Betrayal at Lisson Grove Page 2

  Pitt raced down the steps. His feet slithered on the wet stones and he only just regained his balance. He waved his arms at the other ferry, the one they had seen. ‘Here! Hurry!’ he shouted.

  Gower shouted also, his voice high and desperate.

  The ferryman increased his speed, throwing his full weight behind his oars, and in a matter of seconds he swung round next to the pier.

  ‘Get in, gents,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Where to?’

  ‘After that boat there,’ Gower gasped, choking on his own breath and pointing to the other ferry. ‘An extra half-crown in it for you if you catch up with him before he gets up Horseferry Stairs.’

  Pitt landed in the boat behind him and immediately sat down so they could get underway. ‘He’s not going to Horseferry,’ he pointed out. ‘He’s going straight across. Look!’

  ‘Lavender Dock?’ Gower scowled, sitting in the seat beside Pitt. ‘What the hell for?’

  ‘Shortest way across,’ Pitt replied. ‘Get up to Rotherhithe Street and away.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Nearest train station, probably. Or he might double back. Best place to get lost is among other people.’

  They were pulling well away from the dock now and slowly catching up with the other ferry.

  There were fewer ships moored here and they could make their way almost straight across. A string of barges was still fifty yards downstream, moving slowly against the tide. The wind off the water was cold. Without thinking what he was doing, Pitt hunched up and pulled his collar higher around his neck. It seemed like hours since he and Gower had burst into the brickyard and seen Wrexham crouched over the blood-soaked body of West, but it was probably little more than ninety minutes. Their information about whatever plot for violence West had known was gone with his death.

  Pitt thought back to his last interview with Narraway, sitting in the office with the hot sunlight streaming through the window onto the piles of books and papers on the desk. Narraway’s face had been intensely serious under his greying mane of hair, his eyes almost black. He had spoken of the gravity of the situation, the rise of the passion to reform the old imperialism of Europe, violently, if necessary. It was no longer a matter of a few sticks of dynamite, an assassination here and there. There were whispers of the overthrow of governments by force, of the mobilising of armies, of people willing to sacrifice their own lives, and other people’s, to create a new order – a whole new world.

  ‘Some things need changing,’ Narraway had said with a wry bitterness. ‘No one but a fool would deny that there is injustice. But this would result in anarchy. God alone knows how wide this spreads, at least as far as France, Germany, and Italy, and by the sounds of it here in England as well. The rest of Europe went mad in forty-eight and it was over a couple of years later, with all the old tyrannies back in place, as strong as ever. The barricades came down. The reforms were overturned and everything reverted to the old ways!’

  Pitt had stared at him, seeing a sadness in him he had never imagined before. With amazement he realised that Narraway regretted the death of those dreams, perhaps even more the death of the passionate, idealistic and naïve men and women who had sacrificed their lives in pursuit of them.

  Narraway had shaken his head, as if awakening himself. ‘This is a different breed, Pitt, and the tide of victory is with them now, but not the violence. We don’t change that way in Britain, we evolve slowly. We’ll get there, but not with murder, and not by force.’

  The wind was fading, the water smoother.

  They were nearly at the south bank of the river. It was time to make a decision. Gower was looking at him, waiting.

  Wrexham’s ferry was almost at the Lavender Dock.

  ‘He’s going somewhere,’ Gower said urgently. ‘Do we want to get him now, sir – or see where he leads us? If we take him we won’t know who’s behind this. He won’t talk: he’s no reason to. We practically saw him kill West. He’ll hang for sure.’ He waited, frowning.

  ‘Do you think we can keep him in sight?’ Pitt asked.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Gower did not hesitate.

  ‘Right.’ The decision was clear in Pitt’s mind. ‘Stay back then. We’ll split up if we have to.’

  The ferry hung back until Wrexham had climbed up the narrow steps and all but disappeared. Then, scrambling to keep up, Pitt and Gower went after him.

  They were careful to follow now from more of a distance, sometimes together but more often a sufficient space between them that a casual onlooker would have taken them for strangers merely travelling in approximately the same direction.

  But Wrexham seemed to be so absorbed in his own concern now that he never looked behind him. He must have assumed he had lost them when he crossed the river. Indeed, they were very lucky that he had not. With the amount of water-borne traffic, he must have failed to realise that one ferry was dogging his path.

  At the railway station there were at least a couple of dozen other people at the ticket counter.

  ‘Better get tickets all the way, sir,’ Gower urged. ‘We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves from not paying the fare.’

  Pitt gave him a sharp look, but forebore from making the remark on the edge of his tongue.

  ‘Sorry,’ Gower murmured with a slight smile.

  Once on the platform they remained close to a knot of other people waiting. Neither of them spoke, as if they were strangers to each other. The precaution seemed unnecessary. Wrexham barely glanced at either of them, nor at anyone else.

  The first train was going north. It drew in and stopped. Most of the waiting passengers got onto it, but not Wrexham. Pitt wished he had a newspaper to hide his face and appear to take his attention. He should have thought of it before.

  ‘I think I can hear the next train,’ Gower said a minute or two later, almost under his breath. ‘It should be to Southampton – eventually. We might have to change . . .’ The rest of what he said was cut off by the noise of the engine as the train pulled in, belching steam. The doors flew open and passengers poured out.

  Pitt struggled to keep Wrexham in sight. He waited until the last moment in case he should get out again and lose them, then he and Gower boarded a carriage behind his.

  ‘He could be going anywhere,’ Gower said grimly. His fair face was set in hard lines, his hair poking up where he had run his fingers through it. ‘One of us had better get out at every station to see he doesn’t get off at the last moment and we lose him.’

  ‘Of course,’ Pitt agreed.

  ‘Do you think West really had something for us?’ Gower went on. ‘He could have been killed for some other reason. A quarrel? Those revolutionaries are pretty volatile. Could have been a betrayal within the group? Even a rivalry for leadership?’ He was watching Pitt intently, his blue eyes staring so hard it was as if he were trying to read inside Pitt’s mind.

  ‘I know that,’ Pitt said quietly. He was by far the senior, and the decision was his to make. Gower would never question him on that. It was little comfort now, in fact rather a lonely thought. He remembered Narraway’s certainty that there was something planned that would make the recent random bombings seem trivial. In February of last year, 1894, a French anarchist had tried to destroy the Royal Observatory at Greenwich with a bomb. Thank heaven he had failed. In June, President Carnot of France had been assassinated. In August a man named Caserio had been executed for the crime.

  Just before Christmas, French Army officer Alfred Dreyfus had been convicted of treason, but that was simply a scandal of persecution and prejudice. In January of this year Dreyfus had been sentenced to life imprisonment on Devil’s Island. Everywhere there was anger and uncertainty in the air.

  It was a risk to take the chance of following Wrexham, but to seize on an empty certainty was a kind of surrender. ‘We’ll follow him,’ Pitt replied. ‘Do you have enough money for another fare, if we have to separate to be sure of not losing him?’

  Gower fished in his pocket, counted what h
e had. ‘As long as it isn’t all the way to Scotland, yes, sir. Please God it isn’t Scotland.’ He smiled with a twisted kind of misery. ‘You know in February they had the coldest temperature ever recorded in Britain? Nearly fifty degrees of frost! If the poor bastard let off a bomb to start a fire you could hardly blame him!’

  ‘That was February,’ Pitt reminded him. ‘This is April already. We’re pulling into a station. I’ll watch for Wrexham this time. You take the next.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Pitt opened the door and was only just on the ground when he saw Wrexham get out and hurry across the platform to change trains for Southampton. Pitt turned to signal Gower and found him already out and at his elbow. Together they followed, trying not to be conspicuous by hurrying. They found seats, but separately for a while, to make sure Wrexham didn’t double back and elude them, disappearing into London again.

  But Wrexham seemed to be oblivious of them, as if he no longer even considered the possibility of being followed. He appeared completely carefree. From the serene expression on his face he could have spent a perfectly normal day. Pitt had to remind himself that Wrexham had followed a man in the East End, only a matter of hours ago, and quite deliberately cut his throat and seen him bleed to death on the stones of a deserted brickyard.

  ‘God, he’s a cold-blooded bastard!’ he said with sudden fury.

  A man in pinstripe trousers on the seat opposite put down his newspaper and stared at Pitt with distaste, then rattled his paper loudly and resumed reading.

  Gower smiled. ‘Quite,’ he said very quietly. ‘We had best be extremely careful.’

  One or the other of them got out briefly at every stop, just to make certain Wrexham did not leave this train, but he stayed until they finally pulled in at Southampton. When at last he left, it was still without appearing to have any concern that he was being followed.

  Gower looked at Pitt, puzzled. ‘What can he do in Southampton?’ he said. They hurried along the platform to keep pace with Wrexham, then past the ticket collector and out into the street.

  The answer was not long in coming. Wrexham took an omnibus directly towards the docks, and Pitt and Gower had to race to jump onto the step just as it pulled away. Pitt almost bumped into Wrexham, who was still standing. He only just avoided his face by turning away suddenly, as if catching sight of someone he recognised. Deliberately he looked away from Gower. They must be more careful. Neither of them was particularly noticeable alone. Gower was fairly tall, lean, his hair long and fair, but his features were a trifle bony, stronger than average. An observant person would remember him. Pitt was taller, rather gangling, perhaps less than graceful, and yet he moved easily, comfortable with himself. His hair was dark and permanently untidy. One front tooth was a little chipped, but visible only when he smiled. It was his steady, very clear grey eyes people did not forget.

  Together, one would have to be extraordinarily preoccupied not to be aware of seeing them in London, and now again here in Southampton. Accordingly, Pitt moved on down the inside of the bus to stand well away from Gower, and pretended to be watching the streets as they passed, as if he were taking careful note of where he was.

  As he had at least half expected, Wrexham went all the way to the dockside. Without speaking to Gower, or doing more than glance at him for an instant, Pitt followed well behind Wrexham. He trusted that Gower was off to the side, as far out of view as possible.

  Wrexham bought a ticket on a ferry to St Malo, across the Channel on the coast of France. Pitt bought one as well. He hoped fervently that Gower had sufficient money to get one too, but the only thing worse than fetching up alone in France, trying to follow Wrexham without help, would be to lose him altogether.

  He boarded the ferry, a smallish steamship called the Laura, and remained within sight of the gangplank. He needed to see if Gower came aboard, but more importantly to make sure that Wrexham did not get off again. If Wrexham were aware of Pitt and Gower it would be a simple thing to go ashore again, and leave them on their way to France, completely trapped, while he returned on the next train to London.

  Pitt was leaning on the railing with the sharp, salt wind in his face when he heard footsteps behind him. He swung round, then was annoyed with himself for betraying such obvious alarm.

  Gower was a yard away, smiling. ‘Did you think I was going to push you over?’ he said amusedly.

  Pitt swallowed back his temper. ‘Not this close to the shore,’ he replied. ‘I’ll watch you more closely out in mid-Channel!’

  Gower laughed. ‘Looks like a good decision, sir. Following him this far could get us a real idea of who his contacts are in Europe. We might even find a clue as to what they’re planning.’

  Pitt doubted it, but it was all they had left now. ‘Perhaps. But we mustn’t be seen together. We’re lucky he hasn’t recognised us so far. He would have if he weren’t so abominably arrogant.’

  Gower was suddenly very serious, his fair face grim. ‘I think whatever he has planned is so important his mind is completely absorbed in it. He thought he lost us in Ropemakers’ Fields. Don’t forget we were in a totally separate carriage on the train.’

  ‘I know. But he must have seen us when we were chasing him. He ran,’ Pitt pointed out. ‘I wish at least one of us had a jacket to change. But in April, at sea, without them we’d be even more conspicuous.’ He looked at Gower’s coat. They were not markedly different in size. Even if they did no more than exchange coats, it would alter both their appearances slightly.

  As if reading the thought in his eyes, Gower began to slip off his coat. He passed it over, and took Pitt’s from his outstretched hand.

  Pitt put on Gower’s jacket. It was a little tight across the chest.

  With a rueful smile Gower emptied the pockets of Pitt’s jacket, which sat a little loosely on his shoulders. He passed over Pitt’s notebook, handkerchief, pencil, loose change, half a dozen other bits and pieces, then the wallet with Pitt’s papers of identity, and his money.

  Pitt similarly passed over all Gower’s belongings.

  Gower gave a little salute. ‘See you in St Malo,’ he said, turning on his heel and walking away without looking back, a slight swagger in his step. Then he stopped and half turned towards Pitt, smiling. ‘I’d keep away from the railing, if I were you, sir.’

  Pitt raised his hand in a salute, and resumed watching the gangway.

  It was just past the equinox, and darkness still came quite early. They put out to sea as the sun was setting over the headland, and the wind off the water was distinctly chill. There was no point in even wondering where Wrexham was, let alone trying to watch him. If he met with anyone they would not know unless they were so close to him as to be obvious, and it might look like no more than a mere casual civility between strangers anyway. It would be better to find a chair and get a little sleep. It had been a long day, full of exertion, horror, hectic running through the streets and then sitting perfectly still in a railway carriage.

  As he sat drifting towards sleep, Pitt thought with regret that he had not had even a chance to tell Charlotte that he would not be home that night, or perhaps even the next one. He had no idea where his decision would take him. He had not very much money with him, sufficient for one or two nights’ lodging, now that he had bought a train ticket and a ferry ticket. He had no toothbrush, no razor, certainly no clean clothes. He had imagined he would meet West, learn his information and then take it straight back to Narraway at his office in Lisson Grove.

  They would have to send a telegram from St Malo, requesting funds and saying at least enough for Narraway to understand what had happened. Poor West’s body would no doubt be found, but the police might not know of any reason to inform Special Branch of it. No doubt Narraway would find out in time. He seemed to have sources of information everywhere. Would he think to tell Charlotte?

  Pitt wished now that he had made some kind of a provision to see she was informed, or even made a telephone call from Southampton. But to
do that, he would have had to leave the ship, and perhaps lose Wrexham. He dared not make himself conspicuous. And who would be waiting for Gower to get home, worrying? With surprise he realised that he did not even know if Gower was married, or living with his parents.

  Pitt was drifting into sleep, having tried to reassure himself that he had had to stay away all night before, and Charlotte would not be frantic, perhaps no more than concerned, when he awoke with a jolt, sitting upright, his mind filled with the picture of West’s body, head lolling at an angle, blood streaming onto the stones of the brickyard, the air filled with the smell of it.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ the steward said automatically, passing a glass of beer to the man in the seat next to Pitt. ‘Can I get you something? How about a sandwich?’

  Pitt realised with surprise that he had not eaten in twelve hours and he was ravenous. No wonder he could not sleep peacefully. ‘Yes,’ he said eagerly. ‘Yes, please. In fact, may I have two, and a glass of cider?’

  ‘Yes, sir. How about roast beef, sir. That do you?’

  ‘Please. What time do we get into St Malo?’

  ‘About five o’clock, sir. But you don’t need to go ashore until seven, unless o’ course, you’d like to.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Inwardly Pitt groaned. They would have to be up and watching from then on, in case Wrexham chose to leave early. He could be on the next train to Paris and they would never see him again. To oversleep would be a disaster. Since Pitt had nothing with him for a night away from home, that meant he had no alarm clock either.

  ‘Better bring me two glasses of cider,’ he said with a wry smile.

  Would Gower think to ask the arrival time? Pitt had no idea where he was, and did not want to attract attention by looking for him. Later, perhaps. Wrexham would be able to sleep as soundly and as long as he wished. He could not imagine such a man being disturbed by the nightmares of conscience.

  Pitt slept on and off, and he was awake and on edge when he saw Gower coming towards him on the deck as the ferry nosed its way slowly towards the harbour of St Malo. It was not yet dawn, but there was a clear sky, and he could see the outline of medieval ramparts against the stars. The walls must have been fifty or sixty feet high at the least, and looked to be interspersed with great towers such as in the past would have been manned by archers. Perhaps on some of them there would have been men in armour, with cauldrons of boiling oil to tip on those brave enough, or foolish enough, to try climbing ladders to scale the defences. It was like a journey backwards in time.