Betrayal at Lisson Grove (24 page)

‘Worth the walk?’ Gower enquired. There was no edge to his voice; his lean brown hand holding the glass was perfectly steady.

‘Yes,’ Pitt said. ‘Yes it was. He confirmed what I suspected. It seems Frobisher is a poseur. He has talked about radical social reform for years, but still lives in more or less luxury himself. He gives to the occasional charity, but then so do most people of means. Talking about action seems to be his way of shocking people, gaining a degree of attention for himself while remaining perfectly comfortable.’

‘And Wrexham?’ Gower asked.

There was a moment’s silence in the room. Somewhere outside a dog was barking, and much further away someone sang a bawdy song and there was a bellow of laughter. Pitt knew it was vulgar because the intonation of the words was the same in any language.

‘Obviously a different matter,’ Pitt replied. ‘We know that for ourselves, unfortunately. What he is doing here I have no idea. I hadn’t thought he knew we were after him, but perhaps I was wrong in that.’ He let the suggestion hang in the air.

‘We were careful,’ Gower said, as if turning the idea over in his mind. ‘But why stay here with Frobisher if all he is doing is trying to escape from us? Why not go on to Paris, or anywhere?’ He put down his glass and faced Pitt. ‘At best he’s a revolutionary, at worst an anarchist wanting to destroy all order and replace it with chaos.’ There was stinging contempt in his voice. If it was false then he belonged on the stage.

Pitt rethought his plan. ‘Perhaps he’s waiting here for someone, and he feels safe enough not to care about us?’ he suggested.

‘Or whoever’s coming is so important he has to take the risk?’ Gower countered.

‘Exactly.’ Pitt settled himself more comfortably in his chair. ‘But we could wait a long time for that, or possibly fail to recognise it when it happens. I think we need a great deal more information.’

‘French police?’ Gower said doubtfully. He moved his position also, but to one less comfortable, as if any moment he might stand up again.

Pitt forced himself not to copy him. He must appear totally relaxed.

‘Their interests might not be the same as ours,’ Gower went on. ‘Do you trust them, sir? In fact, do you really want to tell them what we know about Wrexham, and why we’re here?’ His expression was anxious, bordering on critical, as if it were only his junior rank that held him back from stronger comment.

Pitt made himself smile. ‘No, I don’t,’ he answered. ‘To all your questions. We have no idea what they know, and no way of checking anything they may tell us. And, of course, our interests may very well not be the same. But most of all, as you say, I don’t want them to know who we are.’

Gower blinked. ‘So what are you suggesting, sir?’

Now was the only chance Pitt was going to have. He wanted to stand up, to have the advantage of balance, even of weight, if Gower moved suddenly. He had to stiffen his muscles and then deliberately relax to prevent himself from doing it. Carefully he slid a little further down in the seat, stretching his legs as if they were tired – which was not difficult after his ten-mile walk. Thank heaven he had good boots, although they looked dusty and scuffed now.

‘I’ll go back to London and see what they have at Lisson Grove,’ he answered. ‘They may have much more detailed information they haven’t given us. You stay here and watch Frobisher and Wrexham. I know that will be more difficult on your own, but I haven’t seen them do anything after dark other than entertain a little.’ He wanted to add more, to explain, but it would cause suspicion. He was Gower’s superior. He did not have to justify himself. To do so would be to break the pattern, and if Gower were clever, that in itself would alarm him.

‘Yes, sir, if you think that’s best. When will you be back? Shall I keep the room on here for you?’ Gower asked.

‘Yes – please. I don’t suppose I’ll be more than a couple of days, maybe three. I feel we’re working in the dark at the moment.’

‘Right, sir. Fancy a spot of dinner now? I found a new café today. Has the best mussel soup you’ve ever tasted.’

‘Good idea.’ Pitt rose to his feet a little stiffly. ‘I’ll leave first ferry in the morning.’

 

The following day was misty and a lot cooler. Pitt had deliberately chosen the first crossing to avoid having to breakfast with Gower. He was afraid in the affected casualness of it he might try too hard, and make some slip so small Gower picked it up, while Pitt would have no idea anything had changed.

Or had Gower suspected something already? Did he know, even as Pitt walked down to the harbour along ancient, now-familiar streets, that the pretence was over? He had a desperate instinct to swing round and see if anyone were following him. Would he pick out Gower’s fair head, taller than the average, and know it was he? Or might he already have changed his appearance and could be yards away, and Pitt had no idea?

But his allies, Frobisher’s men, or Wrexham’s, could be anyone: the old man in the fisherman’s jersey, lounging in a doorway, taking his first cigarette of the day; the man on the bicycle bumping over the cobbles; even the young woman with the laundry. Why suppose that Gower himself would follow him? Why suppose that he had noticed anything different at all? The new realisation loomed gigantic to him, filling his mind, driving out almost everything else. But how self-centred to suppose that Gower had nothing more urgent to consume his thoughts! Perhaps Pitt and what he knew, or believed he knew, was an irrelevance anyway.

He increased his pace and passed a group of travellers heaving along shopping bags and tightly packed portmanteaux. On the dockside he glanced around as if to search for someone he knew, and was flooded with relief when he saw only strangers.

He stood in the queue to buy his ticket, and then again to get on board. Once he felt the slight sway of the deck under his feet, the faint movement, even here in the harbour, it was as if he had reached some haven of safety. The gulls wheeled and circled overhead, crying harshly. Here on the water the wind was sharper, salt-smelling.

Pitt stood on the deck by the railing, staring at the gangway and the dockside. To anyone else, he hoped he looked like someone looking back at the town with pleasure, perhaps at a holiday well spent, possibly even at friends he might not see again for another year. Actually he was watching the figures on the quay, searching for anyone familiar, any of the men he had seen arriving or leaving Frobisher’s house, or for Gower himself.

Twice he thought he saw him, and it turned out to be a stranger. It was simply the fair hair, an angle of shoulder or head. He was angry with himself for the fear that he knew was largely in his mind. Perhaps it was so deep because, until the walk back to the town yesterday evening, it had never entered his mind that Gower had killed West, and Wrexham was either a co-conspirator, or even just a tissue-paper socialist posing as a fanatic, like Frobisher himself. It was the shock at his own blindness that dismayed Pitt. How stupid he had been, how insensitive to possibilities. He would be ashamed to tell Narraway, but he would have to; there would be no escaping it.

At last they cast off and moved out into the bay. Pitt remained where he was at the rail, watching the towers and walls of the city recede. The sunlight was bright on the water, glittering sharp. They passed the rocky outcrops, tide slapping around the feet of the minor fortress built there, guarding the approaches. There were few sailing boats this early: just fishermen pulling up the lobster pots that had been out all night.

Pitt tried to imprint the scene on his mind. He would tell Charlotte about it: the beauty, the tastes and sounds, how it was like stepping back in time. He should bring her here one day, take her to dine where the shellfish was so superb. She hardly ever left London, let alone England. It would be fun, different. He imagined seeing her again so vividly he could almost smell the perfume of her hair, hear her voice in his mind. He would tell her about the city, the sea, the tastes and the sounds of it all. He wouldn’t have to dwell on the events that had brought him to France, only on the good.

Someone bumped against him and, for a moment he forgot to be startled. Then the chill ran through him, and he realised how his attention had wandered.

The man apologised.

Pitt spoke with difficulty, his mouth dry. ‘It’s nothing.’

The man smiled. ‘Lost my balance. Not used to the sea.’

Pitt nodded, but he moved away from the rail and went back into the main cabin. He stayed there for the rest of the crossing, drinking tea and having a breakfast of fresh bread, cheese and a little sliced ham. He tried to look as if he were at ease.

When they reached Southampton he went ashore carrying the light case he had bought in France and looking like any other holidaymaker returning home. It was midday. The quayside was busy with people disembarking, or waiting to take the next ferry out.

He went straight to the railway station, eager to catch the first available train to London. He would go home, wash and dress in clean clothes. Then, if he were lucky, just have time to catch Narraway before he left Lisson Grove for the evening. Thank heavens for the telephone. At least he would be able to call and arrange to meet with him wherever was convenient. Maybe with his news about Gower, a rendezvous at Narraway’s home would be better.

He felt easier now. France seemed very far away, and he had had no glimpse of Gower on the boat. He must have satisfied him with his explanation.

The station was unusually busy, crowded with people all seemingly in an ill humour. He discovered why when he bought his ticket for London.

‘Sorry, sir,’ the ticket seller said wearily. ‘We got a problem at Shoreham-by-Sea, so there’s a delay.’

‘How long a delay?’

‘Can’t say, sir. Maybe an hour or more.’

‘But the train is running?’ Pitt insisted. Suddenly he was anxious to leave Southampton, as if it were still dangerous.

‘Yes, sir, it will be. D’yer want a ticket fer it or not?’

‘Yes, I do. There’s no other way to London, is there?’

‘No, sir, not unless yer want ter take a different route. Some folk are doing that, but it’s longer, an’ more expensive. Trouble’ll be cleared soon, I dare say.’

‘Thank you. I’ll have one ticket to London, please.’

‘Return, sir? Would you like first, second or third class?’

‘Just one way, thank you, and second class will be fine.’

He paid for it and went back towards the platform, which was getting steadily more and more crowded. He couldn’t even pace backward and forward to release some of the tension that was mounting inside him, as it seemed to be for everyone else. Women were trying to comfort fretful children; businessmen pulled pocket watches out of their waistcoats and stared at the time again and again. Pitt kept glancing around him, but there was no sign of Gower, although he was not sure if he would have noticed him in the ever-increasing crowd.

He bought a sandwich and a pint of cider at two o’clock, when there was still no news. At three he eventually took the train to Worthing, and hoped to catch another train from there, perhaps to London via a different route. At least leaving Southampton gave him an illusion of achieving something. As he made his way towards a seat in the last carriage, again he had the feeling of having escaped.

The carriage was nearly full. He was fortunate there was room for him to sit. Everyone else had been waiting for some time and they were all tired, anxious and looking forward to getting home. Even if this train did not take them all the way, at least they were moving. One woman held a crying two-year-old, trying to comfort her. The little girl was rubbing her eyes and sniffing. It made Pitt think of Jemima at that age. How long ago that seemed. Pitt guessed she had been on holiday and was now confused as to where she was going next, and why. He had some sympathy for her, and it made him engage the mother in conversation for the first two stops. Then the movement of the train and the rhythmic clatter over the connections on the rail lulled the child to sleep, and the mother finally relaxed.

Several people got off at Bognor Regis, and more at Angmering. By the time they reached Worthing and stopped altogether, there were only half a dozen people left in Pitt’s carriage.

‘Sorry, gents,’ the guard said, tipping his cap back a little and scratching his head. ‘This is as far as we go till they get the track cleared at Shoreham.’

There was a lot of grumbling, but the few passengers remaining got out of the carriage. They walked up and down the platform restlessly, bothered the porters and the guard asking questions to which no one had answers, or went into the waiting room with passengers from the other carriages.

Pitt picked up someone else’s discarded newspaper and glanced through it. Nothing in particular caught his eye, and he kept looking up every time someone passed, in the hope that there was news of the train leaving again.

Once or twice, as the long afternoon wore on, he got up and walked the length of the platform. With difficulty he resisted the temptation to pester the guard, but he knew that the poor man was probably as frustrated as everyone else, and would have been only too delighted to have news to give people.

Finally, as the sun was on the horizon, they boarded a new train and slowly pulled out of the station. The relief was absurdly out of proportion. They had been in no hardship and no danger, yet people were smiling, talking to each other, even laughing.

The next stop was Shoreham-by-Sea, where the trouble had been, then Hove. By then it was dusk, the light golden and casting heavy shadows. For Pitt this hour of the evening had a peculiar beauty, almost with a touch of sadness that sharpened its emotional power. He felt it even more in the autumn, when the harvest fields in the country were stubbled gold, the stooks like some remnant of an earlier forgotten age, more barbaric, without the inroads of civilisation on the land. He thought of his childhood at the big house where his parents had worked, of the woods and fields, and a sense of belonging.