They’ll need to be a lot cleverer than that.’
Gower swallowed hard. ‘What, then?’ he said quietly.
‘Something to destroy that power permanently. A change so fundamental it can’t be undone.’ As he said the words they frightened him. Something violent and alien waited ahead of them. Perhaps they were the only ones who could prevent it.
Gower let out his breath in a sigh. He looked pale. Pitt watched his face, obliquely, as if he were still more absorbed in enjoying the sun, thinking of swivelling round to watch the sailing boats in the harbour again. They would have to rely on each other totally. It was going to be a long, tedious job. They dare not miss anything. The slightest clue could matter. They would be cold at night, possibly hungry or uncomfortable. Always tired. Above all, they must not look suspicious. He was glad he liked Gower’s humour, his lightness of touch.There were many men in Special Branch he would have found it much harder to be with.
‘That’s Linsky now, coming out of the door!’ Gower stiffened, and then deliberately forced his body to relax, as if this sharp-nosed man with the sloping forehead and stringy hair were of no more interest than the baker, the postman, or another tourist.
Pitt straightened up, put his hands in his pockets quite casually, going down the steps to the square after him.
Chapter Two
In the early evening of the day that Pitt and Gower had followed Wrexham to Southampton, Victor Narraway was sitting in his office at Lisson Grove. There was a knock on his door, and, as soon as he answered, one of his more junior men came in.
‘Yes?’ Narraway said with a touch of impatience. He was waiting for Pitt to report on the information from West, and he was late. Narraway had no wish to speak to Stoker now.
Stoker closed the door behind him and came to stand in front of Narraway’s desk. His lean face, with its high-bridged nose, was unusually serious. ‘Sir, there was a murder in a brickyard off Cable Road in Shadwell in the middle of the day-’
‘Are you sure I care about this, Stoker?’ Narraway interrupted.
‘Yes, sir,’ Stoker said without hesitation. ‘The victim had his throat cut, and the man who did it was caught almost in the act, knife still in his hand. He was chased by two men who seem to have followed him to Limehouse, according to the investigation by the local police. Then-’
Narraway interrupted him again impatiently. ‘Stoker, I’m waiting for information about a major attack of some sort by socialist revolutionaries, possibly another spate of dynamitings.’ Then suddenly he was chilled to the bone. ‘Stoker. .’
‘West, sir,’ Stoker said immediately. ‘The man with his throat cut was West. It looks as if Pitt and Gower went after the man who did it, at least as far as Limehouse, probably across the river to the railway station. From there they could have gone anywhere in the country. There’s been no word. No telephone call.’
Narraway felt the sweat break out on his body. It was almost a relief to hear something. But where the hell was Pitt now? Why had he not at least placed a telephone call? The train could have gone anywhere. Even on an all-night train to Scotland he could have got off at one of the stations on the way and called.
Then another thought occurred to him: Dover — or any of the other seaports. Folkestone, Southampton. If he were on a ship, then calls would be impossible. That would explain the silence.
‘I see. Thank you,’ he said aloud.
‘Sir.’
‘Say nothing to anyone, for the time being.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Thank you. That’s all.’
After Stoker had gone Narraway sat still for several minutes. To have lost West, with whatever information he had, was serious. There had been increased activity lately, known troublemakers coming and going more often than usual, a charge of expectancy in the air. He knew all the signs, he just did not know what the target was this time. There were so many possibilities: specific assassination, such as a government minister, an industrialist; a foreign dignitary on British soil — that would be a serious embarrassment — or the dynamiting of a major landmark. He had relied on Pitt to find out. Perhaps he still might, but without West it would be more difficult.
And of course it was not the only issue at hand. There were always whispers, threats. The air breathed suspicion and betrayal all the time. It was the purpose of Special Branch to detect it before it happened, and prevent at least the worst of it.
But if Pitt had gone to some distant part of the country after the murderer of West, or worse still, across the Channel, and had had no time to tell Narraway, then certainly he would not have had time to tell his wife either. Charlotte would be at home in Keppel Street waiting for him, expecting him, and growing more and more afraid with each passing hour as the silence closed in on her.
Narraway glanced at the long-case clock standing against the wall of his office. Its ornate hands pointed at quarter to seven. On a usual day Pitt would have gone home already, but she might not begin to be anxious for another hour or two.
He thought of her in the kitchen, preparing the evening meal, probably alone. Her children would be occupied with studies for the following day’s school. He could picture her easily; in fact the picture was already there in his mind, unbidden. Beauty was very much a personal thing, a matter of taste, the ability to see beyond the obvious into some element of the passions or dreams where the essence of a person was hidden.
Some would not have found Charlotte beautiful. They might have preferred a face more traditional, daintier, less challenging. Narraway found such faces boring. There was a warmth in Charlotte, a laughter he could never quite forget — and he had tried. She was quick to anger at times, far too quick to react. Many of her judgements were flawed, in his opinion, but never her courage, never her will.
Someone must tell her that Pitt had gone in hot pursuit of West’s murderer — no, better leave out the fact that West had been murdered. Pitt had gone in hot pursuit of a man with vital information, possibly across the Channel, and been unable to telephone her to let her know. He could call Stoker back and send him, but she did not know him. She did not know anyone else at Lisson Grove headquarters. It would be the courteous thing to tell her himself. It would not be far out of his way. Well, yes it would, but it would still be the better thing to do.
Pitt, for all his initial ignorance of Special Branch ways, and his occasional political naivety, was one of the best men Narraway had ever known. There was an honesty in him that was exasperating at times, reflecting his origins as a gamekeeper’s son. He had been educated in the household of the manor, side by side with the master’s son, but never his social equal. It had produced a man by nature a gentleman, and yet with an anger and a compassion Narraway admired. He found himself puzzlingly protective of Pitt against the envy of those who had preceded him in Special Branch, but whom he had overtaken in skill.
Narroway tidied his desk, locked away anything that might be confidential, left his office, and caught a hansom within minutes. He gave the driver Pitt’s address in Keppel Street.
Narraway saw the fear in Charlotte’s eyes as soon as she opened the door to him. He would never have called merely socially, and she knew that. The strength of her emotion gave him a startling twinge of envy. It was a long time since there had been anyone who would have felt that terror for him.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ he said with rather stiff formality. ‘Events did not go according to plan today, and Pitt and his assistant were obliged to pursue a suspected conspirator without the opportunity to inform anyone of what was happening.’
The anxiety eased out of her eyes. Warmth coming back, flushing the soft honey colour of her skin. ‘Where is he?’ she asked.
He decided to sound more certain than he was. West’s murderer might have fled even as far as Scotland, but France was far more likely. ‘France,’ he replied. ‘Of course he could not telephone from the ferry, and he would not have dared leave in case the man got off as well, and he lost him. I’m sorry.’
She smiled. ‘It was very thoughtful of you to have come to tell me. I admit, I was beginning to be concerned.’
