Betrayal at Lisson Grove (Treason at Lisson Grove)

It was still several minutes before they found a cab. They gave Austwick’s address, with orders to make the best speed possible.

“What are we going to do with Austwick, sir?” Stoker asked. He had to raise his voice above the clatter of the hooves and the rattle and hiss of wheels over the cobbles.

“Get him to help us,” Pitt replied. “They’re his men down there. He’s the one person who might be able to call them off without an all-out shooting battle. We won’t have achieved much in capturing them if they kill the queen in the process.” He did not mention Narraway or Vespasia, or Charlotte.

“Do you think he’ll do that?” Stoker asked.

“It’s up to us to persuade him,” Pitt said grimly. “Croxdale’s dead, Narraway’s alive. I doubt the queen will sign anything that reduces the power or dignity of the Crown, even in fear of her life.”

Stoker did not reply, but in the light of the next street lamp they passed, Pitt saw that he was smiling.

When they reached Austwick’s house there were police outside it, discreetly, well in the shadows.

Pitt identified himself, showing them his new warrant card, and Stoker did the same.

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said smartly. “How can we help, sir?”

Pitt made an instant decision. “We are going to collect Mr. Austwick, and we are all going to travel to Portsmouth, as rapidly as possible.”

The sergeant looked bemused.

“Use Austwick’s telephone. Hold the night train,” Pitt told him. “It’s imperative we get to the Isle of Wight by morning.”

The sergeant came to attention. “Yes, sir. I’ll … I’ll call immediately.”

Pitt smiled at him. “Thank you.” Then he nodded to Stoker. They went to the front door of Austwick’s house and knocked hard and continuously until a footman in his nightshirt opened it, blinking and drawing in breath to demand an explanation.

Pitt told him sharply to step back.

The man saw the police beyond Pitt, and Stoker at his elbow, and did as he was told. Ten minutes later Austwick was in the hall, hastily dressed, unshaven, and very angry.

“What the hell is going on?” he said furiously. “Do you know what time it is, man?”

Pitt looked at the long-case clock at the far side of the hall. “Coming up to quarter to two,” he answered. “And we must make Portsmouth by dawn.”

Austwick paled visibly, even in the dim light of the hall with its main chandelier unlit. If anything could tell Pitt that he knew of Croxdale’s plan, it was the fear in his face now.

“Croxdale is dead,” Pitt said simply. “He shot himself when we faced him with his plans. It’s all over. Narraway’s back. He’s at Osborne now, with the queen. You’ve got two choices, Austwick. We can arrest you now, and you’ll be tried as a traitor. You’ll hang, and your family will never live it down. Your grandchildren, if you have any, will still carry the stigma of your name.” He saw Austwick’s horror, but could not afford to pity him. “Or you can come with us and call off your men from Osborne,” he went on. “You have two minutes to choose. Do you wish to hang as a traitor, or come with us, to live or die as a hero?”

Austwick was too paralyzed with fear to speak.

“Good,” Pitt said decisively. “You’re coming with us. I thought you’d choose that. We’re going for the night train to Portsmouth. Hurry.”

Stoker grasped Austwick by the arm, holding him hard, and they stumbled out into the night.

They half heaved him into the waiting hansom, then sat with one on either side of him. Two uniformed police followed in another cab, ready to clear traffic if there should be any and to confirm that the night train was held.

They raced through the streets in silence toward the river and the railway station beyond, where they could catch the mail train to the coast. Pitt found his fists clenched and his whole body aching with the tension of not knowing whether the sergeant he had instructed had been able to hold the train there. It could only have taken a telephone call from Austwick’s house to his own police station, and then a call from there to the railway. What if the stationmaster on night duty did not believe them, or realize the urgency of it? What if he was simply incompetent for such a crisis?

They swayed and lurched along the all-but-deserted streets, then over the river at the Battersea Bridge, and sharp west along the High Street. One moment he was desperate that they were going too slowly, the next, as they slewed around a corner, that they were going too fast and would tip over.

At the station they leapt out, Pitt wildly overpaying the driver because he could not wait for change. They ran into the station, dragging Austwick with them. The sergeant showed his warrant card and shouted at the stationmaster to direct them to the train.

The man obeyed with haste, but was clearly unhappy about it all. He looked at Austwick’s ashen face and dragging feet with pity. For a moment Pitt feared he was going to intervene.