Dorchester Terrace

BREAKFAST ON KEPPEL STREET on March the fifth was as busy as usual. Daniel and Jemima had to get off to school, homework packed in satchels, boots on, coats buttoned, and with scarves and gloves that matched each other. No matter how much care was taken the evening before, there always seemed to be something to hunt for. It was a sharp, icy morning with a knife-edge to the wind. Scarves were tied tightly. A button was found hanging loose. Charlotte hastily fetched a needle, thread, thimble, and scissors to attach it more securely before she bundled them both out the front door. At least there was now a tentative peace between them and they went down the pavement side by side.

Pitt had been debating with himself whether to seek Charlotte’s opinion about the next step he planned to take in the case of Duke Alois, or not to trouble her with it. If he was mistaken, either way, he would jeopardize his position, and therefore the future of them all. Even Minnie Maude, standing at the sink washing dishes, would be without a job, or a home.

Did he want to tell Charlotte because she might actually help, or simply because it would be less lonely for him?

Charlotte took a small piece of cheese out of the cupboard near the door. “Have we got any more of this in the back pantry?” she asked Minnie Maude.

Minnie Maude took her hands out of the water. “I’ll go an’ look, ma’am,” she said quickly.

“No, it’s all right. You’re busy. I’ll see myself,” Charlotte replied, turning to do so.

“No!” Minnie Maude dripped water on the floor in her haste, then wiped her hands on her apron. “I’ll go. I’m not sure where I put it.” She went almost at a run, her heels clattering on the floor. Archie and Angus, the two cats curled up together in the wood basket by the stove, opened their eyes. Archie spat with irritation.

Charlotte shook her head, glancing at Pitt. “I don’t know what it is with that girl,” she said with a sigh and a smile. “I’d think she was keeping a lover in that pantry, if I didn’t know better.”

Pitt was startled. He put his empty cup down and stared at her in alarm.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous!” she said with a laugh. “There’s nobody there, Thomas! It’s just her own little bit of space. I think she goes out there just to sit and think sometimes. Coming here is a big change for her. She’s very aware of trying to fill Gracie’s shoes, you know.” As she passed him, moving to the cupboard over the sink, she touched him gently, just brushing her hand over his hair. “You should understand that.”

So she had seen his apprehension about trying to fill Narraway’s place, perhaps more keenly than he had wanted her to. But why should he have doubted it? She had known him longer and better than anyone else in his life. Hers was not a blind love, nor one that chose to believe only what was comfortable. It was open-eyed, which perhaps was the only type of love that was safe in the end, and therefore infinitely precious.

“She’s good, though, isn’t she?” he asked.

“Yes, she’s excellent,” Charlotte answered. “But she’s not Gracie, and I have to keep remembering that. By the way, Gracie came by the other day. She looks so happy I couldn’t but be happy for her too.”

“You didn’t mention it!” he said quickly.

“You were rather occupied with Jack and Lord Tregarron.”

“Oh. Well, I intend to see the prime minister today, so that will probably make it even worse. I’m sorry.”

She bit her lip. “Don’t be. Emily’ll get over it. She’s desperate for Jack to succeed. I hope he doesn’t know how much. I hope he has no idea how afraid she is that he might not. I can’t imagine living with that.”

“I don’t think she needs to worry—” he began.

“Thomas! I’m not talking about her!” she protested. “I mean him! He would know she doubted him.”

He drew in a deep breath. “Aren’t you afraid for me … at least sometimes?” He instantly wished he had not asked, but it was too late.

“You’ve already succeeded at enough things that I can live with a failure or two,” she said perfectly steadily. “Nobody wins all the time, unless what they’re aiming at is pretty easy.”

For a moment emotion robbed him of any words at all. His chest was so tight that he gulped in a breath. He grasped her hand and pulled her toward him and held her until he heard Minnie Maude’s footsteps in the corridor.

She came in holding a large wedge of cheese and Charlotte took it from her with a wide smile.

Pitt said good-bye, and went into the hall for his coat.

PITT SENT HIS REQUEST through the right channels, but he refused to explain himself to footmen or secretaries.

“I am Commander of Special Branch, and I need to advise the prime minister of an incident that, if we do not prevent it, could be disastrous to Great Britain.” He gave no more detail than that, except that the matter was urgent.

It was a little after midday when he was received at Downing Street, residence of the prime minister, the Marquess of Salisbury.

“Good afternoon, Commander,” Salisbury said grimly. He held out his hand, since it was the first time they had met in this present capacity. “I trust this is as grave as you imply?” There was warning in his tone that, if he had been misled, the consequences for Pitt would be unpleasant.

“If it takes place, yes, sir,” Pitt replied, sitting in the chair Salisbury indicated. “I am hoping we can prevent it.”

“Then you had better tell me what it is, and quickly. I have a meeting with the chancellor of the Exchequer in forty minutes.” Salisbury sat opposite him, but was clearly not at ease.

Pitt had already decided, while walking here through the rising wind, trying to keep his hat on, that he would say nothing about the likelihood of the threat to European stability, unless he was asked. His answer should be clear: no prevaricating or defending himself in advance.

“The assassination of Duke Alois Habsburg, grandnephew of Emperor Franz Josef of Austria, sir. He is due to visit one of our own queen’s great-nephews, here in London, in eleven days’ time. It appears as if the murder itself may be committed by causing a major rail crash between Dover and London.” He forced himself to add no more. Salisbury’s expression of dismay told him that the Foreign Secretary had not relayed the earlier warning Pitt had given him.

“A rail crash? Good God!” Salisbury’s long, pale face went a shade paler. “I suppose you are perfectly sure of what you’re saying?” He squinted at Pitt, as if it was his eyesight he disbelieved rather than his hearing.

Pitt chose his words carefully. The prime minister’s reaction today, and his future confidence in Pitt’s judgment, depended on them.

“I am sure that such an attempt is being planned, sir. However, I do not know by whom, nor where it will take place. So far I am certain only that the duke’s route from Vienna all the way to London is being checked by people we know as anarchists, men with backgrounds of violence. We cannot afford to take the threat lightly.”

“Lightly? What sane man would?” Salisbury was irritated; he had been caught on the wrong foot because no one had prepared him.

Pitt tried to think what Narraway would do. Pitt could not treat the Marquess of Salisbury as an equal, as Narraway might have, but he needed to remain in control of the situation.

“Only someone who disbelieved it, sir,” he said quietly. “And on the face of it, there seems to be no reason to harm Duke Alois, so the attempt makes little sense.”

Salisbury nodded.

Pitt continued, “I need to find out if in fact someone else is the intended target, or alternatively, if Duke Alois is far more important than he seems. All I can learn so far is that he is a quiet, rather academically inclined young man who spends his time studying philosophy and science, but at no one else’s expense. He is quite well liked, has plenty of money of his own, is unmarried so far, and has no political affiliations that we can trace. In other words, he is perfectly harmless.”

Salisbury’s face was grim. “Whose wife or daughter is he sleeping with?” he asked.

Pitt grimaced. “That I don’t know. But if that were the case, it seems an extreme way of dealing with it—plotting such a violent assassination, and in a foreign country.”

“You are right,” Salisbury agreed. “Quite likely he has political convictions we don’t know about—and that’s not impossible; Crown Prince Rudolf certainly had. He was a walking disaster waiting to occur, according to my information, after the fact, of course.”

Pitt made no comment. That was a diplomatic issue, not Special Branch’s.

“It could be that either Duke Alois is very much cleverer than he pretends to be,” Salisbury went on, “or the target is someone in his retinue. Alternatively, the whole thing has another purpose, such as to embarrass Britain and put us at a serious disadvantage in some future negotiation. You must prevent it. Whatever help you need, get it. What is it you want from me?” He frowned. “Why aren’t you in the Foreign Secretary’s Office?”

“Lord Tregarron does not believe the threat is real, sir,” Pitt replied. “But Mr. Evan Blantyre does.”

Salisbury sat without moving for several moments. “I see,” he said finally. “Well, we’ll go with your judgment, Pitt. Take whatever steps you need to make absolutely certain that when Duke Alois comes to England, he has a safe and happy visit, and leaves in peace. If he is killed, let it be in France, or Austria, not here. And, please God, not by an Englishman.” He bit his lip and stared at Pitt, his voice suddenly husky. “You don’t suppose that this rail crash is a diversion, and it is actually the queen these lunatics are after, do you?”

That was a thought that had not even crossed Pitt’s mind. “No, sir, I don’t,” he said, hoping to God he was right, but far from sure. “Although it might be advisable for Her Majesty not to visit this young man in Kensington Palace. We have more than enough guards present to take care of her in Buckingham Palace.” He allowed himself the barest smile. “I am sufficiently acquainted with Her Majesty to know that advice for her safety will be received well.”

Salisbury grunted. “True. And I have not forgotten your accomplishments at Osborne. That is principally why you are in the position you are, and why I listen to you.”

Pitt felt the heat burn up his face. He had not referred to that incident in order to remind the prime minister of his own success, and now he felt extraordinarily clumsy to have mentioned it at all.

Salisbury smiled. “You are not in an enviable position, Commander. But it is my belief that you are the best man for the job. I would be deeply obliged if you would prove me right.”

Pitt stood up, his legs a little stiff. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

WHEN PITT RETURNED TO Lisson Grove he found a message from Blantyre waiting for him, asking Pitt to contact him as soon as possible. Pitt telephoned, and they met at Blantyre’s club for a late luncheon.

Pitt had never been in such a place before, except as a policeman investigating a case and thus coming to speak to one of the members. Now, he was conducted by a uniformed steward who treated him with the respect he’d show any other guest. They walked through the oak-paneled corridors, hung with hunting scenes and Stubbs’s paintings of horses. The men’s feet were soundless on the carpet. Blantyre was waiting for Pitt at the entrance to the dining room, and together they went to the table and took their seats, watched by life-sized portraits of the Duke of Wellington, the Duke of Marlborough, and a rather fanciful portrait of Henry V at Agincourt.

“All a bit military, isn’t it?” Blantyre said with an apologetic smile. “But the food’s excellent, and they’ll leave us alone as long as we wish, which is rather what I need at the moment. I recommend the roast beef—it’s really very good—with a decent Burgundy. A trifle heavy, I know, but well worth it.”

“Thank you,” Pitt accepted. His mind was too occupied with why Blantyre had called this meeting to be concerned with what he might eat.

The steward came and Blantyre ordered for both of them, including the wine. As soon as they were alone, he started to speak.

“This young man, Duke Alois,” he said, looking at Pitt, his dark brows puckered. “Did you find out anything more about him?”

“I can find nothing that would make him worth anybody’s time or energy to assassinate,” Pitt replied. “If he is indeed the target, then I have to assume that there is a completely different reason for killing him.”

“My thoughts precisely,” Blantyre agreed. “I have called on friends in Austria, and in Germany too. All I can find is that he is a harmless young aristocrat who intends nothing more adventurous than to while away his life studying the subjects that interest him.”

“Are you certain?” Pitt pressed.

Blantyre indicated the food just served them. “Please eat. You will enjoy it. And yes, I am certain. My informants tell me he was offered a very agreeable post in diplomacy, and declined it. At least he was honest enough to say that he had no disposition to be restricted in such a way.”

Pitt was beginning to feel impatient with Duke Alois, but he did not show it.

“On the other hand,” Blantyre went on, beginning to eat his meal, “he also appears to listen with great attention to the music of Gustav Mahler, and even Schoenberg, this new young composer who creates such odd, dissonant sounds. Is he interested and looking for meaning, or merely for a new experience? I think the latter more likely.” There was a sadness in his voice and in his dark eyes. “A typical Austrian: one eye laughing, the other weeping. But I think it is better to do a small thing well than nothing at all. However, I am not a royal duke, thank God. Nothing is expected of me.”

Pitt looked at him with a new appreciation of his sympathy and imagination. He had raised, as if perfectly natural to him, issues that Pitt had not considered.

“It is peculiarly repugnant to kill someone so innocent of any harm, or use,” Blantyre said wryly. There was no malice in his tone, only a slight sadness. “Is it a good thing or a bad thing not to be worth anyone’s effort to kill you?” He said it with a gentle, droll humor, looking at Pitt very directly.

Pitt answered with hesitation. “At times, most comfortable, and unquestionably safer, but I think in the end I should regret it. It seems like an opportunity wasted, let slip through your fingers like dry sand.”

Blantyre sighed. “I suppose you sleep better, for whatever that is worth? But I’d rather not spend my entire life emotionally asleep, however intellectually absorbing my pursuits.”

Pitt watched silently as the steward poured more of the dark Burgundy into their cut-crystal glasses; the light burned red through them.

“But this is not why I asked you to come,” Blantyre said, his face emptying of all pleasure. “Events seem to have taken a new turn. A man named Erich Staum has been seen in Dover, apparently working as a road sweeper.” He stopped, watching Pitt closely. “He is known to certain political authorities in Vienna as an assassin of unusual skill and imagination.”

To give himself time to think, Pitt sipped more wine. It was extremely good, a quality he was totally unused to. Perhaps it would have been familiar to Narraway.

“I suppose you are sure about this?” he asked with a smile, looking at the wine in his glass.

“There is doubt,” Blantyre admitted. “But very slight. He has a face that is not easy to forget, especially his eyes. The man in question was dressed in ill-fitting and dirty clothes, with a broom in his hands; but if one imagines him upright and shorn of the submissiveness, he is too like Staum to ignore the probability. He has used the guise of a railway porter before, and also a hansom cab driver, and a postman.”

“I see,” Pitt said quietly. Dustmen pushed carts with their equipment, and collected rubbish. No one gave them a second glance. It was the perfect disguise to carry explosives. People take no notice of a road sweeper, not to mention his cart. “Why Duke Alois?” he asked, looking up at Blantyre again. “We still have not answered that.”

“Staum is for hire.” Blantyre shook his head very slightly, barely a movement at all. “Anarchists don’t always select victims for any reason. But you know that better than I do.”

His hands clenched on his knife and fork. “Things are getting worse, Pitt, more dangerous every year. Violent socialism is rising, national borders are moving around like the tide. There seems to be unrest everywhere and wild ideas and philosophies multiplying like rabbits. I admit, I am afraid for the future.” There was no melodrama in his voice, just a foreboding and the darkness of real fear. It shadowed his face, making his features pinched, more ascetic.

Because Pitt respected him, he felt the weight of his responsibility settle even more heavily on him.

“We’ll protect Duke Alois, regardless of whoever’s after him, and whatever the reason,” he said grimly.

Blantyre let out a sigh. “I know. I know.” He reached out and poured the rest of the Burgundy into their glasses. He did not offer a toast.

PITT HAD NO DIFFICULTY reaching the Foreign Secretary. Clearly Salisbury had been as good as his word. However, as far as canceling Duke Alois’s visit, nothing had changed.

“I’m sorry,” the Foreign Secretary said grimly. “It would be quite impossible to cancel the visit now. Such a thing would signal to all Europe that Britain cannot guarantee the safety of a member of a foreign royal family visiting our own monarch.” His voice became even sharper. “It would be a flag of surrender to every predator in the world. Surely you see that it cannot even be considered?”

Reluctantly, Pitt had to agree. He could imagine with horrible clarity the results that would follow.

“Yes, sir, I do see,” he said quietly. “I would very much like to know who is behind this. I will not let it go until I do.”

IT WAS LATE AND Pitt was tired, but he felt that he must speak with Narraway; however, he was torn, because to do so was a kind of yielding, an admission that he needed advice. He hesitated even as he walked along the cold street, his breath making wispy trails in the air.

But not to speak with him was to set his own vanity above the lives of the men and women who would be killed if there really was a train crash. Not to mention the all-but-crippling damage to the service to which he was sworn.

He reached Narraway’s door with no indecision left, and when the manservant let him in, he accepted the offer of supper and hot tea. Blantyre’s wine at luncheon had been more than he was used to.

“Any progress on Serafina Montserrat’s death?” he asked Narraway as they sat by the fire, Pitt leaning toward it, warming his hands after the cold walk.

“Not yet,” Narraway answered. “But you didn’t come just to ask me that.”

Pitt sighed and sat back in the chair. “No,” he conceded. “No, it is something rather bigger than that.”

“Pitt, stop beating around the bush,” Narraway ordered.

Briefly Pitt told him what he feared about a possible rail crash and what Blantyre had said at lunchtime about Duke Alois’s visit.

“If it’s Staum,” Narraway said quietly, “then there’s a lot of money involved. He has no loyalty to anyone, and he is expensive. If he has ever failed, we don’t know about it.” He thought for a few more moments in silence, staring at the fire.

Pitt waited.

“Staum has no loyalties, no interests,” Narraway said at last. “A rail crash, with all the civilian casualties, is very extreme. Even anarchists are not usually so indiscriminate; this could kill scores of people.”

“I know.”

“Either the target is someone so well guarded they cannot reach him any other way—but that profile doesn’t fit Duke Alois at all—or else it is a decoy.”

“I’ve thought of that!” Pitt said more sharply than he had intended. It was not anger speaking but fear.

“Any rumor of something else that might be happening, however slight?” Narraway asked. “What else is vulnerable?”

Pitt gave him a thorough update on every issuse, even the most trivial and seemingly irrelevant. They were all issues going back to Narraway’s own time as head of the Branch, so there could be no question of confidences broken.

“Who else is traveling with the duke?” Narraway asked when he had considered them all and come up with nothing.

“No one who seems important,” Pitt replied, feeling the sense of helplessness twist even more tightly inside him. “And time is short. We have little more than a week before he comes.”

Narraway sighed. “Then my best guess is that the rail crash is a diversion, because the assassination will happen before they ever reach the train. Staum will get Duke Alois somewhere in the streets of Dover. He won’t know that we have anyone who can recognize him.”

“That’s true. In fact, how did Blantyre recognize him, do you think?” Pitt asked.

“Austrian connection, I presume,” Narraway replied. “Staum has committed a few assassinations in Europe, but never here before, so far as we know.”

“Blantyre could be wrong,” Pitt said.

“Of course he could. Are you willing to take that risk?”

“No. We don’t have enough men to guard all the streets in Dover, especially if it means drawing them back from the points and the signals.”

“Which they are counting on,” Narraway agreed.

“If they blow up the main street of Dover, they’ll kill scores of people, and they might still miss Duke Alois—”

“They won’t,” Narraway cut across him. “They’ll cause a diversion at the last moment, an overflowing drain, an overturned cart, anything to force him to go down a side street, or else stand around as a stationary target while they clear the way. In those situations you must keep moving. Have several alternative routes. Never allow yourself to be cut off and have to stop.” Narraway’s face was deeply lined, almost haggard in the firelight. “You haven’t much time, Pitt.”

“Find out who killed Serafina, and why,” Pitt urged.

“You really think that what she was afraid of telling someone had to do with this? She was rambling …”

“Do you know of a better reason someone is willing to go to this length to kill Duke Alois?” Pitt asked. “Or someone else in his retinue?”

“I think he could be incidental, just the excuse,” Narraway reminded him, his voice gravelly with weariness and the tension of knowledge and fear. “Special Branch is important, Pitt. It’s our defense against all kinds of violence from slow treason to anarchy that kills in minutes. If I wanted to cripple England, I would try to get rid of Special Branch first. And if I can think of that, so can others.”

“I know.” Pitt stood up slowly, surprised how his muscles ached from clenching them. “I’ll start again tomorrow morning.”

EARLY THE NEXT DAY at Lisson Grove, Pitt and Stoker went over every detail of Alois’s visit from the time he stepped aboard the steamer at Calais until he boarded it again at Dover to leave.

The office was warm, the fire beginning to burn well in the clear air after the sluggishness of rain, but there was no ease in the room.

“He’ll be bringing just four men with him,” Stoker said, pointing to Calais on the map spread across Pitt’s desk.

“What do we know about them?” Pitt asked.

“All part of his family’s regular household retainers,” Stoker replied. “As far as we can tell. Nothing we can find that would make them vulnerable to betrayal. None of them gambles or has debts out of the ordinary, no love affairs with anyone of suspicious background or politics. No one drinks more than average, which is pretty high.” He pulled his face into an expression of distaste. Pitt had no idea whether it was for what he imagined these men in particular to be like, or for foreigners in general.

“They’re just what you’d expect of hangers-on of a minor royal duke,” Stoker went on. “Decent enough, in their own way, I expect.” He looked up from the map to meet Pitt’s eyes, but his own were unreadable.

“Competent to guard him from an attack?” Pitt asked.

Stoker shrugged. “Can’t say, because they’ve never had to. Honestly, sir, he’s not somebody anyone would bother to attack. Are we going to put someone in with them?”

“Yes. It’ll need to be someone who speaks German, if possible.”

“He speaks good English,” Stoker replied.

“Good. But we need to understand what they say to each other as well,” Pitt pointed out.

“We’ve got Beck, sir, and Holbein. They’re both pretty good.”

“We’ll use them,” Pitt agreed.

Stoker raised his eyebrows. “Both?”

“Yes, both. We can’t afford to fail, you know that.”

Stoker stiffened. “Yes, sir. Whatever happens to the Duke, it bloody well won’t happen while he’s in England!” He bent to the map again, intense concentration in his face. “The ferry leaves Calais at nine in the morning, weather permitting. It should arrive in Dover at noon. He’ll be the first to disembark. He has a special carriage set apart for his use.” He looked up at Pitt. “What about this man Staum, sir? Are we sure it’s him? How do we know it isn’t someone who just looks a bit like him? His face can’t be that memorable, or he’d have been caught by now.”

“No, we’re not certain it’s him,” Pitt conceded. “But using such a man makes more sense than creating a train crash that kills scores of people.”

“Depends what this person, or people, hope to gain,” Stoker said bitterly. “Anarchists don’t usually make that much sense. That’s why they’re so damn difficult to predict.”

“I know. And people who don’t care whether they are caught always have a kind of advantage over those who do. But I don’t envy them. Who the hell wants to have nothing worth living for?”

“I can’t imagine what that’s like.” Stoker shook his head, his expression puzzled and sad. “I suppose that’s why we find them so hard to catch. We just don’t understand them. What about this duke, sir? Do you think he’s going to do pretty much what we tell him? Or will he want to show everyone how brave he is, and behave like a fool?”

“I don’t know,” Pitt admitted. “I’m still trying to find out more about him, and the rest of his men.”

Stoker swore gently and colorfully, under his breath.

“Couldn’t have put it better myself,” Pitt agreed, surprised at the width of Stoker’s imagination.

Stoker colored. “Sorry, sir.”

“Don’t be.” Pitt smiled briefly. “I am thinking much the same, but I can’t put it as concisely as you do! Your vocabulary makes me think you spent some time in the navy, but I didn’t see it on your record, at least not the one they showed me.”

“No, sir.” Stoker was clearly uncomfortable. “It was … not quite official …” He stopped, lost for an explanation.

“Learn anything?” Pitt asked.

“Yes, sir, quite a lot.” He stood still, waiting for the rest of the interrogation.

“Then it wasn’t time wasted,” Pitt answered. He was determined to ask Narraway one day what Stoker’s story was. It would be wise to know, but it did not matter now.

“Sir—” Stoker began.

“Doesn’t matter,” Pitt cut him off.

“Sir … I was going to say that if you want me to go to Dover and travel on the train with Duke Alois, I’ll do that.”

“You don’t have to,” Pitt replied. “It’ll be dangerous.”

“Aren’t you going?” Stoker challenged.

“Yes, I am.”

“Then I’m coming too, sir. Anyway, I could use the bit of extra pay.” He smiled slightly.

“Really?” Pitt spoke lightly. “Saving for something, are you?”

“Yes, sir.” Stoker straightened his shoulders a little. “I want to buy a cello, sir.”

Pitt could think of no possible answer to that, but he felt inordinately pleased.