stared at Croxdale, seeing his face waver and the room seem to swim in and out of his focus.
‘I’m sorry,’ Croxdale said gravely. ‘It has already come as a terrible shock to you. You could have had no idea of this side of Narraway, and I admit, neither had I. I feel remiss to have had such a man in charge of our most sensitive service during my period of office. His extraordinary skill completely masked this darker, and clearly very duplicitous side of his nature.’
Pitt refused to believe it, partly because he could not bear it. Charlotte was in Ireland with Narraway. What had happened to her? How could he ask Croxdale without admitting that he knew this? He would not draw Vespasia into it. She was one element he had in his favour, perhaps the only one.
Croxdale spoke very quietly now, as if he feared some waiting servant might hear him.
‘Pitt, this is very grave indeed. I’m glad you see the depth of it so immediately. We have to regroup our forces to meet this appalling situation. There seem to be plots on all sides. I’m sure what you and Gower were witness to is part of some larger, and possibly very dangerous plan. The socialist tide has been rising for some time in Europe, as we are all aware. I can no longer have Narraway in charge, obviously. I need the very best I can find, a man I can trust morally and intellectually, whose loyalty is beyond question and who has no ghosts from the past to sabotage our present attempts to safeguard our country, and all it stands for.’
Pitt blinked. ‘Of course.’ Did that mean that Croxdale knew Austwick was the traitor? Pitt had been avoiding the issue, waiting, judging pointlessly. It was a relief. Croxdale was clever, more reliable than he had thought. Then how could he think such things of Narraway?
But what was Pitt’s judgement to rely on? He had trusted Gower!
Croxdale was still looking at him intently.
Pitt could think of nothing to say.
‘We need a man who knows what Narraway was doing and can pick up the reins he dropped,’ Croxdale said. ‘You are the only man who fits that description, Pitt. It’s a great deal to ask of you, but there is no one else, and your skills and integrity are things about which I believe Narraway was both right and honest.’
‘But. . Austwick. .’ Pitt stammered. ‘He-’
‘Is a good stopgap,’ Croxdale said coolly. ‘He is not the man for the job in such dangerous times as these. Frankly, he has not the ability to lead, or to make the difficult decisions of such magnitude. He was a good enough lieutenant.’
Pitt’s head swam. He had not the experience of decision-making, the mastery of the political stakes, or the nerve and self-belief to stake his own judgement above that of others and act, swiftly, secretly and with devastating power, as Narraway had had. Only in this moment, looking at Croxdale, did he grasp some of the magnitude of Narraway’s job.
‘Neither have I the skills,’ he said aloud. ‘And I haven’t been in the service long enough for the other men to have confidence in me. I will support Austwick to the best of my ability, but I haven’t the abilities to take on the leadership.’
Croxdale smiled. ‘I thought you would be modest. It is a good quality. Arrogance leads to mistakes. I’m sure you will seek advice, and take it — at least most of the time. But you have never lacked judgement before, or the courage to go with your own beliefs. I know your record, Pitt. Do you imagine you have gone unnoticed in the past?’ He asked it gently, as if with a certain degree of amusement.
‘I imagine not,’ Pitt conceded. ‘You will know a good deal about anyone, before taking them into the service at all. But-’
‘Not in your case,’ Croxdale contradicted him. ‘You were Narraway’s recruit. But I have made it my business to learn far more about you since then. Your country needs you now, Pitt. Narraway has effectively betrayed our trust.You were Narraway’s second-in-command.This is your duty, as well as your privilege to serve.’ He held out his hand.
Pitt was overwhelmed, not with pleasure or any sense of honour, but with mourning for Narraway, fear for Charlotte, and the knowledge that this weight of command, of power for good and ill, he did not want. It was not in his nature to act with certainty when the balance of judgement was so unclear, and the stakes were the lives of other men.
‘We look to you, Pitt,’ Croxdale said again. ‘Don’t fail your country, man!’
‘No, sir,’ Pitt said unhappily. ‘I will do everything I can, sir. .’
‘Good.’ Croxdale smiled. ‘I knew you would. That is one thing Narraway was right about. I will inform the necessary people, including the Prime Minister, of course. Thank you, Pitt. We are grateful to you.’
Pitt accepted: he had little choice. Croxdale began to outline to him exactly what his task would be, his powers, and the rewards.
It was midnight when Pitt walked outside into the lamplit night and found Croxdale’s own carriage waiting to take him home.
Chapter Nine
Charlotte walked away from Cormac O’Neil’s home with as much composure as she could muster, but she had the sinking fear inside her that she looked as afraid and bewildered as she felt, and as helplessly angry. Whatever else Narraway might have been guilty of — and it could have been a great deal — she was certain that he had not killed Cormac O’Neil. She had arrived at the house almost on his heels. She had heard the dog begin to bark as Narraway went into the house, and continue more and more hysterically, knowing there was an intruder, and perhaps already aware of O’Neil’s death.
Had Cormac cried out? Had he even seen his killer, or had he been shot in the back? She had not heard a gun fire. That was it, of course! She had heard the dog bark, but no gunshot. The dog had barked at Narraway, but not at whoever had fired the shot.
She stopped in the street, standing rooted to the spot as the realisation shook her with its meaning. Narraway could not possibly have shot Cormac. Her certainty was not built on her belief in him but on evidence: facts that were not capable of any other reasonable interpretation. She turned on her heel and stepped out urgently, striding across the street back towards O’Neil’s house, then stopped again just as suddenly. Why should they believe her? She knew that what she said was true, but would anyone else substantiate it?
Of course not! Talulla would contradict it because she hated Narraway. With hindsight, that had been perfectly clear, and predictable. She would be only too delighted if he were hanged for Cormac’s murder. To her it would be justice — the sweeter now after the long delay. She must know he was not guilty because she had been close enough to have heard the dog start to bark herself, but she would be the last person to say so.
Narraway would know that. She remembered his face as he allowed the police to handcuff him. He had looked at Charlotte only once, concentrating everything he had to say in that one glance. He needed her to understand.
He also needed her to keep a very calm mind and to think: to work it out detail by detail and not act before she was certain — not only of the truth, but that she could prove it so it could not be ignored. It is very difficult indeed to make people believe what is against all their emotions: the conviction of friend and enemy years deep, paid for in blood and loss.
She was still standing on the pavement. Just over a hundred yards away, a small crowd had gathered because of the violence and the presence of the police. They were staring, wondering what was the matter with her.
She swallowed, straightened her skirt, then turned yet again and walked back towards where she judged to be the best place to find a carriage to take her to Molesworth Street. There were many practical considerations to weigh very carefully. She was completely alone now. There was no one at all she could trust. She must consider whether to remain at Mrs Hogan’s or if it would be safer to move to somewhere else where she would be less exposed. Everyone knew her as Narraway’s half-sister.
But where else could she go? How long would it take anyone to find her again in a town the size of Dublin? She was a stranger, an Englishwoman, on her own. She knew no one except those Narraway had introduced her to. A couple of hours’ enquiring would find her again, and she would merely look ridiculous, and evasive, as if she had something of which to be ashamed.
