remain, although my inquiries are confidential.”
“Then you should call at my place of business, within the usual hours,” he pointed out.
She gave him a brief, formal smile. “Confidential to you, Mr. Tyrone. That is why I came here.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
It was still only a deduction from Narraway’s drawings, but it was all she had left.
She plunged in. “The money for Mulhare that you transferred back into my brother’s account in London, which was responsible for Mulhare’s death, and my brother’s professional ruin, Mr. Tyrone.”
He might have intended to deny it, but his face gave him away. The shock drained the blood from his skin, leaving him almost gray. He drew in his breath sharply, then changed his mind and said nothing. His eyes flickered; and for an instant Charlotte wondered if he was going to call for some kind of assistance and have her thrown out. Probably no servant would attack her, but if any other of the people involved in the plan were—it would only increase her danger. McDaid had warned her.
Or did Tyrone imagine she had even had some hand in murdering Cormac O’Neil?
Now her own voice was shaking. “Mr. Tyrone, too many people have been hurt already, and I’m sure you know poor Cormac was killed this morning. It is time for this to end. I would find it easy to believe that you had no idea what tragedies would follow the transfer of that money. Nor do I find it hard to sympathize with your hatred of those who occupy a country that is rightfully yours. But by using personal murder and betrayal you win nothing. You only bring more tragedy on those you involve. If you doubt me, look at the evidence. All the O’Neils are dead now. Even the loyalty that used to bind them is destroyed. Kate and Cormac have both been murdered, and by the very ones they loved.”
“Your brother killed Cormac,” he said at last.
“No, he didn’t. Cormac was already dead by the time we got there.”
He was startled. “We? You went with him?”
“Just after him, but only moments after …”
“Then he could have killed him before you got there!”
“No. I was on his heels. I would have heard the shot. I heard the dog begin to bark as Victor entered.”
He let out a long, slow sigh, as if at last the pieces had settled into a dark picture that, for all its ugliness, still made sense to him. His face looked bruised, as if some familiar pain had returned inside him.
“You had better come into the study,” he said wearily. “I don’t know what you can do about any of it now. The police believe Narraway shot O’Neil because they want to believe it. He’s earned a long, deep hatred here. They caught him all but in the act. They won’t look any further. You would be wise to go back to London while you can.” He led the way across the floor into the study and closed the door. He offered her one of the leather-seated chairs and took the other himself.
“I don’t know what you think I can do to change anything.” There was no lift in his voice, no hope.
“Tell me about transferring the money,” she answered.
“And how will that help?”
“Special Branch in London will know that Victor did not steal it.” She must remember always to refer to him by his given name. One slip calling him
He gave a sharp bark of laughter. “And when he’s hanged in Dublin for murdering O’Neil, what will that matter to him? There’s a poetic justice to it, but if it’s logic you’re after, the fact that he didn’t steal the money won’t help. O’Neil had nothing to do with it, but Narraway didn’t know that.”
“Of course he did!” she retorted instantly. “How do you think I know?”
That caught him off guard; she saw it instantly in his eyes.
“Then what is it you want me to tell you?” he asked.
“Who helped you? Someone in Lisson Grove gave you the account information so you could have it done. And it was nothing to do with helping you. It was to get Victor out of Special Branch. You just served their purpose.” She had not thought what she was going to say until the words were on her lips. Did she really mean that it was Charles Austwick? It didn’t have to be; there were a dozen others who could have done it, for a dozen other reasons, even one as simple as being paid to. But again that came back to Ireland, and who would pay, and for what reason—just revenge, or an enemy who wanted their own man in Narraway’s place? Or was it simply an ambitious man, or one Narraway suspected of treason or theft, and they struck before he could expose them?
She watched Tyrone, waiting for him to respond.
He was trying to judge how much she knew, but there was also something else in his eyes: a hurt that so far made no sense as part of this old vengeance.
“Austwick?” she guessed, before the silence allowed the moment to slip.
“Yes,” he said quietly.
“Did he pay you?” She could not keep the contempt from her voice.
His head came up sharply. “No he did not! I did it because I hate Narraway, and Mulhare, and all other traitors to Ireland.”
“Victor is not a traitor to Ireland,” she pointed out. “He’s as English as I am. You’re lying.” She picked a weapon out of her imagination. “Did he have an affair with your wife, as well as with Kate O’Neil?”
Tyrone’s face flamed, and he half rose from his chair. “If you don’t want me to throw you out of my house, woman, you’ll apologize for that slur on my wife! Your mind’s in the gutter. But then I daresay you know your brother a great deal better than I do. If he is your brother, that is?”
