‘To London?’ he said incredulously.
‘To Mrs Hogan’s house in Molesworth Street,’ she snapped. ‘If you would be so kind as to take me. . I do not wish to have to look for an omnibus. I’ve no idea where I am, or where I’m going.’
‘That I know,’ McDaid agreed ruefully.
However, as soon as McDaid had left her at Mrs Hogan’s door, she waited until he had got back into the carriage and it was round the corner out of sight, then she walked briskly in the opposite direction and hailed the first carriage for hire that she saw. She knew Cormac O’Neil’s town address from Narraway, and she gave it to the driver. She would wait for O’Neil to return, for as long as was necessary.
As it transpired, it was shortly after dusk when she saw Cormac O’Neil climb out of a carriage a hundred yards down the street. He made his way a trifle unsteadily along the footpath towards his front door.
Charlotte moved out of the shadows. ‘Mr O’Neil?’
He stopped, blinking momentarily.
‘Mr O’Neil,’ she repeated. ‘I wonder if I may speak with you, please? It is very important.’
‘Another time,’ he said indistinctly. ‘It’s late.’ He started forward to go past her to the door, but she took a step in front of him.
‘No, it’s not late, it’s barely supper time, and this is urgent. Please?’
He looked at her. ‘You’re a handsome enough girl,’ he said gently, ‘but I’m not interested.’
Suddenly she realised that he assumed her to be a prostitute. It was too absurd for her to take offence. But if she laughed she might sound too close to hysteria. She swallowed hard, trying to control the nervous tension all but closing her throat.
‘Mr O’Neil. .’ she had prepared the lie. It was the only way she could think of that might make him tell her the truth, ‘. . I want to ask you about Victor Narraway.’
O’Neil jerked to a stop and swung round to stare at her.
‘I know what he did to your family,’ she went on a little desperately. ‘At least I think I do. I was at the recital this afternoon. I heard what you said, and what Miss Lawless said too.’
‘Why did you come here?’ he demanded. ‘You’re as English as he is. It’s in your voice, so don’t try to sympathise with me.’ Now his tone was stinging with contempt.
She matched his expression just as harshly. ‘And you think the Irish are the only people who are ever victims?’ she said with amazement. ‘My husband suffered too. I might be able to do something about it, if I know the truth.’
‘Something?’ he said contemptuously. ‘What kind of something?’
She knew she must make this passionate, believable; a wound deep enough he would see her as a victim like himself. Mentally she apologised to Narraway. ‘Narraway’s already been dismissed from Special Branch,’ she said, ‘because of the money that was supposed to go to Mulhare. But he has everything else: his home, his friends, his life in London. My family has nothing, except a few friends who know him as I do, and perhaps you? But I need to know the truth. .’
He hesitated a moment, then wearily, as if surrendering to something, he fished in his pocket for a key. Fumbling a little, he inserted it in the lock and opened the door for her.
They were greeted immediately by a large dog — a wolfhound of some sort — who gave her no more than a cursory glance before going to O’Neil, wagging its tail and pushing against him, demanding attention.
O’Neil patted its head, talking gently. Then he led the way into the parlour and lit the gaslamps, the dog on his heels. The flames burned up to show a clean, comfortable room with a window onto the area way and then the street. He pulled the curtain across, more for privacy than to keep out the cold, and invited Charlotte to sit down.
She did so, soberly thanking him, then waiting for him to compose himself before she began her questions. She was acutely aware that if she made even one ill-judged remark, one clumsy reaction, she could lose him completely, and there would be no opportunity ever to try again.
‘It was all over twenty years ago,’ he said, looking at her gravely. He sat opposite her, the dog at his feet. In the gaslight it was easy to see that he was labouring to keep some control of his feelings, as if seeing Narraway again had stirred emotions he had struggled hard to bury. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face haggard. His hair stood up on end, crookedly at one side, as though he had run his fingers through it repeatedly. She could not fail to be aware that he had been drinking, but these sorrows were not of the kind that drown easily.
‘Yes, I know, Mr O’Neil.’ She spoke quietly. There was no need to raise her voice here in this silent house, and the tragedy of the situation demanded respect. ‘Do you find time heals? I would like to think so, but I see no evidence of it.’ She was inventing her own entire situation, and yet she was bitterly aware that the fate she was creating in her mind for Pitt could be paralleled in the future, if Narraway never regained his power in Special Branch, and whoever had engineered his disgrace were to succeed.
Pitt would fight for Narraway; of course he would. The innate loyalty in him would never allow him to accept that Narraway was guilty, unless it were proved beyond any doubt at all, reasonable or not. And if it were, it would hurt him to depths she would not be able to heal, even with all the tenderness and courage she possessed. Disillusion is an ache that eats into the dreams of goodness, of love, of any value that matters — even to the very belief in life. She would have no trouble in lying to O’Neil in any way necessary.
She settled herself a little more comfortably in the chair and waited for his reply.
‘Heals?’ he said thoughtfully. ‘No. Grows a seal over, maybe, but it’s still bleeding underneath.’ He looked at her curiously. ‘What did he do to you?’
She leaped to the future she feared, creating in her mind the worst of it.
‘My husband worked in Special Branch too,’ she replied. ‘Nothing to do with Ireland. Anarchists in England, people who let off bombs that killed ordinary women and children, old people, most of them poor.’
O’Neil winced, but he did not interrupt her.
‘Narraway sent him on a dangerous job, and then when it turned ugly, and my husband was far from home, Narraway realised that he had made a mistake, a misjudgement, and he let my husband take the blame for it. My husband was dismissed, of course, but that’s not all. He was accused of theft as well, so he can’t get any other position at all. He’s reduced to labouring, if he can even find that. He’s not used to it. He has no skills, and it’s hard to learn in your forties. He’s not built for it.’ She heard the thickening in her own voice, as if she were fighting tears. It was fear, but it sounded like distress, grief, perhaps outrage at injustice.
‘How is my story going to help?’ O’Neil asked her.
‘Narraway denies it, of course,’ she replied. ‘But if he betrayed you as well, that makes a lot of difference. Please — tell me what happened?’
‘Narraway came here twenty years ago,’ he began slowly. ‘He pretended to have sympathy with us, and he fooled some people. He looked Irish, and he used that. He knows our culture and our dreams, our history. But we weren’t fooled. You’re born Irish, or you’re not. But we pretended to go along with it — Sean and Kate and I.’ He stopped, his eyes misty, as if he were seeing something far from this quiet, sparse room in 1895. The past was alive for him, the dead faces, the unhealed wounds.
Charlotte was uncertain whether to acknowledge that she was listening, or if it would distract him. She ended saying nothing.
‘We found out who he was, exactly,’ Cormac went on. ‘We were planning a big rebellion then. We thought we could use him, give him a lot of false information, turn the tables. We had all sorts of dreams. Sean was the leader, but Kate was the fire. She was beautiful, like sunlight on autumn leaves, wind and shadow, the sort of loveliness you can’t hold on to. She was alive the way other women never are.’ He stopped again, lost in memory, and the pain of it was naked in his face.
‘You loved her,’ she said gently.
‘Every man did,’ he agreed, his eyes meeting hers for an instant, as if he had only just remembered that she was there. ‘You remind me of her, a little. Her hair was about the same colour as yours. But you’re more natural, like the earth. Steady.’
Charlotte was not sure if she should be insulted. There was no time now, but she would think of it later, and wonder.
‘Go on,’ she prompted. He had not told her anything yet, except that he had been in love with his brother’s wife. Was that really why he hated Narraway?
