what had happened.
“I’m sorry.” She gulped and tried to regain her composure. She had thought herself in perfect control, and realized she was much farther from it than she’d imagined. “We went to see Cormac O’Neil. At least Victor said he was going alone, but I followed him, just behind …”
“You mean you found a carriage able to keep up with him in Dublin traffic?” McDaid frowned.
“No, no I knew where he was going. I had been there the evening before myself …”
“To see O’Neil?” He looked incredulous.
“Yes. Please … listen.” Her voice was rising again, and she made an effort to calm it. “I arrived moments after he did. I heard the dog begin to bark as he went in, but no shot!”
“It would bark.” The frown deepened on his brow. “It barks for anyone except Cormac, or perhaps Talulla. She lives close by and looks after it if Cormac is away, which he is from time to time.”
“Not the cleaning woman?” she said quickly.
“No. She’s afraid of it.” He looked at her more closely, his face earnest. “Why? What does it matter?”
She hesitated, still uncertain how far to trust him. It was the only evidence she had that protected Narraway. Perhaps she should keep it to herself.
“I suppose it doesn’t,” she said, deliberately looking confused. Then, as coherently as she could, but missing out any further reference to the dog, she told him what had happened. As she did, she watched his face, trying to read the emotions in it, the belief or disbelief, the confusion or understanding, the loss or triumph.
He listened without interrupting her. “They think Narraway shot Cormac? Why would he, for God’s sake?”
“In revenge for Cormac having ruined him in London,” she answered. “That’s what Talulla said. It makes a kind of sense.”
“Do you think that’s what happened?” he asked.
She nearly said that she knew it was not, then realized her mistake just in time. “No.” She spoke guardedly now. “I was just behind him, and I didn’t hear a shot. But I don’t think he would do that anyway. It doesn’t make sense.”
He shook his head. “Yes it does. Victor loved that job of his. In a way it was all he had.” He looked conflicted, emotions twisting his features. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to imply that you are not important to him, but I think from what he said that you do not see each other so often.”
Now she was angry. She felt it well up inside her, knotting her stomach, making her hands shake, her voice thick as if she were a little drunk. “No. We don’t. But you’ve known Victor for years. Was he ever a fool?”
“No, never. Many things good and bad, but never a fool,” he admitted.
“Did he ever act against his own interest, hotheadedly, all feelings and no thought?” She could not imagine it, not the man she knew. Had he once had that kind of runaway passion? Was his supreme control a mask?
McDaid laughed abruptly, without joy. “No. He never forgot his cause. Hell or heaven could dance naked past him and he would not be diverted. Why?”
“Because if he really thought Cormac O’Neil was responsible for ruining him in London, for setting up what looked like embezzlement and seeing that he was blamed, the last thing he would want was Cormac dead,” she answered. “He would want Cormac’s full confession, the proof, the names of those who aided—”
“I see,” he interrupted. “I see. You’re right. Victor would never put revenge ahead of getting his job and his honor back.”
“So someone else killed Cormac and made it look like Victor,” she concluded. “That would be their revenge, wouldn’t it.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes,” he agreed, his eyes bright, his hands loosely beside him.
“Will you help me find out who?” she asked.
He gestured to one of the big leather chairs in his gracious but very masculine sitting room. She imagined wealthy gentlemen’s clubs must be like this inside: worn and comfortable upholstery, lots of wood paneling, brass ornaments—except these were silver, and uniquely Celtic.
She sat down obediently.
He sat opposite her, leaning forward a little. “Have you any idea who already?”
Her mind raced. How should she answer, how much of the truth? Could he help at all if she lied to him?
“I have lots of ideas, but they don’t add up,” she replied, hoping to conceal her knowledge of the facts. “I know who hated Victor, but I don’t know who hated Cormac.”
A moment of humor touched his face, and then vanished. It looked like self-mockery.
“I don’t expect you to know,” she said quietly. “Or you would have warned him. But perhaps with hindsight you might understand something now. Talulla is Sean and Kate’s daughter, brought up away from Dublin after her parents’ deaths.” She saw instantly in his eyes that he had known that.
“She is, poor child,” he agreed.
“You didn’t warn Victor of that, did you?” It sounded more like an accusation than she had intended it to.
McDaid looked down for a moment, then back up at her. “No. I thought she had suffered enough.”
“Another one of your innocent casualties,” she observed, remembering what he had said during their carriage ride in the dark. Something in that had disturbed her, a resignation she could not share. All casualties still upset her; but then her country was not at war, not occupied by another people.
“I don’t make judgments as to who is innocent and who guilty, Mrs. Pitt, just what is necessary, and that only
