Treason at Lisson Grove - Anne Perry [118]
Pitt studied Croxdale’s face, and did not know the answer.
They read them carefully. A servant brought in a tray of light toast and pâté, then cheese and finally a heavy fruitcake—along with brandy, which Pitt declined.
It was now totally dark outside. The wind was rising a little, spattering rain against the windows.
Croxdale put down the last paper. “Narraway obviously thought there was something to this business in St. Malo, but not major. Austwick seems to disagree, and thinks that it is nothing but noise and posturing. Unlike Narraway, he believes it will not affect us here in Britain. What do you think, Pitt?”
It was the question Pitt had dreaded, but it was inevitable that it would come. There was no room for excuses, no matter how easy to justify. He would be judged on the accuracy of his answer. He had lain awake weighing everything he knew, hoping Croxdale’s information would tip the balance one way or the other.
Again he answered with barely a hesitation. “I think that Narraway was on the brink of finding out something crucial, and he was gotten rid of before he could do so.”
Croxdale waited a long time before he answered.
“Do you realize that if that is true, then you are also saying that Austwick is either incompetent to a most serious degree, or else—far worse than that—he is complicit in what is going on?”
“Yes, sir, I’m afraid that has to be the case,” Pitt agreed. “But Gower was reporting to someone, so we know that at least one person within the service is a traitor.”
“I’ve known Charles Austwick for years,” Croxdale said softly. “But perhaps we don’t know anyone as well as we imagine.” He sighed. “I’ve sent for Stoker. Apparently he’s newly back from Ireland. He may be able to throw some light on things. Do you trust him?”
“Yes. But I trusted Gower as well,” Pitt said ruefully. “Do you?”
Croxdale gave him a bleak smile. “Touché. Let’s at least see what he has to say. And the answer is no, I trust no one. I am painfully aware that we cannot afford to. Not after Narraway, and not it would seem Gower also. Are you sure you won’t have a brandy?”
“I’m quite sure, thank you, sir.”
There was a knock on the door and, at Croxdale’s word, Stoker came in. He looked tired. There were shadows around his eyes, and his face was pinched with fatigue. However, he stood to attention until Croxdale gave him permission to sit. Stoker acknowledged Pitt, but only so much as courtesy demanded.
“When did you get back from Ireland?” Croxdale asked him.
“About two hours ago, sir,” Stoker replied. “Weather’s a bit poor.”
“Mr. Pitt doesn’t believe the charge of embezzlement against Narraway,” Croxdale went on. “He thinks it is possibly false, manufactured to get rid of him because he was on the verge of gaining information about a serious socialist plot of violence that would affect Britain.” He was completely ignoring Pitt, his eyes fixed on Stoker so intently they might have been alone in the room.
“Sir?” Stoker said with amazement, but he did not look at Pitt either.
“You worked with Narraway,” Croxdale continued. “Does that seem likely to you? What is the news from Ireland now?”
Stoker’s jaw tightened as if he were laboring under some profound emotion. His face was pale as he leaned forward a little into the light. He seemed leached of color by exhaustion. “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t see any reason to question the evidence. It’s amazing what lack of money can do, and how it can change your view of things.”
Pitt felt as if he had been struck. The sting of Stoker’s words was hard enough to have been physical. He would rather it had been.
Stoker continued, a grim weariness in his voice. “Sir, there is more. I deeply regret that I must bear this grave news, gentlemen, but yesterday O’Neil was murdered, and the police immediately arrested Narraway. He was on the scene