Charlotte tried to imagine it, the grief, the cost.
‘Who killed her?’ she asked. She felt the loss touch her, as if she had known Kate more than simply as a name, an imagined face.
‘Sean,’ he replied. ‘I don’t know whether it was for betraying Ireland, as he saw it, or betraying him.’
‘With you?’
Narraway coloured, but he did not look away from her. ‘Yes.’
‘Do you know that, beyond doubt?’
‘Yes.’ His throat was so tight his voice sounded half strangled. ‘I found her body. I think he meant me to.’
She could not afford pity now. ‘Why are you sure it was Sean who killed her?’ She had to be certain so she could get rid of the doubt for ever. If Narraway himself had killed her it might, by some twisted logic of politics and terror, be what he had to do to save even greater bloodshed. She looked at him now with a mixture of new understanding of the weight he carried, sorrow for what it had cost him: whether that were a shame now, or a lack of it — which would be worse.
How did that affect Pitt? He would always hurt for his mistakes, and for the decisions from which there was no escape. Thank heaven the biggest ones were not his to make.
‘Why are you sure it was Sean who killed her?’ Charlotte repeated.
He looked at her steadily. ‘What you really mean is, how can I prove I didn’t kill her myself?’
She felt a heat of shame in her own face. At least she would not lie to him. ‘Yes.’
He did not question her, or blame her for thinking it possible.
‘She was cold when I found her,’ he replied. ‘Sean tried to blame me. The police would have been happy to agree, but I was with the Viceroy in the Residence in Phoenix Park at the time. Half a dozen staff saw me there, apart from the Viceroy himself, and the police on guard duty. They didn’t know who I was, but they would have recognised me in court, if it had been necessary. The briefest investigation showed them that I couldn’t have been anywhere near where Kate was killed. It also proved that Sean lied when he said he saw me, and that by his own admission, he was there.’ He hesitated. ‘If you need to, you can check it.’ His smile was there for a moment, then gone. ‘Don’t you think they’d have loved to hang me for it, if they’d had the ghost of a chance?’
‘Yes,’ she agreed, feeling the weight ease from her. Grief was one thing, but without guilt it was a passing wound, something that would heal. ‘I’m. . I’m sorry I needed to ask. Perhaps I should have known you wouldn’t have done it.’
‘I would like you to think well of me, Charlotte,’ he said quietly. ‘But I would rather you saw me as a real person, capable of good and ill, and of pity, and shame. .’
‘Victor. . don’t. .’
He turned away slowly, staring at the fire. ‘I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.’
She left quietly, going up to her room. She needed to be alone, and there was nothing either of them could say that would do anything but make matters worse.
They were at breakfast the following morning: she with a slight headache after sleeping badly; he weary, but with the mark of professionalism so graciously back in place that yesterday could have been a dream, something she thought of that had never happened.
They were eating toast and marmalade when the messenger arrived with a letter for Narraway. He thanked Mrs Hogan, who brought it, then tore it open.
Charlotte watched his face but she could not read anything more than surprise. When he looked up she waited for him to speak.
‘It’s from Cormac,’ he said gently. ‘He wants me to go and see him, at midday. He will tell me what happened, and give me proof.’
She was puzzled, remembering Cormac’s hate, the pain that seemed as sharp as it must have been the day it happened. She leaned forward. ‘Don’t go. You won’t, will you?’
He put the letter down. ‘I came for the truth, Charlotte. He may give it to me, even if it is not what he means to do. I have to go.’
‘He still hates you,’ she argued. ‘He can’t afford to face the truth, Victor. It would place him in the wrong. All he has left is his illusions of what really happened, that Kate was loyal to Ireland and the cause, and that it would all have worked, except for you. He can’t give that up.’
‘I know,’ he assured her, reaching out his lean hand and touching her gently, for an instant, then withdrawing it again. ‘But I can’t afford not to go. I have nothing left to lose either. If it was Cormac who created the whole betrayal of Mulhare, I need to know how he did it, and be able to prove it to Croxdale.’ His face tightened. ‘Rather more than that, I need to find out who is the traitor in Lisson Grove. I can’t let that go.’ He did not offer any rationalisation, taking it for granted that Charlotte understood.
It gave her an odd feeling of being included, even of belonging. It was frightening for the emotional enormity of it, and yet there was a warmth to it she would not willingly have sacrificed.
She did not argue any further, but nodded, and determined to follow after him and stay where she could see him.
He went out of the house quite casually, as if merely to look at the weather. Then, as she came to the door, he turned and walked quickly towards the end of the road.
She followed after him, barely having time to close the door behind her, and needing to run a few steps to keep up. She had a shawl on and her reticule with her, and sufficient money for as long a fare as she would be likely to need.
He disappeared round the corner into the main street. She had to hurry to make sure she saw which way he went. As she had expected, he went straight to the first carriage waiting, spoke to the driver, then climbed in.
She swung round with her back to the road and pretended to look in a shop window. As soon as he had passed she darted out into the street to look for a second carriage. It was long, desperate moments before she found one. She gave the driver the address of Cormac O’Neil’s house and urged him to go as fast as possible. She was already several minutes behind.
‘I’ll pay you an extra shilling if you catch up with the carriage that just left here,’ she promised. ‘Please hurry. I don’t want to lose him.’
She sat forward, peering out as the carriage careered down the street, swung round the corner and then set off again at what felt like a gallop. She was tossed around, bruised and without any sense of where she was, for what felt like ages, but was probably no more than fifteen minutes at most. Then finally they lurched to a stop outside the house where she had been the previous evening.
She stepped out, taking a moment to find her balance after the hectic ride. She paid him more than he had asked for, and then an extra shilling.
‘Thank you,’ she said. Then she walked up the same path she had trodden in the evening light such a short time ago. Somehow, at midday, the path looked longer, the bushes more crowding in, the trees overhead cut out more of the sky.
She had not reached the front door when she heard the dog barking. It was an angry, frightening sound, with a note of hysteria to it, as if the animal were out of control. It had certainly not been like that yesterday evening. It had been calm, resting its head on O’Neil’s feet and barely noticing her.
She was surprised Cormac did not come to see what the fuss was. He could not possibly be unaware of the noise.
She touched the door with her fingers and it opened.
Narraway was standing in the hall. He swung round as the light spread across the floor. For a moment he was startled, then he regained his presence of mind.
‘I should have known,’ he said grimly. ‘Wait here.’
The dog was now throwing itself at whatever barrier it was that held it in check. Its barking was high in its throat, as if it would rip someone to shreds the moment it could reach them.
Charlotte would not leave Narraway alone. She stepped inside and looked for the umbrella stand she had noticed yesterday. She saw it, picked out a sharp-ferruled black umbrella and held it as if it were a swordstick.
The barking was reaching a climax.
Ahead of her Narraway went to the sitting-room door, to the right of where the dog was hurling itself at
