Betrayal at Lisson Grove - Anne Perry [73]
Gower turned to Pitt, his fair face puzzled. ‘Yes, about a dozen of them. Do you think they’re really harmless, sir? Apart from Wrexham, of course?’
‘Are they all wild revolutionaries pretending very successfully to be ordinary citizens living satisfied and rather pedestrian lives?’ Pitt pressed.
It was a long time before Gower answered, as if he were weighing his words with intense care. He turned and leaned on the wall, staring at the water. ‘Wrexham killed West for a reason,’ he said slowly. ‘He was in no present danger, except being exposed as an anarchist, or whatever he would call himself. Perhaps he doesn’t want chaos, but a specific order that he considers fairer, more equal to all people. Or it may be a radical reform he’s after. Exactly what it is the socialists want is one of the things we need to learn. There may be dozens of different goals—’
‘There are,’ Pitt interrupted. ‘What they have in common is that they are not prepared to wait for reform by consent; they want to force it on people, violently, if necessary.’
‘And how long will they have to wait for anyone to hand it over voluntarily?’ Gower said with an edge of sarcasm. ‘Whoever gave up power if they weren’t forced to?’
Pitt scanned his memory for the history he could recall. ‘None that I can think of,’ he admitted. ‘That’s why it usually takes a while. But the abolition of slavery was passed through Parliament without overt violence. Certainly without revolution.’
‘I’m not sure the slaves would agree with that assessment,’ Gower said with a twist of bitterness. ‘Perhaps we’re looking at a would-be Wilberforce?’
Pitt looked at him obliquely, slightly ashamed of his shallow remark about slavery.
‘It’s time we found out what we are looking at,’ he conceded.
Gower straightened up. ‘If we ask open questions it’s bound to get back to Frobisher, and he may take a great deal more care. The one advantage we have, sir, is that he doesn’t know we’re watching him. Can we afford to lose that?’ He looked anxious, his fair brows drawn together in a frown, the sunburn flushing his cheeks.
‘I’ve been making a few enquiries,’ Pitt said.
‘Already?’ Suddenly there was an edge of anger in Gower’s voice.
Pitt was surprised. It seemed Gower’s easy manner hid an emotional commitment he had not seen. He should have. They had worked together for over two months even before the hectic chase that had brought them here.
‘As to who I can ask for information without it being obvious,’ he replied levelly.
‘Who?’ Gower said quickly.
‘A man named John McIver. He’s another expatriate Englishman who’s lived here for twenty years. Married to a French woman.’
‘Are you positive he’s trustworthy, sir?’ Gower was still sceptical. ‘It’ll take only one careless word, one remark made idly, and Frobisher will know he’s being watched. We could lose the big ones, the people like Linsky, and Meister.’
‘I didn’t choose him blindly,’ Pitt replied. He did not intend to tell Gower that he had encountered McIver before, on a quite different case.
Gower drew in his breath, and then let it out again. ‘Yes, sir. I’ll stay here and watch Wrexham, and whoever he meets with.’ Then he flashed a sudden, bright smile. ‘I might even go down into the square and see the pretty girl with the pink dress again, and drink a glass of wine.’
Pitt shook his head, feeling the tension ease away. ‘I think you’ll do better than I will,’ he said ruefully.
McIver lived some five miles outside St Malo in the deep countryside. He was clearly longing to speak to someone in his native tongue, and hear first-hand the latest news from London. Pitt’s visit delighted him.
‘Of course I miss London, but don’t misunderstand me, sir,’ he said, leaning back in his garden chair in the sun. He had offered Pitt wine and little sweet biscuits, and – when he declined those – fresh crusty bread and a soft country cream cheese, which he accepted with alacrity.
Pitt waited for him to continue.
‘I love it here,’ McIver went on. ‘The French are possibly the most civilised nation on earth – apart from the Italians,