silence closed in on her.
Narraway glanced at the longcase clock standing against the wall of his office. Its ornate hands pointed at quarter to seven. On a usual day Pitt would be home by now.
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.
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 judgments 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 had 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 naivete, was one of the best men Narraway had ever known. A gamekeeper’s son, he had been educated in the household of the manor, which had produced a man who was by nature a gentleman, and yet possessing an anger and a compassion Narraway admired. He found himself puzzlingly protective of Pitt. Now he must tell Charlotte that her husband had disappeared, probably to France. He tidied his desk, locked away anything that might be confidential, left his office, and caught a hansom within minutes. He gave him Pitt’s address on 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.”
Warmth returned to her face, flushing the soft honey color of her skin. “Where is he?” she asked.
He decided to sound more certain than he was. West’s murderer might have fled to 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 come tell me. I admit, I was beginning to be concerned.”
The April evening was cold, a sharp wind carrying the smell of rain. He was standing on the doorstep staring at the light beyond. 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 daresay 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. “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 men 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 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 that 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 was uncomfortable and attempting not to show it.
“An ugly situation has arisen, sir,” he said, sitting down before he was invited to. “I’m sorry, but I have no choice but to address it.”
“Then do so!” Narraway said a little hastily. “Don’t creep around it like a maiden aunt at a wedding. What is it?”
Austwick’s face tightened, his lips making a thin line.
“This has to do with informers,” Austwick said coldly. “Do you remember Mulhare?”
Narraway recognized the name with a rush of sadness. Mulhare had been an Irishman who risked his life to give information to the English. It was dangerous enough that he would have to leave Ireland, taking his family with him. Narraway had made sure there were funds provided for him.
“Of course I do,” he said quietly. “Have they found who killed him? Not that it’ll do much good now.” He knew his voice sounded bitter. He had liked Mulhare, and had promised him that he’d be safe.
“That is something of a difficult question,” Austwick replied. “He never got the money, so he couldn’t leave Ireland.”
“Yes, he did,” Narraway contradicted him. “I dealt with it myself.”
“That’s rather the point,” Austwick said. He moved position slightly, scuffing the chair leg on the carpet.
Narraway resented being reminded of his failure. It was a loss that would continue to hurt. “If you don’t know who killed him, why are you spending time on that now, instead of current things?” he asked abruptly. “If you have
