“Papa! Papa, I made a boat! Come and look.” He grasped Pitt’s hand and tugged at him.
Pitt smiled and followed him willingly down to the kitchen, where the rich smell of dinner cooking filled the air. Something was bubbling in a big pan on the stove and the table was littered with pieces of newspapers and a bowl of white paste. Minnie Maude was standing with a pair of scissors in her hands. As usual, her hair was all over the place, pinned up over and over again as she had lost patience with it. In pride of place in the center of the mess was a rather large papier-mâché boat, with two sticks for masts and several different lengths of tapers for bowsprit, yardarms, and a boom.
Minnie Maude looked abashed to see him, clearly earlier than she had expected.
“See!” Daniel said triumphantly, pointing to the ship. “Minnie Maude showed me how to do it.” He gave a little shrug. “And Jemima helped a bit … well … a lot.”
Pitt felt a sudden and overwhelming warmth rush up inside him. He looked at Daniel’s face shining with pride, and then at the boat.
“It’s magnificent,” he said, emotion all but choking his voice. “I’ve never seen anything better.” He turned to Minnie Maude, who was standing wide-eyed. She was clearly waiting to be criticized for playing when she should have been working, and having dinner on the table for him.
“Thank you,” he said to her sincerely. “Please don’t move it until it is safe to do so without risk of damage.”
“What … what about dinner, sir?” she asked, beginning to breathe again.
“We’ll clear the newspapers and the paste, and eat around it,” he answered. “Where’s Jemima?”
“She’s reading,” Daniel answered instantly. “She took my Boys’ Own! Why doesn’t she read a girls’ book?”
“ ’Cos they’re boring,” Jemima answered from the doorway. She had slipped in without anyone hearing her come along the corridor. She looked past Pitt at the table, and the ship at the center. “You’ve got the masts on! That’s beautiful.” She gave Pitt a radiant smile. “Hello, Papa. Look what we made.”
“I see it,” he replied, putting his arm around her shoulder. “It’s magnificent.”
“How is Mama?” she asked, an edge of worry in her voice.
“Well,” he answered, lying smoothly and holding her a little closer. “She’s helping a friend in bad trouble, but she’ll be home soon. Now let’s help clear the table and have dinner.”
Afterward he sat alone in the parlor as silence settled over the house. Daniel and Jemima had gone up to bed. Minnie Maude had finished in the kitchen and went up as well. He heard every creak of her tread on the stairs. Far from being comforting, the absence of all voices or movement made the heaviness swirl back in again like a fog. The islands of light from the lamps on the wall made the shadows seem deeper than they were. He knew every surface in the room. He also knew they were all immaculately clean, as if Charlotte had been there to supervise this new girl whose only fault was that she was not Gracie. She was good; it was only the familiarity she lacked. The papier-mâché ship made him smile. It wasn’t a trivial thing; it was very important indeed. Minnie Maude Mudway was a success.
He sat in the armchair, thinking of Jemima’s pride and Daniel’s happiness for as long as he could. Finally he turned his mind to the following day and to the fact that he must go and tell Croxdale the truth about Gower, and the betrayal that might run throughout the service.
THE FOLLOWING DAY AT Lisson Grove was filled with the same necessary trivia as the one before. There was news from Paris that was only vaguely disturbing: a definite increase in activity among the people Special Branch was watching, though if it had any meaning he was unable to determine what it was. It was much the same sort of thing he might have done had Narraway been there, and he in his own job. The difference was the weight of responsibility, the decisions that he could no longer refer upward. Now they all came to him. Other men who had previously been his equals were now obliged to report to him, for Pitt needed to know of anything at all that might threaten the safety of Her Majesty’s realm, and her government, the peace and prosperity of Britain.
Late that morning he finally obtained an interview with Sir Gerald Croxdale. He felt the urgent need to tell Croxdale of Gower’s death, and how it had happened. No report had come in yet, as far as he knew, but it could not be long now.
Pitt arrived at Whitehall late in the afternoon. The sun was still warm and the air was soft as he walked across from the park and along the street to the appropriate entrance. Several carriages passed him, the women in them wearing wide hats to protect their faces from the light, their muslin sleeves drifting in the breeze. Horse brasses winked with bright reflections, and some doors carried family crests painted on them.
He was admitted without question. Apparently the footman knew who he was. He was taken straight to Croxdale’s rooms and ushered into his presence after only a matter of moments.
“How are you, Pitt?” Croxdale said warmly, rising from his seat to shake Pitt’s hand. “Sit down. How is it at Lisson Grove?” His voice was pleasant, almost casual, but he was watching Pitt intently. There was a gravity in him as if he already knew that Pitt had ugly news to tell him.
It was the opening Pitt needed without having to create it himself.
“I had hoped to tell you more, sir,” he began. “But the whole episode of seeing West murdered and following Frobisher to France was far more serious than I thought at first.”
Croxdale frowned, sitting a little more upright in his chair. “In what way? Have you learned what he was going to tell you?”
“No, sir, I haven’t. At least, I am not certain. But I have a strong idea, and everything I have discovered since returning supports it, but does not provide a conclusion.”
“Stop beating around the bush, man!” Croxdale said impatiently. “What is it?”
Pitt took a deep breath. “We have at least one traitor at Lisson Grove …”
Croxdale froze, his eyes hard. His right hand on top of the desk suddenly became rigid as if he were deliberately forcing himself not to clench it.
“I presume you mean other than Victor Narraway?” he said quietly.
Pitt made another decision. “I don’t and never have believed that Narraway was a traitor, sir. Whether he is guilty of a misjudgment, or a carelessness, I don’t yet know. But regrettably we all misjudge at times.”
“Explain yourself!” Croxdale said between his teeth. “If not Narraway, and I reserve judgment on that, then who?”
“Gower, sir.”
“Gower?” Croxdale’s eyes opened wide. “Did you say Gower?”
“Yes, sir.” Pitt could feel his own temper rising. How could Croxdale accept so easily that Narraway was a traitor, yet be so incredulous that Gower could be? What had Austwick told him? How deep and how clever was this web of treason? Was Pitt rushing in where a wiser, more experienced man would have been careful, laying his ground first? But there was no time to do that. Narraway was considered a fugitive by his former colleagues in the Special Branch and heaven only knew if Charlotte was safe, or where she was and in what circumstances. Pitt could not afford to seek their enemies cautiously.
Croxdale was frowning at him. Should he tell him the whole story, or simply the murder of West? Any of it made Pitt look like a fool! But he had been a fool. He had trusted Gower, even liked him. The memory of it was still painful.
“Something happened in France that made me realize it only appeared that Gower and I arrived together as Wrexham killed West,” he said. “Actually Gower had been there moments before and killed him himself.”
“For God’s sake, man! That’s absurd,” Croxdale exploded, almost rising from his seat. “You can’t expect me to believe that! How did you fail …” He sat back again, composing himself with an effort. “I’m sorry. This comes as an appalling shock to me. I … I know his family. Are you certain? It all seems very … flimsy.”