Betrayal at Lisson Grove - Anne Perry [119]
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 judgement 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 further. 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 – perhaps even more importantly, Kate’s daughter? Who would want to believe she had shot Cormac?
The driver was still staring at Charlotte, waiting for her decision.
‘Thank you . . .’ she fumbled 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 in which direction 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. Except that she had very little money herself.
Please heaven he did not trust any of the people he knew in Dublin! Every one of them would betray him; they couldn’t afford not to. They were tied to each other by blood and memory, old grief too deep to forget.
‘Miss?’ the driver interrupted her thoughts.
Charlotte 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, ask for Aunt Vespasia’s help.
‘Please take me to the dock,’ she said as steadily as she could. ‘I think it would be better if I were to catch the next steamer back to England. Whatever dock that is, if you please.’
‘Yes, miss.’The driver climbed back onto the box again and urged his horse forwards and round. They made a wide turn in the street and headed 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 it. 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