“I couldn’t arrest him,” Pitt pointed out. “I had no weapon, and he was a young and very powerful man. The last thing I wanted to do was inform the local police of who we were, and that we were there without their knowledge or permission, watching French citizens …”
“Yes, of course. I see. I see. Go on.” Croxdale was flushed and obviously badly shaken. Pitt could have sympathized at another time.
“I told him to remain watching Wrexham and Frobisher …”
“Who’s Frobisher?” Croxdale demanded.
Pitt told him what they knew of Frobisher, and the other men they had seen coming and going from his house.
Croxdale nodded. “So there was some truth to this business of socialists meeting, and possibly planning something?”
“Possibly. Nothing conclusive yet.”
“And you left Gower there?”
“I thought so. But when I reached Southampton I took the train to London. On that train I was attacked, twice, and very nearly lost my life.”
“Good God! By whom?” Croxdale was horrified.
“Gower, sir. The first time he was interrupted, and the man who did so paid for his courage with his life. Then Gower renewed his attack on me, but this time I was ready for him, and it was he who lost.”
Croxdale wiped his hand across his brow. “What happened to Gower?”
“He went over onto the track,” Pitt replied, his stomach knotting at that memory and the sweat breaking out on his skin again. He decided not to mention his own arrest, because then he would have to explain how Vespasia had rescued him, and he preferred to keep her name out of it altogether.
“He was … killed?” Croxdale said.
“At that speed, sir, there can be no doubt.”
Croxdale leaned back. “How absolutely fearful.” He let out his breath slowly. “You are right, of course. We had a traitor at Lisson Grove. I am profoundly grateful that it was he and not you who went over onto the tracks. Why on earth did you not tell me this as soon as you returned?”
“Because I hoped to learn who was the man behind Gower before I told you,” Pitt answered.
Croxdale’s face went white. “Behind … Gower?” he said awkwardly.
“I don’t yet know,” Pitt admitted. “Not for certain. I never found evidence one way or the other whether Frobisher was the power behind a new socialist uprising, perhaps violent, or only a dilettante playing on the edge of the real plot.”
“We don’t assume it is trivial,” Croxdale said quickly. “If Gower … I still find it hard to credit … but if Gower murdered two people, and attempted to murder you also, then it is very real indeed.” He bit his lip. “I assume from what you say that you did not tell Austwick this?”
“No. I believe someone made it appear that Narraway was guilty of embezzlement in order to get him out of the way, discredit him so deeply that anything he said against them would be disbelieved.”
“Who? Someone to do with Frobisher? Or Gower again?”
“Neither Frobisher nor Gower had the ability,” Pitt pointed out. “That has to be someone in Lisson Grove, someone with a considerable amount of power in order to have access to the details of Narraway’s banking arrangements.”
Croxdale was staring at him, his face drawn, cheeks flushed. “I see. Yes, of course you are right. Then this socialist plot seems very deep. Perhaps this Frobisher is as dangerous as you first thought, and poor West was killed to prevent you from learning the full extent of it. No doubt Gower kept you along with him when he went to France so you could be duped into believing Frobisher harmless, and sending that misinformation back to London.” He smiled bleakly, just for an instant. “Thank God you were clever enough to see through it, and agile enough to survive his attack on you. You are the right man for this job, Pitt. Whatever else he may be guilty of, Narraway did well when he brought you into the service.”
Pitt felt he should thank him for the compliment, and for his trust, but he wanted to argue and say how little he was really suited to it. He ended by inclining his head, thanking him briefly, and moving on to the more urgent problem of the present.
“We need to know very urgently, sir, what information Gower himself may have passed back to London, and— more specifically—to whom. I don’t know who I can trust.”
“No,” Croxdale said thoughtfully, now leaning back again in his chair. “No, neither do I. We need to look at this a great deal more closely, Pitt. Austwick has reported to me at least three times since Narraway left. I have the papers here. We need to go through all this information and you must tell me what you know to be accurate, or inaccurate, and what we still need to test. Some picture should emerge. I’m sorry, but this may very well require all night. I’ll have someone fetch us supper.” He shook his head. “God, what a miserable business.”
There was no question of argument.
Croxdale had other notes not only of what Austwick had reported to him but, going back farther, of what Narraway also had written. It was curious looking at the different papers. Austwick’s writing was neat, his notes carefully thought out and finely presented. Narraway’s Pitt saw with a jolt of familiarity, and a renewed sense of his friend’s absence. Narraway’s penmanship was smaller, more flowing than his successor’s. There was no hesitation. He had written his note with forethought, and there was no attempt to conceal the fact that he was giving Croxdale only the minimum. Was that an agreement between them, and Croxdale could read between the lines? Or had Narraway simply not bothered to conceal the fact that he was telling only part of what he knew?
Pitt studied Croxdale’s face, and did not know the answer.
They read them carefully. A servant brought in a tray of light toast and pate, then cheese and finally a heavy
