Pitt was troubled. He stood in the sun in St Malo, leaning against the buttress edge of the towering wall around the town, and stared out over the sea. It was vivid blue, the light so dazzling on it that he found himself squinting. Out in the bay a sail boat heeled far over as the man at the helm brought it about, swung the boom and the canvas fell slack.
The town was ancient, beautiful, and at any other time Pitt would have found it interesting. Were he here on holiday with his family, he would have loved to explore the medieval streets and alleys, and learn more of its history, which was peculiarly dramatic.
As it was, he had the strong feeling that he and Gower were wasting time. They had watched Frobisher’s house for well over a week, and seen nothing that led them any closer to whatever Wrexham had killed West to prevent him from telling Special Branch. Visitors came and went; not only men but women also. Neither Pieter Linsky nor Jacob Meister had come again, but there had been dinner parties where at least a dozen people were present. Delivery men had come with baskets of the shellfish for which the area was famous. Scores of oysters had come, shrimps and larger crustaceans like lobsters, and bags of mussels. But then the same could be said of any of the other larger houses in the area.
Gower wandered along the same path, his face sunburned, his hair flopping forward. He stopped just inside the wall, a yard or two short of Pitt. He too leaned against the ledge as if he were watching the sailing boat.
‘Where did he go?’ Pitt asked quietly, without looking at him.
‘Only to the same cafe as usual,’ Gower answered, referring to Wrexham, whom one or the other of them had followed every day. ‘I didn’t go in because I was afraid he’d notice me. But I saw the same thin man with the moustache go in, then came back out again in about half an hour.’
There was a slight lift in his voice, a quickening. ‘I watched them through the open window for a few minutes as if I were waiting for someone. They were talking about more people coming, quite a lot of them. They seemed to be ticking them off, as if from a list. They’re definitely planning something.’
Pitt would like to have felt the same stir of excitement, but all the time he’d been observing, events seemed both too careful and too half-hearted for the passion that inspires great political change. He and Narraway had studied revolutionaries, anarchists, firebrands of all beliefs, and this had a cautious feel to it, the safe talking about it of those who do not actually want to take risks. Gower was young. Perhaps he attributed to them some of the enthusiasm he still felt himself. And he
‘They’ve delivered more oysters,’ Pitt remarked. ‘It’s probably another party. Whatever Frobisher’s political beliefs about changing conditions for the poor, he certainly doesn’t believe in starving himself, or his guests.’
‘He would hardly go around letting everyone know his plans. . sir,’ Gower replied quickly. ‘If everyone thinks he’s a rich man entertaining his friends in harmless idealism he never intends to act on, then nobody will take him seriously. That’s probably the best safety he could have.’
Pitt thought about it for a while. What Gower said was undoubtedly true, and yet Pitt was uneasy about it. The conviction that they were wasting time settled more heavily upon him, yet he could find no argument that was pure reason rather than a niggling instinct born of experience.
‘And all the others who keep coming and going?’ he asked, at last turning and facing Gower, who was unconsciously smiling as the light warmed his face. Below him in the small square a woman in a fashionable dress, wide-sleeved and full-skirted, walked from one side to the other and disappeared along the narrow alley to the west. Gower watched her all the way, nodding very gently in approval.
Gower turned to Pitt, his fair face puzzled. ‘Yes, about a dozen of them. Do you think they’re really harmless, sir? Apart from Wrexham, of course?’
‘Are they all wild revolutionaries pretending very successfully to be ordinary citizens living satisfied and rather pedestrian lives?’ Pitt pressed.
It was a long time before Gower answered, as if he were weighing his words with intense care. He turned and leaned on the wall, staring at the water. ‘Wrexham killed West for a reason,’ he said slowly. ‘He was in no present danger, except being exposed as an anarchist, or whatever he would call himself. Perhaps he doesn’t want chaos, but a specific order that he considers fairer, more equal to all people. Or it may be a radical reform he’s after. Exactly what it is the socialists want is one of the things we need to learn. There may be dozens of different goals-’
‘There are,’ Pitt interrupted. ‘What they have in common is that they are not prepared to wait for reform by consent; they want to force it on people, violently, if necessary.’
‘And how long will they have to wait for anyone to hand it over voluntarily?’ Gower said with an edge of sarcasm. ‘Whoever gave up power if they weren’t forced to?’
Pitt scanned his memory for the history he could recall. ‘None that I can think of,’ he admitted. ‘That’s why it usually takes a while. But the abolition of slavery was passed through Parliament without overt violence. Certainly without revolution.’
‘I’m not sure the slaves would agree with that assessment,’ Gower said with a twist of bitterness. ‘Perhaps we’re looking at a would-be Wilberforce?’
Pitt looked at him obliquely, slightly ashamed of his shallow remark about slavery.
‘It’s time we found out what we are looking at,’ he conceded.
Gower straightened up. ‘If we ask open questions it’s bound to get back to Frobisher, and he may take a great deal more care. The one advantage we have, sir, is that he doesn’t know we’re watching him. Can we afford to lose that?’ He looked anxious, his fair brows drawn together in a frown, the sunburn flushing his cheeks.
‘I’ve been making a few enquiries,’ Pitt said.
‘Already?’ Suddenly there was an edge of anger in Gower’s voice.
Pitt was surprised. It seemed Gower’s easy manner hid an emotional commitment he had not seen. He should have. They had worked together for over two months even before the hectic chase that had brought them here.
‘As to who I can ask for information without it being obvious,’ he replied levelly.
‘Who?’ Gower said quickly.
‘A man named John McIver. He’s another expatriate Englishman who’s lived here for twenty years. Married to a French woman.’
‘Are you positive he’s trustworthy, sir?’ Gower was still sceptical. ‘It’ll take only one careless word, one remark made idly, and Frobisher will know he’s being watched. We could lose the big ones, the people like Linsky, and Meister.’
‘I didn’t choose him blindly,’ Pitt replied. He did not intend to tell Gower that he had encountered McIver before, on a quite different case.
Gower drew in his breath, and then let it out again. ‘Yes, sir. I’ll stay here and watch Wrexham, and whoever he meets with.’ Then he flashed a sudden, bright smile. ‘I might even go down into the square and see the pretty girl with the pink dress again, and drink a glass of wine.’
Pitt shook his head, feeling the tension ease away. ‘I think you’ll do better than I will,’ he said ruefully.
McIver lived some five miles outside St Malo in the deep countryside. He was clearly longing to speak to someone in his native tongue, and hear first-hand the latest news from London. Pitt’s visit delighted him.
‘Of course I miss London, but don’t misunderstand me, sir,’ he said, leaning back in his garden chair in the sun. He had offered Pitt wine and little sweet biscuits, and — when he declined those — fresh crusty bread and a soft country cream cheese, which he accepted with alacrity.
Pitt waited for him to continue.
‘I love it here,’ McIver went on. ‘The French are possibly the most civilised nation on earth — apart from the Italians, of course. Really know how to live, and do it with a certain flair that gives even mundane things a degree of elegance. But there are parts of English life that I miss. Haven’t had a decent marmalade in years. Sharp, aromatic, almost bitter.’ He sighed, a smile of memory on his face. ‘The morning’s
