THEY WERE AT BREAKFAST the following morning: she with a slight headache after sleeping badly; he weary, but with the mark of professionalism so graciously back in place that yesterday could have been a dream.
They were eating toast and marmalade when the messenger arrived with a letter for Narraway. He thanked Mrs. Hogan, who had brought it to him, then tore it open.
Charlotte watched his face but she could not read anything more than surprise. When he looked up she waited for him to speak.
“It’s from Cormac,” he said gently. “He wants me to go and see him, at midday. He will tell me what happened, and give me proof.”
She was puzzled, remembering Cormac’s hate, the pain that seemed as sharp as it must have been the day it happened. She leaned forward. “Don’t go. You won’t, will you?”
He put the letter down. “I came for the truth, Charlotte. He may give it to me, even if it is not what he means to do. I have to go.”
“He still hates you,” she argued. “He can’t afford to face the truth, Victor. It would place him in the wrong. All he has left is his illusions of what really happened, that Kate was loyal to Ireland and the cause, and that it would all have worked, except for you. He can’t give that up.”
“I know,” he assured her, reaching out his lean hand and touching her gently, for an instant, then withdrawing it again. “But I can’t afford not to go. I have nothing left to lose either. If it was Cormac who created the whole betrayal of Mulhare, I need to know how he did it, and be able to prove it to Croxdale.” His face tightened. “Rather more than that, I need to find out who is the traitor in Lisson Grove. I can’t let that go.”
He did not offer any rationalization, taking it for granted that she understood.
It gave her an odd feeling of being included, even of belonging. It was frightening for the emotional enormity of it, and yet there was a warmth to it she would not willingly have sacrificed.
She did not argue any further, but nodded, and decided to follow after him and stay where she could see him.
Narraway went out of the house quite casually, as if merely to look at the weather. Then, as she came to the door, he turned and walked quickly toward the end of the road.
Charlotte followed after him, barely having time to close the door behind her, and needing to run a few steps to keep up. She had a shawl on and her reticule with her, and sufficient money for as long a fare as she would be likely to need.
He disappeared around the corner into the main street. She had to hurry to make sure she saw which way he went. As she had expected, he went straight to the first carriage waiting, spoke to the driver, then climbed in.
She swung around with her back to the road and pretended to look in a shop window. As soon as he had passed she darted out into the street to look for a second carriage. It was long, desperate moments before she found one. She gave the driver the address of Cormac O’Neil’s house and urged him to go as fast as possible. She was already several minutes behind.
“I’ll pay you an extra shilling if you catch up with the carriage that just left here,” she promised. “Please hurry. I don’t want to lose him.”
She sat forward, peering out as the carriage careered down the street, swung around the corner, and then set off again at what felt like a gallop. She was tossed around, bruised, and without any sense of where she was for what felt like ages, but was probably no more than fifteen minutes. Then finally they lurched to a stop outside the house where she had been the previous evening.
She stepped out, taking a moment to find her balance after the hectic ride. She paid him more than he had asked for, and an extra shilling.
“Thank you,” she said. “Please wait.” Then without ensuring that he did, she walked up the same path she had trod in the evening light such a short time ago. Somehow at midday the path looked longer, the bushes more crowding in, the trees overhead cut out more of the sunlight.
She had not reached the front door when she heard the dog barking. It was an angry, frightening sound, with a note of hysteria to it, as if the wag were out of control. It had certainly not been like that yesterday evening. It had been calm, resting its head on O’Neil’s feet and barely noticing her.
She was surprised Cormac did not come to see what the fuss was. He could not possibly be unaware of the noise.
She touched the door with her fingers and it opened.
Narraway was standing in the hall. He swung around as the light spread across the floor. For a moment he was startled, then he regained his presence of mind.
“I should have known,” he said grimly. “Wait here.”
The dog was now throwing itself at whatever barrier held it in check. Its barking was high in its throat, as if it would rip someone to shreds the moment it could reach them.
Charlotte would not leave Narraway alone. She stepped inside and looked for the umbrella stand she had noticed yesterday. She saw it, picked out a sharp-ferruled black umbrella, and held it as if it were a sword.
The barking was reaching a crescendo.
Ahead of her Narraway went to the sitting room door, to the right of where the dog was hurling itself at another door, snarling in a high, singing tone as if it scented prey close at last.
Narraway opened the sitting room door then stopped motionless. She could see over his shoulder that Cormac O’Neil was lying on the floor on his back, a pool of blood spreading on the polished wood around what was left of his head.
Charlotte gulped, trying to stop herself from being sick. Yesterday evening he had been alive, angry, weeping with passion and grief. Now there was nothing left but empty flesh lying waiting to be found.
