he’s gone like magic. Just disappeared. Went to see him this morning, and his cell is empty. They’re not allowing any carriages through.”
Charlotte stared at him as if she could barely understand his words, but her mind was racing. Escape. Murdered a man yesterday. It had to be Narraway, didn’t it? He must have known even more certainly than she did just how much people hated him, how easy it would be for them to see all the evidence the way they wished to. Who would believe him—an Englishman with his past—rather than Talulla Lawless, who was Sean O’Neil’s daughter and, perhaps even more important, Kate’s daughter? Who would want to believe she shot Cormac?
The driver was still staring at Charlotte, waiting for her decision.
“Thank you,” she said, fumbling for words. She did not want to leave Narraway alone and hunted in Ireland, but there was no way in which she could help him. She had no idea which way he would go, north or south, inland, or even across the country to the west. She did not know if he had friends, old allies, anyone to turn to.
Then another thought came to her with a new coldness. When they arrested him, they would have taken his belongings, his money. He would be penniless. How would he survive, let alone travel? She must help him.
Please heaven he did not trust any of the people he knew in Dublin! Every one of them would betray him. They were tied to one another by blood and memory, old grief too deep to forget.
“Miss?” The driver interrupted her thoughts.
Charlotte had little money either. She was marked as Narraway’s sister. She would be a liability to him. There was nothing she could do to help here. Her only hope was to go back to London and somehow find Pitt or, at the very least, Aunt Vespasia.
“Please take me to the dock,” she said as steadily as she could. “I think it would be better if I caught the next steamer back to England. Whatever dock that is, if you please.”
“Yes, miss.” He climbed back over the box again and urged his horse forward and around. They made a wide turn in the street heading away from the police station.
The journey was not very long, but to Charlotte it seemed to take ages. They passed down the wide, handsome streets. Some of the roads would have taken seven or eight carriages abreast, but they seemed half deserted compared with the noisy, crushing jams of traffic in London. She was desperate to leave, and yet also torn with regrets. One day she wanted to come back, anonymous and free of burdens, simply to enjoy the city. Now she could only lean forward, peering out and counting the minutes until she reached the dock.
The whole business of alighting with the luggage and the crowds waiting to board the steamer was awkward and very close to desperate. She tried to move the cases without leaving anything where it could be taken, and at the same time keep hold of her reticule and pay for a ticket. In the jostling of people she was bumped and knocked. Twice she nearly lost her own case while trying to move Narraway’s and find money ready to pay the fare.
“Can I help you?” a voice said close to her.
She was about to refuse when she felt his hand over hers and he took Narraway’s case from her. She was furious and ready to cry with frustration. She lifted her foot with its nicely heeled boot and brought it down sharply on his instep.
He gasped with pain, but he did not let go of Narraway’s case.
She lifted her foot to do it again, harder.
“Charlotte, let the damn thing go!” Narraway hissed between his teeth.
She let not only his case go but her own also. She was so angry she could have struck him with an open hand, and so relieved she felt the tears prickle in her eyes and slide down her cheeks.
“I suppose you’ve no money!” she said tartly, choking on the words.
“Not much,” he agreed. “I borrowed enough from O’Casey to get as far as Holyhead. But since you have my luggage, we’ll manage the rest. Keep moving. We need to buy tickets, and I would very much like to catch this steamer. I might not have the opportunity to wait for the next. I imagine the police will think of this. It’s the obvious way to go, but I need to be back in London. I have a fear that something very nasty indeed is going to happen.”
“Several very nasty things already have,” she told him.
“I know. But we must prevent what we can.”
“I know what happened with Mulhare’s money. I’m pretty sure who was behind it all.”
“Are you?” There was an eagerness in his voice that he could not hide, even now in this pushing, noisy crowd.
“I’ll tell you when we are on board. Did you hear the dog?”
“What dog?”
“Cormac’s dog.”
“Of course I did. The poor beast hurled itself at the door almost as soon as I was in the house.”
“Did you hear the shot?”
“No. Did you?” He was startled.
“No,” she said with a smile.
“Ah!” He was level with her now, and they were at the ticket counter. “I see.” He smiled also, but at the salesman. “Two for the Holyhead boat, please.”
PITT WAS OVERWHELMED WITH the size and scope of his new responsibilities. There was so much more to consider than the relatively minor issues of whether the socialist plot in Europe was something that could be serious, or only another manifestation of the sporadic violence that had occurred in one
