by Anne Perry
But who prompted her to it, gave her the information and stoked her passions, all but guided her hand? And why? Obviously not Cormac. Not John Tyrone, because he seemed to know nothing about it, and Charlotte believed that. Bridget? Perhaps. Certainly she was involved. Her reaction to Charlotte that evening had been too immediate and too violent to spring from ignorance. In fact, looking back at it now, perhaps she had known more than Tyrone himself. Was Tyrone, at least in part, another victim of incidental damage? Someone to use, because he was vulnerable, more in love with his wife than she was with him, and because he was a banker and had the means?
She could no longer evade the answer—Fiachra McDaid. Perhaps he had nothing to do with the past at all, or any of the old tragedy, except to use it. And for him winning was all, the means and the casualties nothing.
How did getting Narraway out of Special Branch help the cause of Ireland, though? He would only be replaced. But perhaps that was it. Replaced with a traitor, bought and paid for. She was still working on this train of thought when she arrived at Mrs. Hogan’s door. She had promised Mrs. Hogan she would be gone by the next day. It would be very difficult to manage her own luggage and Narraway’s as well, and there were other practical considerations to be taken in mind, such as the shortage of money to remain much longer away from home. She had still her tickets to purchase, for the boat and for the train.
When everything was weighed, she had little choice but to go to the police station in the morning and tell them, carefully, all that she believed. However, she had no proof she could show them. That she had arrived at Cormac’s house just after Narraway but had heard no gunshot, just the dog barking—why should her story convince them?
The police would ask her why she had not given this account at the time. Should she admit that she had not thought they would believe her? Is that what an innocent person would do?
She went to sleep uneasily, waking often with the problem still unsolved.
NARRAWAY SAT IN HIS cell in the police station less than a mile from where Cormac O’Neil had been murdered. He maintained a motionless pose, but his mind was racing. He must think—plan. Once they moved him to the main prison he would have no chance. He might be lucky to survive long enough to come to trial. And by that time memories would be clouded, people persuaded to forget, or to see things differently. But far worse even than that, whatever was being planned and for which he had been lured to Ireland, and Pitt to France, would have happened, and be irretrievable.
He sat there and remained unmoving for more than two hours. No one came to speak to him or give him food or drink. Slowly a desperate plan took shape in his mind. He would like to wait for nightfall, but he could not take the risk that they would take him into the main prison before that. Daylight would be much more dangerous, but perhaps that too was necessary. He might have only one chance.
He listened intently for the slightest sound beyond the cell door, any movement at all. He had decided exactly what to do when at last it came. It would have to, eventually.
When they put the heavy key in the lock and swung the door open Narraway was lying on the floor, sprawled in a position that looked as if he had broken his neck. His beautiful white shirt was torn and hanging from the bars on the window above him.
“Hey! Flaherty!” the guard called. “Come, quick! The stupid bastard’s hung himself!” He came over to Narraway and bent to check his pulse. “Sweet Mother of God, I think he’s dead!” he breathed. “Flaherty, where the devil are you?”
Before Flaherty could come, and there would be two of them to fight, Narraway snapped his body up and caught the guard under the chin so hard his head shot back. Narraway hit him again, sideways, so as to knock him unconscious, but very definitely not kill him. In fact he intended him to be senseless for no more than fifteen or twenty minutes. He needed him alive, and able to walk.
He moved the inert body to the exact spot where he himself had been lying, all but tore the man’s jacket off him, and left him in his shirt. He took his keys and barely managed to get behind the door when Flaherty arrived.
Narraway held his breath in case Flaherty had the presence of mind to come in and lock the door or, even worse, stay out and lock it. But he was too horrified by the sight of the other guard on the floor to think so rationally. He covered the few paces to the fallen man, calling his name, and Narraway took his one chance. He slipped around the door, slammed it shut, and locked it. He heard Flaherty yelling almost immediately. Good. Someone would let him out within minutes. He needed them in hot pursuit.
He was very careful indeed going out of the police station, twice standing motionless on corners while people moved past him, following the shouting and the hurried footsteps.
Outside in the street, he ran. He wanted to draw attention to himself, to be remembered. Someone had to tell them which way he had gone.
He could afford no delay, no hesitation.
It was wet. The rain came down in a steady drizzle. The gutters were awash and very quickly he was soaked, his hair sticking to his brow, his bare neck cold without his shirt. People looked at him but no one stood in his way. Perhaps they thought he was drunk.
He had to go around Cormac’s house, in case there were still police there. He could not be stopped now. He slowed to a walk and crossed the road away from it, then back again, without seeing anyone, and in at the gate of Talulla’s house and up to the front door. If she did not answer he would have to break a window and force his way in. His whole plan rested on confronting her when the police caught up with him.
He knocked loudly.
There was no answer. What if she were not here, but with friends? Could she be, so soon after killing Cormac? Surely she would need to be alone? And she had to take care of the dog. Wouldn’t she be waiting until the police left so she could take whatever she wanted, or needed to protect, of the records of her parents that Cormac had kept?
He banged again.
Again—silence.
Was she there already? He had seen no police outside. She might be upstairs here in her own house, lying down, emotionally exhausted from murder and the ultimate revenge.
He took off the jacket. Standing in the rain, bare-chested, he wrapped the jacket around his fist and with as little noise as possible broke a side window, unlocked it, and climbed inside. He put the jacket on again and walked softly across the floor to look for her.
He searched from top to bottom. There was no one there. He had not expected a maid. Talulla would have given her the day off so she could not witness anything to do with Cormac’s murder, not hear any shots, any barking dog.
He let himself out of the back door and ran swiftly to Cormac’s house. Time was getting short. The police could not be far behind him. Hurry! Hurry!
He wasted no time knocking on the door. She would almost certainly not answer. And he had no time to wait.
He took off the jacket again, shivering with cold now, and perhaps also with fear. He smashed another window and within seconds was inside. At once the dog started barking furiously.
He looked around him. He went into some kind of pantry. He must get as far as the kitchen before she found him. If she let the dog attack him he had to be ready. And why would she not? He had broken into the house. He was already accused of Cormac’s murder. She would have every possible justification.
He opened the door quickly and found himself in the scullery, the kitchen beyond. He darted forward and grabbed at a small, hard-backed wooden chair just as Talulla opened the door from the farther side and the dog leapt forward, still barking hysterically.
She stopped, stunned to see him.
He lifted the chair, its thin, sharp legs pointed toward the dog.
“I don’t want to hurt the animal,” he said, having to raise his voice to be heard above it. “Call it off.”
“So you can kill me too?” she shouted back at him.
“Don’t be so damn stupid!” He heard the rage trembling in his own voice, abrasiv
e, almost out of control. “You killed him yourself, to get your revenge at last.”
She smiled, a hard, glittering expression, vibrant with hate. “Well, I have, haven’t I? They’ll hang you, Victor Narraway. And the ghost of my father will laugh. I’ll be there to watch you—that I swear.” She turned to the dog. “Quiet, girl,” she ordered. “Don’t attack him. I want him alive to suffer trial and disgrace. Ripping his throat out would be too quick, too easy.” She looked back at him.
But the dog was distracted by something else now. It swung its head around and stared toward the front door, hackles raised, a low growl in its throat.
“Too easy?” Narraway heard his voice rising, the desperation in it palpable. She must hear it too.
She did, and her smile widened. “I want to see you hang, see your terror when they put the noose around your neck, see you struggle for breath, gasping, your tongue purple, filling your mouth and poking out. You won’t charm the women then, will you? Do you soil yourself when you hang? Do you lose all control, all dignity?” She was screeching now, her face twisted with the pain of her own imagination.
“Actually the function of the noose and the drop of the trapdoor is to break your neck,” he replied. “You are supposed to die instantly. Does that take the pleasure away for you?”
She stared at him, breathing heavily. The dog now was fully concentrated on the front door, the growl low in its throat, lips curled back off the teeth.
If she realized there was someone at the front, please God in heaven, the police, then she would stop, perhaps even claim he had attacked her. But this was the moment of her private triumph, when she could tell him exactly how she had brought about his ruin.
He made a sudden movement toward her.
The dog swung around, barking again.
He raised the chair, legs toward it, just in case it leapt.
“Frightened, Victor?” she said with relish.
“Why now?” he asked, trying to keep his voice level. He nearly succeeded, but she must have seen the sheen of sweat on his face. “It was McDaid, wasn’t it? He told you something? What? Why does he want all this? He used to be my friend.”
“You’re pathetic!” she said, all but choking over her words. “He hates you as much as we all do!”
“What did he tell you?” he persisted.
“How you seduced my whore of a mother and then betrayed her. You killed her, and let my father hang for it!” She was sobbing now.
“Then why kill poor Cormac?” he asked. “Was he expendable, simply to create a murder for which you could blame me? It had to be you who killed him, you’re the only one the dog wouldn’t bark at, because you feed her when Cormac’s away. She’s used to you in the house. She’d have raised the roof if it had been me.”
“Very clever,” she agreed. “But by the time you come to trial, no one else will know that. And no one will believe your sister, if that’s who she is, because they’ll all know she would lie for you.”
“Did you kill Cormac just to get me?” he asked again.
“No! I killed him because he didn’t raise a hand to save my father! He did nothing! Absolutely nothing!”
“You were only a child, not even eight years old,” he pointed out.
“McDaid told me!” she sobbed.
“Ah yes, McDaid—the Irish hero who wants to turn all Europe upside down in a revolution to change the social order, sweep away the old, and bring in the new. And do you imagine that will bring Ireland freedom? To him you are expendable, Talulla, just as I am, or your parents, or anyone else.”
It was at that point that she let go of the dog’s collar and shrieked at it to attack, just as the police threw open the door to the hall and Narraway raised the chair as the dog leapt and sent him flying to land hard on his back, half winding him.
One of the policemen grabbed the animal by its collar, all but choking it. The other seized hold of Talulla.
Narraway climbed to his feet, coughing and gasping to get his breath.
“Thank you,” he said hoarsely. “I hope you have been here rather longer than it would appear.”
“Long enough,” the elder of the two responded. “But there’ll still be one or two charges for you to answer, like assaulting a policeman while in custody, and escaping custody. If I were you, I’d run like hell and never come back to Ireland, Mr. Narraway.”
“Very good advice.” Narraway stood to attention, gave the man a smart salute, then turned and ran, exactly as he had been told.
————
IN THE MORNING THERE was no alternative for Charlotte but to have a hasty breakfast, pay Mrs. Hogan the last night for which she owed her. Then, with Mrs. Hogan’s assistance, she sent for a carriage to take her and all the baggage as far as the police station where Narraway was held.
It was a miserable ride. She had come up with no better solution than simply to tell the police that she had further information on the death of Cormac O’Neil, and hope that she could persuade someone with judgment and influence to listen to her.
As she drew closer and closer the idea seemed to grow even more hopeless.
The carriage was about a hundred yards away from the police station. She was dreading being put out on the footpath with more luggage than she could possibly carry, and a story she was already convinced no one would believe. Then abruptly the carriage pulled up short and the driver leaned down to speak to someone Charlotte could only partially see.
“We are not there yet!” she said desperately. “Please go farther. I cannot possibly carry these cases so far. In fact I can’t carry them at all.”
“Sorry, miss,” the driver said sadly, as if he felt a real pity for her. “That was the police. Seems there’s been an escape of a very dangerous prisoner in the night. They just discovered it, an’ the whole street’s blocked off.”
“A prisoner?”
“Yes, miss. A terrible, dangerous man, they say. Murdered a man yesterday, near shot his head off, an’ now he’s gone like magic. Just disappeared. Went to see him this morning, and his cell is empty. They’re not allowing any carriages through.”
Charlotte stared at him as if she could barely understand his words, but her mind was racing. Escape. Murdered a man yesterday. It had to be Narraway, didn’t it? He must have known even more certainly than she did just how much people hated him, how easy it would be for them to see all the evidence the way they wished to. Who would believe him—an Englishman with his past—rather than Talulla Lawless, who was Sean O’Neil’s daughter and, perhaps even more important, Kate’s daughter? Who would want to believe she shot Cormac?
The driver was still staring at Charlotte, waiting for her decision.
“Thank you,” she said, fumbling for words. She did not want to leave Narraway alone and hunted in Ireland, but there was no way in which she could help him. She had no idea which way he would go, north or south, inland, or even across the country to the west. She did not know if he had friends, old allies, anyone to turn to.
Then another thought came to her with a new coldness. When they arrested him, they would have taken his belongings, his money. He would be penniless. How would he survive, let alone travel? She must help him.
Please heaven he did not trust any of the people he knew in Dublin! Every one of them would betray him. They were tied to one another by blood and memory, old grief too deep to forget.
“Miss?” The driver interrupted her thoughts.
Charlotte had little money either. She was marked as Narraway’s sister. She would be a liability to him. There was nothing she could do to help here. Her only hope was to go back to London and somehow find Pitt or, at the very least, Aunt Vespasia.
“Please take me to the dock,” she said as steadily as she could. “I think it would be better if I caught the next steamer back to England. Whatever dock that is, if you please.”
“Yes, miss.” He climbed back over the box again and urged his horse forward and around. They made a wide turn in the st
reet heading away from the police station.
The journey was not very long, but to Charlotte it seemed to take ages. They passed down the wide, handsome streets. Some of the roads would have taken seven or eight carriages abreast, but they seemed half deserted compared with the noisy, crushing jams of traffic in London. She was desperate to leave, and yet also torn with regrets. One day she wanted to come back, anonymous and free of burdens, simply to enjoy the city. Now she could only lean forward, peering out and counting the minutes until she reached the dock.
The whole business of alighting with the luggage and the crowds waiting to board the steamer was awkward and very close to desperate. She tried to move the cases without leaving anything where it could be taken, and at the same time keep hold of her reticule and pay for a ticket. In the jostling of people she was bumped and knocked. Twice she nearly lost her own case while trying to move Narraway’s and find money ready to pay the fare.
“Can I help you?” a voice said close to her.
She was about to refuse when she felt his hand over hers and he took Narraway’s case from her. She was furious and ready to cry with frustration. She lifted her foot with its nicely heeled boot and brought it down sharply on his instep.
He gasped with pain, but he did not let go of Narraway’s case.
She lifted her foot to do it again, harder.
“Charlotte, let the damn thing go!” Narraway hissed between his teeth.
She let not only his case go but her own also. She was so angry she could have struck him with an open hand, and so relieved she felt the tears prickle in her eyes and slide down her cheeks.
“I suppose you’ve no money!” she said tartly, choking on the words.
“Not much,” he agreed. “I borrowed enough from O’Casey to get as far as Holyhead. But since you have my luggage, we’ll manage the rest. Keep moving. We need to buy tickets, and I would very much like to catch this steamer. I might not have the opportunity to wait for the next. I imagine the police will think of this. It’s the obvious way to go, but I need to be back in London. I have a fear that something very nasty indeed is going to happen.”