beliefs about changing conditions for the poor, he certainly doesn’t believe in starving himself, or his guests.”
“He would hardly go around letting everyone know his plans … sir,” Gower replied quickly. “If everyone thinks he’s a rich man entertaining his friends in harmless idealism he never intends to act on, then nobody will take him seriously. That’s probably the best safety he could have.”
Pitt thought about it for a while. What Gower said was undoubtedly true, and yet he was uneasy about it. The conviction that they were wasting time settled more heavily upon him, yet he could find no argument that was pure reason rather than a niggling instinct born of experience.
“And all the others who keep coming and going?” he asked, at last turning and facing Gower, who was unconsciously smiling as the light warmed his face. Below him in the small square a woman in a fashionable dress, wide-sleeved and full-skirted, walked from one side to the other and disappeared along the narrow alley to the west. Gower watched her all the way, nodding very gently in approval.
Gower turned to Pitt, his fair face puzzled. “Yes, about a dozen of them. Do you think they’re really harmless, sir? Apart from Wrexham, of course?”
“Are they all wild revolutionaries pretending very successfully to be ordinary citizens living satisfied and rather pedestrian lives?” Pitt pressed.
It was a long time before Gower answered, as if he were weighing his words with intense care. He turned and leaned on the wall, staring at the water. “Wrexham killed West for a reason,” he said slowly. “He was in no present danger, except being exposed as an anarchist, or whatever he would call himself. Perhaps he doesn’t want chaos, but a specific order that he considers fairer, more equal to all people. Or it may be a radical reform he’s after. Exactly what it is the socialists want is one of the things we need to learn. There may be dozens of different goals —”
“There are,” Pitt interrupted. “What they have in common is that they are not prepared to wait for reform by consent; they want to force it on people, violently if necessary.”
“And how long will they have to wait for anyone to hand it over voluntarily?” Gower said with an edge of sarcasm. “Who ever gave up power if they weren’t forced to?”
Pitt scanned his memory for the history he could recall. “None that I can think of,” he admitted. “That’s why it usually takes awhile. But the abolition of slavery was passed through Parliament without overt violence. Certainly without revolution.”
“I’m not sure the slaves would agree with that assessment,” Gower said with a twist of bitterness.
“It’s time we found out what we are looking at,” Pitt conceded.
Gower straightened up. “If we ask open questions it’s bound to get back to him, and he may take a great deal more care. The one advantage we have, sir, is that he doesn’t know we’re watching him. Can we afford to lose that?” He looked anxious, his fair brows drawn together, the sunburn flushing his cheeks.
“I’ve been making a few inquiries,” Pitt said.
“Already?” Suddenly there was an edge of anger in Gower’s voice.
Pitt was surprised. It seemed Gower’s easy manner hid an emotional commitment he had not seen. He should have. They had worked together for more than two months, even before the hectic chase that had brought them here.
“As to who I can ask for information without it being obvious,” he replied levelly.
“Who?” Gower said quickly.
“A man named John McIver. He’s another expatriate Englishman who’s lived here for twenty years. Married to a Frenchwoman.”
“Are you positive he’s trustworthy, sir?” Gower was still skeptical. “It’ll only take one careless word, one remark made idly, and Frobisher will know he’s being watched. We could lose the big ones, the people like Linsky and Meister.”
“I didn’t choose him blindly,” Pitt replied. He did not intend to tell Gower that he had encountered McIver before, on a quite different case.
Gower drew in his breath, and then let it out again. “Yes, sir. I’ll stay here and watch Wrexham, and whoever he meets with.” Then he flashed a quick, bright smile. “I might even go down into the square and see the pretty girl with the pink dress again, and drink a glass of wine.”
Pitt shook his head, feeling the tension ease away. “I think you’ll do better than I will,” he said ruefully.
MCIVER LIVED SOME FIVE miles outside St. Malo in the deep countryside. He was clearly longing to speak to someone in his native tongue and hear firsthand the latest news from London. Pitt’s visit delighted him.
“Of course I miss London, but don’t misunderstand me, sir,” he said, leaning back in the garden chair in the sun. He had offered Pitt wine and little sweet biscuits, and—when he declined those—fresh crusty bread and a soft country cream cheese, which he accepted with alacrity.
Pitt waited for him to continue.
“I love it here,” McIver went on. “The French are possibly the most civilized nation on earth—apart from the Italians, of course. Really know how to live, and do it with a certain flair that gives even mundane things a degree of elegance. But there are parts of English life that I miss. Haven’t had a decent marmalade in years. Sharp, aromatic, almost bitter.” He sighed. “The morning’s
Pitt smiled. He ate a whole slice of bread and sipped his wine before he pursued the reason he had come.
“I need to make some very discreet inquiries: government, you understand?”
“Of course. What can I tell you?” McIver nodded.
“Frobisher,” Pitt replied. “Expatriate Englishman living here in St. Malo. Would he be the right man to approach to ask a small service to his country? Please be candid. It is of … importance, you understand?”
