Treason at Lisson Grove - Anne Perry [16]
He had employed Pitt as a favor, when Pitt had challenged his own superiors and been thrown out of the Metropolitan Police. And initially he had found Pitt unsatisfactory, lacking the training or the inclination for Special Branch work. But the man had learned quickly, and he was a remarkably good detective: persistent, imaginative, and with a moral courage Narraway admired. And he liked the man, despite his own resolution not to allow personal feelings into anything professional.
He had protected Pitt from the envy and the criticism of others in the branch. That was partly because Pitt was more than worthy of the place, but also to defend Narraway’s own judgment. Yet—he admitted it now—it was also for Charlotte’s sake. Without Pitt, he would have no excuse to see her again.
“I’ll attend to it,” he answered Austwick at last. “As soon as I have a few more answers on this present problem. One of our informants was murdered, which has made things more difficult.”
Austwick rose to his feet. “Yes, sir. That would be a good idea. I think the sooner you put people’s minds at rest on the issue, the better it will be. I suggest before the end of this week.”
“When circumstances allow,” Narraway replied coolly.
CIRCUMSTANCES DID NOT ALLOW. Early the following morning Narraway was sent for to report to the Home Office, directly to Sir Gerald Croxdale, his political superior, the one man to whom he was obliged to answer without reservation.
Croxdale was in his early fifties, a quiet, persistent politician who had risen in the ranks of the government with remarkable swiftness, not having made great speeches or introduced new laws, nor apparently having used the benefit of patronage from any of the more noted ministers. Croxdale seemed to be his own man. Whatever debts he collected or favors he owed were too discreet for even Narraway to know of, let alone the general public. He had made no individual initiatives that were remarkable but—probably far more important—he had also made no visible mistakes. Insiders spoke his name with respect.
Narraway had never seen in him the passion that marked an ambitious man, but he noted the quick rise to greater power and it earned in him a deeper, if reluctant, respect.
“Morning, Narraway,” Croxdale said with an easy smile as he waved him to a brown leather armchair in his large office. Croxdale was a big man, tall and solid. His face was far from handsome in any traditional sense, but he was imposing. His voice was soft, his smile benign. Today he was wearing his usual well-cut but unostentatious suit, and perfectly polished black leather boots.
Narraway returned the greeting and sat down, not comfortably, but a little forward, listening.
“Bad business about your informant West being killed,” Croxdale began. “I presume he was going to tell you a great deal more about whatever it is building up among the militant socialists.”
“Yes, sir,” Narraway said bleakly. “Pitt and Gower were only seconds too late. They saw West, but he was already terrified of something and took to his heels. They caught up with him in a brickyard in Shadwell, only moments after he was killed. The murderer was still bending over him.” He could feel the heat of the blood in his cheeks as he said it. It was partly anger at having been so close, and yet infinitely far from preventing the death. One minute sooner and West would have been alive, and all his information would be theirs. It was also a sense of failure, as if losing him were an incompetence on the part of his men, and so of himself. Deliberately he met Croxdale’s eyes, refusing to look away. He never made excuses, explicit or implicit.
Croxdale smiled, leaning back and crossing his long legs. “Unfortunate, but luck cannot always be on our side. It is the measure of your men that they kept track of the assassin. What is the news now?”
“I’ve had a couple of telegrams from Pitt in St. Malo,” Narraway answered. “Wrexham, the killer,