She was walking briskly along the pavement, trying to appear to know precisely where she was going and to what purpose, although only the former was true. There was a carriage ahead of her setting down a fare, and she could hire him if she were quick enough. She reached him just as he moved his horse forward and began to turn.
‘Sir!’ she called out. ‘Will you be good enough to take me back to Molesworth Street?’
‘Sure, an’ I’ll be happy to,’ he responded, completing his turn and pulling the horse up.
She thanked him and climbed up into the carriage, sitting down with considerable relief, and feeling intensely grateful as the wheels rumbled over the cobbles and they picked up speed. She did not turn to look behind her; she could picture the scene just as clearly as if she could see it. Narraway should still be in the house, manacled like some dangerous criminal. He must feel desperately alone. Was he frightened? Certainly he would never show it.
Charlotte told herself abruptly to stop being so useless and self-indulgent. Pitt was somewhere in France with nobody else to rely on, believing Narraway was still at Lisson Grove. Not ever in his nightmares would he suppose Narraway could be in Ireland under arrest for murder, and Lisson Grove — or at least part of it — in the hands of traitors. Whatever she felt was irrelevant. The only task ahead of her was to rescue Narraway, and to do that she must find the truth and prove it.
Talulla Lawless knew who had killed Cormac because it had to be someone the dog would not bark at: therefore someone who had a right to be in Cormac’s home. The clearest answer was Talulla herself. Cormac lived alone; he had said so the previous evening when Charlotte had asked him. No doubt a local woman would come in every so often and clean for him, and do the laundry. Even assuming she had been here today, however, why on earth would she kill him? Where would she even get a gun?
Why would Talulla kill him? He was her uncle. But then how often was murder a family matter? She knew from Pitt’s cases in the past, very much too often. The next most likely answer would be a robbery, but any thief breaking in would have set the dog into a frenzy.
But then why would Talulla kill Cormac, and why now? Not purely to blame Narraway, surely? How could she even know that he would be there to be blamed?
The answer to that was obvious: it must have been she who had sent the letter luring Narraway to Cormac’s house. She of all people would be able to imitate his hand. Narraway might recall it from twenty years ago, but not in such tiny detail that he would recognise a good forgery.
But that still left the question as to why she had chosen to do it now. Cormac was her uncle; they were the only two still alive from the tragedy of twenty years ago. Cormac had no children, and her parents were dead. Surely both of them believed Narraway responsible for that?
Was Narraway on the brink of finding out something that she could not afford him to know?
That made incomplete sense. If it were true, then surely the obvious thing would be to have killed Narraway?
She recalled the look on Talulla’s face as she had seen Narraway standing near Cormac’s body. She had been almost hysterical. She might have a great ability to act, but surely not great enough to effect the sweat on her lip and brow, the wildness in her eyes, the catch in her voice as it soared out of control? And yet never once had she looked at Cormac’s body, as if she could not bear to — or she already knew exactly what she would see? She had not gone to him even to assure herself that he was beyond help. That must be because she already knew it. There had been nothing in her face but hate — no grief, no denial.
Charlotte was riding through the handsome streets of Dublin as if it could have been any city on earth. She was oblivious of the sights and sounds, except for a moment of sudden surprise as cold rain spattered through the open window, wetting her face and shoulder.
How much of this whole thing was Talulla responsible for? What about the issue of Mulhare and the embezzled money? She could not possibly have arranged that.
Or was someone in Lisson Grove using Irish passion and loyalties, old wounds opened up again, to further their own need to remove Narraway? If that were possible, not just a part of her fevered imagination, then who else was involved? Who could she ask? Were there any of Narraway’s supposed friends actually willing to help him? Or had he wounded or betrayed them all at one time or another, so that when it came to it they would take their revenge? He was totally vulnerable now. Could it be that at last they had stopped quarrelling with each other long enough to conspire to ruin him? Did they hate him more than they loved any kind of honesty? People justified hate in all sorts of ways. It could suspend normal morality. She knew that.
Perhaps that was a superficial judgement and one she had no right to make. What would she have felt, or done, were it all the other way around: if Ireland were the foreigner, the occupier in England? If someone had used and betrayed her family, would she be so loyal to her beliefs in honesty or impartial justice? Perhaps — but perhaps not. It was a question she could not answer except with hope that was meaningless without reality.
But Narraway was still innocent of killing Cormac, and, Charlotte realised as she said that to herself, she thought he was no more than partially guilty of the downfall of Kate O’Neil. The O’Neils had tried to use him, turn him to betray his country. They might well be furious that they had failed, but had they the right to exact vengeance for losing?
She needed to ask help from someone, because alone she might as well simply give up and go back to London, leaving Narraway to his fate, and eventually Pitt to his! Before she reached Molesworth Street and even attempted to explain the situation to Mrs Hogan, which she must do, she had decided to ask Fiachra McDaid for help.
‘What?’ McDaid said incredulously when Charlotte found him at his home and told him what had happened.
‘I’m sorry.’ She gulped and tried to regain her composure. She had thought herself in perfect control, and realised she was much further from it than she imagined. ‘We went to see Cormac O’Neil. At least Victor said he was going alone, but I followed him, just behind-’
‘You mean you found a carriage able to keep up with him in Dublin traffic?’ McDaid frowned.
‘No, no, I knew where he was going. I had been there the evening before myself.’
‘To see O’Neil?’ He looked incredulous.
‘Yes. Please. . listen.’ Her voice was rising again and she made an effort to calm it. ‘I arrived moments after he did. I heard the dog begin to bark as he went in, but no shot!’
‘It would bark.’ The frown deepened on his brow. ‘It barks for anyone except Cormac, or perhaps Talulla. She lives close by and looks after it if Cormac is away, which he is from time to time.’
‘Not the cleaning woman?’ she said quickly.
‘No. She’s afraid of it.’ He looked at her more closely, his face earnest. ‘Why? What does it matter?’
She hesitated, still uncertain how far to trust him. It was the only evidence she had that protected Narraway. Perhaps she should keep it to herself.
‘I suppose it doesn’t,’ she said, deliberately looking confused. Then, as coherently as she could, but missing out any further reference to the dog, she told him what had happened. As she did, she watched his face, trying to read the emotions in it, the belief or disbelief, the confusion or understanding, the loss or the triumph.
He listened without interrupting her. ‘They think Narraway shot Cormac? Why, for God’s sake?’
‘In revenge for Cormac having ruined him in London,’ she answered. ‘That’s what Talulla said. It makes a kind of sense.’
‘Do you think that’s what happened?’ he asked.
She nearly said that she knew it was not, then realised her mistake just in time. ‘No,’ she spoke guardedly now. ‘I was just behind him, and I didn’t hear a shot. But I don’t think he would do that anyway. It doesn’t make sense.’
He shook his head. ‘Yes it does. Victor loved that job of his. In a way it was all he had.’ He looked in conflict, emotions twisting his features. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean to imply that you are not important to him, but I think from what he said that you do not see each other so often.’
Now she was angry. She felt the anger well up inside her, knotting her stomach, making her hands shake, her voice thick as if she were a little drunk. ‘No. We don’t. But you’ve known Victor for years. Was he ever a fool?’
‘No, never. Many things, good and bad, but never a fool,’ he admitted.
