Treason at Lisson Grove - Anne Perry [100]
Was Narraway on the brink of finding out something Talulla could not afford him to know?
That made incomplete sense. If it were true, then surely the obvious thing would be to have killed Narraway?
She recalled the look on Talulla’s face as she had seen Narraway standing near Cormac’s body. She had been almost hysterical. She might have a great ability to act, but surely not great enough to effect the sweat on her lip and brow, the wildness in her eyes, the catch in her voice as it soared out of control? And yet never once had she looked at Cormac’s body—perhaps she already knew exactly what she would see? She had not gone to him even to assure herself that he was beyond help. There had been nothing in her face but hate—no grief, no denial.
Charlotte was oblivious to the handsome streets of Dublin as the carriage drove on. It could have been any city on earth, so absorbed was she in thought. She was startled by a spatter of cold rain through the open window that wet her face and shoulder.
How much of this whole thing was Talulla responsible for? What about the issue of Mulhare and the embezzled money? She could not possibly have arranged that.
Or was someone in Lisson Grove using Irish passion and loyalties to further their own need to remove Narraway? Whom could she ask? Were any of Narraway’s supposed friends actually willing to help him? Or had he wounded or betrayed them all at one time or another, so that when it came to it they would take their revenge? He was totally vulnerable now. Could it be that at last they had stopped quarreling with one another long enough to conspire to ruin him?
Perhaps Charlotte had no right to judge Narraway’s Irish enemies. What would she have felt, or done, were it all the other way around: if Ireland were the foreigner, the occupier in England? If someone had used and betrayed her family, would she be so loyal to her beliefs in honesty or impartial justice? Perhaps—but perhaps not. It was impossible to know without one’s having lived that terrible reality.
Yet Narraway was innocent of killing Cormac—and she realized as she said this to herself that she thought he was no more than partially responsible for the downfall of Kate O’Neil. The O’Neils had tried to use him, turn him to betray his country. They might well be furious that they had failed, but had they the right to exact vengeance for losing?
She needed to ask help from someone, because alone she might as well simply give up and go back to London, leaving Narraway to his fate, and eventually Pitt to his. Before she reached Molesworth Street and even attempted to explain the situation to Mrs. Hogan, which she must do, she had decided to ask Fiachra McDaid for help.
“WHAT?” MCDAID SAID INCREDULOUSLY when she found him at his home and told him what had happened.
“I’m sorry.” She gulped and tried to regain her composure. She had thought herself in perfect control, and realized she was much farther from it than she’d imagined. “We went to see Cormac O’Neil. At least Victor said he was going alone, but I followed him, just behind …”
“You mean you found a carriage able to keep up with him in Dublin traffic?” McDaid frowned.
“No, no I knew where he was going. I had been there the evening before myself …”
“To see O’Neil?” He looked incredulous.
“Yes. Please … listen.” Her voice was rising again, and she made an effort to calm it. “I arrived moments after he did. I heard the dog begin to bark as he went in, but no shot!”
“It would bark.” The frown deepened on his brow. “It barks for anyone except Cormac, or perhaps Talulla. She lives close by and looks after it if Cormac is away, which he is from time to time.”
“Not the cleaning woman?” she said quickly.
“No. She’s afraid of it.” He looked at her more closely, his face earnest. “Why? What does it matter?”
She hesitated, still uncertain how far to trust him. It was the only evidence she had that protected Narraway. Perhaps she should