Farriers' Lane - Anne Perry [199]
“Then we’ll have to do it before we get off,” Gower pointed out. “Once we’re on French soil we’ll have no authority. Even the captain here is going to wonder why we didn’t do it in Southampton.” His voice took on a note of urgency, his face grave. “Look, sir, I speak pretty good French. I’ve still got a reasonable amount of money. We could send a telegram to Narraway to have someone meet us in Paris. Then we wouldn’t be just the two of us. Maybe the French police would be pleased for the chance to follow him?”
Pitt turned toward him, but he could barely make out his features in the faint light of the sky and the dim reflection of the ship’s lights. “If he goes straight for the town, we’ll have no time to send a telegram,” he pointed out. “It’ll take both of us to follow him. I don’t know why he hasn’t noticed us already.
“We should arrest him,” he continued with regret. He should have done this yesterday. “Faced with the certainty of the rope, he might feel like talking.”
“Faced with the certainty of the rope, he’d have nothing to gain,” Gower pointed out.
Pitt smiled grimly. “Narraway’ll think of something, if what he says is worth enough.”
“He might not go for the train,” Gower said quickly, moving his weight to lean forward a little. “We were assuming he’ll go to Paris. Perhaps he won’t? Maybe whoever he’s going to meet is here. Why come to St. Malo otherwise? He could have gone to Dover, and taken the train from Calais to Paris, if that was where he wanted to be. He still doesn’t know we’re on to him. He thinks he lost us in Rope-maker’s Field. Let’s at least give it a chance!”
The argument was persuasive, and Pitt could see the sense in it. It might be worth waiting a little longer. “Right,” he conceded. “But if he goes to the railway station, we’ll take him.” He made a slight grimace. “If we can. He might shout for help that he’s being kidnapped. We couldn’t prove he wasn’t.”
“Do you want to give up?” Gower asked. His voice was tight with disappointment, and Pitt thought he heard a trace of contempt in it.
“No.” There was no uncertainty in the decision. Special Branch was not primarily about justice for crimes; it was about preventing civil violence and the betrayal, subversion, or overthrow of the government. They were too late to save West’s life. “No, I don’t,” he repeated.
WHEN THEY DISEMBARKED IN the broadening daylight it was not difficult to pick Wrexham out from the crowd and follow him. He didn’t go, as Pitt had feared, to the train station, but into the magnificently walled old city. They could not risk losing sight of him, or Pitt would have taken time to look with far more interest at the massive ramparts as they went in through an entrance gate vast enough to let several carriages pass abreast. Once inside, narrow streets crisscrossed one another, the doors of the buildings flush with footpaths. Dark walls towered four or five stories high in uniform gray-black stone. The place had a stern beauty Pitt would have liked to explore. Knights on horseback would have ridden these streets, or swaggering corsairs straight from plunder at sea.
But they had to keep close to Wrexham. He was walking quickly as if he knew precisely where he was going, and not once did he look behind him.
It was perhaps fifteen minutes later, when they were farther to the south, that Wrexham stopped. He knocked briefly on a door, and was let into a large house just off a stone-paved square.
Pitt and Gower waited for nearly an hour, moving around, trying not to look conspicuous, but Wrexham did not come out again. Pitt imagined him having a hot breakfast, a wash and shave, clean clothes. He said as much to Gower.
Gower rolled his eyes. “Sometimes it’s easier being the villain,” he said ruefully. “I could do very well by bacon, eggs, sausages, fried potatoes, then fresh toast and marmalade and a good pot of tea.