by Anne Perry
Half an hour later, Vespasia’s coachman knocked on the door. Minnie Maude seemed confident enough for Charlotte to leave her, and Daniel and Jemima were not in the least concerned. Indeed, they seemed to be enjoying showing her the cupboards and drawers, and telling her exactly what was kept in each.
Charlotte answered the door, told the coachman that she would be ready in a minute, then went to the kitchen. She stopped for a moment to stare at Jemima’s earnest face explaining to Minnie Maude which jugs were used to keep the day’s milk, and where the milkman was to be found in the morning. Daniel was moving from foot to foot in his urgency to put in his advice as well, and Minnie Maude was smiling at first one, then the other.
‘I may be late back,’ Charlotte interrupted. ‘Please don’t wait up for me.’
‘No, ma’am,’ Minnie Maude said quickly. ‘But I’ll be happy to, if you wish?’
‘Thank you, but please make yourself comfortable,’ Charlotte told her. ‘Good night.’
She went straight out to the carriage, and for the next half-hour rode through the streets to Vespasia’s house in Gladstone Park — which was really not so much a park as a small square with flowering trees. She sat and tried to compose in her mind exactly how she would tell Vespasia what she meant to do.
At last Charlotte sat in Vespasia’s quiet sitting room. The colours were warm, muted to a familiar gentleness. The curtains were drawn across the window onto the garden and the fire burned in the hearth with a soft whickering of flames. She looked into Vespasia’s face, and it was not so easy to explain to her the wild decision to which Charlotte had already committed herself.
Vespasia had been considered by many to be the most beautiful woman of her generation, as well as the most outrageous in her wit and her political opinions — or maybe passions would be a more fitting word. Time had marked her features lightly and if anything, liberated her temperament even more. She was secure enough in her financial means and her social pre-eminence not to have to care what other people thought of her, as long as she was certain in her own mind that a course of action was for the best. Criticism might hurt, but it was a long time since it had deterred her.
Now she sat stiff-backed — she had never lounged in her life — her silver hair coiffed to perfection. A high lace collar covered her throat and the lamplight gleaming on the three rows of pearls.
‘You had better begin at the beginning,’ she told Charlotte. ‘Supper will be another hour.’
At least Charlotte knew what the beginning was. ‘Earlier this week Mr Narraway came to see me at home, to tell me that Thomas had been in pursuit of a man who had committed a murder, almost in front of him. He and his junior had been obliged to follow this person to France, and had not had the opportunity to inform anyone of what they were doing. Mr Narraway knew that they were in France. They sent a telegram. He told me of it so that I would not worry when Thomas did not come home, or call me.’
Vespasia nodded. ‘It was courteous of him to come himself,’ she observed a trifle drily.
Charlotte caught the tone in her voice and her eyes widened.
‘He is fond of you, my dear,’ Vespasia responded. Her amusement was so slight it could barely be seen, and was gone again the second after. ‘What has this to do with the maid?’
Charlotte looked at the drawn curtains, the pale design of flowers on the carpet. ‘He came again yesterday evening,’ she said quietly, ‘and stayed for much longer.’
Vespasia’s voice changed almost imperceptibly. ‘Indeed?’
Charlotte raised her eyes to meet Vespasia’s. ‘There appears to have been a conspiracy within Special Branch to make it look as if he embezzled a good deal of money.’ She saw Vespasia’s look of disbelief. ‘They have dismissed him, right there on the spot.’
‘Oh dear,’ Vespasia said with infinite shades of meaning. ‘I see why you are distressed. This is very serious indeed. Victor may have his faults, but financial dishonesty is not one of them. Money does not interest him. He would not even be tempted to do such a thing.’
Charlotte did not find that comforting. What faults was Vespasia implying that Narraway did possess? It seemed she knew him better than Charlotte had appreciated, even though Vespasia had interested herself in many of Pitt’s cases, and therefore of Narraway’s.Then the moment after, studying Vespasia’s expression, Charlotte realised that Vespasia was deeply concerned for him, and that she believed what he had said.
Charlotte found the tension in her body easing and she smiled. ‘I did not believe it of him either, but there is something in the past that troubles him very much.’
‘There will be a good deal,’ Vespasia said with the ghost of a smile. ‘He is a man of many sides, but the most vulnerable one is his work, because that is what he cares about.’
‘Then he wouldn’t jeopardise it, would he?’ Charlotte pointed out.
‘No. Someone finds it imperative that Victor Narraway be driven out of office, and out of credit with Her Majesty’s government. There are many possible reasons, and I have no idea which of them it is, so I have very little idea where to begin.’
‘We have to help him.’ Charlotte hated asking this of Vespasia, but the need was greater than the reluctance. ‘Not only for his sake, but for Thomas’s. In Special Branch Thomas is regarded as Mr Narraway’s man. I know this because, apart from my own sense, Thomas has told me so himself, and so has Mr Narraway. Aunt Vespasia, if Mr Narraway is gone, then whoever got rid of him may very well try to get rid of Thomas too-’
‘Of course,’ Vespasia cut across her. ‘You do not need to explain it to me, my dear. And Thomas is in France, not knowing what has happened, or that Victor can no longer give him the support from London that he needs.’
‘Have you friends-’ Charlotte began.
‘I do not know who has done this, or why,’ Vespasia answered even before the question was finished. ‘So I do not know whom I can trust.’
‘Victor. . Mr Narraway. .’ Charlotte felt a faint heat in her cheeks, ‘. . said he believed it was an old case in Ireland, twenty years ago, for which someone now seeks revenge. He didn’t tell me much about it. I think it embarrassed him.’
‘No doubt.’ Vespasia allowed a bleak spark of humour into her eyes for an instant. ‘Twenty years ago? Why now? The Irish are good at holding a grudge, or a favour, but they don’t wait on payment if they don’t have to.’
‘“Revenge is a dish best served cold”?’ Charlotte suggested wryly.
‘Cold, perhaps, my dear, but this would be frozen. There is more to it than a personal vengeance, but I do not know what. By the way, what has this to do with your maid leaving? Clearly there is something you have. . forgotten. . to tell me.’
Charlotte found herself uncomfortable. Had Vespasia been less gentle, or less obviously afraid, she would have been angry.
‘Oh, Mr Narraway called after dark, and since the matter was of secrecy, for obvious reasons, he closed the parlour door. I’m afraid Mrs Waterman thought I was — am — a woman of dubious morals. She doesn’t feel she can remain in a household where the mistress has “goings-on”, as she put it.’
‘Then she is going to find herself considerably restricted in her choice of position,’ Vespasia said waspishly. ‘Especially if her disapproval extends to the master as well.’
‘She didn’t say.’ Charlotte bit her lip, but couldn’t conceal her smile. ‘But she would be utterly scandalised, so much so that she might have left that night, out into the street alone, with her suitcase in her hand, if she had known that I promised Mr Narraway that I would go to Ireland with him, to do whatever I can to find the truth and help him clear his name. I have to. His enemies are Thomas’s enemies, and Thomas will have no defence against them without Mr Narraway there. Then what shall we do?’
Vespasia was silent for several moments. ‘Be very careful, Charlotte,’ she said gravely. ‘I think you are unaware of how dangerous that could become.’
Charlotte clenched her hands. ‘What would you hav
e me do? Sit here in London while Mr Narraway is unjustly ruined, and then wait for Thomas to be ruined as well? At best he will be dismissed because he was Mr Narraway’s man, and they don’t like him. At worst he may be implicated in the same embezzlement, and end up charged with theft.’ Her voice cracked a little and she realised how tired she was, and how very frightened. ‘What would you do?’
Vespasia reached across and touched her hand very gently, just fingertip to fingertip. ‘The same as you, my dear. That’s not the same thing as saying that it is wise. It is simply the only choice you can live with.’
There was a tap on the door, and the maid announced that supper was ready. They ate in the small breakfast room. Slender-legged Georgian mahogany furniture glowed dark amid golden yellow walls, as if they were dining in the sunset, although the curtains were closed and the only light came from the gas brackets on the walls.
Charlotte and Vespasia did not resume the more serious conversation until they had returned to the sitting room and were assured of being uninterrupted.
‘Do not forget for a moment that you are in Ireland,’ Vespasia warned. ‘Or imagine it is the same as England. It is not. They wear their past more closely wound around themselves than we do. Enjoy it while you are there, but don’t let your guard down for a second. They say you need a long spoon to sup with the devil. Well, you need a strong head to dine with the Irish. They’ll charm the wits out of you, if you let them.’
‘I won’t forget why I’m there,’ Charlotte promised.
‘Or that Victor knows Ireland very well, and the Irish also know him?’ Vespasia added. ‘Do not underestimate his intelligence, Charlotte, or his vulnerability. By the way, you have not mentioned how you intend to carry this off without causing a scandal that might damage Narraway’s good name further, but would certainly ruin yours. I assume your sense of fear and injustice did not blind you to that?’ There was no criticism in her voice, only concern.
Charlotte felt the blood hot in her face. ‘Of course I have. I can’t take a maid — I don’t have one, or the money to pay her fare if I did. I am going to say I am Mr Narraway’s sister — half-sister. That will make it decent enough.’
A tiny smile touched the corners of Vespasia’s lips. ‘Then you had better stop calling him “Mr Narraway” and learn to use his given name, or you will certainly raise eyebrows.’ She hesitated. ‘Or perhaps you already do.’
Charlotte looked into Vespasia’s steady silver-grey eyes, and chose not to elaborate.
Narraway came early the following morning in a hansom cab. When Charlotte answered the door he hesitated only momentarily. He did not ask her if she were certain of the decision. Perhaps he did not want to give her the chance to waver. He called the cab driver to put her case on the luggage rack.
‘Do you wish to go and say goodbye?’ he asked her. His face looked bleak, with shadows under his eyes as if he had not slept in many nights. ‘There is time.’
‘No thank you,’ she answered. ‘I have already done so. And I hate long goodbyes. I am quite ready to go.’
He nodded and walked behind her across the footpath. Then he handed her up onto the seat, going round to the other side to sit next to her. The cabby apparently knew the destination.
She had already decided not to tell him that she had visited Vespasia. He might prefer to think Vespasia did not know of his dismissal. She also chose not to let him know of Mrs Waterman’s suspicions. It could prove embarrassing, even as if she herself had considered the journey as something beyond business. The very thought of that made the heat rise up her face.
‘Perhaps you would tell me something about Dublin,’ she requested. ‘I have never been there, and I realise that beyond the fact that it is the capital of Ireland, I know very little.’
The idea seemed to amuse him. ‘We have a long train journey ahead of us, even on the fast train, and then a crossing of the Irish Sea. I hear that the weather will be pleasant. I hope so, because if it is rough, then it can be very violent indeed. There will be time for me to tell you all I know, from 7,500 BC until the present day.’
She was amazed at the age of the city, but she would not allow him to see that he had impressed her so easily. It might look as if she were being deliberately gentle with the grief she knew he must be feeling.
‘Really? Is that because our journey is enormously long after all, or because you know less than I had supposed?’
‘Actually there is something of a gap between 7,500 BC and the Celts arriving in 700 BC,’ he said with a smile. ‘And after that not a great deal until the arrival of St Patrick in AD 432.’
‘So we can leap eight thousand years without further comment,’ she concluded. ‘After that surely there must be something a little more detailed?’
‘The founding of St Patrick’s Cathedral in AD 119?’ he suggested. ‘Unless you want to know about the Vikings, in which case I would have to look it up myself. Anyway, they weren’t Irish, so they don’t count.’
‘Are you Irish, Mr Narraway?’ Charlotte asked suddenly. Perhaps it was an intrusive question, and when he was Pitt’s superior she would not have done it, but now the relationship was far more equal, and she might need to know. With his intensely dark looks he easily could be.
He winced slightly. ‘How formal you are. It makes you sound like your mother. No, I am not Irish, I am as English as you are, except for one great-grandmother. Why do you ask?’
‘Your precise knowledge of Irish history,’ she answered. That was not the real reason. She asked because she needed to know more about his loyalties, even his nature and, emotionally, the truth about what had happened in the O’Neil case twenty years ago.
‘It is my job to know,’ he said quietly. ‘As it was. Would you like to hear about the feud that made the King of Leinster ask Henry II of England to send over an army to assist him?’
‘Is it interesting?’
‘The army was led by Richard de Clare, known as Strongbow. He married the king’s daughter and became king himself in 1171, and the Anglo-Normans took control. In 1205 they began to build Dublin Castle. “Silken” Thomas led a revolt against Henry VIII in 1534, and lost. Do you begin to see a pattern?’
‘Of course I do. Do they burn the King of Leinster in effigy?’
He laughed, a brief, sharp sound. ‘I haven’t seen it done, but it sounds like a good idea. We are at the station. Let me get a porter. We will continue when we are seated on the train.’
The hansom pulled up as he spoke and he alighted easily. There was an air of command in him that attracted attention within seconds, and the luggage was unloaded into a wagon, the driver paid, and Charlotte walked across the pavement into the vast Paddington railway station for the Great Western rail to Holyhead.
It had great arches, as if it were some half-finished cathedral, and a roof so high it dwarfed the massed people all talking and clattering their way to the platform. There was a sense of excitement in the air, and a good deal of noise and steam and grit.
Narraway took her arm. For a moment his grasp felt strange and she was about to object, then she realised how foolish that would be. If they were parted in the crowd they might not find each other again until after the train had pulled out. He had the tickets, and he must know which platform they were seeking.
They passed groups of people, some greeting each other, some clearly stretching out a reluctant parting. Every so often the sound of belching steam and the clang of doors drowned out everything else. Then a whistle would blast shrilly, and one of the great engines would come to life, beginning the long pull away from the platform.
It was not until they had found their train and were comfortably seated that they resumed any kind of conversation. Charlotte found Narraway courteous, even considerate, but she could not help being aware of the inner tensions in him, the quick glances as if he memorised the faces of those around them, the concern, the way his hands were hardly ever completely still.
It would be a long journey to Hol
yhead, on the west coast. It was up to her to make it as agreeable as possible, and also to learn a good deal more about exactly what he wanted her to do.
Sitting on the rather uncomfortable seat, upright, with her hands folded in her lap, she must look very prim. It was not an image she liked, and yet now that they were embarked on this adventure together, each for his or her own reasons, she must be certain that she did not make any irretrievable mistakes, first of all in the nature of her feelings. She liked Victor Narraway. He was highly intelligent, individual, he could be very amusing at rare times, but she knew only one part of his life: the professional part, which Pitt also knew, and knew better than she ever would. Perhaps that was most of Narraway. Vespasia had hinted as much.
But Charlotte knew that there must be more, the private man. Somewhere beneath the pragmatism there had been dreams; she had seen the knowledge of their loss in his eyes.
‘Thank you for the lesson on ancient Irish history,’ she began, feeling clumsy. ‘But I need to know far more than I do about the specific matter that we are going to investigate, otherwise I will not recognise something important if I hear it. I cannot possibly remember everything to report it accurately to you.’
‘Of course not.’ He was clearly trying to keep a straight face, and not entirely succeeding. ‘I will tell you as much as I can. You understand there are aspects of it that are still sensitive. . I mean politically.’
She studied his face, and knew that he also meant they were personally painful to him. He was aware that she saw it in him and there was self-mockery in his smile.
‘Perhaps you could tell me something of the political situation?’ she suggested. ‘As much as is public knowledge — to those who were interested,’ she added, now it was her turn to mock herself very slightly. ‘I’m afraid I was more concerned with dresses and gossip at the time of the O’Neil case.’ She would have been about fifteen. ‘And thinking who I might marry, of course.’ ‘Of course,’ he nodded. ‘A subject that engages most of us, from time to time. All you need to know of the political background is that Ireland, as always, was agitating for Home Rule. Various British prime ministers had attempted to put it through Parliament, and it proved their heartbreak and, for some, their downfall. This is the time of the spectacular rise of Charles Stewart Parnell. He was to become leader of the Home Rule Party in’seventy-seven.’