Treason at Lisson Grove

“Don’t be sorry,” he said quickly. “You shouldn’t allow anyone in unless you know who they are, and not just because they say so.”

She stood back, allowing him to pass. He went into the familiar hallway, and immediately smelled the lavender floor polish. The hall mirror was clean, the surfaces free of dust. Jemima’s shoes were placed neatly side by side under the coat stand.

He walked down to the kitchen and looked around. Everything was as it should be: blue-and-white-ringed plates on the Welsh dresser, copper pans on the wall, kitchen table scrubbed, the stove burning warm but not overhot. He could smell newly baked bread and the clean, comfortable aroma of fresh laundry hanging from the airing rail up near the ceiling. He was home again. There was nothing wrong, except that his family was not there. But he knew where Charlotte was, and the children were at school.

“Would you like a cup o’ tea, sir?” Minnie Maude asked in an uncertain voice.

He did not really need one so soon after leaving Vespasia’s, but he felt she would like to do something familiar and useful.

“Thank you,” he accepted. He had been obliged to buy several necessities for the days he had been in France, including the case in which he now carried them. “I have a little laundry in my bag, but I don’t know whether I shall be home for dinner or not. I’m sorry. If I am, something cold to eat will do very well.”

“Yes, sir. Would you like some cold mutton an’ ’ot bubble and squeak? That’s wot Daniel an’ Jemima’ll be ’avin’, as it’s wot they like. ’Ceptin’ they like eggs wif it.”

“Eggs will be excellent, thank you.” He meant it. Eggs sounded familiar, comfortable, and very good.

VESPASIA HAD WARNED PITT not to go to Lisson Grove, but he had no choice; he could do nothing to help Narraway and Charlotte, without information held there.

Of course there was the question of explaining what had happened to Gower. Pitt had no idea how badly he had been disfigured by the fall from the train, but every effort would be made to identify him. Indeed, by the time Pitt reached Lisson Grove he might find that it had already been done.

What should his story be? How much of the truth could he tell without losing every advantage of surprise that he had? He did not know who his enemies were, but they certainly knew him. His instinct was to affect as much ignorance as possible. The less they considered him a worthwhile opponent, the less likely they’d be to eliminate him. Feigning ignorance would be a manner of camouflage, at least for a while.

He should be open and honest about the attack on the train. It was a matter of record with the police. But it would be easy enough, highly believable in fact, to claim that he had no idea who the man was. Remove every thought that it was personal.

He had last seen Gower in St. Malo, when they agreed that Pitt should come home to see what Lisson Grove knew of any conspiracy, and Gower should remain in France and watch Frobisher and Wrexham, and anyone else of interest. Naturally he would know nothing of Narraway’s disgrace, and be thoroughly shocked.

He arrived just before four o’clock. He went in through the door, past the man on duty just inside, and asked to see Narraway.

He was told to wait, as he had expected, but it was a surprisingly short time before Charles Austwick himself came down and conducted Pitt up to what used to be Narraway’s office. Pitt noticed immediately that all signs of Narraway were gone: his pictures, the photograph of his mother that used to sit on top of the bookcase, the few personal books of poetry and memoirs, the engraved brass bowl from his time in North Africa.

Pitt stared at Austwick, allowing his sense of loss to show in his face, hoping Austwick would see it as confusion.

“Sit down, Pitt.” Austwick waved him to the chair opposite the desk. “Of course you’re wondering what the devil’s going on. I’m afraid I have some shocking news for you.”

Pitt forced himself to look alarmed, as if his imagination were racing. “Something has happened to Mr. Narraway? Is he hurt? Ill?”

“I’m afraid in some ways it is worse than that,” Austwick said somberly. “Narraway appears to have stolen a rather large amount of money, and—when faced with the crime—he disappeared. We don’t know where he is. Obviously he has been dismissed from the service, and at least for the time being I have replaced him. I am sure that is temporary, but until further notice you will report to me. I’m sorry. It must be a great blow to you, indeed it is to all of us. I don’t think anyone imagined that Narraway, of all people, would give in to that kind of temptation.”

Pitt’s mind raced. How should he respond? He had thought it was all worked out in his mind, but sitting here in Narraway’s office, subtly but so completely changed, he was uncertain again. Was Austwick the traitor? If so then he was a far cleverer man than Pitt had thought. But Pitt had had no idea that there was a traitor at all, and he had trusted Gower. What was his judgment worth?

“I can see that you’re stunned,” Austwick said patiently. “We’ve had a little while to get used to the idea. We knew almost as soon as you had gone. By the way, where is Gower?”

Pitt inhaled deeply, and plunged in. “I left him in France, in St. Malo,” he replied. He watched Austwick’s face as closely as he dared, trying to read in his eyes, his gestures, if he knew that that was only half true.

Austwick spoke slowly, as if he also was measuring what he said, and he seemed to be watching Pitt just as closely. Had he noticed Somerset Carlisle’s beautifully cut shirt? Or his wine-colored cravat?

Pitt repeated exactly what he believed had happened at the time he had first notified Narraway that he had to remain in France.

Austwick listened attentively. His expression did not betray whether he knew anything further or not.

“I see,” he said at last, drumming his fingers silently on the desktop. “So you left Gower there in the hope that there might yet be something worthwhile to observe?”

“Yes … sir.” He added the sir with difficulty. There was a slowly mounting rage inside him that this man was sitting there in Narraway’s chair, behind his desk. Was he also a pawn in this game, or was he the one playing it with the opposing pieces?

“Do you think that is likely?” Austwick asked. “You say you saw nothing after that first sighting of … who did you say? Meister and Linsky, was it?”