the laughter, and the grief.

  “My eldest sister was murdered, many years ago now,” she explained. “But perhaps you know that already. Several young women were at that time. We had no idea who was responsible. In the course of the investigation we learned a great deal about each other that would have been far more comfortable not to have known, and we cannot unlearn such things.” She remembered it with pain now, even though it was fourteen years ago.

  She looked up at him and saw his surprise. The only way to cover the discomfort was to continue talking.

  “After that, when Thomas and I were married, I am afraid I meddled a good deal in many of his cases, particularly those where Society people were involved. I had an advantage in being able to meet them socially, and observe things he never could. One listens to gossip as a matter of course. It is largely what Society is about. But when you do it intelligently, actually trying to learn things, comparing what one person says with what another does, asking questions obliquely, weighing answers, you cannot help but learn much that is private to other people, painful, vulnerable, and absolutely none of your affair.”

  He moved his head very slightly in assent, but he knew it was not necessary to speak.

  For a little while they rode in silence. The rhythmic clatter of the wheels over the railway ties was comfortable, almost somnolent. It had been a difficult and tiring few days and she found herself drifting into a daze, then woke with a start. She hoped she had not been lolling there with her mouth open!

  Still, she did not yet know enough about what she could do to help and asked, “Do you know who it was at Lisson Grove who betrayed you?”

  “No, I don’t,” he admitted. “I have considered several possibilities. In fact the only people I am certain it is not are Thomas and a man called Stoker. It makes me realize how incompetent I have been that I suspected nothing. I was always looking outward, at the enemies I knew. In this profession I should have looked behind me as well.”

  She did not argue. “So we can trust no one in Special Branch, apart from Stoker,” she concluded. “Then I suppose we need to concentrate on Ireland. Why does Cormac O’Neil hate you so much? If I am to learn anything, I need to know what to build upon.”

  This time he did not look away from her, but she could hear the reluctance in his voice. He told her only because he had to. “When he was planning an uprising I was the one who learned about it and prevented it. I did it by turning to his sister-in-law, Sean’s wife, and using the information she gave me to have his men arrested and imprisoned.”

  “I see.”

  “No, you don’t,” he said quickly, his voice tight. “And I have no intention of telling you any further. But because of it Sean killed her, and was hanged for her murder. It is that which Cormac cannot forgive. If it had simply been a battle he would have considered it the fortunes of war. He might have hated me at the time, but it would have been forgotten, as old battles are. But Sean and Kate are still dead, still tarred as a betrayer and a wife murderer. I just don’t know why he waited so long. That is the one piece of it I don’t understand.”

  “Perhaps it doesn’t matter,” she said somberly. It was a tragic story, ugly even, and she was certain he had edited it very heavily in the telling. “What do you want me to do?”

  “I still have friends in Dublin, I think,” he answered. “I cannot approach Cormac myself. I need someone I can trust, who looks totally innocent and unconnected with me. I … I can’t even go anywhere with you, or he would suspect you immediately. Bring me the facts. I can put them together.” He seemed about to add something more, then changed his mind.

  “Are you worried that I won’t know what is important?” she asked. “Or that I won’t remember and tell you accurately?”

  “No. I know perfectly well that you can do both.”

  “Do you?” She was surprised.

  He smiled, briefly. “You tell me about helping Pitt when he was in the police, as if you imagined I didn’t know.”

  “You said you didn’t know about my sister Sarah,” she pointed out. “Or was that … discretion rather than truth?”

  “It was the truth. But perhaps I deserved the remark. I learned about you mostly from Vespasia. She did not mention Sarah, perhaps out of delicacy. And I had no need to know.”

  “You had some need to know the rest?” she said with disbelief.

  “Of course. You are part of Pitt’s life. I had to know exactly how far I could trust you. Although given my present situation, you cannot be blamed for doubting my ability in that.”

  “That sounds like self-pity,” she said tartly. “I have not criticized you, and that is not out of either good manners or sympathy—neither of which we can afford just at the moment, if they disguise the truth. We can’t live without trusting someone. It is an offense to betray, not to be betrayed.”

  “As I said, it is a good thing you did not marry into Society,” he retorted. “You would not have survived. Or on the other hand, perhaps Society would not have, and that might not have been so bad. A little shake-up now and then is good for the constitution.”

  Now she was not sure if he was laughing at her or defending himself. Or possibly it was both.

  “So you accepted my assistance because you believe I can do what you require?” she concluded.

  “Not at all. I accepted it because you gave me no alternative. Also, since Stoker is the only other person I trust, and he did not offer, nor has he the ability, I had no alternative in any case.”

  “Touché,” she said quietly.

  They did not speak again for quite some time, and when they did it was about the differences between Society in Lo
ndon and Dublin. He described the city and surrounding countryside with such vividness that she began to look forward to seeing it herself. He even spoke of the festivals, saints’ days, and other occasions people celebrated.

  When the train drew into Holyhead they went straight to the boat. After a brief meal, they returned to their cabins for the crossing. They would arrive in Dublin before morning, but were not required to disembark until well after daylight.

  DUBLIN WAS UTTERLY DIFFERENT from London, but at least to begin with Charlotte was too occupied with getting ashore at Dun Laoghaire to have time to stare about her. Then there was the ride into the city itself, which was just waking up to the new day; the rain-washed streets were clean and filling with people about their business. She saw plenty of horse traffic—mostly trade at this hour; the carriages and broughams would come later. The few women were laundresses, maids going shopping, or factory workers wearing thick skirts and with heavy shawls wrapped around them.

  Narraway hailed a cab, and they set out to look for accommodation. He seemed to know exactly where he was going and gave very precise directions to the driver, but he did not explain them to her. They rode in silence. He stared out the window and she watched his face, the harsh early-morning light showing even the smallest lines around his eyes and mouth. It made him seem older, far less sure of himself.

  She thought of Daniel and Jemima, and hoped Minnie Maude was settling in. They had seemed to like her, and surely anyone Gracie vouched for would be good. She could not resent Gracie’s happiness, but she missed her painfully at times like this.

  That was absurd. There had never been another time like this, when a case took her out of London and away from her children. Here she was in a foreign country, with Victor Narraway, riding around the streets looking for lodgings. Little wonder Mrs. Waterman was scandalized. Perhaps she was right to be.

  And Pitt was in France pursuing someone who thought nothing of slitting a man’s throat in the street and leaving him to die as if he were no more than a sack of rubbish. Pitt didn’t even have a clean shirt, socks, or personal linen. Narraway had sent him money, but he would need more. He would need help, information, probably the assistance of the French police. Would Narraway’s replacement provide all this? Was he loyal? Was he even competent?