He wasted no time knocking on the door. She would almost certainly not answer. And he had no time to wait.
He took off the jacket again, shivering with cold now, and perhaps also with fear. He smashed another window and within seconds was inside. At once the dog started barking furiously.
He looked around him. He went into some kind of pantry. He must get as far as the kitchen before she found him. If she let the dog attack him he had to be ready. And why would she not? He had broken into the house. He was already accused of Cormac’s murder. She would have every possible justification.
He opened the door quickly and found himself in the scullery, the kitchen beyond. He darted forward and grabbed at a small, hard-backed wooden chair just as Talulla opened the door from the farther side and the dog leapt forward, still barking hysterically.
She stopped, stunned to see him.
He lifted the chair, its thin, sharp legs pointed toward the dog.
“I don’t want to hurt the animal,” he said, having to raise his voice to be heard above it. “Call it off.”
“So you can kill me too?” she shouted back at him.
“Don’t be so damn stupid!” He heard the rage trembling in his own voice, abrasive, almost out of control. “You killed him yourself, to get your revenge at last.”
She smiled, a hard, glittering expression, vibrant with hate. “Well, I have, haven’t I? They’ll hang you, Victor Narraway. And the ghost of my father will laugh. I’ll be there to watch you—that I swear.” She turned to the dog. “Quiet, girl,” she ordered. “Don’t attack him. I want him alive to suffer trial and disgrace. Ripping his throat out would be too quick, too easy.” She looked back at him.
But the dog was distracted by something else now. It swung its head around and stared toward the front door, hackles raised, a low growl in its throat.
“Too easy?” Narraway heard his voice rising, the desperation in it palpable. She must hear it too.
She did, and her smile widened. “I want to see you hang, see your terror when they put the noose around your neck, see you struggle for breath, gasping, your tongue purple, filling your mouth and poking out. You won’t charm the women then, will you? Do you soil yourself when you hang? Do you lose all control, all dignity?” She was screeching now, her face twisted with the pain of her own imagination.
“Actually the function of the noose and the drop of the trapdoor is to break your neck,” he replied. “You are supposed to die instantly. Does that take the pleasure away for you?”
She stared at him, breathing heavily. The dog now was fully concentrated on the front door, the growl low in its throat, lips curled back off the teeth.
If she realized there was someone at the front, please God in heaven, the police, then she would stop, perhaps even claim he had attacked her. But this was the moment of her private triumph, when she could tell him exactly how she had brought about his ruin.
He made a sudden movement toward her.
The dog swung around, barking again.
He raised the chair, legs toward it, just in case it leapt.
“Frightened, Victor?” she said with relish.
“Why now?” he asked, trying to keep his voice level. He nearly succeeded, but she must have seen the sheen of sweat on his face. “It was McDaid, wasn’t it? He told you something? What? Why does he want all this? He used to be my friend.”
“You’re pathetic!” she said, all but choking over her words. “He hates you as much as we all do!”
“What did he tell you?” he persisted.
“How you seduced my whore of a mother and then betrayed her. You killed her, and let my father hang for it!” She was sobbing now.
“Then why kill poor Cormac?” he asked. “Was he expendable, simply to create a murder for which you could blame me? It had to be you who killed him, you’re the only one the dog wouldn’t bark at, because you feed her when Cormac’s away. She’s used to you in the house. She’d have raised the roof if it had been me.”
“Very clever,” she agreed. “But by the time you come to trial, no one else will know that. And no one will believe your sister, if that’s who she is, because they’ll all know she would lie for you.”
“Did you kill Cormac just to get me?” he asked again.
“No! I killed him because he didn’t raise a hand to save my father! He did nothing! Absolutely nothing!”
“You were only a child, not even eight years old,” he pointed out.
“McDaid told me!” she sobbed.
“Ah yes, McDaid—the Irish hero who wants to turn all Europe upside down in a revolution to change the social order, sweep away the old, and bring in the new. And do you imagine that will bring Ireland freedom? To him you are expendable, Talulla, just as I am, or your parents, or anyone else.”
It was at that point that she let go of the dog’s collar and shrieked at it to attack, just as the police threw open the door to the hall and Narraway raised the chair as the dog leapt and sent him flying to land hard on his back, half winding him.
One of the policemen grabbed the animal by its collar, all but choking it. The other seized hold of Talulla.
Narraway climbed to his feet, coughing and gasping to get his breath.
“Thank you,” he said hoarsely. “I hope you have been here rather longer than it would appear.”
“Long enough,” the elder of the two responded. “But there’ll still be one or two charges for you to answer, like assaulting a policeman while in custody, and escaping custody. If I were you, I’d run like hell and never come back to Ireland, Mr. Narraway.”
“Very good advice.” Narraway stood to attention, gave the man a smart salute, then turned and ran, exactly as he had been told.
————
IN THE MORNING THERE was no alternative for Charlotte but to have a hasty breakfast, pay Mrs. Hogan the last night for which she owed her. Then, with Mrs. Hogan’s assistance, she sent for a carriage to take her and all the baggage as far as the police station where Narraway was held.
It was a miserable ride. She had come up with no better solution than simply to tell the police that she had further information on the death of Cormac O’Neil, and hope that she could persuade someone with judgment and influence to listen to her.
As she drew closer and closer the idea seemed to grow even more hopeless.
The carriage was about a hundred yards away from the police station. She was dreading being put out on the footpath with more luggage than she could possibly carry, and a story she was already convinced no one would believe. Then abruptly the carriage pulled up short and the driver leaned down to speak to someone Charlotte could only partially see.
“We are not there yet!” she said desperately. “Please go farther. I cannot possibly carry these cases so far. In fact I can’t carry them at all.”
“Sorry, miss,” the driver said sadly, as if he felt a real pity for her. “That was the police. Seems there’s been an escape of a very dangerous prisoner in the night. They just discovered it, an’ the whole street’s blocked off.”
“A prisoner?”
“Yes, miss. A terrible, dangerous man, they say. Murdered a man yesterday, near shot his head off, an’ now he’s gone like magic. Just disappeared. Went to see him this morning, and his cell is empty. They’re not allowing any carriages through.”
Charlotte stared at him as if she could barely understand his words, but her mind was racing. Escape. Murdered a man yesterday. It had to be Narraway, didn’t it? He must have known even more certainly than she did just how much people hated him, how easy it would be for them to see all the evidence the way they wished to. Who would believe him—an Englishman with his past—rather than Talulla Lawless, who was Sean O’Neil’s daughter and, perhaps even more important, Kate’s daughter? Who would want to believe she shot Cormac?
The driver was still staring at Charlotte, waiting for her decision.