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Daniel tried to remember exactly what he had seen in Graves’ notes. ‘There was something about a case in Ireland. A man named O’Neill, who was betrayed and died. A woman Narraway seduced, and then betrayed. Someone else who had betrayed Special Branch, and sent you on an abortive trip to France, to Paris.’
‘You sure it was Paris?’
‘Yes.’
‘Interesting. It was Saint Malo, actually. Go on.’
‘Wouldn’t you go to Paris first?’
‘No. Paris is inland, I took a ferry direct to Le Havre, and then to Saint Malo.’
Daniel felt a thin trickle of hope, like winter sunlight. ‘And then there was a case about an addicted young man who shot a bystander and blamed the police, and Narraway told you to get him off.’
‘Interesting details. Did they say how I got him off or why Narraway wanted it?’
‘Narraway wanted to . . . something to do with the boy’s father, who was very important.’ Daniel struggled to remember more, and could not.
‘Get me all you can – copies of Graves’ notes, if possible,’ Pitt told him. ‘The cases are real ones. But the details are wrong. The boy was dying anyway. All I did was get him into a hospital for the last few months of his life, instead of a prison cell and a death in unbearable pain. And as for his father, I’d have seen the swine in hell, with pleasure. But his mother was a good woman. Go on.’
Daniel told him all the rest that he could remember, and promised to bring him more detail as soon as he could.
When he finally stood up to go, his mind was racing with ideas. All the facts he remembered, and any others he could add later, might well help Pitt to lead Daniel to whoever had murdered Ebony Graves and had framed Graves. On orders from someone in Special Branch? And was that person a traitor – or a patriot? Did that depend upon whether Narraway, or Pitt himself, had acted as Graves concluded? Or was that immaterial? And if it had all happened while Pitt was head of Special Branch, did that make it his fault?
Daniel stayed for dinner, even though part of him wanted to leave and think what to do next. First, he must study the material of Graves’ book he had taken back to his lodgings.
But if he didn’t stay, then he would have to explain to his mother why. It would frighten her. And then she would see through it immediately if he tried to look as if nothing were going on. He had learned that at the age of six. She knew him better than he knew himself. It wasn’t completely true now, but the memory was strong, and she could still surprise him at times.
At dinner, they sat around the dining-room table, not the kitchen, as in so many years in the past. Perhaps if he had not been present it would have been in the kitchen this evening, too.
Daniel dismissed the whole subject of Russell Graves, and instead told his mother in particular how he had very nearly lost the case for Roman Blackwell, but in the end pulled it out of apparently nothing, like a magician’s rabbit out of a hat. They all discussed the latest letter from Jemima in New York, and how her husband, Patrick, was faring, and, of course, all about her two little girls.
Daniel left after nine. He hugged his mother, as he did always, and shook his father’s hand, feeling the warmth of his grip just a moment longer than usual. It was Charlotte who saw him to the door.
‘Come back, if you can’t handle it alone,’ she said very quietly. ‘We’re always here.’
‘Handle what?’ He feigned innocence.
‘Whatever it is,’ she said impatiently. ‘I’ve been a policeman’s wife since before you were born, my darling. I know there’s something very wrong. Just remember . . . we are here.’ She reached up and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, then almost pushed him out of the door.
He arrived back at Mrs Portiscale’s, opened the front door as close to silently as he was able, and went inside. There was only the night light on in the hall. He went up the stair, avoiding the step he knew creaked, and into his own room on the next floor, overlooking the garden.
He saw the message on the desk, propped up, and written in Mrs Portiscale’s painfully careful hand: ‘Dear Mr Pitt, a Mr Roman Blackwell left a message for you to visit him. Sincerely, Mrs Portiscale.’
Well, whatever it was would have to wait until tomorrow. Maybe Mercy had heard something interesting . . .
Daniel sat down at the desk and unlocked the drawer. He took out Graves’ notes for the book and started to copy them for his father. He studied them also for himself as he went. At last he knew where to begin.
It was nearly two o’clock when he finally went to bed.
Chapter Thirteen
Daniel woke with a start to find sunlight streaming in through the window. His mind had been in too much turmoil to remember to set his alarm clock, and it was already after eight. He might well have missed breakfast, and he had work that could not wait.
He washed, shaved and dressed, and hurried downstairs to see if there was anything left to eat. Then he changed his mind. Roman Blackwell’s message had been delivered the previous afternoon. He should go straight away. With a hurried apology to Mrs Portiscale, he dashed out of the front door and then down the street to the nearest cab stand. He asked the driver to take him to Blackwell’s address.
It was about nine o’clock and traffic was totally entangled at the busiest time of day. When they arrived, he paid the driver. The fare seemed an exorbitant amount, but the man had found backroads that avoided the worst blockages and left Daniel on the pavement sooner than he would have thought possible. He thanked him, and walked up to Blackwell’s doorstep. Before he raised his hand to knock, it opened in front of him.
‘Well!’ Mercy said, looking him up and down. She refrained from straightening his tie for him, but only just. ‘Come in,’ she invited, stepping back. ‘You look . . . frazzled!’
