fruitcake—along with brandy, which Pitt declined.
It was now totally dark outside. The wind was rising a little, spattering rain against the windows.
Croxdale put down the last paper. “Narraway obviously thought there was something to this business in St. Malo, but not major. Austwick seems to disagree, and thinks that it is nothing but noise and posturing. Unlike Narraway, he believes it will not affect us here in Britain. What do you think, Pitt?”
It was the question Pitt had dreaded, but it was inevitable that it would come. There was no room for excuses, no matter how easy to justify. He would be judged on the accuracy of his answer. He had lain awake weighing everything he knew, hoping Croxdale’s information would tip the balance one way or the other.
Again he answered with barely a hesitation. “I think that Narraway was on the brink of finding out something crucial, and he was gotten rid of before he could do so.”
Croxdale waited a long time before he answered.
“Do you realize that if that is true, then you are also saying that Austwick is either incompetent to a most serious degree, or else—far worse than that—he is complicit in what is going on?”
“Yes, sir, I’m afraid that has to be the case,” Pitt agreed. “But Gower was reporting to someone, so we know that at least one person within the service is a traitor.”
“I’ve known Charles Austwick for years,” Croxdale said softly. “But perhaps we don’t know anyone as well as we imagine.” He sighed. “I’ve sent for Stoker. Apparently he’s newly back from Ireland. He may be able to throw some light on things. Do you trust him?”
“Yes. But I trusted Gower as well,” Pitt said ruefully. “Do you?”
Croxdale gave him a bleak smile. “Touche. Let’s at least see what he has to say. And the answer is no, I trust no one. I am painfully aware that we cannot afford to. Not after Narraway, and not it would seem Gower also. Are you sure you won’t have a brandy?”
“I’m quite sure, thank you, sir.”
There was a knock on the door and, at Croxdale’s word, Stoker came in. He looked tired. There were shadows around his eyes, and his face was pinched with fatigue. However, he stood to attention until Croxdale gave him permission to sit. Stoker acknowledged Pitt, but only so much as courtesy demanded.
“When did you get back from Ireland?” Croxdale asked him.
“About two hours ago, sir,” Stoker replied. “Weather’s a bit poor.”
“Mr. Pitt doesn’t believe the charge of embezzlement against Narraway,” Croxdale went on. “He thinks it is possibly false, manufactured to get rid of him because he was on the verge of gaining information about a serious socialist plot of violence that would affect Britain.” He was completely ignoring Pitt, his eyes fixed on Stoker so intently they might have been alone in the room.
“Sir?” Stoker said with amazement, but he did not look at Pitt either.
“You worked with Narraway,” Croxdale continued. “Does that seem likely to you? What is the news from Ireland now?”
Stoker’s jaw tightened as if he were laboring under some profound emotion. His face was pale as he leaned forward a little into the light. He seemed leached of color by exhaustion. “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t see any reason to question the evidence. It’s amazing what lack of money can do, and how it can change your view of things.”
Pitt felt as if he had been struck. The sting of Stoker’s words was hard enough to have been physical. He would rather it had been.
Stoker continued, a grim weariness in his voice. “Sir, there is more. I deeply regret that I must bear this grave news, gentlemen, but yesterday O’Neil was murdered, and the police immediately arrested Narraway. He was on the scene and practically caught red-handed. He had the grace not to deny it. He is now in prison in Dublin awaiting trial.”
Pitt felt as if he had been sandbagged. He struggled to keep any sense of proportion, even of reality. He stared at Stoker, then turned to Croxdale. Their faces wavered and the room seem to swim in and out of his focus.
“My word,” Croxdale said slowly. “This comes as a terrible shock.” He turned to Pitt. “You could have had no idea of this side of Narraway, and I admit, neither had I. I feel remiss to have had such a man in charge of our most sensitive service during my period of office. His extraordinary skill completely masked this darker, and clearly very violent side of his nature.”
Pitt refused to believe it, partly because he could not bear it. Charlotte was in Ireland with Narraway. What had happened to her? How could he find out without admitting that he knew this? He would not draw Vespasia into it. She was one element he had in his favor, perhaps the only one.
Stoker gazed downward, his voice quieter, as though he too were stunned. “I am afraid it’s true, sir. We were all deceived as to his character. The case against him is as plain as day. It seems Narraway quarreled with O’Neil rather publicly, making no secret of the fact that he believed O’Neil to be responsible for creating the evidence that made it seem he was guilty of embezzling the money intended for Mulhare. And to be honest, that could well be true.”
“Could it? Croxdale asked, a slight lift of hope in his voice.”
“From what I can make out, yes, sir, it could,” Stoker replied. “Only problem is how he got the information he’d need to get it into Mr. Narraway’s account. I’ve been trying to find the answer to that, and I think I’ll get there.”
“Someone at Lisson Grove?” Croxdale said.
“No, sir,” Stoker answered without a flicker in his face. “Not as far as I can see.”
Croxdale’s eyes narrowed. “Then who? Who else would be able to do that?”
Stoker did not hesitate. “Looks like it could be someone at Mr. Narraway’s bank, sir. I daresay one time and another, he’s made some enemies. Or it could just be someone willing to be paid. Nice to think that wouldn’t happen, but maybe a bit innocent. There’d be those with enough money to buy most things.”
