‘It isn’t the same!’ Pitt said with disappointment.
‘Nothing is,’ Gower agreed. ‘I think they do it on purpose.’
After another ten minutes of waiting, during which Wrexham still did not emerge, they walked back along the way they had come. They found an excellent cafe from which drifted the tantalising aroma of fresh coffee and warm bread.
Gower gave Pitt a questioning look.
‘Definitely,’ Pitt agreed.
There was, as Gower had suggested, thick, home-made apricot jam, and unsalted butter. There was also a dish of cold ham and other meats, and hard-boiled eggs. Pitt was more than satisfied by the time they rose to leave. Gower had asked the patron for directions to the post office. He also enquired as casually as possible, where they might find lodgings, and if number seven Rue St-Martin was a house of that description, adding that someone had mentioned it.
Pitt waited. He could see from the satisfaction in Gower’s face as they left and strode along the pavement that the answer had pleased him.
‘Belongs to an Englishman called Frobisher,’ he said with a smile. ‘Bit of an odd fellow, according to the patron. Lot of money, but eccentric. Fits the locals’ idea of what an English upper-class gentleman should be. Lived here for several years and swears he’ll never go home. Give him half a chance, and he’ll tell anyone what’s wrong with Europe in general, and England in particular.’ He gave a slight shrug and his voice was disparaging. ‘Number seven is definitely not a public lodging house, but he has guests more often than not, and the patron does not like the look of them. Subversives, he says. But then I gathered he is pretty conservative in his opinions. He suggested we would find Madame Germaine’s establishment far more to our liking, and gave me the address.’ He looked extraordinarily pleased with himself.
In honesty, Pitt could only agree. ‘We’ll send a telegram to Narraway, then see if Madame Germaine can accommodate us. You’ve done very well.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Gower increased very slightly the spring in his step and even started to whistle a little tune, rather well.
At the post office Pitt sent a telegram to Narraway: ‘Staying St Malo. Friends here we would like to know better. Need funds. Please send to local post office, soonest. Will write again.’
Until they received a reply, they would be wise to conserve what money they had left. However, they would find Madame Germaine, trusting that she had vacancies and would take them in.
‘Could be a while,’ Gower said thoughtfully. ‘I hope Narraway doesn’t expect us to sleep under a hedge. Wouldn’t mind in August, but April’s a bit sharp.’
Pitt did not bother to reply. It was going to be a long, and probably boring, duty. He was thinking of Charlotte at home, and his children, Jemima and Daniel. He missed them, but especially Charlotte, the sound of her voice, her laughter, the way she looked at him. They had been married for fourteen years, but every so often he was still overtaken by surprise that she had apparently never regretted it.
It had cost her her comfortable position in society, and the financial security she had been accustomed to, as well as the dinner parties, the servants, the carriages, the privileges of rank.
She had not said so — it would be heavy-handed — but in return she had gained a life of interest and purpose. Frequently she had been informally involved in his cases, at which she had considerable skill, although far less often since he had moved to Special Branch, where so much of the work was secret. She had married not for convenience but for love, and in dozens of small ways she had left him in no doubt of that.
Dare he send her a telegram as well? In this strange French street with its different sounds and smells, a language he understood little of, he ached for the familiar. But the telegram to Narraway was to a special address. If Wrexham were to ask the post office for it, it would reveal nothing. If Pitt allowed his loneliness for home to dictate his actions and communicate with Charlotte, he would have to give his home address. That might be a weakness for which he would pay at the very least in anxiety, at most in real fear, and perhaps even death. He should not let this peaceful street in the April sun, and a good breakfast, erase from his mind the memory of West lying in the brickyard with his throat slashed open and his blood oozing out onto the stones.
‘Yes, we’ll do that,’ he said aloud to Gower. ‘Then we will do what we can, discreetly, to learn as much as possible about Mr Frobisher.’
It was not difficult to observe number seven, Rue St-Martin. It was near the towering wall of the city, on the seaward side. Only fifty yards away, there was a flight of steps up to the walkway around the top. It was a perfect place from which to stand and gaze out to sea at the ever-changing horizon, or watch the boats tacking across the harbour in the wind, their sails billowing, careful to avoid the rocks, which were picturesque and highly dangerous. In turning to talk to each other, it was natural for them to lean for a few minutes on one elbow and gaze down at the street and the square. One could observe anybody coming or going without seeming to.
In the afternoon of the first day, Pitt checked at the post office. There was a telegram from Narraway, and arrangements for sufficient money to last them at least a couple of weeks. There was no reference to West, or the information he might have given, but Pitt did not expect there to have been. He walked back to the square, passing a girl in a pink dress and two women with baskets of shopping. He climbed up the steps on the wall again and found Gower leaning against the buttress at the top. His face was raised to the westering sun, which was gold in the late afternoon. He seemed to have his eyes shut and be smiling up into the light. He looked like any typical young Englishman on holiday.
Pitt stared out over the sea, watching the light on the water. ‘Narraway replied,’ he said quietly, not looking at Gower. ‘We’ll get the money. The amount he’s sending, he expects us to learn all we can.’
‘Thought he would.’
Gower did not turn either, and barely moved his lips. He could have been drifting into sleep, his weight relaxed against the warm stone. ‘There’s been some movement while you were gone. One man left, dark hair, very French clothes. Two went in.’ His voice became a little higher, more tightly pitched. ‘I recognised one of them — Pieter Linsky. I’m quite sure. He has a very distinctive face, and a limp from having been shot escaping from an incident in Lille. I think the man with him was Jacob Meister, but that’s only a guess.’
Pitt stiffened. He knew the names. Both men were active in socialist movements in Europe, travelling from one country to another fomenting as much trouble as they could, organising demonstrations, strikes, even riots in the cause of various reforms. But underneath all the demands was the underlying wish to overthrow the Establishment, the backbone that dominated society. Linsky in particular was unashamedly a revolutionary.
The remarkable thing was that their ideological differences were so intense it was extraordinary to see them together. The whole socialist movement was as passionate and idealistic as a new religion. There were the founders, who were viewed almost like apostles of the creed; dissenters were heretics. There were divisions and subdivisions, and the rivalries had all the fervour of evangelism. They even used these religious terms to speak of them.
Pitt let out his breath in a sigh. ‘I suppose you’re sure about Meister as well?’
Gower was motionless, still smiling in the sun, his chest barely rising and falling as he breathed. ‘Yes, sir, absolutely. I’ll bet that has something to do with what West was going to tell us. Those two together has to mean something pretty big.’
Pitt did not argue. The more he thought of it the more certain he was that it was indeed the storm Narraway had seen coming, and which was about to break over Europe if they did not prevent it.