to work that out, so maybe he always knew it. Then I thought perhaps he was just the same. I thought I saw him cut West’s throat, but when I went over it step by step, I didn’t. It just looked like it. Actually West’s blood was already pooled on the stones. You were the one who had the chase, all the way to the ferry. I thought you were clever, but then I realized how easy it had been. It was always you who found him when we lost him, or who stopped us actually catching him. The whole pursuit was performed for my benefit, to get me away from London.”
Gower gave a short burst of laughter. “The great Pitt, whom Narraway sets so much store by. Took you a week to work that out! You’re getting slow. Or perhaps you always were. Just lucky.” Then suddenly he flung himself forward, arms outstretched to grasp Pitt by the throat, but Pitt was ready this time. He ducked and charged, low, with his head down. He caught Gower in the belly just above the waist, and heard him gasp. He straightened his legs, lifting Gower off the ground. His own impetus carried him on, high over the rail and into the darkness. Pitt did not even see him land, but he knew with a violent sorrow that it had to kill him instantly. No one could survive such an impact.
He straightened up slowly, his legs weak, his body shaking. He had to cling to the rail to support himself.
The carriage door slammed shut again, then opened. The guard stood there, wide-eyed, terrified, the lantern in his hand, the carriage lights yellow behind him.
“Ye’re a lunatic!” he cried, stuttering over his words.
“He was trying to kill me!” Pitt protested, taking a step forward.
The guard jerked the lantern up as if it were some kind of shield. “Don’t you touch me!” His voice was shrill with terror. “I got ’alf a dozen good men ’ere ’oo’ll tie yer down, so I ’ave. Ye’re a bleedin’ madman. Yer killed poor Mr. Summers as well, ’oo only came out there ter ’elp the other gent.”
“I didn’t—” Pitt began, but he didn’t get to finish the sentence. Two burly men were crowding behind the guard, one of them with a walking stick, the other with a sharp-ended umbrella, both held up as weapons.
“We’re gonna put yer in my van,” the guard went on. “An’ if we ’ave ter knock yer senseless ter do it, just gimme the excuse is all I ask. I liked Mr. Summers. ’e were a good man, an’ all.”
Pitt had no wish to be beaten into submission. Dazed, aching, and appalled at what he had done, he went without resisting.
“YOU CAN’T COME,” CHARLOTTE said vehemently. It was early afternoon and she was standing in the dining room of Mrs. Hogan’s lodging house, dressed in her best spring costume, wearing the magnificent blouse. She was rather uncomfortably aware of how well it suited her. With a plain dark skirt the effect was dramatic, to say the very least. “Someone is bound to know you,” she added, forcing her attention to the matter in hand.
Narraway had obviously taken care to prepare himself for the occasion also. His shirt was immaculate, his cravat perfectly tied, his thick hair exactly in place.
“I have to,” he replied. “I must see Talulla Lawless. I can only see her in a public place, or she will accuse me of assaulting her. She has already tried it once, and warned me she will do it again if I attempt to see her alone. I know she is going to be there this afternoon. It’s a recital. Most people will be watching the musicians.”
“It will only need one person to recognize you and they will tell the others,” she pointed out. “Then what will I be able to do of any value? They’ll know the reason behind everything I say.”
“I will not go with you. The charade of your being my sister is for Mrs. Hogan.” He smiled bleakly. “You will go to the recital with Fiachra McDaid. He’s coming to meet you here—” He glanced at the clock on the mantel shelf. “—in ten minutes or so. I’ll go alone. I have to, Charlotte. I think Talulla is crucial to this. Too many of my investigations come back to her. She is the one thread that connects everyone involved.”
“Can’t I do it?” she persisted.
He smiled briefly. “Not this time, my dear.”
She did not argue any further, even though she was sure he was not telling her the entire truth. But it was foolish to come here at all if they were unprepared to take any risks. She smiled back at him, just in a very tiny gesture, and gave a little nod. “Then be careful.”
His eyes softened. He seemed to be about to say something half mocking, but there was a sharp tap on the door. Mrs. Hogan came in, her hair as usual falling out of its pins, her white apron crisply starched.
“Mr. McDaid is here for you, Mrs. Pitt.” It was impossible to tell from her expression what her thoughts were, except that she was having an effort keeping them under control.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hogan,” Charlotte said politely. “I shall be there immediately.” She met Narraway’s eyes. “Please be careful,” she said again. Then, before he could respond, she picked up her skirt perhaps half an inch and swept out the door Mrs. Hogan was holding open for her.
Fiachra McDaid was standing in the hall next to the longcase clock, which read five minutes ahead of the one in the dining room. He was smartly dressed, but he could not manage the same casual elegance as Narraway.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Pitt,” he said pleasantly. “I hope you’ll enjoy the music. It’ll be another side of Dublin for you to see, and a fine day for it. And talking of the weather, have you been outside the city yet? While it’s so agreeable, how about a trip to Droghada, and the ruins of Mellifont, the oldest abbey in Ireland—1142, it was, on the orders of Saint Malachy. Or if that is too recent for you, how about the Hill of Tara? It was the center of Ireland under the High Kings, until the eleventh century when Christianity came and brought an end to their power.”
“It sounds marvelous,” she said with as much enthusiasm as she could manage, taking his arm and walking toward the front door. She did not look back to see if Narraway was watching her. “Are they far from the city?”
“A little distance, but it’s well worth it,” McDaid replied. “There’s far more to Ireland than Dublin, you know.”
“Of course. I appreciate your generosity in sharing it. Do tell me more about these places.”
He accepted, and on the short journey to the hall where the recital was to take place, she listened with an air of complete attention. Indeed, at any other time she would have been as interested as she now pretended to be. The pride in his voice was unmistakable, and the love for his people and their history. He had a remarkable
