on his instep.
He gasped with pain, but he did not let go of Narraway’s case.
She lifted her foot to do it again, harder.
‘Charlotte, let the damn thing go!’ Narraway hissed between his teeth.
She let not only his case go but her own also. She was so angry she could have struck him with an open hand, and so relieved she felt the tears prickle in her eyes and slide down her cheeks.
‘I suppose you’ve no money!’ she said tartly, choking on the words.
‘Not much,’ he agreed. ‘I borrowed enough from an old aquaintance of mine, O’Casey, to get as far as Holyhead. But since you have my luggage, we’ll manage the rest. Keep moving. We need to buy tickets, and I would very much like to catch this steamer. I might not have the opportunity to wait for the next. I imagine the police will think of this. It’s the obvious way to go, but I need to be back in London. I have a fear that something very nasty indeed is going to happen.’
‘Several very nasty things already have,’ she told him.
‘I know. But we must prevent what we can.’
‘I know what happened with Mulhare’s money. I’m pretty sure who was behind it all.’
‘Are you?’ There was an eagerness in his voice that he could not hide, even now in this pushing, noisy crowd.
‘I’ll tell you when we are on board. Did you hear the dog?’
‘What dog?’
‘Cormac’s dog.’
‘Of course I did. The poor beast hurled itself at the door almost as soon as I was in the house.’
‘Did you hear the shot?’
‘No. Did you?’ he was startled.
‘No,’ she said with a smile.
‘Ah!’ He was level with her now and they were at the ticket counter. ‘I see.’ He smiled also, but at the salesman. ‘Two for the Holyhead boat, please.’
Chapter Ten
Pitt was overwhelmed with the size and scope of his new responsibilities. There was so much more to consider than the relatively minor issues of whether the socialist plot in Europe was something that could be serious, or only another manifestation of the sporadic violence that had occurred in one place or another for the last several years. Even if some specific act were planned, very possibly it did not concern England.
The alliance with France required that he pass on any important information to the French authorities, but what did he know that was anything more than speculation? West had been killed before he could tell him whatever it was he knew. With hindsight now, it had presumably been Gower who was a traitor. But had there been more to it than that? Had West also known who else in Lisson Grove was — what? A socialist conspirator? To be bought for money, or power? Or was it not what they wished to gain so much as what they were afraid to lose? Was it blackmail over some real or perceived offence? Was it someone who had been made to appear guilty, as Narraway had, but this person had yielded to pressure in order to save himself?
Had Narraway been threatened, and defied them? Or had they known better than to try, and he had simply been professionally destroyed, without warning?
Pitt sat in Narraway’s office, which was now his own: a cold and extraordinarily isolating thought. Would he be next? It was hard to imagine that he posed the threat to them that Narraway had, whoever they were. He looked around the room. It was so familiar to him from the other side of the desk, that even with his back to the wall he could see in his mind’s eye the pictures that Narraway used to have there. They were mostly pencil drawings of bare trees, the branches delicate and complex, the sky behind them only suggested. There was one exception: an old stone tower by the sea, but again the foreground was in exquisite detail of light and shadow, the sea only a feeling of distance without end.
He would ask Austwick where they were, and put them back where they belonged. If Narraway ever returned here, then Pitt would give them back to him. They were his and he must care about them. They were part of the furniture of his mind, of his life. They would give Pitt a sense of his presence, and it was both sad and comforting at the same time.
Narraway would have known what to do about these varied and sometimes conflicting remnants of work that scattered the desk now. Some were reports from local police, some from Special Branch men in various parts of the country; many were from other towns and cities in Europe. Pitt was familiar with some of them, but he had only a vague knowledge of others. They were cases Narraway had dealt with himself.
Austwick had left him notes, but how could he trust anything Austwick had said? He would be a fool to, without corroboration from someone else, and that would take time he could not afford now. And who could he trust? There was nothing but to go on. He would have to proceed with the most urgent cases first, comparing one piece of information with another, cancelling out the impossible and then weighing what was left.
As the morning wore on, and assistants of one sort or another came with new papers, more opinions, he became painfully aware of how isolated Narraway must have been. Some people he could rely on for honesty, but perhaps not for judgement, at least not in all things. Others he dared not even believe as to matters of fact. None dare he confide in. He was commander now. They did not expect him to consult, to defer, to be vulnerable or confused in anything.
He looked in their faces and saw courtesy, respect for his new position. In a few he also saw envy. Once he recognised an anger that he, such a relative newcomer, should have been promoted before his time. In none did he see the kind of respect he needed in order to command their personal loyalty beyond their commitment to the task. That could only exist when it had been earned.
He would have given most of what he possessed to have Narraway back right now. He would even have given away his excellent, expensive boots, which afforded him comfortable feet. No bodily discomfort could threaten as much as the anxiety that he would make a bad judgement, fail to understand the importance of some piece of information, or simply not have the courage, the wisdom and the astuteness of intelligence to make all the right choices. One big mistake could be sufficient to cost someone his life.
Now Narraway was somewhere in Ireland. Why had Charlotte gone with him? To help fight against injustice, out of loyalty to a friend in desperate need? How like her! But Narraway was Pitt’s friend, not really hers. And yet now, remembering a dozen small things, he knew that Narraway was in love with her, and had been for some time.
He knew exactly when he had first subconciously noticed it. He had seen Narraway turn to look at her. They had been standing in the kitchen in the house in Keppel Street. It had been during a bad case, a difficult one. Narraway had come to see him late in the evening over something or other, a new turn in events. They had had tea. Charlotte had been standing waiting for the kettle to boil again. She had been wearing an old dress, not expecting anyone except Pitt. The lamplight had shone on her hair, bringing up the warm, deep colour of it, and on the angle of her cheek. He could see her in his mind’s eye picking up the mitt so as not to burn her hands on the kettle.
Narraway had said something, and she had looked at him and laughed. In an instant his face had given him away.
Did she know?
It had taken her what seemed like ages to realise that Pitt was in love with her, years ago, in the beginning. But since then they had all changed. She had been awkward, the middle sister of three, the one her mother found so difficult to match with an acceptable husband. But now she knew she was loved and it was impossible she could be unaware of how deeply Pitt cared.
She would be furiously angry at the injustice against Narraway, and she would still feel a gratitude to Narraway for having taken Pitt into Special Branch when he so badly needed it. Life could have become very bleak indeed. And if she knew that Narraway loved her that could be an added sense of responsibility, even of debt. To think of it as a debt was ridiculous — she had not asked for his regard — but Pitt knew the fierce protectiveness she felt towards the vulnerable. It was instinct, defensive, like an animal with cubs. She would act first, and think
