The Twisted Root

mind, Pitt drifted off to sleep.
    He awoke with a jolt, sitting upright, his mind filled with the image of West’s body, head lolling at an angle, blood streaming onto the stones of the brickyard, the air filled with the smell of it.
    “Sorry, sir,” the steward said automatically, passing a glass of beer to the man in the seat next to Pitt. “Can I get you something? How about a sandwich?”
    Pitt realized with surprise that he had not eaten in twelve hours and was ravenous. No wonder he could not sleep. “Yes,” he said eagerly. “Yes, please. In fact, may I have two, and a glass of cider?”
    “Yes, sir. How about roast beef, sir. That do you?”
    “Please. What time do we get into St. Malo?”
    “About five o’clock, sir. But you don’t need to go ashore until seven, unless o’ course you’d like to.”
    “Thank you.” Inwardly Pitt groaned. They would have to be up and watching from then on, in case Wrexham chose to leave early. That meant they would have to be half awake all night.
    “Better bring me two glasses of cider,” he said with a wry smile.

    P ITT SLEPT ON AND off, and he was awake and on edge when he saw Gower coming toward him on the deck as the ferry nosed its way slowly toward the harbor of St. Malo. It was not yet dawn but there was a clear sky, and he could see the outline of medieval ramparts against the stars. Fifty or sixty feet high at the least, they looked to be interspersed with great towers such as in the past would have been manned by archers. Perhaps on some of them there would have been men in armor, with cauldrons of boiling oil to tip on those brave enough, or foolish enough, to scale the defenses. It was like a journey backward in time.
    He was jerked back to reality by Gower’s voice behind him.
    “I see you are awake. At least I assume you are?” It was a question.
    “Not sure,” Pitt replied. “That looks distinctly like a dream to me.”
    “Did you sleep?” Gower asked.
    “A little. You?”
    Gower shrugged. “Not much. Too afraid of missing him. Do you suppose he’s going to make for the first train to Paris?”
    It was a very reasonable question. Paris was a cosmopolitan city, a hotbed of ideas, philosophies, dreams both practical and absurd. It was the ideal meeting place for those who sought to change the world. The two great revolutions of the last hundred years had been born there.
    “Probably,” Pitt answered. “But he could get off anywhere.” He was thinking how hard it would be to follow Wrexham in Paris. Should they arrest him while they still had the chance? In the heat of the chase yesterday it had seemed like a good idea to see where he went and, more important, whom he met. Now, when they were cold, tired, hungry, and stiff, it felt a lot less sensible. In fact it was probably absurd. “We’d better arrest him and take him back,” he said aloud.
    “Then we’ll have to do it before we get off,” Gower pointed out. “Once we’re on French soil we’ll have no authority. Even the captain here is going to wonder why we didn’t do it in Southampton.” His voice took on a note of urgency, his face grave. “Look, sir, I speak pretty good French. I’ve still got a reasonable amount of money. We could send a telegram to Narraway to have someone meet us in Paris. Then we wouldn’t be just the two of us. Maybe the French police would be pleased for the chance to follow him?”
    Pitt turned toward him, but he could barely make out his features in the faint light of the sky and the dim reflection of the ship’s lights. “If he goes straight for the town, we’ll have no time to send a telegram,” he pointed out. “It’ll take both of us to follow him. I don’t know why he hasn’t noticed us already.
    “We should arrest him,” he continued with regret. He should have done this yesterday. “Faced with the certainty of the rope, he might feel like talking.”
    “Faced with the certainty of the rope, he’d have nothing to gain,” Gower pointed out.
    Pitt smiled grimly. “Narraway’ll think of something, if what he says is worth enough.”
    “He might not go for the train,” Gower said quickly, moving his weight to lean forward a little. “We were assuming he’ll go to Paris. Perhaps he won’t? Maybe whoever he’s going to meet is here. Why come to St. Malo otherwise? He could have gone to Dover, and taken the train from Calais to Paris, if that was where he wanted to be. He still doesn’t know we’re on to him.