than a child. His own intelligence told him that was because he had known her since she was thirteen, and she had not grown much taller than she was then. He knew her ability and her courage through experience. Who was this Minnie Maude left alone in charge of his children? She could be anyone!
‘About twenty,’ Vespasia replied. ‘Gracie has known her since she was eight. She has courage and sense. There is nothing to concern yourself about, Thomas. As I said, I kept a discreet eye on the girl via Gracie and everything was satisfactory. Perhaps just as importantly, both Daniel and Jemima like her. Do you imagine I would allow the situation to remain if that were not so?’
Now he felt clumsy and deeply ungracious. ‘No.’ He knew an apology was appropriate. His fear had made him foolish, and rude. ‘Of course not. I’m sorry. I. .’ He hunted for words.
She smiled. It was a sudden, beautiful gesture that lit her face and restored everything of the beauty that had made her famous. ‘I would think less of you were you to take it for granted,’ she said. ‘Now, before you leave, would you like tea? And are you hungry? If you are I shall have whatever you care for prepared. In the meantime we need to discuss what is to be done next. It is now up to you to address the real issue behind all this ploy and counterploy by whoever is the traitor at Lisson Grove.’
Her words were suddenly and hideously sobering. How like Vespasia to discuss the fate of revolution, murder, and treason in high places over tea and a plate of sandwiches in the withdrawing room. It restored a certain sanity to the world. At least something was as it should be.
Pitt drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, steadying himself. ‘Thank you. I should very much like a good cup of tea. The prison in Shoreham had only the most moderate amenities. And a sandwich would be excellent.’
Pitt arrived home at Keppel Street in the early afternoon. Both Daniel and Jemima were still at school. He knocked on the door, rather than use his key and startle this Minnie Maude in whom Vespasia seemed to have so much confidence.
He stood on the step shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his mind racing over what changes he might find: what small things uncared for, changed so it was no longer the home he was used to, and which he realised he loved fiercely, exactly as it was. Except, of course, Charlotte should be there. Without her, nothing was more than a shell.
The door opened and a young woman stood just inside, her expression guarded.
‘Yes, sir?’ She said it politely, but stood squarely blocking the way in. ‘Can I ’elp yer?’ She was not pretty but she had beautiful hair: thick and curling and of a rich, bright colour. And she had the freckles on her face that so often went with such vividness. She was far taller than Gracie, but slender. However, she had the same direct, almost defiant gaze.
‘Are you Minnie Maude?’ he asked.
‘Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but that in’t yer business,’ she replied. ‘If yer want the master, yer gimme a card, an’ I’ll ask ’im to call on yer.’
He could not help smiling. ‘I’ll give you a card, by all means.’ He fished for one in his pocket and passed it to her, then wondered if she could read. He had become used to Gracie reading, since Charlotte had taught her.
Minnie Maude looked at the card, then up at him, then at the card again.
He smiled at her.
The blush spread up her cheeks in a hot tide. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she stumbled over the words. ‘I din’t know yer.’
‘Don’t be sorry,’ he said quickly. ‘You shouldn’t allow anyone in unless you know who they are, and not just because they say so.’
She stood back, allowing him to pass. He went into the familiar hallway, and immediately smelled the lavender floor polish. The hall mirror was clean, the surfaces free of dust. Jemima’s shoes were placed neatly side by side under the coat stand.
He walked down to the kitchen and looked around. Everything was as it should be: blue-and-white ringed plates on the Welsh dresser, copper pans on the wall, kitchen table scrubbed, the stove burning warm but not over-hot. He could smell newly baked bread and the clean, comfortable aroma of fresh laundry hanging from the airing rail up near the ceiling. He was home again. There was nothing wrong, except that his family was not there. But he knew where Charlotte was, and the children were at school.
‘Would you like a cup o’ tea, sir?’ Minnie Maude asked in an uncertain voice.
He did not really need one so soon after leaving Vespasia’s, but he felt she would like to do something familiar and useful.
‘Thank you,’ he accepted. He had been obliged to buy several necessities for the days he had been in France, including the case in which he now carried them. ‘I have a little laundry in my bag, but I don’t know whether I shall be home for dinner or not. I’m sorry. If I am, something cold to eat will do very well.’
‘Yes, sir. Would you like some cold mutton an’ ’ot bubble and squeak? That’s wot Daniel an’ Jemima’ll be’avin’, as it’s wot they like. ’Ceptin’ they like eggs wif it.’
‘Eggs will be excellent, thank you.’ He meant it. It sounded familiar, comfortable and very good.
Vespasia had warned Pitt not to go to Lisson Grove, but he had no choice, and at least now he was far more aware of the situation. He could not learn what was really planned, rather than the bluff that had taken him to France and kept him there so long. He was still both angry and embarrassed by the ease with which he had been duped.
Also he could do nothing to help Narraway — and now, obviously, Charlotte as well — without information he could learn only there.
And of course there was the question of explaining what had happened to Gower. He had no idea how badly he had been disfigured by the fall from the train, but every effort would be made to identify him, and the police were bound to succeed sooner or later. Indeed, when he reached Lisson Grove he might find that it had already happened.
What should his story be? How much of the truth could he tell without losing every advantage of surprise that he had? He did not know who his enemies were, but they certainly knew him. His instinct was to affect as much ignorance as possible. The less they considered him a worthwhile opponent, the less likely they were to eliminate him. It would be a manner of camouflage, at least for a while.
He should be open and honest about the attack on the train. It was a matter of record with the police. But it would be easy enough — highly believable, in fact — to claim that he had no idea who the man was; remove every thought that it was personal.
He had last seen Gower in St Malo, when they agreed that Pitt should come home to see what Lisson Grove knew of any conspiracy, and that Gower should remain in France and watch Frobisher and Wrexham, and anyone else of interest. Naturally, Pitt would know nothing of Narraway’s disgrace, and be thoroughly shocked.
He arrived just before four o’clock. He went in through the door, past the man on duty just inside, and asked to see Narraway.
He was told to wait, as he had expected, but it was a surprisingly short time before Charles Austwick himself came down and conducted Pitt up to what used to be Narraway’s office. Pitt noticed immediately that all signs of Narraway were gone: his pictures; the photograph of his mother, which used to sit on top of the bookcase; the few personal books of poetry and memoirs; the engraved brass bowl from his time in North Africa.
He stared at Austwick, allowing his sense of loss to show in his face, hoping Austwick would see it as confusion.
‘Sit down, Pitt.’ Austwick waved him to the chair opposite the desk. ‘Of course you’re wondering what the devil’s going on. I’m afraid I have some shocking news for you.’
Pitt forced himself to look alarmed, as if his imagination were racing. ‘Something has happened to Mr Narraway? Is he hurt? Ill?’
‘I’m afraid in some ways it is worse than that,’ Austwick said sombrely. ‘Narraway appears to have stolen a rather large amount of money, and — when faced with it — he disappeared. We believe he has gone to Ireland. Obviously he has been dismissed from the service, and — at least for the time being — I have replaced him. I am sure that is temporary, but until further notice, you will report to me. I’m sorry. It must be a great blow to you, indeed it is to all of us. I don’t think anyone imagined Narraway, of all people, would give in to that kind of temptation.’
