He would have given most of what he possessed to have Narraway back. Knowing that one misjudgment could now cost him his life, Pitt desperately craved his colleague’s steady, quick-thinking presence and his quiet support.
Where was Narraway now? Somewhere in Ireland, trying to clear his name of a crime he did not commit? Pitt realized with a chill that he was not certain that Narraway was innocent. Could he have lied, embezzled, betrayed his country, and broken the trust of all he knew? Pitt would never before have believed that Narraway would commit any crime, even out of desperation. But perhaps he would if his life were in jeopardy, or Charlotte’s. That thought hurt Pitt in a way that he could not fight.
Why had she 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, 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 realized it. He had seen Narraway turn to look at her. They had been standing in the kitchen in his own 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. The kettle was steaming on the hob. Charlotte had been standing waiting for it 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 color 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 realize 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. Now she knew she was loved. But Pitt knew that her righteous indignation over the injustice against Narraway may have spurred Charlotte to impulsive actions.
She would be furiously angry that Narraway’s reputation had been damaged, 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 toward the vulnerable. It was instinctive, defensive, like an animal with cubs. She would act first and think afterward. He loved her for it. He would lose something of infinite value if she were different, more guarded, more sensible. But it was still a liability.
There were papers piled on the desk in front of him, reports waiting to be made sense of, but still his mind was on Charlotte.
Where was she? How could he find out without placing her in further danger? Who was he absolutely certain he could trust? A week ago, he would have sent Gower. Unwittingly he would have been giving them the perfect hostage.
Should he contact the Dublin police? How could he be sure that he could trust them either, in light of all the schemes and plots that seemed to be under way right in his own government branch?
Perhaps anonymity was her best defense, but his own helplessness was almost like a physical pain. He had all the forces of Special Branch at his fingertips, but no idea whom he could trust.
There was a knock on his door. The moment he answered it Austwick came in, looking grave and slightly smug. He had more papers in his hand.
Pitt was glad to be forced back into the present. “What have you?” he asked.
Austwick sat down without being asked. Pitt realized he would not have done that with Narraway.
“More reports from Manchester,” Austwick replied. “It does begin to look as if Latimer is right about this factory in Hyde. They are making guns, despite their denials. And then there’s the mess-up in Glasgow. We need to pay more attention to that, before it gets any bigger.”
“Last report said it was just young people protesting,” Pitt reminded him. “Narraway had it marked as better left alone.”
Austwick pulled his face into a grimace of distaste. “Well I think Narraway’s mind was hardly on the country’s interests over the last while. Unfortunately we don’t know how long his … inattention had been going on. Read it yourself and see what you think. I’ve been handling it since Narraway went, and I think he may have made a serious misjudgment. And we can’t afford to ignore Scotland either.”
Pitt swallowed his response. He did not trust Austwick, but he must not allow the man to see his doubt. All this felt like wasting time, of which he had far too little.
“What about the other reports from Europe on the socialists?” he asked. “Anything from Germany? And what about the Russian émigrés in Paris?”
“Nothing significant,” Austwick replied. “And nothing at all from Gower.” He looked at Pitt steadily, concern in his eyes.
Pitt kept his expression perfectly composed. “He won’t risk communication unless he has something of value to report. It all has to go through the local post office.”
Austwick shook his head. “I think it’s of secondary importance, honestly. West may have been killed simply on principle when they discovered he was an informant. He may not have possessed the crucial information we assumed he did.”
Austwick shifted his position a little and looked straight at Pitt. “There have been rumblings about great reform for years, you know. People strike postures and make speeches, but nothing serious happens, at least not here in Britain. I think our biggest danger was three or four years ago. There was a lot of unrest in the East End of London, which I know you are aware of, though much of it took place just before you joined the branch.”
That was a blatant reminder of how new Pitt was to this job. He saw the flicker of resentment in Austwick’s eyes as he said it. He wondered for a moment if the hostility he sensed was due to Austwick’s personal ambition having been thwarted. Then he remembered Gower bending over West’s body on the ground, and the blood. Either Austwick had nothing to do with it, or he was better at masking his emotions than Pitt had judged. He must be careful.
“Perhaps we’ll escape it,” he offered.
Austwick shifted in his chair again. “These are the reports in from Liverpool, and you’ll see some of the references to Ireland. Nothing dangerous as yet, but we need to make note of some of these names, and watch them.” He pushed across more papers, and Pitt bent to read them.
The afternoon followed the same pattern: more reports both written and verbal. A case of violence in a town in Yorkshire looked as if it was political and turned out not to be. A government minister was robbed in Piccadilly; and investigating it took up the rest of the day. The minister had been carrying sensitive papers. Fortunately it was not Pitt’s decision as to how seriously he should be reprimanded for carelessness. It was, however, up to him to decide with what crime the thief should be charged.
He weighed it with some consideration. He questioned the man, trying to judge whether he had known his victim was in the government, and if so that his attaché case might contain government papers. He was uncertain, even after several hours, but Narraway would not have asked advice, and neither would he.
Pitt decided that the disadvantages of letting the public know how easy it was to rob an inattentive minister outweighed the possible error of letting a man be charged with a lesser crime than the one he had intended to commit.
He went home in the evening tired and with little sense of achievement.
It changed the moment he opened the front door and Daniel came racing down the hall to greet him.