But to what greater purpose? Was it to do with socialist uprisings? Or was that also a blind, a piece of deception?
Who was Wrexham? He was mentioned briefly, twice, in Gower’s reports. He was a young man of respectable background who had been to university and dropped out of a modern history course to travel in Europe. Gower suggested he had been to Germany and Russia, but seemed uncertain. It was all very vague, and with little substantiation. Certainly there was nothing to cause Narraway to have him watched or inquired into any further. Presumably it was just sufficient information to allow Gower to say afterward that he was a legitimate suspect.
Had he intended to turn on him in France?
The more he studied what was there, the more Pitt was certain that there had to be a far deeper plan behind the random acts he had connected in bits and pieces. The picture was too sketchy, the rewards too slight to make sense of murder. It was all random, and too small.
The most urgent question was whether Narraway had been very carefully made to look guilty of theft in order to gain some kind of revenge for old defeats and failures, or whether the real intent was to get him dismissed from Lisson Grove and out of England. The more Pitt looked at it, the more he believed it was the latter.
If Narraway had been here, what would he have made of the information? Surely he would have seen the pattern. Why could Pitt not see it? What was he missing?
He was still comparing one event with another and searching for links when there was a sharp knock on the door. He had asked not to be interrupted. This had better be something of importance, or he would tear a strip off the man, whoever he was.
“Come in,” he said sharply.
The door opened and Stoker came in, closing it behind him.
Pitt stared at him coldly.
Stoker ignored his expression. “I tried to speak to you last night,” he said quietly. “I saw Mrs. Pitt in Dublin. She was well and in good spirits. She’s a lady of great courage. Mr. Narraway is fortunate to have her fighting his cause, although I daresay it’s not for his sake she’s doing it.”
Pitt stared at him. He looked subtly quite different from the way he had when standing in front of Croxdale the previous evening. Was that a difference in respect? In loyalty? Personal feeling? Or because one was the truth and the other lies?
“Did you see Mr. Narraway?” Pitt asked him.
“Yes, but not to speak to. It was the day O’Neil was shot,” Stoker answered.
“By whom?”
“I don’t know. I think probably Talulla Lawless, but whether anyone will ever prove that, I don’t know. Mr. Narraway’s in trouble, Mr. Pitt. He has powerful enemies—”
“I know that,” Pitt interrupted. “Apparently dating back twenty years.”
“Not that,” Stoker said impatiently. “Now, here in Lisson Grove. Someone wanted him discredited and out of England, and wanted you in France, gone in the other direction, where you wouldn’t know what was going on here and couldn’t help.”
“Tell me all you know of what happened in Ireland,” Pitt demanded. “And for heaven’s sake sit down!” It was not that he wanted the information in detail so much as he needed the chance to weigh everything Stoker said, and make some judgment as to the truth of it, and exactly where Stoker’s loyalties lay.
Stoker obeyed without comment. Possibly he knew the reason Pitt asked, but if so there was nothing in his face to betray it. “I was only there two days,” he began.
“Who sent you?” Pitt interrupted.
“No one. I made it look like it was Mr. Narraway, before he went.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t believe he’s guilty any more than you do,” Stoker said bitterly. “He’s a hard man, clever, cold at times in his own way, but he’d never betray his country. They got rid of him because they knew he’d see what was going on here, and stop it. They thought you might too, in loyalty to Mr. Narraway, even if you didn’t spot what they’re doing. No offense, sir, but you don’t know enough yet to see what it is.”
Pitt winced, but he had no argument. It was painfully true.
“Mr. Narraway seemed to be trying to find out who set him up to look like he took the money meant for Mulhare, probably because that would lead back to whoever it is here in London,” Stoker went on. “I don’t know whether he found out or not, because they got him by killing O’Neil. They set that up perfectly. Fixed a quarrel between them in front of a couple o’ score of people, then somehow got him to go alone to O’Neil’s house, and had O’Neil shot just before he got there.
“By all accounts, Mrs. Pitt was right on his heels, but he swore to the police that she wasn’t there at the time, so they didn’t bother her. She went back to Dublin where she was staying, and that’s the last I know of it. Mr. Narraway was arrested and no doubt if we don’t do anything, they’ll try him and hang him. But we’ll have a week or two before that.” He stopped, meeting Pitt with steady, demanding eyes.
The weight of leadership settled on Pitt like a leaden coat. There was no one beyond himself to turn to, no one else’s opinion to listen to and use as a balance. Whoever had designed this so that it was he, and not Narraway, that they had to face, was supremely clever.
He must trust Stoker. The advantage outweighed the risk.
“Then we have ten days in which to rescue Narraway,” he replied. “Perhaps whoever it is will be as aware of that as we are. It is safe to assume that by that time they will have achieved whatever it is they plan, and for which they needed him gone.”
Stoker sat up a little straighter. “Yes, sir.”
“And we have no idea who it is planning it,” Pitt continued. “Except that they have great power and authority within the branch, so we dare not trust anyone. Even Sir Gerald himself may choose to trust this person rather than trust you or me.”
Stoker allowed himself a slight smile. “You’re right, sir. And that could be the end of everything, probably of you an’ me, and certainly of Mr. Narraway.”
“Then we are alone in working out what it is.” Pitt had already made up his mind that if he were to trust Stoker at all, then it might as well be entirely. This was not the time to let Stoker believe he was only half relied on.
Pitt pulled out the papers he had been studying and placed them sideways on the desk so they could both see them.
“This is the pattern I found so far.” He pointed to communications, the gun smuggling, the movements of known radicals both in Britain and on the continent of Europe.
“Not much of a pattern,” Stoker said grimly. “It looks pretty much like always to me.” He pointed. “There’s Rosa Luxemburg in Germany and Poland in that part, but she’s been getting noisier for years. There’s Jean Jaures in France, but he’s harmless enough. Your basic socialist reformer. Bit hard now and then, but what he’s saying is fair enough, if you look at it. Nothing to do with us, though. He’s as French as frog’s legs.”
“And here?” Pitt pointed to some Fabian Society activity in London and Birmingham.
“They’ll get changes through Parliament, eventually,” Stoker said. “That Keir Hardie’ll do a thing or two, but that’s not our bother either. Personally I wish him good luck. We need a few changes. No, sir, there is something big planned, and pretty bad, an’ we haven’t worked out what it is yet.”
Pitt did not reply. He stared at the reports yet again, rereading the text, studying the geographic patterns of where they originated, who was involved.