“No. I’d rather they didn’t even know I was back in England, and certainly not where.” He saw the relief in her face. “There’s only one person I dare trust totally, and that is Vespasia Cumming-Gould. I shall get off the train one or two stops before London and find a telephone. If I’m lucky I’ll be able to get hold of her straightaway. It’ll be long after dark by then. If not, I’ll find rooms and wait there until I can.”
His voice dropped to a more urgent note. “You should go home. You won’t be in any danger. Or else you could go to Vespasia’s house, if you prefer. Perhaps you should wait and see what she says.” He realized as he spoke that he had no idea what had happened to Pitt, even if he was safe. To send Charlotte back to a house with no one there but a strange maid was possibly a cruel thing to do. She had said before that her sister Emily was away somewhere, similarly her mother. God! What a mess. But if anything had happened to Pitt, no one would be able to comfort her. He could not bear to think of that.
Please heaven whoever was behind this did not think Pitt a sufficient danger to have done anything drastic to him. “We’ll get off a couple of stops before London,” he repeated. “And call Vespasia.”
“Good idea,” she agreed, turning back to watch the gulls circling over the white wake of the ship. The two of them stood side by side in silence, oddly comforted by the endless, rhythmic moving of the water and the pale wings of the birds echoing the curved line of it.
NARRAWAY WAS CONNECTED WITH Vespasia immediately. Only when he heard the sound of her voice, which was thin and a little crackly over the line, did he realize how overwhelmingly glad he was to speak with her.
“Victor! Where on earth are you?” she demanded. Then an instant later: “No. Do not tell me. Are you safe? Is Charlotte safe?”
“Yes, we are both safe,” he answered her. She was the only woman since his childhood who had ever made him feel as if he were accountable to her. “We are not far away, but I thought it better to speak to you before coming the rest of the journey.”
“Don’t,” she said simply. “It would be far better if you were to find some suitable place, which we shall not name, and we shall meet there. A very great deal has happened since you left, but there is far more that is about to happen. I do not know what that is, except that it is of profound importance, and it may be tragically violent. But I daresay you have deduced that for yourself. I rather fear that your whole trip to Ireland was designed to take you away from London. Everything else was incidental.”
“Who’s in charge now?” he asked, the chill seeping into him, even though he was standing in a very comfortable hotel hallway, looking from left to right every few moments to make sure he was still alone and not overheard. “Charles Austwick?”
“No,” she answered, and there was a heaviness in her voice, even over the wires. “That was only temporary. Thomas is back from France. That trip was entirely abortive. He has replaced Austwick, and is now in your office, and hating it.”
Narraway was so stunned for a moment he could think of no words adequate to his emotions—certainly none that he could repeat in front of Vespasia, or Charlotte, were she close enough to hear.
“Victor!” Vespasia said sharply.
“Yes … I’m here. What … what is going on?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But I have a great fear that he has been placed there precisely because he cannot possibly cope with whatever atrocity is being planned. He has no experience in this kind of leadership. He has not the deviousness nor the subtlety of judgment to make the necessary unpleasant decisions. And there is no one there whom he can trust, which at least he knows. I am afraid he is quite appallingly alone, exactly as someone has designed he should be. His remarkable record of success as a policeman, and as a solver of crimes within Special Branch jurisdiction, will justify his being placed in your position. No one will be held to blame for choosing him …”
“You mean he’s there to take the blame when this storm breaks,” Narraway said bitterly.
“Precisely.” Her voice cracked a little. “Victor, we must beat this, and I have very little idea how. I don’t even know what it is they plan, but it is something very, very wrong indeed.”
She was brave; no one he knew had ever had more courage; she was clever and still beautiful … but she was also growing old and at times very much alone. Suddenly he was aware of her vulnerability: of the friends, and even the loves she had cared for passionately, and lost. She was perhaps a decade or so older than he. Suddenly he thought of her not as a force of society, or of nature, but as a woman, as capable of loneliness as he was himself.
“Do you remember the hostelry where we met Somerset Carlisle about eight years ago? We had the most excellent lobster for luncheon?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said unhesitatingly.
“We should meet there as soon as possible,” he told her. “Bring Pitt … please.”
“I shall be there by midnight,” she replied.
He was startled. “Midnight?”
“For heaven’s sake, Victor!” she said tartly. “What do you want to do, wait until breakfast? Don’t be absurd. You had better reserve us three rooms, in case there is any of the night left for sleeping.” Then she hesitated.
He wondered why. “Lady Vespasia?”
She gave a little sigh. “I dislike being offensive, but since I assume that you escaped from … where you were, you have little money, and I daresay are in less than your usually elegant state. You had better give my name, as if you were booking it for me, and tell them that I shall settle when I arrive. Better if you do not give anyone else’s name, your own, or Thomas’s.”
“Actually Charlotte had the foresight to pack my case for me, so I have all the respectable attire I shall need,” he replied with the first flash of amusement he had felt for some time.
“She did what?” Vespasia said coolly.
“She was obliged to leave the lodgings,” he exclaimed, still with a smile. “She did not wish to abandon my luggage, so she took it with her. If you don’t know me better than that, you should at least know her!”
“Quite so,” she said more gently. “I apologize. Indeed, I also know you. I shall see you as close to midnight as I am able to make it. I am very glad you are safe, Victor.”
That meant more to him than he had expected, so much more that he found himself suddenly unable to answer. He replaced the receiver on its hook in silence.
PITT WAS AT HOME, sitting at the kitchen table beginning his supper when Minnie Maude came into the room. Her face was pink, her eyes frightened, her usually untamed hair pulled even looser and badly pinned up at one side.
“What’s the matter?” Pitt said, instantly worried as well.
Minnie Maude took a deep breath and let it out shakily. “There’s a lady ’ere ter see yer, sir. I mean a real lady, like a duchess, or summink. Wot shall I do wif’ ’er, sir?”
“Oh.” Pitt felt a wave of relief wash over him, like warmth from a fire on cold flesh. “Show her in here, and then put the kettle on again.”
Minnie Maude held her guard. “No, sir, I mean a real lady, not jus’ some nice person, like.”
“Tall and slender, and very beautiful, despite the fact that she isn’t young anymore,” Pitt agreed. “And eyes that could freeze you at twenty paces, if you step out of line. Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould. Please ask her to come into the kitchen. She has been in here before. Then make her a cup of tea. We have some Earl Grey. We keep it for her.”
Minnie Maude stared at him as if he had lost his wits.
“Please,” he added.
“Yer’ll pardon me, sir,” Minnie Maude said shakily. “But yer look like yer bin dragged through an ’edge backward.”
Pitt pushed his hand through his hair. “She wouldn’t recognize me if I didn’t. Don’t leave her standing in the hall. Bring her here.”