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his way. Well, yes it would, but it would still be the better thing to do.
    Pitt, for all his initial ignorance of Special Branch ways, and his occasional political naïvety, was one of the best men Narraway had ever known. There was an honesty in him that was exasperating at times, reflecting his origins as a gamekeeper’s son. He had been educated in the household of the manor, side by side with the master’s son, but never his social equal. It had produced a man by nature a gentleman, and yet with an anger and a compassion Narraway admired. He found himself puzzlingly protective of Pitt against the envy of those who had preceded him in Special Branch, but whom he had overtaken in skill.
    Narroway tidied his desk, locked away anything that might be confidential, left his office, and caught a hansom within minutes. He gave the driver Pitt’s address in Keppel Street.
    Narraway saw the fear in Charlotte’s eyes as soon as she opened the door to him. He would never have called merely socially, and she knew that. The strength of her emotion gave him a startling twinge of envy. It was a long time since there had been anyone who would have felt that terror for him.
    ‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ he said with rather stiff formality. ‘Events did not go according to plan today, and Pitt and his assistant were obliged to pursue a suspected conspirator without the opportunity to inform anyone of what was happening.’
    The anxiety eased out of her eyes. Warmth coming back, flushing the soft honey colour of her skin. ‘Where is he?’ she asked.
    He decided to sound more certain than he was. West’s murderer might have fled even as far as Scotland, but France was far more likely. ‘France,’ he replied. ‘Of course he could not telephone from the ferry, and he would not have dared leave in case the man got off as well, and he lost him. I’m sorry.’
    She smiled. ‘It was very thoughtful of you to have come to tell me. I admit, I was beginning to be concerned.’
    The April evening was cold, a sharp wind carrying the smell of rain. Narraway was standing on the doorstep, staring at the light beyond, feeling the warmth. He stepped back deliberately, his thoughts, the temptation, the quickening of his heart frightening him.
    ‘There is no need,’ he said hastily. ‘Gower is with him; an excellent man, intelligent and quite fluent in French. And I dare say it will be warmer there than it is here.’ He smiled. ‘And the food is excellent.’ She had been preparing dinner. That was clumsy. Thank goodness he was far enough into the darkness that she could not see the blush rise up his face. It would be absurd to try to repair his clumsiness. It would be better to ignore it. ‘I will let you know as soon as I hear from him. If this man they are following goes to Paris, it may not be easy for them to be in contact, but please don’t fear for him.’
    ‘Thank you. I won’t now.’
    He knew that was a polite lie. Of course she would fear for Pitt, and miss him. Loving always included the possibility of loss. But the emptiness of not loving was even greater.
    He nodded very slightly, just an inclination of his head, then wished her good night. He walked away, feeling as if he were leaving the light behind him.
     
    It was the middle of the following morning when Narraway received the telegram from Pitt in St Malo. He immediately forwarded him sufficient money to last both himself and Gower for at least two weeks. He thought about it as soon as it had been sent, and knew he had been overgenerous. Perhaps that was an indication of the relief he felt to know Pitt was safe. He realised with surprise the effort it had cost him not to allow the fear into his mind. He would have to go back to Keppel Street to tell Charlotte that Pitt had been in touch.
    He had returned to his desk after lunch when Charles Austwick came in and closed the door behind him. He was officially Narraway’s next-in-command, although in practical terms