and be able to put them away.’
Croxdale looked up, his eyes bright and sharp. Suddenly he was no longer an amiable, rather bear-like man but tigerish, the passion in him like a coiled spring, only masked by a superficial ease. ‘Do you imagine that the sacrifice of a few martyrs to the cause will stop anything, Narraway? If so, I’m disappointed in you. Idealists thrive on sacrifice, the more public and the more dramatic the better.’
‘I know that.’ Narraway was stung by the misjudgement. ‘I have no intention of giving them martyrs. Indeed, I have no intention of denying them social reform and a good deal of change, but in pace with the will of the majority of the people in the country, not ahead of it, and not forced on them by a few fanatics. We’ve always changed, but slowly. Look at the history of the revolutions of ’forty-eight. We were about the only major country in Europe who didn’t have an uprising. And by 1850 where were all the idealists from the barricades? Where were all the new freedoms so bloodily won? Every damn one of them gone, and all the old regimes back in power.’
Croxdale was looking at him intensely, his expression unreadable.
‘We had no uprising,’ Narraway went on, his voice dropping a level, but the heat of feeling still there. ‘No deaths, no grand speeches, just quiet progress, a step at a time. Boring, perhaps unheroic, but also bloodless, and more to the point, sustainable. We aren’t back under the old tyrannies. As governments go, ours is not bad.’
‘Thank you,’ Croxdale said drily.
Narraway gave one of his rare, beautiful smiles. ‘My pleasure, sir.’
Croxdale sighed. ‘I wish it were so simple. I’m sorry, Narraway, but you will solve this miserable business of the money that should have gone to Mulhare immediately. Austwick will take over the socialist affair until you have it dealt with, which includes unarguable proof that someone else placed it in your account, and you were unaware of it until Austwick told you. It will also include the name of whoever is responsible for this, because they have jeopardised the effectiveness of one of the best heads of Special Branch that we have had in the last quarter-century, and that is treason against the country, and against the Queen.’
For a moment Narraway did not grasp what Croxdale was saying. He sat motionless in the chair, his hands cold, gripping the arms as if to keep his balance. He drew in his breath to protest, and saw in Croxdale’s face that it would be pointless. The decision was made, and final. The trap had him, like an iron gin on an animal’s leg, and he had not even seen himself step into it.
‘I’m sorry, Narraway,’ Croxdale said quietly. ‘You no longer have the confidence of Her Majesty’s government, or of Her Majesty herself. I have no alternative but to remove you from office, until such time as you can prove your innocence. I appreciate that that will be more difficult for you without access to your office or the papers that are in it, but you will appreciate the irony of my position. If you have access to the papers, you also have the power to alter them, destroy them, or add to them.’
Narraway was stunned. It was as if he had been dealt a physical blow. Suddenly he could barely breathe. It was preposterous. He was head of Special Branch, and here was this government minister telling him he was dismissed, with no warning, no preparation: just his decision, a word, and it was all over.
‘I’m sorry,’ Croxdale repeated. ‘This is a somewhat unfortunate way of having to deal with it, but it can’t be helped. You will not go back to Lisson Grove, of course.’
‘What?’ The word slipped out, leaving Narraway more vulnerable than he had intended, and he was furious with himself, but it was too late. There was not even any way to conceal it without making it worse.
‘You cannot go back to your office,’ Croxdale said patiently. ‘Don’t oblige me to make an issue
Croxdale looked up, his eyes bright and sharp. Suddenly he was no longer an amiable, rather bear-like man but tigerish, the passion in him like a coiled spring, only masked by a superficial ease. ‘Do you imagine that the sacrifice of a few martyrs to the cause will stop anything, Narraway? If so, I’m disappointed in you. Idealists thrive on sacrifice, the more public and the more dramatic the better.’
‘I know that.’ Narraway was stung by the misjudgement. ‘I have no intention of giving them martyrs. Indeed, I have no intention of denying them social reform and a good deal of change, but in pace with the will of the majority of the people in the country, not ahead of it, and not forced on them by a few fanatics. We’ve always changed, but slowly. Look at the history of the revolutions of ’forty-eight. We were about the only major country in Europe who didn’t have an uprising. And by 1850 where were all the idealists from the barricades? Where were all the new freedoms so bloodily won? Every damn one of them gone, and all the old regimes back in power.’
Croxdale was looking at him intensely, his expression unreadable.
‘We had no uprising,’ Narraway went on, his voice dropping a level, but the heat of feeling still there. ‘No deaths, no grand speeches, just quiet progress, a step at a time. Boring, perhaps unheroic, but also bloodless, and more to the point, sustainable. We aren’t back under the old tyrannies. As governments go, ours is not bad.’
‘Thank you,’ Croxdale said drily.
Narraway gave one of his rare, beautiful smiles. ‘My pleasure, sir.’
Croxdale sighed. ‘I wish it were so simple. I’m sorry, Narraway, but you will solve this miserable business of the money that should have gone to Mulhare immediately. Austwick will take over the socialist affair until you have it dealt with, which includes unarguable proof that someone else placed it in your account, and you were unaware of it until Austwick told you. It will also include the name of whoever is responsible for this, because they have jeopardised the effectiveness of one of the best heads of Special Branch that we have had in the last quarter-century, and that is treason against the country, and against the Queen.’
For a moment Narraway did not grasp what Croxdale was saying. He sat motionless in the chair, his hands cold, gripping the arms as if to keep his balance. He drew in his breath to protest, and saw in Croxdale’s face that it would be pointless. The decision was made, and final. The trap had him, like an iron gin on an animal’s leg, and he had not even seen himself step into it.
‘I’m sorry, Narraway,’ Croxdale said quietly. ‘You no longer have the confidence of Her Majesty’s government, or of Her Majesty herself. I have no alternative but to remove you from office, until such time as you can prove your innocence. I appreciate that that will be more difficult for you without access to your office or the papers that are in it, but you will appreciate the irony of my position. If you have access to the papers, you also have the power to alter them, destroy them, or add to them.’
Narraway was stunned. It was as if he had been dealt a physical blow. Suddenly he could barely breathe. It was preposterous. He was head of Special Branch, and here was this government minister telling him he was dismissed, with no warning, no preparation: just his decision, a word, and it was all over.
‘I’m sorry,’ Croxdale repeated. ‘This is a somewhat unfortunate way of having to deal with it, but it can’t be helped. You will not go back to Lisson Grove, of course.’
‘What?’ The word slipped out, leaving Narraway more vulnerable than he had intended, and he was furious with himself, but it was too late. There was not even any way to conceal it without making it worse.
‘You cannot go back to your office,’ Croxdale said patiently. ‘Don’t oblige me to make an issue
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