The idea of fighting Gower here was not to be considered. Even if he could subdue him — and that was doubtful; Gower was younger and extremely fit — what would Pitt do with him? He had no power to arrest him. Could he leave him tied up, and then escape — assuming he were successful anyway?
But Gower would not be alone here. That thought sobered him like a drench of cold water, raising goose bumps on his skin. How many of the people at Frobisher’s house were part of his plan? The only answer was for Pitt to deceive him, make him believe that he had no suspicions at all, and that would not be easy. The slightest change in manner and he would know. Even a selfconsciousness, a hesitation, a phrase too carefully chosen, and he would be aware.
How could Pitt tell him they were returning to London? What excuse would he believe?
Or should he suggest he himself return, and Gower stay here and watch Frobisher and Wrexham, just in case there were something after all? In case Meister or Linsky came back? Or anyone else they would recognise? The thought was an immense relief. A weight lifted off him as if it were a breathtaking escape, a flight into freedom. He would be alone — safe. Gower would stay here in France.
A second later he despised himself for his cowardice. When he had first gone on the beat in London, as a young man, he had expected a certain amount of violence. Indeed, now and then he had met with it. There had been a number of wild chases, with a degree of brawling at the end. But after promotion, as a detective he had almost exclusively used his mind. There had been long days, even longer nights. The emotional horror had been intense, the pressure to solve a case before a killer struck again, before the public were outraged and the police force disgraced. And after arrest there was testimony at the trial. Worst of all was the fear, which often kept him awake at night, that he had not caught the right man, or woman. Perhaps he had made a mistake, believed a lie, drawn a wrong conclusion, missed something, and it was an innocent person who was going to face the hangman.
But it was not physical violence. The battle of wits had not threatened his own life. He was chilled in the first darkness of the early evening. The sunset breeze was cold on his skin, and yet he was sweating. He must control himself. Gower would see nervousness; he would be watching for it. The suspicion that he had been found out would be the first thing to leap to his mind, not the last.
Before he reached the house, Pitt must have thought of what he would say, and then he must do it perfectly.
Gower was already in when Pitt arrived. He was sitting in one of the comfortable chairs reading a French newspaper, a glass of wine on the small table beside him. He looked very English, very sunburned — or perhaps it was more windburn from the breeze off the sea. He looked up and smiled at Pitt, glanced then at Pitt’s dirty boots, and rose to his feet.
‘Can I get you a glass of wine?’ he offered. ‘I expect you’re hungry?’
For a moment Pitt was attacked by doubt. Was he being ridiculous thinking that this man had swiftly and brutally killed West, and then turned with an innocent face and helped Pitt pursue Wrexham all the way to Southampton, and across the Channel to France?
He mustn’t hesitate. Gower was expecting an answer, an easy and natural response to a very simple question.
‘Yes I am,’ he said with slight grimace as he sank into the other chair and realised how exhausted he was. ‘Haven’t walked that far in a while.’
‘Nine or ten miles?’ Gower raised his eyebrows. He set the wine down on the table near Pitt’s hand. ‘Did you have any luncheon?’ He resumed his own seat, looking at Pitt curiously.
‘Bread and cheese, and a good wine,’ Pitt answered. ‘I’m not sure red is the thing with cheese, but it was very agreeable. It wasn’t Stilton,’ he added, in case Gower should think him ignorant of gentlemen’s habit of taking port with Stilton. They were sitting with wine, like friends, and talking about etiquette, as if no one were dead, and they were on the same side. He must be careful never to allow the absurdity of it to blind him to its lethal reality.
‘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.