Betrayal at Lisson Grove - Anne Perry [8]
They would have to send a telegram from St Malo, requesting funds and saying at least enough for Narraway to understand what had happened. Poor West’s body would no doubt be found, but the police might not know of any reason to inform Special Branch of it. No doubt Narraway would find out in time. He seemed to have sources of information everywhere. Would he think to tell Charlotte?
Pitt wished now that he had made some kind of a provision to see she was informed, or even made a telephone call from Southampton. But to do that, he would have had to leave the ship, and perhaps lose Wrexham. He dared not make himself conspicuous. And who would be waiting for Gower to get home, worrying? With surprise he realised that he did not even know if Gower was married, or living with his parents.
Pitt was drifting into sleep, having tried to reassure himself that he had had to stay away all night before, and Charlotte would not be frantic, perhaps no more than concerned, when he awoke with a jolt, sitting upright, his mind filled with the picture of West’s body, head lolling at an angle, blood streaming onto the stones of the brickyard, the air filled with the smell of it.
‘Sorry, sir,’ the steward said automatically, passing a glass of beer to the man in the seat next to Pitt. ‘Can I get you something? How about a sandwich?’
Pitt realised with surprise that he had not eaten in twelve hours and he was ravenous. No wonder he could not sleep peacefully. ‘Yes,’ he said eagerly. ‘Yes, please. In fact, may I have two, and a glass of cider?’
‘Yes, sir. How about roast beef, sir. That do you?’
‘Please. What time do we get into St Malo?’
‘About five o’clock, sir. But you don’t need to go ashore until seven, unless o’ course, you’d like to.’
‘Thank you.’ Inwardly Pitt groaned. They would have to be up and watching from then on, in case Wrexham chose to leave early. He could be on the next train to Paris and they would never see him again. To oversleep would be a disaster. Since Pitt had nothing with him for a night away from home, that meant he had no alarm clock either.
‘Better bring me two glasses of cider,’ he said with a wry smile.
Would Gower think to ask the arrival time? Pitt had no idea where he was, and did not want to attract attention by looking for him. Later, perhaps. Wrexham would be able to sleep as soundly and as long as he wished. He could not imagine such a man being disturbed by the nightmares of conscience.
Pitt slept on and off, and he was awake and on edge when he saw Gower coming towards him on the deck as the ferry nosed its way slowly towards the harbour of St Malo. It was not yet dawn, but there was a clear sky, and he could see the outline of medieval ramparts against the stars. The walls must have been fifty or sixty feet high at the least, and looked to be interspersed with great towers such as in the past would have been manned by archers. Perhaps on some of them there would have been men in armour, with cauldrons of boiling oil to tip on those brave enough, or foolish enough, to try climbing ladders to scale the defences. It was like a journey backwards in time.
He was so enthralled with the sight that he was jerked into reality by Gower’s voice behind him.
‘I see you are awake. At least I assume you are?’ It was a question.
‘Not sure,’ Pitt replied. ‘That looks distinctly like a dream to me.’
‘Did you sleep?’ Gower asked.
‘A little. You?’
Gower shrugged. ‘Not much. Too afraid of missing him. Do you suppose he’s going to make for the first train to Paris?’
It was a very reasonable question. Paris was a cosmopolitan city, a hotbed of ideas, philosophies, dreams both practical and absurd. It was the ideal place to meet for those who would change the world. The two great revolutions of the last hundred years had been