Betrayal at Lisson Grove - Anne Perry [4]
Wrexham reached the steps and ran down them, disappearing as if he had slipped into a hole. Pitt felt an upsurge of victory. The ferry was still twenty yards from where the steps would meet the water.
Gower let out a yell of triumph, waving his hand high.
They reached the top of the steps just as the ferry pulled away from underneath the shadow of the wall, Wrexham sitting in the stern. They were close enough to see the smile on his face and he half swivelled on the seat to see them. Then he faced forward, speaking to the ferryman and pointing to the further shore.
Pitt raced down the steps. His feet slithered on the wet stones and he only just regained his balance. He waved his arms at the other ferry, the one they had seen. ‘Here! Hurry!’ he shouted.
Gower shouted also, his voice high and desperate.
The ferryman increased his speed, throwing his full weight behind his oars, and in a matter of seconds he swung round next to the pier.
‘Get in, gents,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Where to?’
‘After that boat there,’ Gower gasped, choking on his own breath and pointing to the other ferry. ‘An extra half-crown in it for you if you catch up with him before he gets up Horseferry Stairs.’
Pitt landed in the boat behind him and immediately sat down so they could get underway. ‘He’s not going to Horseferry,’ he pointed out. ‘He’s going straight across. Look!’
‘Lavender Dock?’ Gower scowled, sitting in the seat beside Pitt. ‘What the hell for?’
‘Shortest way across,’ Pitt replied. ‘Get up to Rotherhithe Street and away.’
‘Where to?’
‘Nearest train station, probably. Or he might double back. Best place to get lost is among other people.’
They were pulling well away from the dock now and slowly catching up with the other ferry.
There were fewer ships moored here and they could make their way almost straight across. A string of barges was still fifty yards downstream, moving slowly against the tide. The wind off the water was cold. Without thinking what he was doing, Pitt hunched up and pulled his collar higher around his neck. It seemed like hours since he and Gower had burst into the brickyard and seen Wrexham crouched over the blood-soaked body of West, but it was probably little more than ninety minutes. Their information about whatever plot for violence West had known was gone with his death.
Pitt thought back to his last interview with Narraway, sitting in the office with the hot sunlight streaming through the window onto the piles of books and papers on the desk. Narraway’s face had been intensely serious under his greying mane of hair, his eyes almost black. He had spoken of the gravity of the situation, the rise of the passion to reform the old imperialism of Europe, violently, if necessary. It was no longer a matter of a few sticks of dynamite, an assassination here and there. There were whispers of the overthrow of governments by force, of the mobilising of armies, of people willing to sacrifice their own lives, and other people’s, to create a new order – a whole new world.
‘Some things need changing,’ Narraway had said with a wry bitterness. ‘No one but a fool would deny that there is injustice. But this would result in anarchy. God alone knows how wide this spreads, at least as far as France, Germany, and Italy, and by the sounds of it here in England as well. The rest of Europe went mad in forty-eight and it was over a couple of years later, with all the old tyrannies back in place, as strong as ever. The barricades came down. The reforms were overturned and everything reverted to the old ways!’
Pitt had stared at him, seeing a sadness in him he had never imagined before. With amazement he realised that Narraway regretted the death of those dreams, perhaps even more the death of the passionate, idealistic and naïve men and women who had sacrificed their lives in pursuit