Gower, and pretended to be watching the streets as they passed, as if he were taking careful note of where he was.
As he had at least half expected, Wrexham went all the way to the dockside. Without speaking to Gower, or doing more than glance at him for an instant, Pitt followed well behind Wrexham. He trusted that Gower was off to the side, as far out of view as possible.
Wrexham bought a ticket on a ferry to St Malo, across the Channel on the coast of France. Pitt bought one as well. He hoped fervently that Gower had sufficient money to get one too, but the only thing worse than fetching up alone in France, trying to follow Wrexham without help, would be to lose him altogether.
He boarded the ferry, a smallish steamship called the
Pitt was leaning on the railing with the sharp, salt wind in his face when he heard footsteps behind him. He swung round, then was annoyed with himself for betraying such obvious alarm.
Gower was a yard away, smiling. ‘Did you think I was going to push you over?’ he said amusedly.
Pitt swallowed back his temper. ‘Not this close to the shore,’ he replied. ‘I’ll watch you more closely out in mid-Channel!’
Gower laughed. ‘Looks like a good decision, sir. Following him this far could get us a real idea of who his contacts are in Europe. We might even find a clue as to what they’re planning.’
Pitt doubted it, but it was all they had left now. ‘Perhaps. But we mustn’t be seen together. We’re lucky he hasn’t recognised us so far. He would have if he weren’t so abominably arrogant.’
Gower was suddenly very serious, his fair face grim. ‘I think whatever he has planned is so important his mind is completely absorbed in it. He thought he lost us in Ropemakers’ Fields. Don’t forget we were in a totally separate carriage on the train.’
‘I know. But he must have seen us when we were chasing him. He ran,’ Pitt pointed out. ‘I wish at least one of us had a jacket to change. But in April, at sea, without them we’d be even more conspicuous.’ He looked at Gower’s coat. They were not markedly different in size. Even if they did no more than exchange coats, it would alter both their appearances slightly.
As if reading the thought in his eyes, Gower began to slip off his coat. He passed it over, and took Pitt’s from his outstretched hand.
Pitt put on Gower’s jacket. It was a little tight across the chest.
With a rueful smile Gower emptied the pockets of Pitt’s jacket, which sat a little loosely on his shoulders. He passed over Pitt’s notebook, handkerchief, pencil, loose change, half a dozen other bits and pieces, then the wallet with Pitt’s papers of identity, and his money.
Pitt similarly passed over all Gower’s belongings.
Gower gave a little salute. ‘See you in St Malo,’ he said, turning on his heel and walking away without looking back, a slight swagger in his step. Then he stopped and half turned towards Pitt, smiling. ‘I’d keep away from the railing, if I were you, sir.’
Pitt raised his hand in a salute, and resumed watching the gangway.
It was just past the equinox, and darkness still came quite early. They put out to sea as the sun was setting over the headland, and the wind off the water was distinctly chill. There was no point in even wondering where Wrexham was, let alone trying to watch him. If he met with anyone they would not know unless they were so close to him as to be obvious, and it might look like no more than a mere casual civility between strangers anyway. It would be better to find a chair and get a little sleep. It had been a long day, full of exertion, horror, hectic running through the streets and then sitting perfectly still in a railway carriage.
As he sat drifting towards sleep, Pitt thought with regret that he had not had even a chance to tell Charlotte that he would not be home that night, or perhaps even the next one. He had no idea where his decision would take him. He had not very much money with him, sufficient for one or two nights’ lodging, now that he had bought a train ticket and a ferry ticket. He had no toothbrush, no razor, certainly no clean clothes. He had imagined he would meet West, learn his information and then take it straight back to Narraway at his office in Lisson Grove.
They would have to send a telegram from St Malo, requesting funds and saying at least enough for Narraway to understand what had happened. Poor West’s body would no doubt be found, but the police might not know of any reason to inform Special Branch of it. No doubt Narraway would find out in time. He seemed to have sources of information everywhere. Would he think to tell Charlotte?
Pitt wished now that he had made some kind of a provision to see she was informed, or even made a telephone call from Southampton. But to do that, he would have had to leave the ship, and perhaps lose Wrexham. He dared not make himself conspicuous. And who would be waiting for Gower to get home, worrying? With surprise he realised that he did not even know if Gower was married, or living with his parents.
Pitt was drifting into sleep, having tried to reassure himself that he had had to stay away all night before, and Charlotte would not be frantic, perhaps no more than concerned, when he awoke with a jolt, sitting upright, his mind filled with the picture of West’s body, head lolling at an angle, blood streaming onto the stones of the brickyard, the air filled with the smell of it.
‘Sorry, sir,’ the steward said automatically, passing a glass of beer to the man in the seat next to Pitt. ‘Can I get you something? How about a sandwich?’
Pitt realised with surprise that he had not eaten in twelve hours and he was ravenous. No wonder he could not sleep peacefully. ‘Yes,’ he said eagerly. ‘Yes, please. In fact, may I have two, and a glass of cider?’
‘Yes, sir. How about roast beef, sir. That do you?’
‘Please. What time do we get into St Malo?’
‘About five o’clock, sir. But you don’t need to go ashore until seven, unless o’ course, you’d like to.’
‘Thank you.’ Inwardly Pitt groaned. They would have to be up and watching from then on, in case Wrexham chose to leave early. He could be on the next train to Paris and they would never see him again. To oversleep would be a disaster. Since Pitt had nothing with him for a night away from home, that meant he had no alarm clock either.
‘Better bring me two glasses of cider,’ he said with a wry smile.
Would Gower think to ask the arrival time? Pitt had no idea where he was, and did not want to attract attention by looking for him. Later, perhaps. Wrexham would be able to sleep as soundly and as long as he wished. He could not imagine such a man being disturbed by the nightmares of conscience.
Pitt slept on and off, and he was awake and on edge when he saw Gower coming towards him on the deck as the ferry nosed its way slowly towards the harbour of St Malo. It was not yet dawn, but there was a clear sky, and he could see the outline of medieval ramparts against the stars. The walls must have been fifty or sixty feet high at the least, and looked to be interspersed with great towers such as in the past would have been manned by archers. Perhaps on some of them there would have been men in armour, with cauldrons of boiling oil to tip on those brave enough, or foolish enough, to try climbing ladders to scale the defences. It was like a journey backwards in time.
He was so enthralled with the sight that he was jerked into reality by Gower’s voice behind him.
‘I see you are awake. At least I assume you are?’ It was a question.
‘Not sure,’ Pitt replied. ‘That looks distinctly like a dream to me.’
‘Did you sleep?’ Gower asked.
‘A little. You?’
Gower shrugged. ‘Not much. Too afraid of missing him. Do you suppose he’s going to make for the first train to Paris?’
It was a very reasonable question. Paris was a cosmopolitan city, a hotbed of ideas, philosophies, dreams both practical and absurd. It was the ideal place to meet for those who would change the world. The two great revolutions of the last hundred years had been born there. That of Marat, Danton and Robespierre, of Charlotte Corday, the guillotine, and the end of the great kings of France, had reigned here with terror and dreams that had changed the world. And there was the revolution of 1848, which had died, almost without trace.
‘Probably,’ Pitt answered. ‘But he could get off anywhere.’ He was thinking how hard it would be to follow
