Who could have used Talulla that way? And why? Was Cormac the intended victim? Or was he a victim of incidental damage, as Fiachra McDaid had said—one of the fallen in a war for a greater purpose—and Narraway the real victim? It would be a poetic justice if he were hanged for a murder he did not commit. Since Talulla believed Sean innocent of killing Kate, and Narraway guilty, for her that would be elegant, perfect.
But who prompted her to it, gave her the information and stoked her passions, all but guided her hand? And why? Obviously not Cormac. Not John Tyrone, because he seemed to know nothing about it, and Charlotte believed that. Bridget? Perhaps. Certainly she was involved. Her reaction to Charlotte that evening had been too immediate and too violent to spring from ignorance. In fact, looking back at it now, perhaps she had known more than Tyrone himself. Was Tyrone, at least in part, another victim of incidental damage? Someone to use, because he was vulnerable, more in love with his wife than she was with him, and because he was a banker and had the means?
She could no longer evade the answer—Fiachra McDaid. Perhaps he had nothing to do with the past at all, or any of the old tragedy, except to use it. And for him winning was all, the means and the casualties nothing.
How did getting Narraway out of Special Branch help the cause of Ireland, though? He would only be replaced. But perhaps that was it. Replaced with a traitor, bought and paid for. She was still working on this train of thought when she arrived at Mrs. Hogan’s door. She had promised Mrs. Hogan she would be gone by the next day. It would be very difficult to manage her own luggage and Narraway’s as well, and there were other practical considerations to be taken in mind, such as the shortage of money to remain much longer away from home. She had still her tickets to purchase, for the boat and for the train.
When everything was weighed, she had little choice but to go to the police station in the morning and tell them, carefully, all that she believed. However, she had no proof she could show them. That she had arrived at Cormac’s house just after Narraway but had heard no gunshot, just the dog barking—why should her story convince them?
The police would ask her why she had not given this account at the time. Should she admit that she had not thought they would believe her? Is that what an innocent person would do?
She went to sleep uneasily, waking often with the problem still unsolved.
NARRAWAY SAT IN HIS cell in the police station less than a mile from where Cormac O’Neil had been murdered. He maintained a motionless pose, but his mind was racing. He must think—plan. Once they moved him to the main prison he would have no chance. He might be lucky to survive long enough to come to trial. And by that time memories would be clouded, people persuaded to forget, or to see things differently. But far worse even than that, whatever was being planned and for which he had been lured to Ireland, and Pitt to France, would have happened, and be irretrievable.
He sat there and remained unmoving for more than two hours. No one came to speak to him or give him food or drink. Slowly a desperate plan took shape in his mind. He would like to wait for nightfall, but he could not take the risk that they would take him into the main prison before that. Daylight would be much more dangerous, but perhaps that too was necessary. He might have only one chance.
He listened intently for the slightest sound beyond the cell door, any movement at all. He had decided exactly what to do when at last it came. It would have to, eventually.
When they put the heavy key in the lock and swung the door open Narraway was lying on the floor, sprawled in a position that looked as if he had broken his neck. His beautiful white shirt was torn and hanging from the bars on the window above him.
“Hey! Flaherty!” the guard called. “Come, quick! The stupid bastard’s hung himself!” He came over to Narraway and bent to check his pulse. “Sweet Mother of God, I think he’s dead!” he breathed. “Flaherty, where the devil are you?”
Before Flaherty could come, and there would be two of them to fight, Narraway snapped his body up and caught the guard under the chin so hard his head shot back. Narraway hit him again, sideways, so as to knock him unconscious, but very definitely not kill him. In fact he intended him to be senseless for no more than fifteen or twenty minutes. He needed him alive, and able to walk.
He moved the inert body to the exact spot where he himself had been lying, all but tore the man’s jacket off him, and left him in his shirt. He took his keys and barely managed to get behind the door when Flaherty arrived.
Narraway held his breath in case Flaherty had the presence of mind to come in and lock the door or, even worse, stay out and lock it. But he was too horrified by the sight of the other guard on the floor to think so rationally. He covered the few paces to the fallen man, calling his name, and Narraway took his one chance. He slipped around the door, slammed it shut, and locked it. He heard Flaherty yelling almost immediately. Good. Someone would let him out within minutes. He needed them in hot pursuit.
He was very careful indeed going out of the police station, twice standing motionless on corners while people moved past him, following the shouting and the hurried footsteps.
Outside in the street, he ran. He wanted to draw attention to himself, to be remembered. Someone had to tell them which way he had gone.
He could afford no delay, no hesitation.
It was wet. The rain came down in a steady drizzle. The gutters were awash and very quickly he was soaked, his hair sticking to his brow, his bare neck cold without his shirt. People looked at him but no one stood in his way. Perhaps they thought he was drunk.
He had to go around Cormac’s house, in case there were still police there. He could not be stopped now. He slowed to a walk and crossed the road away from it, then back again, without seeing anyone, and in at the gate of Talulla’s house and up to the front door. If she did not answer he would have to break a window and force his way in. His whole plan rested on confronting her when the police caught up with him.
He knocked loudly.
There was no answer. What if she were not here, but with friends? Could she be, so soon after killing Cormac? Surely she would need to be alone? And she had to take care of the dog. Wouldn’t she be waiting until the police left so she could take whatever she wanted, or needed to protect, of the records of her parents that Cormac had kept?
He banged again.
Again—silence.
Was she there already? He had seen no police outside. She might be upstairs here in her own house, lying down, emotionally exhausted from murder and the ultimate revenge.
He took off the jacket. Standing in the rain, bare-chested, he wrapped the jacket around his fist and with as little noise as possible broke a side window, unlocked it, and climbed inside. He put the jacket on again and walked softly across the floor to look for her.
He searched from top to bottom. There was no one there. He had not expected a maid. Talulla would have given her the day off so she could not witness anything to do with Cormac’s murder, not hear any shots, any barking dog.
He let himself out of the back door and ran swiftly to Cormac’s house. Time was getting short. The police could not be far behind him. Hurry! Hurry!