Betrayal at Lisson Grove

Wrexham in Paris. Should they arrest him while they still had the chance? In the heat of the chase yesterday it had seemed like a good idea to see where he went, and more importantly, who he met. Now, when they were cold, tired, hungry and stiff, it felt a lot less sensible. In fact it was probably absurd.

‘We’d better arrest him and take him back,’ he said aloud.

‘Then we’ll have to do it before we get off,’ Gower pointed out. ‘Once we’re on French soil we’ll have no authority. Even the captain here is going to wonder why we didn’t do it in Southampton.’ His voice took on a note of urgency, his face grave. ‘Look, sir, I speak pretty good French. I’ve still got a reasonable amount of money. We could send a telegram to Narraway to have someone meet us in Paris. Then there wouldn’t be just the two of us. Maybe the French police would be pleased for the chance to follow him too?’

Pitt turned towards him, but he could barely make out his features in the faint light of the sky, and the dim reflection of the ship’s lights. ‘If he goes straight for the town, we’ll have no time to send a telegram,’ he pointed out. ‘It’ll take both of us to follow him. I don’t know why he hasn’t noticed us already.’ Actually that thought had troubled him through the night. Both he and Gower were above average height. In St Malo they would be even more conspicuous. Not only would their language betray them, but the cut of their clothes and the fact that they were obviously strangers. Wrexham could hardly be so blind as not to notice them in the clarity of daylight.

‘We should arrest him,’ he told Gower with regret. ‘Faced with the certainty of the rope, he might feel like talking.’

‘Faced with the certainty of the rope, he’d have nothing to gain,’ Gower pointed out.

Pitt smiled grimly. ‘Narraway’ll think of something, if what he says is worth enough.’

‘He might not go for the train,’ Gower said quickly, moving his weight to lean forward a little. ‘We were assuming he’ll go to Paris. Perhaps he won’t? Maybe whoever he’s going to meet is here. Why come to St Malo otherwise? He could have gone to Dover, and taken the train from Calais to Paris, if that was where he wanted to be. He still doesn’t know we’re on to him. He thinks he lost us in Ropemakers’ Fields. Let’s at least give it a chance!’

The argument was persuasive, and Pitt could see it might be worth waiting a little longer. ‘Right,’ he conceded. ‘But if he goes to the railway station, we’ll take him.’ He made a slight grimace. ‘If we can. He might shout for help that he’s being kidnapped. We couldn’t prove he wasn’t.’

‘Do you want to give up?’ Gower asked. His voice was tight with disappointment and Pitt thought he heard a trace of contempt in it.

‘No.’ There was no uncertainty in the decision. Special Branch was not primarily about justice for crimes, it was about preventing civil violence and the betrayal, subversion or overthrow of the government. They were too late to save West’s life. ‘No, I don’t,’ he repeated.

When they disembarked in the broadening daylight it was not difficult to pick Wrexham out from the crowd and follow him. He didn’t go, as Pitt had feared, to the train station, but into the magnificently walled old city. They did not dare lose sight of him, or Pitt would have taken time to look with far more interest at the massive ramparts as they went in through a vast entrance gate, which would have allowed several carriages to pass abreast. Once inside, narrow streets crisscrossed each other, the doors of the buildings flush with the footpaths. Dark walls towered four or five storeys high in uniform grey-black stone. It had a stern beauty he would have liked to explore, as if in those few yards they had stepped back in history. Knights on horseback would have ridden these streets, or swaggering corsairs straight from plunder at sea.

But they had to keep close to Wrexham. He was walking quickly as if he knew precisely where he was going, and not once did he look behind him. If he were out of their sight for more than a few seconds they could lose him. A knock at any of the entrances and he would disappear.

It was perhaps fifteen minutes later, when they were further to the south, when Wrexham stopped. He knocked briefly, and was let into a large house just off a stone-paved square, which was actually little more than a doubling of the width of street to perhaps thirty feet across. A slender tree decorated it, softening the harshness of the lines and giving it grace and character.

Pitt and Gower waited for nearly an hour, moving around, trying not to look conspicuous, but Wrexham did not come out again. Pitt imagined him having a hot breakfast and a wash and shave, and clean clothes. He said as much to Gower.

Gower rolled his eyes. ‘Sometimes it’s a lot easier being the villain,’ he said ruefully. ‘I could do very well by bacon, eggs, sausages, fried potatoes, then fresh toast and marmalade and a good pot of tea.’ Then he grinned. ‘Sorry. I hate to suffer alone.’

‘You’re not!’ Pitt responded with feeling. ‘We’ll do something like that, before we go and send a telegram to Narraway, then find out who lives in number seven,’ he glanced up at the wall, ‘Rue St-Martin.’

‘It’ll be hot coffee and fresh bread,’ Gower told him. ‘Apricot jam, if you’re lucky. Nobody understands marmalade except the British.’

‘Don’t they understand bacon and eggs?’ Pitt asked incredulously.

‘Omelette, maybe?’

‘It isn’t the same!’ Pitt said with disappointment.

‘Nothing is,’ Gower agreed. ‘I think they do it on purpose.’

After another ten minutes of waiting, during which Wrexham still did not emerge, they walked back along the way they had come. They found an excellent cafe from which drifted the tantalising aroma of fresh coffee and warm bread.

Gower gave Pitt a questioning look.

‘Definitely,’ Pitt agreed.

There was, as Gower had suggested, thick, home-made apricot jam, and unsalted butter. There was also a dish of cold ham and other meats, and hard-boiled eggs. Pitt was more than satisfied by the time they rose to leave. Gower had asked the patron for directions to the post office. He also enquired as casually as possible, where they might find lodgings, and if number seven Rue St-Martin was a house of that description, adding that someone had mentioned it.

Pitt waited. He could see from the satisfaction in Gower’s face as they left and strode along the pavement that the answer had pleased him.

‘Belongs to an Englishman called Frobisher,’ he said with a smile. ‘Bit of an odd fellow, according to the patron. Lot of money, but eccentric. Fits the locals’ idea of what an English upper-class gentleman should be. Lived here for several years and swears he’ll never go home. Give him half a chance, and he’ll tell anyone what’s wrong with Europe in general, and England in particular.’ He gave a slight shrug and his voice was disparaging. ‘Number seven is definitely not a public lodging house, but he has guests more often than not, and the patron does not like the look of them. Subversives, he says. But then I gathered he is pretty conservative in his opinions. He suggested we would find Madame Germaine’s establishment far more to our liking, and gave me the address.’ He looked extraordinarily pleased with himself.

In honesty, Pitt could only agree. ‘We’ll send a telegram to Narraway, then see if Madame Germaine can accommodate us. You’ve done very well.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Gower increased very slightly the spring in his step and even started to whistle a little tune, rather well.

At the post office Pitt sent a telegram to Narraway: ‘Staying St Malo. Friends here we would like to know better. Need funds. Please send to local post office, soonest. Will write again.’

Until they received a reply, they would be wise to conserve what money they had left. However, they would find Madame Germaine, trusting that she had vacancies and would take them in.

‘Could be a while,’ Gower said thoughtfully. ‘I hope Narraway doesn’t expect us to sleep under a hedge. Wouldn’t mind in August, but April’s a bit sharp.’

Pitt did not bother to reply. It was going to be a long, and probably boring, duty. He was thinking of Charlotte at home, and his children, Jemima and Daniel. He missed them, but especially Charlotte, the sound of her voice, her laughter, the way she looked at him. They had been married for fourteen years, but every so often he was still overtaken by surprise that she had apparently never regretted it.

It had cost her her comfortable position in society, and the financial security she had been accustomed to, as well as the dinner parties, the servants, the carriages, the privileges of rank.

She had not said so — it would be heavy-handed — but in return she had gained a life of interest and