“You have heard about Mr. O’Neil,” she said gravely. “A very terrible thing to have happened. I hope Mr. Narraway will be able to help them. He has some experience in such tragedies. But I quite understand if you would prefer that I move out of your house in the meantime. I will have to find something, of course, until I get my passage back home. I daresay it will take me a day or two. In the meantime I will pack my brother’s belongings and put them in my own room, so you may let his rooms to whomsoever you wish. I believe we are paid for another couple of nights at least?” Please heaven within a couple of days she would be a great deal further on in her decisions, and at least one other person in Dublin would know for certain that Narraway was innocent.
Mrs. Hogan was embarrassed. The issue had been taken out of her hands and she did not know how to rescue it. As Charlotte had hoped, she settled for the compromise. “Thank you, that would be most considerate, ma’am.”
“If you will be kind enough to lend me the keys, I’ll do it straightaway.” Charlotte held out her hand.
Reluctantly Mrs. Hogan passed them over.
Charlotte unlocked the door and went inside, closing it behind her. Instantly she felt intrusive. She would pack his clothes, of course, and have someone take the case to her room, unless she could drag it there herself.
But far more important than shirts, socks, personal linen, were whatever papers he might have. Had he committed anything to writing? Would it even be in a form she could understand? If only she could at least ask Pitt! She had never missed him more. But then of course if he were here, she would be at home in London, not trying desperately to carry out a task for which she was so ill suited. She was in a foreign country where she was considered the enemy, and justly so. The weight of centuries of history was against her.
She opened the case, then went to the wardrobe and took out Narraway’s suits and shirts, folded them neatly, and packed them. Then, feeling as if she were prying, she opened the drawers in the chest. She took out his underwear and packed it also, making sure she had his pajamas from under the pillow on the bed. She included his extra pair of shoes, wrapped in a cloth to keep them from marking anything, and put them in as well.
She collected the toiletries, a hairbrush, a toothbrush, razor, and small clothes brush. He was an immaculate man. How he would hate being locked up in a cell with no privacy, and probably little means to wash.
The few papers there were in the top drawer of the dresser. Thank heaven they were not locked in a briefcase. But that probably indicated that they would mean nothing to anyone else.
Back in her own room, with Narraway’s case propped in the corner, she looked at the few notes he had made. They were a curious reflection on his character, a side of him she had not even guessed at before. They were mostly little drawings, very small indeed, but very clever. They were little stick men, but imbued with such movement and personality that she recognized instantly who they were.
There was one little man with striped trousers and a banknote in his hat, and beside him a woman with chaotic hair. Behind him was another woman, even thinner, her limbs poking jaggedly.
Even with arms and legs merely suggested, Charlotte knew they were John and Bridget Tyrone, and that Tyrone’s being a banker was important. The other woman had such a savagery about her it immediately suggested Talulla. Beside her was a question mark. There was no more than that, except a man of whom she could see only the top half, as if he was up to his arms in something. She stared at it until it came to her with a shiver of revulsion. It was Mulhare, drowning—because the money had not been paid.
The little drawing suggested a connection between John Tyrone and Talulla. He was a banker—was he the link to London? Had he the power, through his profession, to move money around from Dublin to London and, with the help of someone in Lisson Grove, to place it back in Narraway’s account?
Then who in Lisson Grove? And why? No one could tell her that but Tyrone himself.
Was it dangerous, absurd, to go to him? She had no one else she could turn to, because she did not know who else was involved. Certainly she could not go back to McDaid. She was growing more and more certain within herself that his remarks about accidental damage to the innocent were statements of his philosophy, and also a warning to her.
Was Talulla the prime mover in Cormac’s death, or only an instrument, used by someone else? Someone like John Tyrone, so harmless seeming, but powerful enough in Dublin and in London even to create a traitor in Lisson Grove?
There seemed to be two choices open to her: go to Tyrone himself; or give up and go home, leaving Narraway here to answer whatever charge they brought against him, presuming he lived long enough to face a trial. Would it be a fair trial, even? Possibly not. The old wounds were raw, and Special Branch would not be on his side. So Charlotte really had no choice at all.
THE MAID WHO ANSWERED the door let her in somewhat reluctantly.
“I need to speak with Mr. Tyrone,” Charlotte said as soon as she was into the large, high-ceilinged hall. “It is to do with the murder of Mr. Mulhare, and now poor Mr. O’Neil. It is most urgent.”
“I’ll ask him, ma’am,” the maid replied. “Who shall I say is calling?”
“Charlotte Pitt.” She hesitated only an instant. “Victor Narraway’s sister.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She went across the hall and knocked on a door at the far side. It opened and she spoke for a moment, then returned to Charlotte. “If you’ll come with me, ma’am.”
Charlotte followed her, and the maid knocked on the same door again.
“Come in.” Tyrone’s voice was abrupt.
The maid opened it for Charlotte to go past her. Tyrone had obviously been working—there were papers spread across the surface of the large desk.
He stood impatiently, making no attempt to hide the fact that she had interrupted him.
“I’m sorry,” she began. “I know it is late and I have come without invitation, but the matter is urgent. Tomorrow may be impossible for me to rescue what is left of the situation.”
He moved his weight from one foot to the other. “I am very sorry for you, Mrs. Pitt, but I have no idea how I can help. Perhaps I should send the maid to see where my wife is.” It was offered more as an excuse than a suggestion. “She is calling on a neighbor. She cannot be far.”
“It is you I need to see,” she told him. “And it might be more suitable for your reputation if the maid were to
