awkward, her hands winding around each other, twisting her apron.
Charlotte addressed the subject before Mrs Hogan could search for the words.
‘You have heard about Mr O’Neil,’ she said gravely. ‘A very terrible thing to have happened. I hope Mr Narraway will be able to help them. He has some experience in such tragedies. But I quite understand if you would prefer that I move out of your house in the meantime. I will have to find something, of course, until I get my passage back home. I dare say it will take me a day or two. In the meantime I will pack my brother’s belongings and put them in my own room, so you may let his rooms to whomsoever you wish. I believe we are paid for another couple of nights at least?’ Please heaven within a couple of days she would be a great deal further on in her decisions, and at least one other person in Dublin would know for certain that Narraway was innocent.
Mrs Hogan was embarrassed. The issue had been taken out of her hands and she did not know how to rescue it. As Charlotte had hoped, she settled for the compromise. ‘Thank you, that would be most considerate, ma’am.’
‘If you will be kind enough to lend me the keys, I’ll do it straight away.’ Charlotte held out her hand.
Reluctantly Mrs Hogan passed them over.
Charlotte unlocked the door and went inside, closing it behind her. Instantly she felt intrusive. She would pack his clothes, of course, and have someone take the case to her room, unless she could drag it there herself.
But far more important than shirts, socks, personal linen, were whatever papers he might have. She wondered if he had committed anything to writing and whether it would even be in a form she could understand. If only she could at least ask Pitt! She had never missed him more. But then of course if he were here, she would be at home in London, not trying desperately to carry out a task for which she was so ill-fitted. This was not some domestic crime that could be pieced together at leisure. She was in a foreign country where she did not really know anyone, and the dreams and beliefs were alien. Above all, she was the enemy, and justly so. The weight of centuries of history was against her.
She opened the case, then went to the wardrobe and took out Narraway’s suits and shirts, folded them neatly and packed them. Then, feeling as if she were prying, she opened the drawers in the chest. She took out his underwear and packed it also, making sure she had his pyjamas from under the pillow in the bed. She included his extra pair of shoes, wrapped in a cloth to keep them from marking anything, and put them in as well.
She collected the toiletries, picking some long, black and grey hairs from his hairbrush. What a personal thing a hairbrush was. And a toothbrush, razor, and small clothes brush. He was an immaculate man. How he would hate being locked up in a cell with no privacy, and probably little means to wash.
What few papers there were were in the top drawer of the dresser. Thank heaven they were not locked in a briefcase. But that probably indicated that they would mean nothing to anyone else.
Back in her own room, with Narraway’s case propped in the corner, Charlotte looked at few notes he had made. They were a curious reflection on his character, a side of him she had not even guessed at before. They were mostly little drawings, very small indeed, but very clever. They were little stick men, but with such movement in them, and with perhaps only one characteristic that told her who they were.
There was one little man with striped trousers and a banknote in his hat, and beside him a woman with chaotic hair. Behind him was another woman, even thinner, her limbs poking jaggedly.
Even with arms and legs merely suggested, Charlotte knew they were John and Bridget Tyrone, and that Tyrone, being a banker, was important. The other woman had such a savagery about her it immediately suggested Talulla. Beside her was a question mark.
There was no more than that, except a man of whom she could see only the top half, as if he were up to his arms in something. She stared at it until it came to her with a shiver of revulsion. It was Mulhare, drowning — because the money had not been paid.
The little drawing suggested a connection between John Tyrone and Talulla. He was a banker — Charlotte knew that already — but this indicated that that was what mattered about him. Was he the connection to London? Had he the power, through his profession, to move money around from Dublin to London and, with the help of someone in Lisson Grove, to place it back in Narraway’s account?
Then who in Lisson Grove? And why? No one could tell her that but Tyrone himself.
Was it dangerous, absurd, to go to him? She had no one else she could turn to, because she did not know who else was involved. Certainly she could not go back to McDaid. She was growing more and more certain within herself that his remarks about innocent casualties of war were statements of his philosophy, and also a warning to her. He had a purpose, like a juggernaut, which would crush those who got in its way.
Was Talulla the prime mover in Cormac’s death, or only the instrument, used by someone else? Someone like John Tyrone, so harmless-seeming, but with power in Dublin, and in London, power to serve, or even to create a traitor in Lisson Grove?
There seemed to be two choices open to her: go to Tyrone himself; or give up and go home, leaving Narraway here to answer whatever charge they brought against him, presuming he lived long enough to face a trial. Would it be a fair trial, even? Possibly not. The old wounds were raw, and Special Branch would not be on his side. So she really had no choice at all.
The maid who answered the door let her in somewhat reluctantly.
‘I need to speak with Mr Tyrone,’ Charlotte said as soon as she was let into the large, high-ceilinged hall. ‘It is to do with the murder of Mr Mulhare, and now poor Mr O’Neil. It is most urgent.’
‘I’ll ask him, ma’am,’ the maid replied. ‘Who shall I say is calling?’
‘Charlotte Pitt.’ She hesitated only an instant. ‘Victor Narraway’s sister.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ She went across the hall and knocked on a door at the far side. It opened and she spoke for a moment, then returned to Charlotte. ‘If you’ll come with me, ma’am. .’
Charlotte followed her, and the maid knocked on the same door again.
‘Come in.’ Tyrone’s voice was abrupt.
The maid opened it for Charlotte to go past her.Tyrone had obviously been working — there were papers spread across the surface of the large desk.
He stood impatiently, making no attempt to hide the fact that she had interrupted him.
‘I’m sorry,’ she apologised. ‘I know it is late and I have come without invitation, but the matter is urgent. Tomorrow may be impossible for me to rescue what is left of the situation.’
He moved his weight from one foot to the other. ‘I am very sorry for you, Mrs Pitt, but I have no idea how I can help. Perhaps I should send the maid to see where my wife is.’ It was offered more as an excuse than a suggestion. ‘She is calling on a neighbour. She cannot be far.’
‘It is you I need to see,’ she told him. ‘And it might be more suitable for your reputation if the maid were to remain, although my enquiries are confidential.’
‘Then you should call at my place of business, within the usual hours,’ he pointed out.
She gave him a brief, formal smile. ‘Confidential to you, Mr Tyrone. That is why I came here.’
‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’
It was still only a deduction from Narraway’s drawings, but it was all she had left.
She plunged in. ‘The money for Mulhare that you transferred back into my brother’s account in London, which was responsible for Mulhare’s death, and my brother’s professional ruin, Mr Tyrone.’
He might have intended to deny it, but his face gave him away. The shock drained the blood from his skin, leaving him almost grey. He drew in his breath sharply, then changed his mind and said nothing. His eyes flickered; and for an instant Charlotte wondered if he were going to call for some kind of assistance and have her thrown out. Probably no servant would attack her, but if any other of the people involved in the plan were here, it would only increase her danger. McDaid had warned her.
Or did Tyrone even imagine she had had some hand in murdering Cormac O’Neil?
Now her own voice was shaking. ‘Mr Tyrone, too many people have been hurt already, and I’m sure you know poor Cormac was killed this morning. It is time for this to end. I would find it easy to believe that you had no idea what tragedies would follow the transfer of that money. Nor do I find it hard to sympathise with your hatred of those who occupy a country that is rightfully yours. But by using personal murder and betrayal you win nothing. You only bring more tragedy on those you involve. If you doubt me, look at the evidence. All the O’Neils are dead now. Even the loyalty that used to bind them is destroyed. Kate and Cormac have both been murdered, and by the very ones they loved.’
