Betrayal at Lisson Grove - Anne Perry [121]
He would ask Austwick where they were, and put them back where they belonged. If Narraway ever returned here, then Pitt would give them back to him. They were his and he must care about them. They were part of the furniture of his mind, of his life. They would give Pitt a sense of his presence, and it was both sad and comforting at the same time.
Narraway would have known what to do about these varied and sometimes conflicting remnants of work that scattered the desk now. Some were reports from local police, some from Special Branch men in various parts of the country; many were from other towns and cities in Europe. Pitt was familiar with some of them, but he had only a vague knowledge of others. They were cases Narraway had dealt with himself.
Austwick had left him notes, but how could he trust anything Austwick had said? He would be a fool to, without corroboration from someone else, and that would take time he could not afford now. And who could he trust? There was nothing but to go on. He would have to proceed with the most urgent cases first, comparing one piece of information with another, cancelling out the impossible and then weighing what was left.
As the morning wore on, and assistants of one sort or another came with new papers, more opinions, he became painfully aware of how isolated Narraway must have been. Some people he could rely on for honesty, but perhaps not for judgement, at least not in all things. Others he dared not even believe as to matters of fact. None dare he confide in. He was commander now. They did not expect him to consult, to defer, to be vulnerable or confused in anything.
He looked in their faces and saw courtesy, respect for his new position. In a few he also saw envy. Once he recognised an anger that he, such a relative newcomer, should have been promoted before his time. In none did he see the kind of respect he needed in order to command their personal loyalty beyond their commitment to the task. That could only exist when it had been earned.
He would have given most of what he possessed to have Narraway back right now. He would even have given away his excellent, expensive boots, which afforded him comfortable feet. No bodily discomfort could threaten as much as the anxiety that he would make a bad judgement, fail to understand the importance of some piece of information, or simply not have the courage, the wisdom and the astuteness of intelligence to make all the right choices. One big mistake could be sufficient to cost someone his life.
Now Narraway was somewhere in Ireland. Why had Charlotte gone with him? To help fight against injustice, out of loyalty to a friend in desperate need? How like her! But Narraway was Pitt’s friend, not really hers. And yet now, remembering a dozen small things, he knew that Narraway was in love with her, and had been for some time.
He knew exactly when he had first subconciously noticed it. He had seen Narraway turn to look at her. They had been standing in the kitchen in the house in Keppel Street. It had been during a bad case, a difficult one. Narraway had come to see him late in the evening over something or other, a new turn in events. They had had tea. Charlotte had been standing waiting for the kettle to boil again. She had been wearing an old dress, not expecting anyone except Pitt. The lamplight had shone on her hair, bringing up the warm, deep colour of it, and on the angle of her cheek. He could see her in his mind’s eye picking up the mitt so as not to burn her hands on the kettle.
Narraway had said something, and she had looked at him and laughed. In an instant his face had given him away.
Did she know?
It had taken her what seemed like ages to realise that Pitt was in love with her, years ago, in the beginning. But since then they had all changed. She had been awkward, the middle sister of three, the one her mother