Croxdale gave him a bleak smile. “Touché. Let’s at least see what he has to say. And the answer is no, I trust no one. I am painfully aware that we cannot afford to. Not after Narraway, and not it would seem Gower also. Are you sure you won’t have a brandy?”
“I’m quite sure, thank you, sir.”
There was a knock on the door and, at Croxdale’s word, Stoker came in. He looked tired. There were shadows around his eyes, and his face was pinched with fatigue. However, he stood to attention until Croxdale gave him permission to sit. Stoker acknowledged Pitt, but only so much as courtesy demanded.
“When did you get back from Ireland?” Croxdale asked him.
“About two hours ago, sir,” Stoker replied. “Weather’s a bit poor.”
“Mr. Pitt doesn’t believe the charge of embezzlement against Narraway,” Croxdale went on. “He thinks it is possibly false, manufactured to get rid of him because he was on the verge of gaining information about a serious socialist plot of violence that would affect Britain.” He was completely ignoring Pitt, his eyes fixed on Stoker so intently they might have been alone in the room.
“Sir?” Stoker said with amazement, but he did not look at Pitt either.
“You worked with Narraway,” Croxdale continued. “Does that seem likely to you? What is the news from Ireland now?”
Stoker’s jaw tightened as if he were laboring under some profound emotion. His face was pale as he leaned forward a little into the light. He seemed leached of color by exhaustion. “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t see any reason to question the evidence. It’s amazing what lack of money can do, and how it can change your view of things.”
Pitt felt as if he had been struck. The sting of Stoker’s words was hard enough to have been physical. He would rather it had been.
Stoker continued, a grim weariness in his voice. “Sir, there is more. I deeply regret that I must bear this grave news, gentlemen, but yesterday O’Neil was murdered, and the police immediately arrested Narraway. He was on the scene and practically caught red-handed. He had the grace not to deny it. He is now in prison in Dublin awaiting trial.”
Pitt felt as if he had been sandbagged. He struggled to keep any sense of proportion, even of reality. He stared at Stoker, then turned to Croxdale. Their faces wavered and the room seem to swim in and out of his focus.
“My word,” Croxdale said slowly. “This comes as a terrible shock.” He turned to Pitt. “You could have had no idea of this side of Narraway, and I admit, neither had I. I feel remiss to have had such a man in charge of our most sensitive service during my period of office. His extraordinary skill completely masked this darker, and clearly very violent side of his nature.”
Pitt refused to believe it, partly because he could not bear it. Charlotte was in Ireland with Narraway. What had happened to her? How could he find out without admitting that he knew this? He would not draw Vespasia into it. She was one element he had in his favor, perhaps the only one.
Stoker gazed downward, his voice quieter, as though he too were stunned. “I am afraid it’s true, sir. We were all deceived as to his character. The case against him is as plain as day. It seems Narraway quarreled with O’Neil rather publicly, making no secret of the fact that he believed O’Neil to be responsible for creating the evidence that made it seem he was guilty of embezzling the money intended for Mulhare. And to be honest, that could well be true.”
“Could it? Croxdale asked, a slight lift of hope in his voice.”
“From what I can make out, yes, sir, it could,” Stoker replied. “Only problem is how he got the information he’d need to get it into Mr. Narraway’s account. I’ve been trying to find the answer to that, and I think I’ll get there.”
“Someone at Lisson Grove?” Croxdale said.
“No, sir,” Stoker answered without a flicker in his face. “Not as far as I can see.”
Croxdale’s eyes narrowed. “Then who? Who else would be able to do that?”
Stoker did not hesitate. “Looks like it could be someone at Mr. Narraway’s bank, sir. I daresay one time and another, he’s made some enemies. Or it could just be someone willing to be paid. Nice to think that wouldn’t happen, but maybe a bit innocent. There’d be those with enough money to buy most things.”
“I suppose so,” Croxdale replied. “Perhaps Narraway found out already? That would explain a great deal. What other news have you from Ireland?”
Stoker told him about Narraway’s connections, whom he had spoken to and their reactions, the confrontation with O’Neil at the soirée. Never once did he mention Charlotte. At least some of what he described was so unlike Narraway, panicky and protective, that it seemed as if his whole character had fallen apart.
Pitt listened with disbelief and mounting anger at what he felt had to be a betrayal.
“Thank you, Stoker,” Croxdale said sadly. “A tragic end to what was a fine career. Give your report on Paris to Mr. Pitt.”
“Yes, sir.”
Stoker left, and Croxdale turned to Pitt. “I think that makes the picture clearer. Gower was the traitor, which I admit I still find hard to credit, but what you say makes it impossible to deny. We may have the disaster contained, but we can’t take it for granted. Make as full an investigation as you can, Pitt, and report to me. Keep an eye to what’s going on in Europe and if there is anything we should inform the French of, then we’ll do so. In the meantime there’s plenty of other political trouble to keep us busy, but I’m sure you know that.” He rose to his feet, extending his hand. “Take care of yourself, Pitt. You have a difficult and dangerous job, and your country needs you more than it will ever appreciate.”
Pitt shook his hand and thanked him, going out into the night without any awareness of the sudden chill. The coldness was already inside him. What Stoker had said of Narraway’s bank betraying him could be true, although he did not believe it. The rest seemed a curious set of exaggerations and lies. Pitt could not accept that Narraway had fallen apart so completely, either to steal anything in the first place, or to so lose the fundamental values of his past as to behave in the way Stoker had described. Pitt could not possibly believe that Narraway was a cold-blooded murderer. And surely Stoker must at the very least have noticed Charlotte?
Or was Stoker the traitor at Lisson Grove?
He was floundering, like a man in quicksand. None of his judgments was sound. He had trusted Stoker, he had even liked Gower. Narraway he would have sworn his own life on … He admitted, he still would. Something had to be amiss. The Narraway that Pitt had known would never kill for any reason other than self-defense.
Croxdale’s carriage was waiting to take him home. He half saw the shadow of a man on the pavement who moved toward him, but he ignored it. The coachman opened the door for him and he climbed in, sitting miserable and shivering all the way back to Keppel Street. He was glad it was late. He did not want to make the intense effort it would cost to hide his disillusion from Daniel and Jemima. If he was fortunate, even Minnie Maude would be asleep.
IN THE MORNING HE was halfway to Lisson Grove when he changed his mind and went instead to see Vespasia. It was too early for any kind of social call, but if he had to wait until she rose, then he was willing to. His need to speak with her was so urgent he was prepared to break all the rules of etiquette, even of consideration, trusting that she would see his purpose beyond his discourtesy.
In fact she was already up and taking breakfast. He accepted tea, but he had no need to eat.
“Is your new maid feeding you properly?” Vespasia asked with a touch of concern.
“Yes,” he answered, his own surprise coming through his voice. “Actually she’s perfectly competent, and seems very pleasant. It wasn’t …” He saw her wry smile and stopped.