Treason at Lisson Grove

nothing to do, I can certainly find you something. Pitt and Gower are away for a while. Somebody’ll have to pick up Pitt’s case on the docks.”

“Oh really?” Austwick barely masked his surprise. “I didn’t know. No one mentioned it!”

Narraway gave him a chill look and ignored the implied rebuke.

Austwick drew in his breath. “As I said,” he resumed, “this is something I regret we have to deal with. Mulhare was betrayed—”

“We know that, for God’s sake!” Narraway could hear his own voice thick with emotion. “His corpse was fished out of Dublin Bay.”

“He never got the money,” Austwick said again.

Narraway clenched his hands under the desk, out of Austwick’s sight. “I paid it myself.”

“But Mulhare never received it,” Austwick replied. “We traced it.”

Narraway was startled.

“To whom? Where is it?”

“I have no idea where it is now,” Austwick answered. “But it was in one of your bank accounts here in London.”

Narraway froze. Suddenly, with appalling clarity, he knew what Austwick was doing here, and held at least a hazy idea of what had happened. Austwick suspected, or even believed, that Narraway had taken the money and intentionally left Mulhare to be caught and killed. Was that how little he knew him? Or was it more a measure of his long-simmering resentment, his ambition to take Narraway’s place and wield the razor-edged power that he now held?

“And out again,” he said aloud to Austwick. “We had to move it around a little, or it would have been too easily traceable to Special Branch.”

“Oh yes,” Austwick agreed bleakly. “Around to several places. But the trouble is that in the end it went back again.”

“Back again? It went to Mulhare,” Narraway corrected him.

“No, sir, it did not go to Mulhare. It went back into one of your special accounts. One that we had believed closed,” Austwick said. “It is there now. If Mulhare had received it, he would have left Dublin, and he would still be alive. The money went around to several places, making it almost untraceable, as you said, but it ended up right back where it started, with you.”

Narraway drew in his breath to deny it, and saw in Austwick’s face that it would be pointless. Whoever had put it there, Austwick believed it was Narraway himself, or he chose to pretend he believed it.

“I did not put it there,” Narraway said, not because he thought it would change anything, but because he would not admit to something of which he was not guilty. The betrayal of Mulhare was repugnant to him, and betrayal was not a word he used easily. “I paid it to Terence Kelly. He was supposed to have paid it to Mulhare. That was his job. For obvious reasons, I could not give it directly to Mulhare, or I might as well have painted a bull’s-eye on his heart.”

“Can you prove that, sir?” Austwick asked politely.

“Of course I can’t!” Narraway snapped. Was Austwick being deliberately obtuse? He knew as well as Narraway himself that one did not leave trails to prove such things. What he would be able to prove now, to justify himself, anyone else could have used to damn Mulhare.

“You see it calls into question the whole subject of your judgment,” Austwick said half apologetically, his bland face grave. “It would be highly advisable, sir, for you to find some proof of this, then the matter could be let go.”

Narraway’s mind raced. He knew what was in his bank accounts, both personal and for Special Branch use. Austwick had mentioned one that had been presumed closed. No money had passed through it for some time, but Narraway had deliberately left a few pounds in it, in case he ever wished to use it again. It was a convenience.

“I’ll check the account,” he said aloud, his voice cold.

“That would be a good idea, sir,” Austwick agreed. “Perhaps you will be able to find some proof as to why it came back to you, and a reason poor Mulhare never received it.”

Narraway realized that this was not an invitation, but rather a warning. It was even possible that his position at Special Branch was in jeopardy. Certainly he had created enemies over the years, both in his rise to leadership and even more so in the time since then. There were always hard decisions to make; whatever you did could not please everyone.

He had employed Pitt as a favor, when Pitt had challenged his own superiors and been thrown out of the Metropolitan Police. And initially he had found Pitt unsatisfactory, lacking the training or the inclination for Special Branch work. But the man had learned quickly, and he was a remarkably good detective: persistent, imaginative, and with a moral courage Narraway admired. And he liked the man, despite his own resolution not to allow personal feelings into anything professional.

He had protected Pitt from the envy and the criticism of others in the branch. That was partly because Pitt was more than worthy of the place, but also to defend Narraway’s own judgment. Yet—he admitted it now—it was also for Charlotte’s sake. Without Pitt, he would have no excuse to see her again.

“I’ll attend to it,” he answered Austwick at last. “As soon as I have a few more answers on this present problem. One of our informants was murdered, which has made things more difficult.”

Austwick rose to his feet. “Yes, sir. That would be a good idea. I think the sooner you put people’s minds at rest on the issue, the better it will be. I suggest before the end of this week.”

“When circumstances allow,” Narraway replied coolly.

CIRCUMSTANCES DID NOT ALLOW. Early the following morning Narraway was sent for to report to the Home Office, directly to Sir Gerald Croxdale, his political superior, the one man to whom he was obliged to answer without reservation.