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some sort by socialist revolutionaries, possibly another spate of dynamitings.’ Then suddenly he was chilled to the bone. ‘Stoker . . .’
    ‘West, sir,’ Stoker said immediately. ‘The man with his throat cut was West. It looks as if Pitt and Gower went after the man who did it, at least as far as Limehouse, probably across the river to the railway station. From there they could have gone anywhere in the country. There’s been no word. No telephone call.’
    Narraway felt the sweat break out on his body. It was almost a relief to hear something. But where the hell was Pitt now? Why had he not at least placed a telephone call? The train could have gone anywhere. Even on an all-night train to Scotland he could have got off at one of the stations on the way and called.
    Then another thought occurred to him: Dover – or any of the other seaports. Folkestone, Southampton. If he were on a ship, then calls would be impossible. That would explain the silence.
    ‘I see. Thank you,’ he said aloud.
    ‘Sir.’
    ‘Say nothing to anyone, for the time being.’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘Thank you. That’s all.’
    After Stoker had gone Narraway sat still for several minutes. To have lost West, with whatever information he had, was serious. There had been increased activity lately, known troublemakers coming and going more often than usual, a charge of expectancy in the air. He knew all the signs, he just did not know what the target was this time. There were so many possibilities: specific assassination, such as a government minister, an industrialist; a foreign dignitary on British soil – that would be a serious embarrassment – or the dynamiting of a major landmark. He had relied on Pitt to find out. Perhaps he still might, but without West it would be more difficult.
    And of course it was not the only issue at hand. There were always whispers, threats. The air breathed suspicion and betrayal all the time. It was the purpose of Special Branch to detect it before it happened, and prevent at least the worst of it.
    But if Pitt had gone to some distant part of the country after the murderer of West, or worse still, across the Channel, and had had no time to tell Narraway, then certainly he would not have had time to tell his wife either. Charlotte would be at home in Keppel Street waiting for him, expecting him, and growing more and more afraid with each passing hour as the silence closed in on her.
    Narraway glanced at the long-case clock standing against the wall of his office. Its ornate hands pointed at quarter to seven. On a usual day Pitt would have gone home already, but she might not begin to be anxious for another hour or two.
    He thought of her in the kitchen, preparing the evening meal, probably alone. Her children would be occupied with studies for the following day’s school. He could picture her easily; in fact the picture was already there in his mind, unbidden. Beauty was very much a personal thing, a matter of taste, the ability to see beyond the obvious into some element of the passions or dreams where the essence of a person was hidden.
    Some would not have found Charlotte beautiful. They might have preferred a face more traditional, daintier, less challenging. Narraway found such faces boring. There was a warmth in Charlotte, a laughter he could never quite forget – and he had tried. She was quick to anger at times, far too quick to react. Many of her judgements were flawed, in his opinion, but never her courage, never her will.
    Someone must tell her that Pitt had gone in hot pursuit of West’s murderer – no, better leave out the fact that West had been murdered. Pitt had gone in hot pursuit of a man with vital information, possibly across the Channel, and been unable to telephone her to let her know. He could call Stoker back and send him, but she did not know him. She did not know anyone else at Lisson Grove headquarters. It would be the courteous thing to tell her himself. It would not be far out of