Dorchester Terrace

PITT FELT UNCOMFORTABLE SITTING in the big carved chair behind the desk that used to be Narraway’s and looking at Narraway himself sitting opposite, as a visitor. It was only months since their positions had been reversed.

Narraway was smartly dressed, as always: slim and elegant, his dark suit perfectly cut, his thick hair immaculate. But he was worried. The lines in his face were deeply etched, his expression without even the shadow of a smile.

It was just a few days until Duke Alois would arrive at Dover.

“I’ve just come from Dorchester Terrace,” Narraway said without hesitation. “It’s not impossible that Serafina’s murder was domestic, but it’s extremely unlikely.”

“Who was it?” Pitt was saddened by the events at Dorchester Terrace, but not yet concerned. The infinitely deeper question of Duke Alois’s possible assassination engaged all his attention.

“It seems most likely that it was Adriana Blantyre,” Narraway replied. His voice was low, his face pinched with regret.

“Adriana Blantyre?” Pitt repeated, as if saying it aloud would make Narraway correct him, explain that she was not really who he had meant.

“I’m sorry,” Narraway said gravely. “I know that you have had great help from her husband, and that you like Adriana herself, but I can see no reasonable alternative.”

“There has to be,” Pitt protested. “Why in God’s name would Adriana Blantyre murder Mrs. Montserrat? How well did they even know each other? It makes no sense!”

Narraway sighed. “Pitt, you’re thinking with your emotions. Use your brain. There are a dozen ways in which it might make sense. The most obvious connection is Blantyre himself. He is an expert on the Austrian Empire, against whose dominion in Italy Serafina spent most of her life fighting. They would have had a hundred acquaintances in common, friends and enemies. There could have been a score of causes on which they were on opposite sides.”

“Causes that still matter now?” Pitt asked with an edge of disbelief. Adriana was at least a generation younger than Serafina. True, she was loyal to the country of her birth. He had seen her face light up at the mere mention of it. But she had been in England now for more than ten years, and Pitt had never seen her show more than a passing interest in politics, nothing to suggest that she had ever been actively involved in them before or was now.

“Did Nerissa suggest it? Perhaps she is trying to move suspicion away from herself to the only other person she could think of,” he said.

“Possibly,” Narraway conceded. “But Adriana was there at Dorchester Terrace the night Serafina died, and she was alone with her. Tucker confirmed that. We will probably never know what Serafina said that was the catalyst, but she was rambling, raking up all sorts of old memories, in bits and pieces that made little sense. We need to know a great deal more about Adriana Blantyre’s past, and what Serafina might have inadvertently given away about it. I’m sorry.

“I can’t do it,” Narraway went on, a slight edge to his voice, a self-lacerating humor. “You’ll need to look at Special Branch records, such as we have, of old Austrian and Croatian plots, things Serafina might have been involved in, or known about. There isn’t very much, and I can tell you where it’s filed.”

Pitt was pleased not to see regret in Narraway’s eyes, or anything to suggest a sense of feeling excluded or isolated.

“I’ll look,” he said quietly. “Are we sure no one else could have been in the house?”

“Not according to Tucker. But Blantyre himself and Tregarron were both there that week.”

Pitt stiffened. “Tregarron? Whatever for?”

“To see Serafina. They would hardly have gone to see Nerissa, except as courtesy demanded. At least on the surface.”

“The surface?” Pitt raised his eyebrows.

“There is still the question of Nerissa’s lover,” Narraway said drily.

“So Tregarron knew Serafina?” Pitt picked up the original thread. “Or else he went because of the questions I asked him about Duke Alois.”

“Presumably.”

“Thank you.”

Narraway smiled and rose to his feet. “Don’t sidestep any part of this matter, Pitt,” he warned. “You need to have the truth, whatever you decide to do about it.”

PITT READ ALL THE files about the Austrian oppression and revolts of the last forty years. They were exactly where Narraway had said they would be. He learned very little of use, except where to find a certain elderly gentleman named Peter Ffitch, who had once served in Special Branch, and had an encyclopedic memory. He had retired twenty years earlier and was a widower now, living quietly in a small village in Oxfordshire.

Pitt caught the next train and was in Banbury just after lunchtime. He then took a small branch line further into the country, and after a stiff walk through the rain, arrived at Ffitch’s steeply thatched house on a cobbled road off the main street.

The door was answered by a dark-haired woman of uncertain years, a white apron tied over a plain brown skirt and blouse. She looked at him with suspicion.

Pitt introduced himself, with proof of his identity, and told her that it was extremely important that he speak with Mr. Ffitch. After some persuasion she admitted him.

Ffitch must have been in his eighties, with the mild features of a child and quite a lot of white hair. Only when Pitt looked more closely into his eyes did he see the startling intelligence there, and a spark of humor, even pleasure, at the prospect of being questioned.

At Ffitch’s request the woman, mollified by his assurances, brought them tea and a generous portion of cake, and then left them alone.

“Well,” Ffitch said with satisfaction. “It must be important to bring the new head of Special Branch all the way out here. Murder or high treason, at the least. How can I help?” He rubbed his hands together. They were surprisingly strong hands, not touched by age or rheumatism. He reached forward and put several more pieces of coal on the fire, as if settling in for the full afternoon. “What can I tell you?”

Pitt allowed himself to enjoy the cake and tea. The cake was rich and full of fruit, and the tea was hot. He realized momentarily how long the train journey had seemed, and how chilly the carriage had been. He decided to tell Ffitch the truth, at least as far as Serafina was concerned.

“Oh, dear,” Ffitch said when Pitt was finished. His seemingly bland face was filled with grief, altering it completely. “What a sad way for such a marvelous woman to end. But perhaps whoever killed her did not do her such a great disservice.”

“Perhaps not,” Pitt agreed. “But I still need to know who it was, and why.”

“For justice?” Ffitch said curiously.

“Because I need to know the players in this particular drama, and what their ultimate goal is,” Pitt corrected him. “There is very much on the table currently, to win or lose.”

“Well, well.” Ffitch smiled, his body relaxing. “I am often reminded that not even the past is safe. Strange business we are in. More than most people, our old ghosts keep haunting us.” He frowned. “But you speak of present danger. Have some more tea, and tell me what I can do.”

“Thank you,” Pitt accepted. He glanced around the room. Ffitch may have lived in many countries, but the room was English to the bone. There were Hogarth cartoon prints on the walls, and leather-bound books on the five shelves on the far wall. From what Pitt could see they were mostly history and some of the great works of literature and commentary. He saw the light flicker on the gold lettering of Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, and Milton’s Paradise Lost.

Ffitch poured the tea and passed Pitt back his cup.

“Serafina,” Ffitch said thoughtfully. “I knew a lot about her, but I only ever met her a few times.” He smiled. “The first was at a ball in Berlin. I remember it very well. She was dressed in gold, very soft, like an evening sky. Still, she looked like a tigress, only temporarily made friendly by warmth and good food.”

The smile of memory left his face. “The second was in a forest. She came on horseback, slim as a whip, and lithe. She dismounted easily and walked with such grace, wearing trousers, of course, and carrying a pistol. What is it you need to know? If you are looking for whoever murdered her, it could have been any of a hundred people, for any of a hundred reasons.”

“Now, in 1896?” Pitt said skeptically.

Ffitch bit his lip. “Point taken, sir. No, not now. But some of those old victories and losses still matter, at least to those who were involved. It sounds as if you’re looking for something that came to light only recently, but from some old story?”

“Looks like it,” Pitt replied.

Ffitch pursed his lips. “So something she remembered, and let slip in her confusion of mind, affects someone alive today so deeply that the betrayal of it still matters.” He nodded slowly. “Interesting. There were some bad things. Some treason against England in Vienna, but I never knew who was involved. I tried very hard to find out because it was important. Quite a lot of information went from the British Embassy to the Austrians, and it embarrassed us severely. Not being able to stop it was one of my worst failures.” He could not hide the distress in his face.

Pitt hated embarrassing him, but he pressed the matter further. “Was it ever widely known within Special Branch?”

Ffitch looked at him bleakly. “No, not when I retired. If they had learned, I like to think someone would have told me. Perhaps I delude myself as to either my own importance or the regard they had for me.”

“I doubt that,” Pitt replied, hoping it was true. “I think at least Victor Narraway would have spoken of it, because if he had known, he would not have agreed that it was good for me to come out here and trouble you now.”

“Ah … yes, Victor Narraway. Always thought he would do well. Clever man. Ruthless, in his own way. Wondered why he left. Would have thought he had many good years in him yet. But I don’t imagine you’ll tell me.” His eyes narrowed. He looked at Pitt closely, quite openly assessing his ability, and almost certainly also his nerve.

Pitt waited, taking another piece of cake.

Ffitch sighed at last. “Serafina might have known,” he said thoughtfully. “Perhaps that was what she was afraid of.” He shook his head, the firelight flushing his cheeks. “In her prime she could keep a secret better than the grave. What a damn shame.”

“Adriana Blantyre,” Pitt said softly.

Ffitch blinked. “Blantyre? Evan Blantyre was young then, but clever, very clever. Always at the edge of things, never in the middle—at least that’s how it looked from the outside.”

“What things?” Pitt asked.

Ffitch looked surprised. “Plots to gain greater freedom from the Austrian yoke, what else? Italian plots, Croatian plots, even the odd Hungarian plot, although most Hungarians were willing enough to pay lip service to Vienna, and carry on with whatever they wanted to do in Budapest.”

“Not Serafina?”

“Certainly not. You want to know about the ones that went badly wrong? Of course you do. They all went wrong somehow. Most simply failed, fizzled out, or succeeded for a few months. One or two ended really badly, men shot before they could succeed, tricked or trapped one way or another. Probably the best organized, the bravest of the fighters, was Lazar Dragovic. Fine man. Handsome, funny, a dreamer with intelligence and courage.”

“But he failed …” The conclusion was obvious.

Ffitch’s eyes were sad.

“He was betrayed. Never knew by whom. But yes, he failed. The rest of the people involved escaped, but Dragovic was summarily executed. They beat him right there on the spot, trying to get the names of the others, but he died without telling them anything. They put the gun to his head and shot him, kneeling on the ground.” Even so long after, the misery of it pinched Ffitch’s face.

“Might Serafina have known who betrayed him?” Pitt asked quietly.

“Yes. I suppose so. But I’ve no idea why she wouldn’t have done something about it—shot whoever it was herself. I would have. She cared for Dragovic, perhaps more than for any of her other lovers. If she knew and did nothing, she must have had a devil of a good reason.”

“What sort of reason?” Pitt asked.

Ffitch considered for a few moments. “Hard to think of one. Perhaps it would’ve affected the lives of others, possibly several others? A better revenge? But Serafina wasn’t one to wait; she would’ve taken whatever chance she could get at the time.” He turned and looked into the flames of the fire. “I did hear a story—I don’t know if it’s true—that Dragovic’s eight-year-old daughter was there and saw her father executed. They say Serafina had to choose between going after the man who was behind Dragovic’s betrayal, or saving the child. She did what she knew Dragovic would have wanted, which was of course saving the child.” He turned from the flames and looked at Pitt, eyes filled with sudden understanding. “The child’s name was Adriana—Adriana Dragovic.”

The room was so quiet Pitt heard the coals settle in the grate.

“What did she look like?” he asked.

“No idea, but she had delicate health. I don’t even know if she lived.”

Pitt was already certain in his mind as to the answer. “She did,” he said quietly.

Ffitch stared at him. “Adriana Blantyre?”

“I believe so, but I will find out.”

Ffitch nodded, and reached to pour them both a third cup of tea.

PITT LOOKED THROUGH ALL the old records he could find dating back thirty years to the story of Lazar Dragovic, his attempted uprising, his betrayal, and his death. There was very little, but it removed any doubt that Adriana Dragovic was his daughter, and that she had later married Evan Blantyre.

There was also little room for doubt that it was Serafina Montserrat who had taken the child Adriana from the scene of the execution, and looked after her until she could be left with her grandparents.

What was conspicuously missing was any statement indicating who had betrayed Dragovic to the Austrians, resulting in the failure of the uprising and Dragovic’s own torture and murder.

Had Adriana found out who it was, after all these years? Or had she listened to Serafina’s ramblings and imagined that she had learned the truth?

What damage had been done to her when she had seen her father killed? What trust had been warped forever? Pitt had spent his professional life tearing the surface from secrets so well hidden that no one else had imagined them. He had found scorching pain concealed by facades of a dozen sorts: duty, obedience, faith, sacrifice. He had seen rage so silent that it had been completely overlooked, until the dam burst and everyone in its path was destroyed.

All sorts of emotions can mask themselves as something else, until they grow too unbearable. That could be as true of Adriana Blantyre as of anyone.

PITT WAS TOO LATE getting home that evening to visit Blantyre, but he did so the following morning. He could not afford to allow any more time to slip through his fingers.

He arrived at Blantyre’s house early, in case Evan had intended to go anywhere other than to his office.

“Another development?” Blantyre said with surprise when Pitt was shown into his study. He was busy answering correspondence; notepaper and envelopes were stacked on the corner of the desk, the cap was off the inkwell, an elegant thing in the shape of a sleeping lion, and there was a pen in his hand.

“I apologize for disturbing you,” Pitt began.

“I assume it must be necessary.” Blantyre put his pen down and recapped the ink. “Something has happened? More word of Duke Alois? Please sit, and tell me.”

He indicated a comfortable, leather-padded captain’s chair.

Pitt obeyed.

“It is the death of Serafina Montserrat that concerns me today,” he answered. “I don’t know whether it’s connected to Duke Alois or not, but I can’t afford to assume that it isn’t.” He hated having to tell Blantyre this, but there was no escape. “I’m afraid there is no question that she was murdered. There is no other possible conclusion from the evidence.” He saw the surprise and dismay in Blantyre’s face and dreaded the possibility that Narraway was right. Was that why Blantyre had seemed so protective of Adriana? Because he knew she was so emotionally fragile that she could be capable of such a thing? How does any man protect the woman he loves from the demons within herself?

Blantyre was waiting, his dark eyes searching Pitt’s face.

“The amount of laudanum in her body was far more than an accidental second dose could explain,” Pitt went on, knowing it was irrelevant. “I have to consider the possibility that she knew something that has bearing on the reasons for the attempt on Duke Alois. And what she knew might tell us who is behind it.”

Blantyre nodded slowly. “Of course. Poor Serafina. What a sad ending for such a brave and colorful woman.” He lifted his shoulders very slightly. “What can I tell you that would be useful? If I had the faintest idea who was behind the attempt to assassinate Duke Alois, I would have already told you. I am still learning whatever I can, but there are dozens of dissident groups of one sort or another within the Austrian Empire. All of them are capable of violence. I still don’t know if Alois is any more than he seems to be on the surface, or if he is merely a pawn to be sacrificed in some cause we haven’t yet identified—at least not specifically. All I know is, if it happens here, no one will be able to cover it up, or pass it off as an accident.” His expressive face reflected a sharp, sad humor. “Or a suicide,” he added.

“Are you suggesting that what happened at Mayerling was a concealed murder?” Pitt asked with surprise.

“No.” Blantyre did not hesitate. “I think they did what they could to keep it private, perhaps mistakenly. Rudolf was always high-strung, veering between elation and melancholy, and his childhood was enough to turn anyone into a lunatic. God knows, his mother is eccentric, to put it as gently as possible. He grew up with literally dozens of tutors, and no friends, no parental support …”

Pitt did not interrupt. Blantyre spoke softly, looking not at Pitt, but somewhere beyond him.

“Austrian politics are infinitely more complicated than ours. The Hungarians are afraid of both Germany overtaking Austria itself, to their west, and all the Slavic parts of the empire, backed of course by Russia, to the east. The Ottoman Empire is falling apart, and Russia will surely pounce there, wherever it can. Serbia and Croatia could be the gateway to a slow erosion that will eventually eat into the heart of Austria itself.”

He smiled bleakly, looking at Pitt now. “And of course Vienna is a hotbed of ideas about the socialism that is raging all over Europe, the ideas and philosophies that Rudolf admired. There was nothing of the autocrat in him. He was a dreamer, a man in love with the idealism of the future as he wanted it to be.”

The ashes settled in the fire with a very slight sound, but Blantyre did not move to restoke it.

“He was friendly with our own Prince of Wales,” he went on. “They were distantly related, as most European royalty is, but far more than that, they were in extraordinarily similar positions. Like Edward, everything was expected of him, but he seemed to be waiting for it indefinitely. Unlike Edward, he had a wife he couldn’t abide: cold, critical, boring, but eminently suitable for a Habsburg emperor.”

“And then he fell in love with Marie Vetsera,” Pitt concluded.

“No. I think he just came to the end of the road,” Blantyre said sadly. “There was nothing left for him to hope for. He had syphilis, among other things. Not a pleasant disease, and of course incurable.”

“I have learned a great deal more about Serafina Montserrat’s past,” Pitt said quietly, wanting to turn the conversation back to the matter. “Including her presence at the beating and execution of one Lazar Dragovic, and her rescue of his eight-year-old daughter, Adriana.” He saw Blantyre’s face lose its color. If any proof had been needed of Adriana’s identity, the expression on Blantyre’s face would have been sufficient. “Apparently, it is still not known who betrayed Dragovic to the Austrians,” he added. “Unless, of course, Serafina knew.”

Blantyre breathed in and out, and swallowed. His eyes met Pitt’s without wavering, but he did not speak.

“In her rambling, it is possible that Serafina told Adriana, either directly,” Pitt continued, “or enough in bits and pieces that Adriana was able to piece it together and deduce the truth.”

Blantyre swallowed again, with difficulty.

“Are you saying that Adriana believed it was Serafina who betrayed her father?” he asked. “Why, for God’s sake? Serafina was an insurgent herself. Are you suggesting that she was secretly on the side of the Austrians?” There was intense disbelief in his voice.

“I don’t know why,” Pitt admitted. “It makes no political sense, from what we know, but there may be other elements that we know nothing about.”

Blantyre thought for several seconds. “Personal?” he said at last.

“Perhaps.” Pitt waited for him to say that Dragovic and Serafina had been lovers. Did Blantyre know that? If he had been involved in the uprisings himself, on either side, then he might. Or he might have deduced it from what others had said.

Blantyre’s face twisted into a gesture of misery and contempt. “Are you suggesting that they were once lovers, and she took his rejection so bitterly that she was prepared to betray him, and the cause, to have her revenge? I find that impossible to believe. Serafina had many lovers. I never knew of her taking revenge for anything. Life was too short and sweet for that.”

“And Dragovic was loyal to the cause?” Pitt explored another line of thought.

Blantyre’s eyes widened. “As far as I know. But if he wasn’t, what has that to do with Serafina’s death now? Are you saying that she admitted to betraying him because he was a traitor himself? That’s nonsense. No one would believe her. Dragovic was a hero. Everyone knew that; he was willing to die rather than tell the Austrians who else was involved. There is no doubt about that, because no one else was ever arrested. I know that myself.”

“Could he have been betrayed by one of Serafina’s other lovers, out of jealousy over her?” Pitt asked. He hoped that was true. It would remove suspicion from Adriana, and he wanted that very much, for her sake, for Charlotte’s, and above all for Blantyre himself.

“Yes …” Blantyre said slowly. “Yes … that makes more sense. Though God knows who!”

“Someone who cares about their reputation enough to kill Serafina in order to preserve it, and is not only still alive, but is here in London, aware that Serafina was rambling and could betray the truth accidentally,” Pitt replied. “And of course, the person would have to have had access to the house in Dorchester Terrace in order to poison Serafina with laudanum. That must restrict the possibilities to a very few indeed.”

Blantyre rubbed a hand across his face in a gesture of intense weariness. He sighed. “Nerissa Freemarsh?”

“Do you think so?” Pitt asked with surprise.

“She has a lover,” Blantyre said. “Though I doubt very much that you will get his name from her. She is a … a very desperate woman, no family except Serafina, no husband, no child. Such women can be very … unpredictable.” He frowned.

Pitt thought of Lord Tregarron, and what Tucker had told Narraway about Tregarron’s visits to Dorchester Terrace. He needed to know a great deal more about that, absurd as it seemed. What on earth could Nerissa Freemarsh offer a man in Tregarron’s position? A hunger, a need for his attention that perhaps his wife no longer had, unquestioning praise, a willingness to do anything he wished, which again, perhaps his wife would not? Maybe it was no more than simply a safe escape from pressure, duty, and fulfilling other people’s expectations. The more he thought about it, the more reasons there seemed to be.

Had Serafina somehow discovered that, and raised a fierce objection? Considering her own past, it would surely not be on moral grounds; possibly a concern for Nerissa’s reputation and the damage such an affair would do to it, if discovered?

Nerissa might misinterpret whatever Serafina said as a moral judgment, even a condemnation. If she loved Tregarron she would see it as her aunt ruining her last chance for love.

“Apparently Lord Tregarron called to see Mrs. Montserrat.”

Blantyre stiffened. “Tregarron? Are you sure?”

“Yes.” There was no avoiding it any longer. “And Mrs. Blantyre visited her often. But you know that.”

“They have been in touch, on and off, since that time,” Blantyre said quietly, “and the death of Adriana’s father is never spoken of. I don’t know how much Adriana remembers. I hope very little: just confusion and pain, and then of course the loss. Her mother was also dead. Serafina had no time for a child, especially one with extremely delicate health. Adriana lived with her grandparents until I met her. She was nineteen then, and the most beautiful girl I had ever seen.

“The shadow of tragedy gave her a haunting quality, a depth other women did not have,” Blantyre continued. “I would be grateful to you if you did not mention that time to her, unless it is absolutely necessary for the safety of the country. I can promise you that if she knew anything about Duke Alois, or about Tregarron, for that matter, she would have already told me, and I would have told you.”

“Of course I won’t mention it,” Pitt promised, “unless my hand is forced—and I can see no reason that should be. But I may have to ask her about her visit to Dorchester Terrace on the night Mrs. Montserrat died, in case she saw or heard anything that can shed light on her death.”

“Then you will do so when I am present.” It was said gently, but it was not a request. The power in Blantyre’s voice, the force of his emotion, filled the room.

“As long as you will not cause delays I cannot afford,” Pitt agreed. “Of course.”

Blantyre smiled very slightly, but there was a warmth in it. “Thank you. I am obliged.”

CHARLOTTE HAD HAD A delightful day with Adriana. Their friendship had become much easier and more fluid, and they laughed together often, over the amusing and the absurd.

Today they had been to an afternoon soirée. The singing had been very pleasant, but agonizingly serious. They had looked at each other in the middle of the performance, and had been forced to stifle giggles and pretend a sudden fit of sneezing had attacked them. An elderly lady of a very sentimental nature had been concerned for Adriana, and she had then been obliged to pretend she had suffered an unfortunate reaction to some lilies.

Charlotte had come to her rescue with a long and totally fictitious story about lilies at a funeral affecting her the same way. She had added to the verisimilitude of it by weeping, and everyone had praised her good nature and gentleness of heart—qualities she was perfectly sure she did not possess, as she admitted to Adriana later.

She had accepted the elderly lady’s admiration with a straight face, and she and Adriana had excused themselves hastily before they burst into giggles.

Charlotte had arrived home still smiling. She found Minnie Maude in the kitchen clearing away tea after Daniel and Jemima. There was a pile of crusts on the plate. She whisked them away very quickly when she heard Charlotte’s footsteps, swinging around to hide them with her body. Her eyes widened.

“You do look lovely, ma’am,” she said sincerely. “You should get another dress that same color of goldy-brown. There’s not many as can wear that.”

“Thank you,” Charlotte said, but in her head she was wondering why Minnie Maude was not making the children eat their crusts. She would let it go today. It would seem churlish to make an issue of a small thing after such a nice compliment. But next time she would have to say something.

“I shall be down for dinner, but I must change out of this gown. It is rather too much for the parlor, I think!” She laughed, and turned to leave.

“Can I ’elp yer, ma’am?” Minnie Maude offered. “Them back buttons, any rate.”

“Thank you. That would be a good idea.” Charlotte turned and allowed Minnie Maude to undo the top half dozen or so at the back of her neck. Then she started for the door again. She had reached the bottom of the stairs when she recalled that she had not asked Minnie Maude to set the table in the dining room. As she turned back, she saw Minnie whisk into the cellar with what looked like the dish of crusts in her hand.

She went up the stairs slowly. Was she not giving Minnie Maude enough to eat? The girl should not have to pick at crusts. There was plenty of food in the house, and she was more than welcome to have as much as she wished. She had settled in so well, Charlotte thought, in the way she performed her duties and with her extremely agreeable nature. She should make time to look into the matter more carefully.

But when Pitt came home he was clearly worried, and for the first time since the present case began, he wished to talk to her about it. After supper, when they retired to the parlor, she had barely begun to tell him about the soirée when he interrupted her.

“You know Adriana quite well now. You must talk to each other about many things. Does she ever mention Serafina Montserrat?” he asked.

She saw the earnestness in his face. This was not a question of polite interest.

“Only briefly,” she replied, trying to read his expression. “She was very saddened by her decline.”

“And her death?”

“Of course. Why are you asking, Thomas?”

“I need to know.”

“That means it has something to do with Special Branch.” The deduction was obvious. “So Serafina knew something of great importance, after all.”

She was so used to asking questions that the old habit asserted itself before she could think. She realized it too late. “I’m sorry … I didn’t mean to pry.”

He smiled. “Not at all, Charlotte. I asked you in the first place. I need to understand Adriana a great deal more than I do. Who better to ask than you? And I cannot expect you to give me the answers I need if I don’t tell you what the questions are.”

His eyes were gentle, and there was an oblique humor in his face. But she heard the emotion in his voice; Adriana was somehow tied into the case, and he could not tell her about the issue that kept him at work late into the evenings and stopped him from sleeping through the night.

“What do you need to know about her?” she asked. “She talks quite freely now. I hate breaking confidences, but you wouldn’t ask if it was not necessary.”

“Do you know when she first met Serafina Montserrat?”

Charlotte thought back to their conversations. “No. She speaks as if she has known her as long as she can remember.”

“As a child?”

“Yes. I think their encounter was brief, and at a time very painful to Adriana. They met again after Adriana was married, but I don’t think she ever knew her as well as she did in the last few months. Why?”

He ignored the question. “What does she say of her father?”

Charlotte felt increasingly uneasy. “Quite a lot. Not so much directly, but she mentions him in passing; she adored him, and she had already lost her mother when he died. He seems to have been brave, funny, kind, and very clever, and to have been devoted to her. He died when she was eight. She still misses him terribly. I suppose when you lose someone when you’re that young, you tend to idealize them a little, but if even half of what she recalls is true, he was a fine man. Certainly they were very close.”

Pitt’s face was bleak, his lips pressed close together for a moment. The sorrow his face showed worried her.

“He was,” he answered. “His name was Lazar Dragovic. He was a fighter for Croatian freedom from Austrian rule. He was the leader of a spectacular plot, which failed because he was betrayed by one of the conspirators. All of the others escaped but he didn’t. He was beaten and then shot because he would not give away the names of the others involved.”

Charlotte was stunned, even though she had known from the way Adriana had spoken of it that her father’s death had been tragic.

“I’m sorry. That’s terrible. But it was thirty years ago, and in Austria. Why does it matter to Special Branch now?”

“Serafina was there. She rescued Adriana from the scene,” he said simply.

“Adriana saw it?” Charlotte’s stomach lurched and knotted inside her. She thought of Jemima at eight, her face soft and innocent, her eyes unafraid. She ached to reach back in time and protect the child Adriana had been.

Pitt nodded. “It was Serafina who took her away. She left Adriana with grandparents.”

Charlotte had known Pitt long enough to make the leap of deduction. “Did Serafina know who betrayed Adriana’s father? Is that what you are afraid of? She knew, and she told Adriana, whether she meant to or not?”

“What I’m afraid of is that Adriana thought that Serafina herself did,” he admitted.

Charlotte sat frozen in her seat. She could see now why Pitt had looked so wretched. “You think Adriana killed her out of revenge?” she asked softly. “The poor old woman was dying anyway! She wouldn’t do such a thing! That’s horrible!”

“Her father’s death was horrible, Charlotte,” he pointed out. “He was betrayed by his own and—worse than that—from what my informant told me, Serafina and Dragovic were lovers. That’s the worst kind of betrayal. He was beaten and killed, in front of his child. I think that warrants final revenge.”

She thought of her own father, Edward Ellison; she knew him only as a rather stern man, affectionate but without the passion she believed was required in a revolutionary: a man prepared to suffer appallingly in order to change an injustice.

But then, how well had she known her father as a human being? She had taken him for granted. He was always there, calm, at the head of the table in the evenings, walking to church on Sundays, sitting by the fire with his legs crossed and a newspaper spread open. He represented safety: the comfortable, unchanging part of life; the things you miss only when, suddenly, they are not there anymore.

Adriana had lost that part of her life when she was only a child, and in a horrible way; soaked in blood and pain, right in front of her.

“Yes,” she said softly. “I suppose I can imagine it easily enough.”

“But did Adriana think it was Serafina who betrayed her father?” Pitt persisted. “She can’t have known until very recently. Revenge like that is not content to wait thirty years. Think back; was there a time when you could see a change in her? Did she speak of Serafina at all? Even a chance remark in passing, a change in attitude, a shock of any sort. She can hardly have learned something like that without it affecting her profoundly.”

They sat still for several moments. Pitt glanced at the fire and put more coal on it. There was no sound from the rest of the house.

Charlotte went over every meeting in her mind, and recalled nothing. “I’m sorry …” She meant it. She was torn in her affection for Adriana, but she wanted to help Pitt find the truth. “She didn’t speak of Serafina often, and she didn’t show any intense reaction to her at all, except pity. Honestly, Thomas, I don’t think she remembers Serafina as part of her father’s death.”

Pitt did not immediately reply.

“Are you certain she would remember any details about it, after this length of time, even if she knew them then?” she asked softly. “And if so, wouldn’t she have seen the fear in Serafina, the fact that she was helpless and slowly losing her mind, as a far better revenge than a quick way out, falling asleep painlessly in her own bed and never waking up?”

“Possibly,” Pitt admitted. “But I’m not Adriana.”

Charlotte thought for several moments, recalling every time she had seen Adriana: from the first meeting at the musical performance through the afternoons they had spent together, talking, laughing, each sharing with the other memories of things that had mattered to them. She did not believe Adriana could have murdered an old woman, whatever she might have been guilty of in the past.

She looked up at Pitt. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. I don’t believe it, but that’s because I like her, and I don’t want to believe it. But I know people who plan murder don’t wear it in their faces, before or after. If they did, we wouldn’t need detectives; we would all be able to solve crimes very easily.”

“I seem to remember that you were rather good at solving crimes,” he observed.

“Out of practice,” she replied ruefully. “I don’t want to spy on Adriana, but I’ll try.”

“Thank you.” He reached forward and held out his hand, palm open.

She placed her hand in his, and he closed it gently.

CHARLOTTE WAS IN THE kitchen a couple of hours later when the telephone rang in the hall. She went to answer it. Emily was put through.

“Charlotte?” Her voice was a little tentative. “How are you?”

It was unquestionably time to accept peace, even if she had no idea what had prompted it. Had Jack said something to her? She would not ask; it did not matter at all.

“I’m very well, if a little tired of the cold,” Charlotte replied. “How are you?”

“Oh … well. I went to the theater yesterday evening and saw a new play. It was very entertaining. I though perhaps we could go see it together … I think you might enjoy it … that is, if you and Thomas have time?” There was a note of uncertainty in her voice that was out of character for her.

“I’m sure we can make time,” Charlotte answered. “It is very good to take one’s mind from anxieties for a while. I imagine it will run for another few weeks, at the very least.”

“Oh …” The disappointment was sharp in Emily’s voice now. Clearly she had hoped they would meet sooner, and now she feared this was a rebuff. “Yes, I’m sure it will.”

The silence was heavy. How much could Charlotte say without breaking Thomas’s trust in her discretion?

“But even if Thomas cannot come at the moment, I would like to,” she said quickly. “It seems to be one of those plays worth seeing more than once. I can always take him to see it later.”

She heard Emily breathe in quickly. “Yes … yes, it is just that type of play.”

The bridge had been created. “Good,” she went on aloud. “Because Thomas is so busy at the moment, he is often away from home late into the evening. Thank goodness Minnie Maude is working out so well.”

“Don’t you miss Gracie?” Emily asked.

“Yes, of course. But I’m also happy for her.”

They talked for a few moments about trivial things: the latest word from Gracie in her new home, china she had bought and been proud to show Charlotte. None of the conversation mattered in the slightest, but as they spoke, Charlotte became more and more certain that Emily was afraid of something. Charlotte wanted to ask her outright, but their newfound peace was still far too delicate for that, so she ended the conversation cheerfully, with a silly story about a mutual acquaintance. She had Emily laughing before she replaced the receiver on its hook.

After dinner, when Daniel and Jemima had gone to bed, Charlotte told Pitt about the call.

“It was Emily who telephoned me earlier, while you were in your study,” she began. “She was very agreeable. We didn’t discuss our differences at all.

“She didn’t mention Jack,” she went on. “Not that she does always … but … Don’t look at me with that patient expression! I think she’s worried, even frightened. Thomas, does this thing you are investigating really have anything to do with Jack? Is he making some kind of mistake?”

“I don’t know,” he said quietly. “And I’m not being oblique. I just really don’t.”

“Would you tell me if you did?” she asked, uncertain what answer she wanted to hear.

He smiled. He knew her so very well. “No. Then you would feel guilty because you wouldn’t be able to warn Emily. Better she blame me.”

“Thomas …?”

“Charlotte, I don’t know,” he repeated. “I really don’t. Perhaps I am the one who is mistaken, and I’m not even sure what about. You can tell Emily we don’t know anything, and do it with a clear conscience.”

She made herself smile, and saw the relief in his eyes. They laughed together, but it was a little shaky. They were too much aware of what could not be said.