Treason at Lisson Grove: A Charlotte and Thomas Pitt Novel Page 12

  “Twenty years ago,” Phelim O’Conor said slowly. “A lot of trouble then. But you wouldn’t be knowing that—in London. Might have seemed romantic, to your grandmother, Charles Stewart Parnell and all that. God rest his soul. Other people’s griefs can be like that.” His face was smooth, almost innocent, but there was a darkness in his voice.

  “I’m sorry,” Charlotte said quietly. “I didn’t mean to touch on something painful. Do you think perhaps I shouldn’t ask?” She looked from Phelim to Talulla, and back again.

  He gave a very slight shrug. “No doubt you’ll hear anyway. If your cousin’s wife was Kate O’Neil, she’s dead now, God forgive her …”

  “How can you say that?” Talulla spat the words between her teeth, the muscles in her thin jaw clenched tight. “Twenty years is nothing! The blink of an eye in the history of Ireland’s sorrows.”

  Charlotte tried to look totally puzzled, and guilty. But in truth she was beginning to feel a little afraid. Rage sparked in Talulla as if she’d touched an exposed nerve.

  “Because there’s been new blood, and new tears since then,” Phelim answered, speaking to Talulla, not Charlotte. “And new issues to address.”

  Good manners might have dictated that Charlotte apologize again and withdraw, leaving them to deal with the memories in their own way, but she thought of Pitt in France, alone, trusting in Narraway to back him up. She feared there were only Narraway’s enemies in Lisson Grove now, people who might easily be Pitt’s enemies too. Good manners were a luxury for another time.

  “Is there some tragedy my grandmother knew nothing of?” she asked innocently. “I’m sorry if I have woken an old bereavement, or injustice. I certainly did not mean to. I’m so sorry.”

  Talulla looked at her with undisguised harshness, a slight flush in her sallow cheeks. “If your grandmother’s cousin was Kate O’Neil, she trusted an Englishman, an agent of the queen’s government who courted her, flattered her into telling him her own people’s secrets, then betrayed her to be murdered by those whose trust she gave away.”

  O’Conor winced. “I daresay she loved him. We can all be fools for love,” he said wryly.

  “I daresay she did!” Talulla snarled. “But that son of a whore never loved her, and with half a drop of loyalty in her blood she’d have known that. She’d have won his secrets, then put a knife in his belly. He might have been able to charm the fish out of the sea, but he was her people’s enemy, and she knew that. She got what she deserved.” She turned and moved away sharply, her dark head high and stiff, her back ramrod-straight, and she made no attempt to offer even a glance backward.

  “You’ll have to forgive Talulla,” O’Conor said ruefully. “Anyone would think she’d loved the man herself, and it was twenty years ago. I must remember never to flirt with her. If she fell for my charm I might wake up dead of it.” He shrugged. “Not that it’d be likely, God help me!” He did not add anything more, but his expression said all the rest.

  Then with a sudden smile, like spring sun through the drifting rain, he told her about the place where he had been born and the little town to the north where he had grown up and his first visit to Dublin when he had been six.

  “I thought it was the grandest place I’d ever seen,” he said. “Street after street of buildings, each one fit to be the palace of a king. And some so wide it was a journey just to cross from one side to another.”

  Suddenly Talulla’s hatred seemed no more than a lapse in manners. But Charlotte did not forget it. O’Conor’s charm was clearly masking great shame. She was certain that he would find Talulla afterward and, when they were alone, berate her for allowing a foreigner—an Englishwoman at that—to see a part of their history that should have been kept private.

  The party continued. The food was excellent, the wine flowed generously. There was laughter, sharp and poignant wit, even music as the evening approached midnight. But Charlotte did not forget the emotion she had seen, and the hatred.

  She rode home in the carriage with Fiachra McDaid, and despite his gentle inquiries she said nothing except how much she had enjoyed the hospitality.

  “And did anyone know your cousin?” he asked. “Dublin’s a small town, when it comes to it.”

  “I don’t think so,” she answered easily. “But I may find trace of her later. O’Neil is not a rare name. And anyway, it doesn’t matter very much.”

  “Now, there’s something I doubt our friend Victor would agree with,” he said candidly. “I had the notion it mattered to him rather a lot. Was I wrong, then, do you suppose?”

  For the first time in the evening she spoke the absolute truth. “I think maybe you know him a great deal better than I do, Mr. McDaid. We have met only in one set of circumstances, and that does not give a very complete picture of a person, don’t you think?”

  In the darkness inside the carriage she could not read his expression.

  “And yet I have the distinct idea that he is fond of you, Mrs. Pitt,” McDaid replied. “Am I wrong in that too, do you suppose?”

  “I don’t do much supposing, Mr. McDaid … at least not aloud,” she said. And as she spoke, her mind raced, remembering what Phelim O’Conor had said of Narraway, and wondering how much she really knew him. The certainty was increasing inside her that it was Narraway of whom Talulla had been speaking when she referred to Kate O’Neil’s betrayal—both of her country, and of her husband—because she had loved a man who had used her, and then he allowed her to be murdered for it.

  Pitt had believed in Narraway; she knew that without doubt. But she also knew that Pitt thought well of most people, even if he accepted that they were complex, capable of cowardice, greed, and violence. But had he ever understood any of the darkness within Narraway, the human man beneath the fighter against his country’s enemies? They were so different. Narraway was subtle, where Pitt was instinctive. He understood people because he understood weakness and fear; he had felt need and knew how powerful it could be.

  But Pitt also understood gratitude. Narraway had offered him dignity, purpose, and a means to feed his family when he had desperately needed it. He would never forget that.

  Was he also just a little naïve?

  She remembered with a smile how disillusioned her husband had been when he had discovered the shabby behavior of the Prince of Wales. She had felt his shame for a man he thought should have been better. He had believed more in the honor of his calling than the man did himself. She loved Pitt intensely for that, even in the moment she understood it.

  Narraway would never have been misled; he would have expected roughly what he eventually found. He might have been disappointed, but he would not have been hurt.

  Had he ever been hurt?

  Could he have loved Kate O’Neil, and still used her? Not as Charlotte understood love.

  But then perhaps Narraway always put duty first. Maybe he was feeling a deep and insuperable pain for the first time, because he was robbed of the one thing he valued: his work, in which his identity was so bound up.

  Why on earth was she riding through the dark streets of a strange city, with a man she had never seen before tonight, taking absurd risks, telling lies, in order to help a man she knew so little? Why did she ache with a loss for him?

  Because she imagined how she would feel if he were like her—and he was not. She imagined he cared about her, because she had seen it in his face in unguarded moments. It was probably loneliness she saw, an instant of lingering for a love he would only find an encumbrance if he actually had it.

  “I hear Talulla Lawless gave you a little display of her temper,” McDaid said, interrupting her thoughts. “I’m sorry for that. Her wounds are deep, and she sees no need to hide them; it is hardly your fault. But then there are always casualties of war, the innocent often as much as the guilty.”

  She turned to look at his face in the momentary light of a passing carriage’s lamp. His eyes were bright, his mouth twisted in a sad little smile. Then the darkness shadowed him aga
in and she was aware of him only as a soft voice, a presence beside her, the smell of fabric and a faint sharpness of tobacco.

  “Of course,” she agreed very quietly.

  They reached Molesworth Street and the carriage stopped.

  “Thank you, Mr. McDaid,” she said with perfect composure. “It was most gracious of you to have me invited, and to accompany me. Dublin’s hospitality is all that has been said of it, and believe me, that is high praise.”

  “We have just begun,” he replied warmly. “Give Victor my regards, and tell him we shall continue. I won’t rest until you think this is the fairest city on earth, and the Irish the best people. Which of course we are, despite our passion and our troubles. You can’t hate us, you know.” He said it with a smile that was wide and bright in the lamplight.

  “Not the way you hate us, anyway,” she agreed gently. “But then we have no cause. Good night, Mr. McDaid.”

  CHARLOTTE FACED NARRAWAY ACROSS the breakfast table in Mrs. Hogan’s quiet house the next morning, still in conflict as to what she would say to him.

  “Very enjoyable,” she answered his inquiry as to the previous evening. And she realized with surprise how much that was true. It was a long time since she had been at a party of such ease and sophistication. Although this was Dublin, not London, Society did not differ much.

  There were no other guests in the dining room this late in the morning. Most of the other tables had already been set with clean, lace-edged linen ready for the evening. She concentrated on the generous plate of food before her. It contained far more than she needed for good health. “They were most kind to me,” she added.

  “Nonsense,” he replied quietly.

  She looked up, startled by his abruptness.

  He was smiling, but the sharp morning light showed very clearly the tiredness in his face. Her resolve to lie to him wavered. There were many ways in which he was unreadable, but not in the deep-etched lines in his face or the hollows around his eyes.

  “All right,” she conceded. “They were hospitable and a certain glamour in it was fun. Is that more precise?”

  He was amused. He gave nothing so obvious as a smile, but it was just as plain to her.

  “Whom did you meet, apart from Fiachra, of course?”

  “You’ve known him a long time?” she asked, remembering McDaid’s words with a slight chill.

  “Why do you say that?” He took more toast and buttered it. He had eaten very little. She wondered if he had slept.

  “Because he asked me nothing about you,” she answered. “But he seems very willing to help.”

  “A good friend,” he replied, looking straight at her.

  She smiled. “Nonsense,” she said with exactly the same inflection he had used.

  “Touché,” he acknowledged. “You are right, but we have known each other a long time.”

  “Isn’t Ireland full of people you have known a long time?”

  He put a little marmalade on his toast.

  She waited.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “But I do not know the allegiances of most of them.”

  “If Fiachra McDaid is a friend, what do you need me for?” she asked bluntly. Suddenly an urgent and ugly thought occurred to her: Perhaps he did not want her in London where Pitt could reach her. Just how complicated was this, and how ugly? Where was the embezzled money now? Was it really about money, and not old vengeances at all? Or was it both?

  He did not answer.

  “Because you are using me, or both of us, with selected lies?” she suggested.

  He winced as if the blow had been physical as well as emotional. “I am not lying to you, Charlotte.” His voice was so quiet, she had to lean forward a little to catch his words. “I am … being highly selective about how much of the truth I tell you …”

  “And the difference is?” she asked.

  He sighed. “You are a good detective—in your own way almost as good as Pitt—but Special Branch work is very different from ordinary domestic murder.”

  “Domestic murder isn’t always ordinary,” she contradicted him. “Human love and hate very seldom are. People kill for all sorts of reasons, but it is usually to gain or protect something they value passionately. Or it is in outrage at some violation they cannot bear. And I do not mean necessarily a physical one. The emotional or spiritual wounds can be far harder to recover from.”

  “I apologize,” he responded. “I should have said that the alliances and loyalties stretch in far more complicated ways. Brothers can be on opposite sides, as can husband and wife. Rivals can help each other, even die for each other, if allied in the cause.”

  “And the casualties are the innocent as well as the guilty,” she said, echoing McDaid’s words. “My role is easy enough. I would like to help you, but I am bound by everything in my nature to help my husband, and of course myself …”

  “I had no idea you were so pragmatic,” he said with a slight smile.

  “I am a woman, I have a finite amount of money, and I have children. A degree of pragmatism is necessary.” She spoke gently to take the edge from her words.

  He finished spreading his marmalade. “So you will understand that Fiachra is my friend in some things, but I will not be able to count on him if the answer should turn out to be different from the one I suppose.”

  “There is one you suppose?”

  “I told you: I think Cormac O’Neil has found the perfect way to take revenge on me, and has taken it.”

  “For something that happened twenty years ago?” she questioned.

  “The Irish have the longest memories in Europe.” He bit into the toast.

  “And the greatest patience too?” she said with disbelief. “People take action because something, somewhere has changed. Crimes of state have that in common with ordinary, domestic murders. Something new has caused O’Neil, or whoever it is, to do this now. Perhaps it has only just become possible. Or it may be that for him, now is the right time.”

  He ate the whole of his toast before replying. “Of course you are right. The trouble is that I don’t know which of those reasons it is. I’ve studied the situation in Ireland and I can’t see any reason at all for O’Neil to do this now.”

  She ignored her tea. An unpleasant thought occurred to her, chilling and very immediate. “Wouldn’t O’Neil know that this would bring you here?” she asked.

  Narraway stared at her. “You think O’Neil wants me here? I’m sure if killing me were his purpose, he would have come to London and done it. If I thought it was simply murder I wouldn’t have let you come with me, Charlotte, even if Pitt’s livelihood rests on my return to office. Please give me credit for thinking that far ahead.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought bringing someone that nobody would see as assisting you might be the best way of getting around that. You never suggested it would be comfortable, or easy. And you cannot prevent me from coming to Ireland if I want to. You could simply have let me do it alone, which would be inefficient, and unlike you.”

  “It would have been awkward,” he conceded. “But not impossible. I had to tell you something of the situation, for Pitt’s sake. For your own, I cannot tell you everything. I don’t know any reason why O’Neil should choose now. But then I don’t know any reason why anyone should. It is unarguable that someone with strong connections in Dublin has chosen to steal the money I sent for Mulhare, so to bring about the poor man’s death. Then they made certain it was evident first to Austwick, and then to Croxdale, and so brought about my dismissal.”

  He poured more tea for himself. “Perhaps it was not O’Neil who initiated it; he may simply have been willingly used. I’ve made many enemies. Knowledge and power both make that inevitable.”

  “Then think of other enemies,” she urged. “Whose circumstances have changed? Is there anyone you were about to expose?”

  “My dear, do you think I haven’t thought of that?”

  “And you still believe it is O’Neil?”

/>   “Perhaps it is a guilty conscience.” He gave a smile so brief it reached his eyes and was gone again. “ ‘The guilty flee where no man pursueth,’ ” he quoted. “But there is knowledge in this that only people familiar with the case could have.”

  “Oh.” She poured herself fresh tea. “Then we had better learn more about O’Neil. He was mentioned yesterday evening. I told them that my grandmother was Christina O’Neil.”

  He swallowed. “And who was she really?”

  “Christine Owen,” she replied.

  He started to laugh. She said nothing, but finished her toast and then the rest of her tea.

  CHARLOTTE SPENT THE MORNING and most of the afternoon quietly reading as much as she could of Irish history, realizing the vast gap in her knowledge and becoming a little ashamed of it. Because Ireland was geographically so close to England, and because the English had occupied it one way or another for so many centuries, in their minds its individuality had been swallowed up in the general tide of British history. The empire covered a quarter of the world. Englishmen tended to think of Ireland as part of their own small piece of it, linked by a common language—disregarding the existence of the Irish tongue.

  So many of Ireland’s greatest sons had made their names on the world stage indistinguishably from the English. Everyone knew Oscar Wilde was Irish, even though his plays were absolutely English in their setting. They probably knew Jonathan Swift was Irish, but did they know it of Bram Stoker? Did they know it of the great duke of Wellington, victor of Waterloo, and later prime minister? The fact that these men had left Ireland in their youth did not in any way alter their heritage.

  Her own family was not Anglo-Irish, but in pretending to have a grandmother who was, perhaps she should be a little more sensitive to people’s feelings and treat the whole subject less casually.

  By evening she was again dressed in her one black gown, this time with different jewelry and different gloves, and her hair decorated with an ornament given to her years ago. She was off to the theater, and quite suddenly worried that she was overdressed. Perhaps other people would be far less formal. After all, they were a highly literate culture, educated in words and ideas but also very familiar with them. They might consider an evening at the theater not a social affair but rather an intellectual and emotional one.