character, but it was superficial, merely a skin over a very different man beneath.
Pitt thought of his quick humor, how he had watched the girl in the red dress, admiring her, taking pleasure in her easy walk, the swing of her skirt, imagining what she would be like to know. He remembered how Gower liked the fresh bread. He drank his coffee black, even though he pulled his mouth at its bitterness, and still went back for more. He pictured how he stood smiling with his face to the sun, watched the sailing boats on the bay, and knew the French names for all the different kinds of seafood.
People fought for their own causes for all kinds of reasons. Maybe Gower believed in his goal as much as Pitt did; they were just utterly different. Pitt had liked him, even enjoyed his company. How had he not seen the ruthlessness that had let him kill West, and then turn on Pitt so stealthily?
Except perhaps it had not been easy? Gower might have lain awake all night wretched, seeking another way and not finding it. Pitt would never know. It was painful to realize that so much was not as he had trusted, and his own judgment was nowhere near the truth. He could imagine what Narraway would have to say about that.
The constable came back, stopping just outside the bars. He did not have the keys in his hand.
Pitt’s heart sank. Suddenly he felt confused and a little sick.
“Sorry, sir,” the constable said unhappily. “I called the number you gave. It was a branch o’ the police all right, but they said as they’d got no one there called Narraway, an’ they couldn’t ’elp yer.”
“Of course Narraway’s there!” Pitt said desperately. “He’s head of Special Branch! Call again. You must have had the wrong number. This is impossible.”
“It were the right number, sir,” the constable repeated stolidly. “It was Special Branch, like you said. An’ they told me they got no one there called Victor Narraway. I asked ’em careful, sir, an’ they were polite, but very definite. There in’t no Victor Narraway there. Now you settle down, sir. Get a bit o’ rest. We’ll see what we can do in the morning. I’ll get you a cup o’ tea, an’ mebbe a sandwich, if yer like?”
Pitt was numb. The nightmare was getting worse. His imagination created all kinds of horror. What had happened to Narraway? How wide was this conspiracy? Perhaps he should have realized that if they removed Pitt himself to France on a pointless errand, then of course they would have gotten rid of Narraway as well. There was no purpose in removing Pitt otherwise. He was only a kind of backup: a right-hand man possibly, but not more than that. Narraway was the real threat to them.
“Yer want a cup o’ tea, sir?” the constable repeated. “Yer look a bit rough, sir. An’ a sandwich?”
“Yes …,” Pitt said slowly. The man’s humanity made it all the more grotesque, yet he was grateful for it. “I would. Thank you, Constable.”
“Yer just rest, sir. Don’t give yerself so much trouble. I’ll get yer a sandwich. Would ’am be all right?”
“Very good, thank you.” Pitt sat down on the cot to show that he had no intention of causing any problem for them. He was numb anyway. He did not even know whom to fight: certainly not this man who was doing his best to exercise both care and a degree of decency in handling a prisoner he believed had just committed a double murder.
It was a long and wretched night. He slept little, and when he did his dreams were full of fear, shifting darkness, and sudden explosions of sound and violence. When he woke in the morning his head throbbed, and his whole body was bruised and aching from the fight. It was painful to stand up when the constable came back again with another cup of tea.
“We’ll take yer ter the magistrate later on,” he said, watching Pitt carefully. “Yer look awful!”
Pitt tried to smile. “I feel awful. I need to wash and shave, and I look as if I’ve slept in my clothes, because I have.”
“Comes with being in jail, sir. ’ave a cup o’ tea. It’ll ’elp.”
“Yes, I expect it will, even if not much,” Pitt accepted. He stood well back from the door so the constable could place it inside without risking an attack. It was the usual way of doing things.
The constable screwed up his face. “Yer bin in the cells before, in’t yer,” he observed.
“No,” Pitt replied. “But I’ve been on your side of them often enough, as I told you. I’m a policeman myself. I have another number I would like you to call, seeing that Mr. Narraway doesn’t seem to be there. Please. I need to let someone know where I am. My wife and family, at least.”
“ ’Oo would that be, sir?” The constable put down the tea and backed out of the cell again, closing and locking the door. “You give me the number and I’ll do it. Everyone deserves that much.”
“Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould,” Pitt replied. “I’ll write the number down for you, if you give me a pencil.”
“You jus’ tell me, sir. I’ll write it down.”
Pitt obeyed. There was no point in arguing.
The man returned ten minutes later, his face wide-eyed and a trifle pale.
“She says as she knows yer, sir. Described yer to a T, she did. Says as ye’re one o’ the best policemen in London, an’ Mr. Narraway’s ’oo yer said ’e were, but summink’s ’appened to ’im. She’s sending a Member o’ Parliament down ter get yer out of ’ere, an’ as we’d better treat yer proper, or she’ll be ’avin’ a word wi’ the chief constable. I dunno if she’s real, sir. I ’ope yer understand I gotter keep yer in ’ere till this gentleman comes, wi’ proof ’e’s wot ’e says ’e is, an’ all. ’e could be anyone, but I know I got two dead bodies on the tracks.”
“Of course,” Pitt said wearily. He would not tell him that Gower was Special Branch, and Pitt had not known that he was a traitor until yesterday. “Of course I’ll wait here,” he said aloud. “I’d be obliged if you didn’t take me before the magistrate until the man arrives that Lady Vespasia sends.”
“Yes, sir, I think as we can arrange that.” He sighed. “I think as we’d better. Next time yer come from Southampton, sir, I’d be obliged if yer’d take some other line!”
Pitt managed a lopsided smile. “Actually I’d prefer this one. Given the circumstances, you’ve been very fair.”
The constable was lost for words. He struggled, but clearly nothing he could think of seemed adequate.
