place or another for the last several years. Even if some specific act were planned, very possibly it did not concern England.
The alliance with France required that he pass on any important information to the French authorities, but what did he know that was anything more than speculation? West had been killed before he could tell him whatever it was he knew. With hindsight now, it had presumably been Gower who was a traitor. But had there been more to it than that? Had West also known who else in Lisson Grove was—what? A socialist conspirator? To be bought for money, or power? Or was it not what they wished to gain so much as what they were afraid to lose? Was it blackmail over some real or perceived offense? Was it someone who had been made to appear guilty, as Narraway had, but this person had yielded to pressure in order to save himself?
Had Narraway been threatened, and defied them? Or had they known better than to try, and he had simply been professionally destroyed, without warning?
He sat in Narraway’s office, which was now his own: a cold and extraordinarily isolating thought. Would he be ousted next? It was hard to imagine he posed the threat to them that Narraway had, whoever they were. He looked around the room. It was so familiar to him from the other side of the desk that even with his back to the wall he could see in his mind’s eye the pictures Narraway used to have there. They were mostly pencil drawings of bare trees, the branches delicate and complex. There was one exception: an old stone tower by the sea, but again the foreground was in exquisite detail of light and shadow, the sea only a feeling of distance without end.
He would ask Austwick where they were, and put them back where they belonged. If Narraway ever returned, then Pitt would give them back to him. Narraway’s belongings were part of the furniture of his mind, of his life. They would give Pitt a sense of his presence, and it was both sad and comforting at the same time.
Narraway would have known what to do about these varied and sometimes conflicting remnants of work that scattered the desk now. Pitt was familiar with some of them, but he had only a vague knowledge of others. They were cases Narraway had dealt with himself.
Austwick had left him notes, but how could he trust anything Austwick had said? He would be a fool to, without corroboration from someone else, and that would take time he could not afford now. And whom could he trust? There was nothing but to go on. He would have to compare one piece of information with another, canceling out the impossible and then weighing what was left.
As the morning wore on, and assistants of one sort or another came with new papers, more opinions, he became painfully aware of how isolated Narraway must have been. He was commander now; he was not permitted to reveal vulnerability or confusion. He was not expected to consult. But he badly needed to—and recognized no one he could trust with certainty.
He looked in the faces of his juniors and saw courtesy, respect for his new position. In a few he also saw envy. Once he recognized an anger that he, such a relative newcomer, should have been promoted before them. In none did he see the kind of respect he needed in order to command their personal loyalty beyond their commitment to the task. That could only exist when it had been earned.
He would have given most of what he possessed to have Narraway back. Knowing that one misjudgment could now cost him his life, Pitt desperately craved his colleague’s steady, quick-thinking presence and his quiet support.
Where was Narraway now? Somewhere in Ireland, trying to clear his name of a crime he did not commit? Pitt realized with a chill that he was not certain that Narraway was innocent. Could he have lied, embezzled, betrayed his country, and broken the trust of all he knew? Pitt would never before have believed that Narraway would commit
Why had she gone with him? To help fight against injustice, out of loyalty to a friend in desperate need? How like her! But Narraway was Pitt’s friend, not really hers. And yet, remembering a dozen small things, he knew that Narraway was in love with her, and had been for some time.
He knew exactly when he had first realized it. He had seen Narraway turn to look at her. They had been standing in the kitchen in his own house in Keppel Street. It had been during a bad case, a difficult one. Narraway had come to see him late in the evening over something or other, a new turn in events. They had had tea. The kettle was steaming on the hob. Charlotte had been standing waiting for it to boil again. She had been wearing an old dress, not expecting anyone except Pitt. The lamplight had shone on her hair, bringing up the warm, deep color of it, and on the angle of her cheek. He could see her in his mind’s eye picking up the mitt so as not to burn her hands on the kettle.
Narraway had said something, and she had looked at him and laughed. In an instant his face had given him away.
Did she know? It had taken her what seemed like ages to realize that Pitt was in love with her, years ago, in the beginning. But since then they had all changed. She had been awkward, the middle sister of three, the one her mother found so difficult to match with an acceptable husband. Now she knew she was loved. But Pitt knew that her righteous indignation over the injustice against Narraway may have spurred Charlotte to impulsive actions.
She would be furiously angry that Narraway’s reputation had been damaged, and she would still feel a gratitude to Narraway for having taken Pitt into Special Branch when he so badly needed it. Life could have become very bleak indeed. And if she knew that Narraway loved her that could be an added sense of responsibility, even of debt. To think of it as a debt was ridiculous—she had not asked for his regard, but Pitt knew the fierce protectiveness she felt toward the vulnerable. It was instinctive, defensive, like an animal with cubs. She would act first and think afterward. He loved her for it. He would lose something of infinite value if she were different, more guarded, more sensible. But it was still a liability.
There were papers piled on the desk in front of him, reports waiting to be made sense of, but still his mind was on Charlotte.
Where was she? How could he find out without placing her in further danger? Who was he absolutely certain he could trust? A week ago, he would have sent Gower. Unwittingly he would have been giving them the perfect hostage.
Should he contact the Dublin police? How could he be sure that he could trust them either, in light of all the schemes and plots that seemed to be under way right in his own government branch?
Perhaps anonymity was her best defense, but his own helplessness was almost like a physical pain. He had all the forces of Special Branch at his fingertips, but no idea whom he could trust.
There was a knock on his door. The moment he answered it Austwick came in, looking grave and slightly smug. He had more papers in his hand.
Pitt was glad to be forced back into the present. “What have you?” he asked.
