Treason at Lisson Grove

by Anne Perry

  She listened without interrupting. She poured him more tea, then grimaced that the pot was cold.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said quickly. “I don’t need more.”

  “Let us sum up the situation,” she said gravely. “It would seem inarguable that you were wrong about Gower, as was everyone else at Lisson Grove, including Victor Narraway. It does not make you unusually fallible, my dear. And considering that he was your fellow in the service, you had a right to assume his loyalty. At that point it was not your job to make such decisions. Now it is.”

  “I was wrong about Stoker,” he pointed out.

  “Possibly, but let us not leap to conclusions. You know only that what he reported to Gerald Croxdale seemed to blame Victor, and also was untrue in other respects. He made no mention of Charlotte, as you observed, and yet he must have seen her. Surely his omission is one you are grateful for?”

  “Yes … yes, of course. Although I would give a great deal to know she is safe.” That was an understatement perhaps only Vespasia could measure.

  “Did you say anything to Croxdale about your suspicions of Austwick?” she asked.

  “No.” He explained how reluctant he had been to give any unnecessary trust. He had guarded everything, fearing that because Croxdale had known Austwick a long time perhaps he would be more inclined to trust him than to trust Pitt.

  “Very wise,” she agreed. “Is Croxdale of the opinion that there is something very serious being planned in France?”

  “I saw nothing except a couple of faces,” he answered. “And when I look back, it was Gower who told me they were Meister and Linsky. There was talk, but no more than usual. There was a rumor that Jean Jaures was coming from Paris, but he didn’t.”

  Vespasia frowned. “Jacob Meister and Pieter Linsky? Are you sure?”

  “Yes, that’s what Gower said. I know the names, of course. But only for one day, maybe thirty-six hours, then they left again. They certainly didn’t return to Frobisher’s.”

  Vespasia looked puzzled. “And who said Jean Jaures was coming?”

  “One of the innkeepers, I think. The men in the café were talking about it.”

  “You think? A name like Jaures is mentioned and you don’t remember by whom?” she said incredulously.

  Again he was struck by his own foolishness. How easily he was duped. He had not heard it himself, Gower had told him. He admitted it to Vespasia.

  “Did he mention Rosa Luxemburg?” she asked with a slight frown.

  “Yes, but not that she was coming to St. Malo.”

  “But he mentioned her name?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Jean Jaures is a passionate socialist, but a gentle man,” she explained. “He was campaigner for reform. He sought office, and on occasion gained it, but he fights for change, not for overthrow. As far as I know, he is content to keep his efforts within France. Rosa Luxemburg is different. She is Polish, now naturalized German, and of a much more international cast of mind. I have Russian émigré friends who fear that one day she will cause real violence. In some places I’m afraid real violence is almost bound to happen. The oppression in Russia will end in tragedy.”

  “Stretching as far as Britain?” he said dubiously.

  “No, only insofar as the world is sometimes a far smaller place than we think. There will be refugees, however. Indeed, London is already full of them.”

  “What did Gower want?” he asked. “Why did he kill West? Was West going to tell me Gower was a traitor?”

  “Perhaps. But I admit, none of it makes sufficient sense to me so far, unless there is something a great deal larger than a few changes in the laws for French workers, or a rising unease in Germany and Russia. None of this is new, and none of it worries Special Branch unduly.”

  “I wish Narraway were here,” he said with intense feeling. “I don’t know enough for this job. He should have left it with Austwick—unless he knows Austwick is a traitor too?”

  “I imagine that is possible.” She was still lost in thought. “And if Victor is innocent, which I do not doubt, then there was a very clever and carefully thought-out plan to get both you and him out of London. Why can we not deduce what it is, and why?”

  PITT WENT TO HIS office in Lisson Grove, aware as he walked along the corridors of the eyes of the other men on him, watching, waiting: Austwick particularly.

  “Good morning,” Austwick said, apparently forgetting the sir he would have added for Narraway.

  “Good morning, Austwick,” Pitt replied a little tartly, not looking at him but going on until he reached Narraway’s office door. He realized he still thought of it as Narraway’s, just as he still thought of the position as his.

  He opened the door and went inside. There was nothing of Pitt’s here yet—no pictures, no books—but Narraway’s things were returned, as if he were still expecting the man himself to come back. When that happened he would not have to pretend to be pleased, and it would not be entirely for unselfish reasons either. He cared for Narraway, and he had at least some idea of how much the job meant to him: It was his vocation, his life. Pitt would be immensely relieved to give it back to him. It was not within Pitt’s skill or his nature to perform this job. He regretted that it was now his duty.

  He dealt with the most immediate issues of the day first, passing on all he could to juniors. When that was done, he told them not to interrupt him. Then he went through all Narraway’s records of every crime Gower had been involved with over the past year and a half. He read all the documents, getting a larger picture concerning European revolutionary attempts to improve the lot of workingmen. He also read Stoker’s latest report from Paris.

  As he did so, the violence proposed settled over him like a darkness, senseless and destructive. But the anger at injustice he could not help sharing. It grieved him that it had oppressed people and denied them a reasonable life for so long that the change, when it came—and it must—would be fueled by so much hatred.

  The more he read, the greater a tragedy seemed to him that the high idealism of the revolution of ’48 had been crushed with so little legacy of change left behind.

  Gower’s own reports were spare, as if he had edited out any emotive language. At first Pitt thought that was just a very clear style of writing. Then he began to wonder if it was more: a guarding of Gower’s own feelings, in case he gave something away unintentionally, or Narraway himself picked up a connection, an omission, even a false note.

  Then he took out Narraway’s own papers. He had read most of them before, because it was part of his duty in taking over the position. Many of the cases he was familiar with anyway, from general knowledge within the branch. He selected three specifically to do with Europe and socialist unrest, those associated with Britain, memberships of socialist political groups such as the Fabian Society. He compared them with the cases in which Gower had worked, and looked for any notes that Narraway might have made.

  What were the facts he knew, personally? That Gower had killed West and made it appear it was Wrexham who had done so. All doubt left him that it had been extremely quick thinking on Gower’s part. Had it been his intention all the time—with Wrexham’s collaboration? Pitt recalled the chase across London and then on to Southampton. He was bitterly conscious that it had been too easy. On the rare occasions when it seemed Wrexham had eluded them, it was Gower and not Pitt who had found the trail again. The conclusion was inevitable—Gower and Wrexham were working together. To what end? Again, looked at from the result, it could only have been to keep Pitt in St. Malo—or more specifically, to keep him from being in London, and aware of what was happening to Narraway.

  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.

  Then he saw something curious. “Is that Willy Portman?” he asked Stoker, pointing to a report of known agitators observed in Birmingham.

  “Yes, sir, seems like it. What’s he doing here? Nasty piece of work, Willy Portman. Violent. Nothing good, if he’s involved.”

  “I know,” Pitt agreed. “But that’s not it. This report says he was seen at a meeting with Joe Gallagher. Those two have been enemies for years. What could bring them together?”

  Stoker stared at him. “There’s more,” he said very quietly. “McLeish was seen in Sheffield with Mick Haddon.”

  Pitt knew the names. They were both extremely violent men, and again known to hate each other.

  “And Fenner,” he added, putting his finger on the page where that name was noted. “And Guzman, and Scarlatti. That’s the pattern. Whatever it is, it’s big enough to bring these e
nemies together in a common cause, and here in Britain.”

  There was a shadow of fear in Stoker’s eyes. “I’d like reform, sir, for lots of reasons. But I don’t want everything good thrown out at the same time. And violence isn’t the way to do anything, because no matter what you need to do in the first place, it never ends there. Seems to me that if you execute the king, either you end up with a religious dictator like Cromwell who rules over the people more tightly than any king ever did, and then you only have to get rid of him anyway—or else you end up with a monster like Robespierre in Paris, and the Reign of Terror, then Napoleon after that. Then you get a king back in the end anyway. At least for a while. I prefer us as we are, with our faults, rather than all that.”

  “So do I,” Pitt agreed. “But we can’t stop it if we don’t know what it is, and when and how it will strike. I don’t think we have very long.”

  “No, sir. And if you’ll excuse me spelling it out, we haven’t any allies either, least of all here in Lisson Grove. Whoever blackened Mr. Narraway’s name did a very good job of it, and nobody trusts you, because you’re his man.”

  Pitt smiled grimly. “It’s a lot more than that, Stoker. I’m new to this job and I don’t know the history of it and none of the men will trust me above Austwick, for which you can hardly blame them.”

  “Is Austwick a traitor, sir?”

  “I think so. But he may not be the only one.”

  “I know that,” Stoker said very quietly.

  NARRAWAY WAS INTENSELY RELIEVED to see the familiar coast of Ireland slip away over the horizon with no coast guard or police boat in pursuit of them. At least for a few hours he could turn his attention to what he should do once he arrived at Holyhead. The obvious thing would be to catch the next train to London. Would it be so obvious a move that he might be apprehended? On the other hand, a delay might give anyone still bent on catching him a better chance to cross the Irish Sea in a lighter, perhaps faster boat, and arrest him before he could get any help.