Betrayal at Lisson Grove - Anne Perry [112]
But far more important than shirts, socks, personal linen, were whatever papers he might have. She wondered if he had committed anything to writing and whether it would even be in a form she could understand. If only she could at least ask Pitt! She had never missed him more. But then of course if he were here, she would be at home in London, not trying desperately to carry out a task for which she was so ill-fitted. This was not some domestic crime that could be pieced together at leisure. She was in a foreign country where she did not really know anyone, and the dreams and beliefs were alien. Above all, she was the enemy, and justly so. The weight of centuries of history was against her.
She opened the case, then went to the wardrobe and took out Narraway’s suits and shirts, folded them neatly and packed them. Then, feeling as if she were prying, she opened the drawers in the chest. She took out his underwear and packed it also, making sure she had his pyjamas from under the pillow in the bed. She included his extra pair of shoes, wrapped in a cloth to keep them from marking anything, and put them in as well.
She collected the toiletries, picking some long, black and grey hairs from his hairbrush. What a personal thing a hairbrush was. And a toothbrush, razor, and small clothes brush. He was an immaculate man. How he would hate being locked up in a cell with no privacy, and probably little means to wash.
What few papers there were were in the top drawer of the dresser. Thank heaven they were not locked in a briefcase. But that probably indicated that they would mean nothing to anyone else.
Back in her own room, with Narraway’s case propped in the corner, Charlotte looked at few notes he had made. They were a curious reflection on his character, a side of him she had not even guessed at before. They were mostly little drawings, very small indeed, but very clever. They were little stick men, but with such movement in them, and with perhaps only one characteristic that told her who they were.
There was one little man with striped trousers and a banknote in his hat, and beside him a woman with chaotic hair. Behind him was another woman, even thinner, her limbs poking jaggedly.
Even with arms and legs merely suggested, Charlotte knew they were John and Bridget Tyrone, and that Tyrone, being a banker, was important. The other woman had such a savagery about her it immediately suggested Talulla. Beside her was a question mark.
There was no more than that, except a man of whom she could see only the top half, as if he were up to his arms in something. She stared at it until it came to her with a shiver of revulsion. It was Mulhare, drowning – because the money had not been paid.
The little drawing suggested a connection between John Tyrone and Talulla. He was a banker – Charlotte knew that already – but this indicated that that was what mattered about him. Was he the connection to London? Had he the power, through his profession, to move money around from Dublin to London and, with the help of someone in Lisson Grove, to place it back in Narraway’s account?
Then who in Lisson Grove? And why? No one could tell her that but Tyrone himself.
Was it dangerous, absurd, to go to him? She had no one else she could turn to, because she did not know who else was involved. Certainly she could not go back to McDaid. She was growing more and more certain within herself that his remarks about innocent casualties of war were statements of his philosophy, and also a warning to her. He had a purpose, like a juggernaut, which would crush those who got in its way.
Was Talulla the prime mover in Cormac’s death, or only the instrument, used by someone else? Someone like John Tyrone, so harmless-seeming, but with power in Dublin, and in London, power to serve, or even to create a traitor in Lisson Grove?
There seemed to be two choices open