he could not sidestep it anymore. He had never been a coward before. He could not be one now. There was still something left to play for.
He had brought Pitt into Special Branch, originally as a favor to Cornwallis when Pitt got himself thrown out of the Metropolitan Police because he knew too much about a particular area of corruption. Now Pitt was head of Special Branch and Narraway was retired to kick his heels in the House of Lords, very much against his will. After the miserable Irish business he had had no chance of remaining in office.
He walked up the steps and in the door self-consciously, aware of the surprise and then discomfort of the men who used to snap to attention and call him “sir.” Now they were uncertain how to greet him. He could see in their faces the indecision as to what to say. He should have the grace to relieve them of that.
“Good morning,” he said, giving a very slight smile, which was not familiarity, just good manners. “Would you please inform Commander Pitt that I am here, and would like to speak with him regarding a matter in which my advice has been requested. He is already aware of it.”
“Yes, sir … my lord,” the man replied, relief filling his face that Narraway seemingly knew his place. “If … if you’ll take a seat, sir, I’ll deliver that message.”
“Thank you.” Narraway moved back from the desk and obeyed, feeling ridiculous, slightly humbled in what had been his own territory, asking favors of men he used to command. Would Pitt feel obliged to see him, however inconvenient it was? Might he even feel a slight pity for him, a man with no purpose? He was too tense to sit down. Perhaps he should not have come to the office, but rather, met Pitt at some other location.
He was not old; he was still more than capable of doing the job. He had been dismissed because of a scandal deliberately and artificially created in one of the most dangerous plots of the decade, perhaps of the century. But he had made enemies. The very nature of Special Branch made it impossible for Narraway to justify himself without also telling the truth as to what had happened. And that he could never do. He acknowledged with a bitter irony that the very act of talking to the public would have made him unfit for the position.
And Pitt was a worthy successor. He would grow into the job. He had both the intelligence and the courage. With luck he would last long enough to gain the experience. The only quality in doubt was the steel in his soul to make the decisions where there was no morally clear answer, where other men’s lives were at stake and there was no time to weigh or measure possibilities. That required a particular type of strength, not only to act, but afterward to live with the consequences. Narraway could not count the number of times he had lain awake half the night, second-guessing himself, regretting. There was no other loneliness quite like it.
The man returned. Narraway remained where he stood, waiting for the response.
“If you’ll come with me, my lord, Commander Pitt has a little free time and would be happy to see you,” the man said.
Narraway thanked him, wondering whether the “little free time” was Pitt’s wording or the messenger’s. It was very faintly patronizing and did not sound like Pitt.
“Morning.” Pitt rose to his feet as if Narraway were still the superior. “The Quixwood case?” he asked as Narraway closed the door.
“Yes,” Narraway replied, accepting the seat offered him. He felt a touch of surprise at Pitt’s serious tone, and the fact that he had brought up the subject so quickly. “You’re not interested in the Quixwood case, are you? I mean officially?”
“Not quite. As far as I know, thus far it’s an ordinary tragedy, no political implications. But I’m just beginning to realize what a complicated, misunderstood, and horrible crime rape is. I was actually thinking of Angeles Castelbranco, before you came.”
Narraway blinked. “The Portuguese ambassador’s daughter who died in that appalling accident?”
“I think it was probably an accident, to some degree,” Pitt answered. “At least on her part. On his, I don’t know.”
“His?” Narraway raised his eyebrows. “What are we talking about?”
Pitt’s face creased with distaste. “It was a public taunting—baiting, if you like—that led to her fall, largely orchestrated by Neville Forsbrook. I don’t think