Betrayal at Lisson Grove - Anne Perry [6]
Just before Christmas, French Army officer Alfred Dreyfus had been convicted of treason, but that was simply a scandal of persecution and prejudice. In January of this year Dreyfus had been sentenced to life imprisonment on Devil’s Island. Everywhere there was anger and uncertainty in the air.
It was a risk to take the chance of following Wrexham, but to seize on an empty certainty was a kind of surrender. ‘We’ll follow him,’ Pitt replied. ‘Do you have enough money for another fare, if we have to separate to be sure of not losing him?’
Gower fished in his pocket, counted what he had. ‘As long as it isn’t all the way to Scotland, yes, sir. Please God it isn’t Scotland.’ He smiled with a twisted kind of misery. ‘You know in February they had the coldest temperature ever recorded in Britain? Nearly fifty degrees of frost! If the poor bastard let off a bomb to start a fire you could hardly blame him!’
‘That was February,’ Pitt reminded him. ‘This is April already. We’re pulling into a station. I’ll watch for Wrexham this time. You take the next.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Pitt opened the door and was only just on the ground when he saw Wrexham get out and hurry across the platform to change trains for Southampton. Pitt turned to signal Gower and found him already out and at his elbow. Together they followed, trying not to be conspicuous by hurrying. They found seats, but separately for a while, to make sure Wrexham didn’t double back and elude them, disappearing into London again.
But Wrexham seemed to be oblivious of them, as if he no longer even considered the possibility of being followed. He appeared completely carefree. From the serene expression on his face he could have spent a perfectly normal day. Pitt had to remind himself that Wrexham had followed a man in the East End, only a matter of hours ago, and quite deliberately cut his throat and seen him bleed to death on the stones of a deserted brickyard.
‘God, he’s a cold-blooded bastard!’ he said with sudden fury.
A man in pinstripe trousers on the seat opposite put down his newspaper and stared at Pitt with distaste, then rattled his paper loudly and resumed reading.
Gower smiled. ‘Quite,’ he said very quietly. ‘We had best be extremely careful.’
One or the other of them got out briefly at every stop, just to make certain Wrexham did not leave this train, but he stayed until they finally pulled in at Southampton. When at last he left, it was still without appearing to have any concern that he was being followed.
Gower looked at Pitt, puzzled. ‘What can he do in Southampton?’ he said. They hurried along the platform to keep pace with Wrexham, then past the ticket collector and out into the street.
The answer was not long in coming. Wrexham took an omnibus directly towards the docks, and Pitt and Gower had to race to jump onto the step just as it pulled away. Pitt almost bumped into Wrexham, who was still standing. He only just avoided his face by turning away suddenly, as if catching sight of someone he recognised. Deliberately he looked away from Gower. They must be more careful. Neither of them was particularly noticeable alone. Gower was fairly tall, lean, his hair long and fair, but his features were a trifle bony, stronger than average. An observant person would remember him. Pitt was taller, rather gangling, perhaps less than graceful, and yet he moved easily, comfortable with himself. His hair was dark and permanently untidy. One front tooth was a little chipped, but visible only when he smiled. It was his steady, very clear grey eyes people did not forget.
Together, one would have to be extraordinarily preoccupied not to be aware of seeing them in London, and now again here in Southampton. Accordingly, Pitt moved on down the inside of the bus to stand well away from Gower, and pretended to be watching the streets as they passed, as if he were taking careful note of where he was.
As he had at least half expected, Wrexham went all the way to the dockside. Without