“Yes,” Pitt agreed. “There were plenty of people coming and going all the time, but neither of us recognized anyone else. It’s possible that was coincidence. On the other hand, West was murdered, and the man who killed him, very brutally and openly, fled to that house. There has to be a reason for that.”
Austwick appeared to consider it for several moments. Finally he looked up, his lips pursed. “You’re right. There is certainly something happening, and there is a good chance it concerns violence that may affect us here in England, even if it begins in France. We have our allies to consider, and what our failure to warn them may do to our relationship. I would certainly feel a distinct sense of betrayal if they were to have wind of such a threat against us, and keep silent about it.”
“Yes, sir,” Pitt agreed, although the words all but stuck in his throat. He rose to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I have several matters to attend to.”
“Yes, of course,” Austwick agreed. He seemed calm, even assured. Pitt found himself shaking with anger as he left the room, making an effort to close the door softly.
THAT EVENING HE WENT to see the minister, Sir Gerald Croxdale. Croxdale himself had suggested that he come to the house. If the matter were as private and as urgent as Pitt had said, then it would be better if their meeting were not observed by others.
Croxdale’s home in Hampstead was old and very handsome, overlooking the heath. The garden trees were coming into leaf, and the air seemed to be full of birdsong.
Pitt was shown in by the butler. He found Croxdale standing in his library, which had long windows onto the lawn at the back of the house. At present the curtains were open; the evening sky beyond was pale with the last light. Croxdale turned from gazing at it as Pitt came in. He offered his hand.
“Miserable time,” he said sympathetically. “Pretty bad shock to all of us. I’ve known Narraway for years. Difficult man, not really a team player, but brilliant, and I’d always thought he was sound. But it seems as if a man can never entirely leave his past behind.” He gestured to one of the armchairs beside the fire. “Do sit down. Tell me what happened in St. Malo. By the way, have you had any dinner?”
Pitt realized with surprise that he had not. He had not even thought of eating, and his body was clenched with anxiety as different possibilities poured through his mind. Now he was fumbling for a gracious answer.
“Sandwich?” Croxdale offered. “Roast beef acceptable?”
Experience told Pitt it was better to eat than try to think rationally on an empty stomach. “Thank you, sir.”
Croxdale rang the bell, and when the butler appeared again he requested roast beef sandwiches and whiskey.
“Now.” He sat back as soon as the door was closed. “Tell me about St. Malo.”
Pitt offered him the same edited version he had given Austwick. He was not yet ready to tell anyone the whole truth. Croxdale had known Victor Narraway far longer than he had known Pitt. If he would believe that Narraway had stolen money, why should he think any better of Pitt, who was Narraway’s protege and closest ally?
The butler brought the sandwiches, which were excellent. Pitt took an unaccustomed glass of whiskey with it, but declined a second. To have the fire inside him was good, his heart beating a little faster. However, to be fuzzy- headed could be disastrous.
Croxdale considered in silence for some time before he replied. Pitt waited him out.
“I am certain you have done the right thing,” Croxdale said at length. “The situation requires very careful watching, but at this point we cannot afford your absence from Lisson Grove. This fearful business with Narraway has changed all our priorities.”
Pitt was aware that Croxdale was watching him far more closely than at a glance it might seem. He tried to keep his expression respectful, concerned, but not as if he were already aware of the details.
Croxdale sighed. “I imagine it comes as a shock to you, as it does to me. Perhaps we should all have seen some warning, but I admit I did not. Of course we are aware of people’s financial interests—we would be remiss not to be. Narraway has no urgent need of money, as far as we know. This whole business with O’Neil is of long standing, some twenty years or more.” He looked closely at Pitt, his brows drawn together. “Did he tell you anything about it?”
“No, sir.”
“Old case. All very ugly, but I thought it was over at the time. We all did. Very briefly, Narraway was in charge of the Irish situation, and we knew there was serious trouble brewing. As indeed there was. He foiled it so successfully that there was never any major news about it. Only afterward did we learn what the price had been.”
Pitt did not need to pretend his ignorance, or the growing fear inside him, chilling his body.
Croxdale shook his head minutely, his face clouded with unhappiness. “Narraway used one of their own against them, a woman named Kate O’Neil. The details I don’t know, and I prefer to be able to claim ignorance. The end of it was that the woman’s husband killed her, rather messily, and was tried and hanged for it.”
Pitt was stunned. Was Narraway really as ruthless as that story implied? He pictured Narraway’s face in all the circumstances they had known each other through: success and failure; exhaustion, fear, disappointment; the conclusion of dozens of battles, won or lost. Reading Narraway defied reason: It was instinct, the trust that had grown up over time in all sorts of ways. It took him a painful and uncertain effort to conceal his feelings. He tried to look confused.
“If all this happened twenty years ago, what is it that has changed now?” he asked.
Croxdale was only momentarily taken aback. “We don’t know,” he replied. “Presumably something in O’Neil’s own situation.”
“I thought you said he was hanged?”
“Oh yes, the husband was; that was Sean O’Neil. But his brother Cormac is still very much alive. They were unusually close, even for an Irish family,” Croxdale explained.
“Then why did Cormac wait twenty years for his revenge? I assume you are saying that Narraway took the money in some way because of O’Neil?”
