Dorchester Terrace

STOKER WAS PACING BACK and forth in Pitt’s office, his hands pushed hard into his pockets, his outdoor scarf still wound around his neck. The windowsill behind him was white with a dusting of snow, and flakes were drifting past, almost invisible against a flat, leaden sky.

“The street sweeper is Staum all right,” he said, stopping and facing Pitt. “I’ve seen a photograph of him now.”

“What happened to the previous sweeper?” Pitt asked.

“Took a vacation,” Stoker replied. “Came in and told the office he’d come into a little money from some relative who’d died, and he was going away for a while. Staum was the first person to apply for the job, and no one else showed up within a day or two, so they gave it to him. Don’t know what money changed hands.” He pulled his face into an expression of disgust. “Might not have taken much.” He winced. “On the other hand, I suppose, from what I know of Staum, he wouldn’t shrink from killing the man, if it was necessary.”

Pitt felt the heaviness settle inside him. “Then we can expect an attack in Dover itself. But I don’t dare take men away from the signals and points, just in case.” He slumped against his chair. “The dust cart was a brilliant idea. He can wheel the thing anywhere, and no one’ll be surprised, or suspicious. Wear dirty clothes, a cap, keep his face down, and he’s practically invisible.”

“Are we going to tell the local police?” Stoker asked.

“Not yet. Once they know, it’ll be public in hours. They won’t be able to hide it. Everyone’s behavior will be different. And a man of Staum’s skill will be watching for that. He’ll change plans.”

Stoker’s face tightened. A small muscle in his jaw flickered.

“I know,” Pitt said quietly. “And I still can’t find out anything more useful about Duke Alois. They say he has a nice, very dry sense of humor, and he’s very fond of music, especially the heavier sort of German stuff, Beethoven’s last works.”

“Doesn’t make any sense.” Stoker was unhappy. “We’ve missed something.”

“Perhaps that’s the point,” Pitt replied thoughtfully. “You can’t guard against what you can’t understand or foresee.”

“I want to arrest Staum, any reason at all, but I know we need to have him where we can see him in case he leads us to other conspirators,” Stoker said miserably, his voice edged with anger.

“Yes, we do,” Pitt agreed sharply, sitting up straight suddenly. “Watch him. He’s probably too clever to give anything away, but if he doesn’t know we’re onto him he may slip up, contact someone.”

“And then on the other hand, he may know very well that we’re watching him, and keep our attention from what’s really happening.” Stoker hunched his shoulders. “I want to get this man.”

Pitt smiled bleakly. “So do I, but it’s second place to getting Alois in and out of Britain safely.”

“Yes, sir.”

THIS TIME PITT WAS granted fifteen minutes with the prime minister without any difficulty. He did not waste any of it.

“Anything further?” Salisbury asked, standing with his back to the fire, his long face grave, his fluff of white hair standing on end.

“Yes, my lord,” Pitt replied. “We know who is in place in Dover, and along the railway line, but we don’t know where they intend to strike. Some of the men are definitely decoys.”

Salisbury sighed. “What a bloody mess. Anything good in it at all? Such as who is behind it, and why? Why Duke Alois, and why here in England?”

“The more I learn about Duke Alois the more I believe he is of no tactical value himself.”

Salisbury’s eyebrows rose but he smiled. “Really …” His expression gave nothing away, but the amusement in his eyes conveyed his opinion of minor royal dukes. Europe was teeming with distant relatives to Queen Victoria, and at one time or another he had had dealings with most of them. “So he would be an incidental victim,” he said.

“Yes, sir. Most anarchists’ victims are. One person’s blood is as good as another’s to protest with.”

“As long as it isn’t your own,” Salisbury added a little acidly.

“For some,” Pitt agreed. “For others that’s all part of it. Dying for the cause.”

“God Almighty! How do we fight madmen?”

“Carefully.” Pitt shrugged. “With knowledge, observation, and keeping in mind that they are mad, so don’t look for sanity in their intentions.”

“What do they actually want? Do you know?”

“I’m not sure that even they know what they want,” Pitt answered. “Except change. They all want change.”

“So they can be the ones with power, money, and privilege.” It was a conclusion rather than a question.

“Probably, yes. But they are not thinking things through. If they were, they’d know that sporadic assassinations have never achieved social change. If they kill Duke Alois they’ll make him out to be a martyr.”

“And they’ll make us out to be incompetent fools!” Salisbury said bitterly. “Which is probably what they are really after. Duke Alois is just the means to an end, poor devil.”

“Yes, sir. As they see it, to the greater good.”

“Stop them, Pitt. If they win, not just Britain but all civilized mankind is the loser. We can’t be held ransom to fear like this.”

Pitt decided to try one last time, though he was fairly certain what Salisbury would say.

“Are you sure there is no point in letting him know how serious the threat is, and asking him to come at another time?”

“Yes, I’m quite sure,” Salisbury replied.

Pitt drew in his breath to argue, but decided against it.

Salisbury looked at him wearily. “I’m sure because I have already tried. He insists he will be perfectly safe in your hands.”

“Yes, sir,” Pitt replied, his mind using many different and far less civil words.

Salisbury smiled. “Quite,” he said grimly.

CHARLOTTE WAS IN THE hall about to pick up the ringing telephone when she saw Minnie Maude come out of the cellar door and catch sight of her. Minnie Maude colored unhappily, brushed something off her arms, gave a brief smile, and turned away.

Charlotte ignored the telephone. Something was troubling the girl and it was time Charlotte learned what it was. She followed Minnie Maude into the kitchen. She was standing at the sink with a string of onions on the counter and a knife in her hand. She had cut into the first onion and the pungent scent already filled the air.

The table was completely cleared away, the dishes washed and dried and back on the dresser. An uneaten slice of toast had disappeared. Was that why Minnie Maude had been in the cellar, to eat it herself? Had she grown up in such poverty that food was still so treasured that she felt compelled to take scraps in secret?

“Minnie Maude,” Charlotte spoke gently.

Minnie Maude turned around. Her eyes were red, perhaps from the onion, but she looked afraid.

Charlotte felt a tug of pity, and of guilt. The girl was only four or five years older than Jemima, and would possibly spend the rest of her life as a servant in someone else’s home, with only one room she could call her own. And in their house she was the only resident servant, so there was not even anyone else to befriend. She knew she was replacing Gracie, who had been so beloved. The loneliness, the constant effort to be good enough, must be a heavy burden at times, and yet she had nowhere to go to escape it, except the cellar.

“Minnie Maude,” Charlotte said again, this time smiling, “I think it would be a good idea if you toasted some teacakes. I know we have some. Let’s have them hot-buttered, with a cup of tea. Perhaps in half an hour? You work hard. A break would be nice for both of us.”

Minnie Maude’s shoulders relaxed. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll toast ’em then.” Clearly she had been expecting Charlotte to say something else.

“Are you getting enough to eat, Minnie Maude?” Charlotte asked. “You may have as much as you wish, you know. If necessary, please cook more and help yourself. We have no need to restrain ourselves. Just don’t waste it.” She smiled. “We have had our difficult times in the past, and it is good not to forget them, but now there is more than enough for you to eat as you like.”

“I’m … I’m fine, ma’am.” Minnie Maude’s face colored pink with embarrassment, but she said nothing more. Very slowly, uncertain whether she had permission, she turned back to continue cutting the onions.

Charlotte knew she had not arrived at the truth. Perhaps the trips to the cellar had nothing to do with food; maybe Minnie Maude just wanted to be alone? That made no sense. The cellar was cold. Minnie Maude had a perfectly good bedroom upstairs, which was properly furnished and warm. The problem was something else. Temporarily defeated, she went back to the hall.

She was almost beside the telephone when it rang. She picked it off its hook and answered, and Adriana Blantyre was put through. Her voice was a little altered by the machine, but still perfectly recognizable with its huskiness, and very slight accent.

“How are you?” Adriana asked. “I am sorry to call you so hastily. This is all most improper, but there is an exhibition in a private gallery that I am very eager to see, and I thought you might enjoy it too. Have you ever heard of Heinrich Schliemann?”

“Of course!” Charlotte said quickly. “He discovered the ruins of Troy, through his love of Homer. He died a few years ago. Is something of his work on display?” It was not difficult to sound enthusiastic. It was the perfect opening for her to see Adriana again, and perhaps learn something of the evidence Pitt needed. She hoped fervently that she could help prove Adriana innocent.

“Yes,” Adriana replied instantly, excitement lifting her voice. “I only just heard of it. I’ve canceled my other engagements and I’m going. But it would be so much more fun if you were to come with me. Please don’t feel obliged … but if you can …”

“I can. We shall make a journey through time, and for a few hours today will disappear. Where shall we meet?”

“I shall come for you in my carriage in an hour. Is that too early?”

“No, not at all. I assure you, I have nothing more pressing to do, and anything else that arises can wait.”

“Then I shall see you in an hour. Good-bye.”

Charlotte replaced the receiver. She would tell Minnie Maude where she was going, and then change into the smartest morning dress she had and prepare to be charming, friendly, and intelligent, and—if she found out a difficult truth—betray her friend to Pitt.

She sat in front of her bedroom mirror but found it difficult to face her reflection. She despised what she was about to do, and yet she could see no alternative, except refusing to help Pitt, which wasn’t an alternative at all. Someone had murdered Serafina, lying frightened and alone in her bed, terrified of the darkness that was closing in on her mind, robbing her of everything she had been, betraying her in a way against which there was no defense.

All she could hope was that her discoveries would prove Adriana innocent, not guilty.

AS SOON AS THEY entered the doors of the exhibition, the past seemed to close in around them and whisk them away. The whole display was as much about Schliemann himself as the objects he had discovered. He had died in Naples, the day after Christmas in 1890, but his energy and the power of his dreams filled the gallery. A large portrait of him hung at the entrance: a balding man with spectacles, wearing a neat formal suit with a high-buttoned waistcoat. He looked to be in his late fifties or early sixties.

“That’s not how I imagined him,” Adriana said with a little shrug. “He should be fierce and magnificent, a man who would not have been out of place at the time when Troy still lived.”

Charlotte smiled. “Just don’t let us find out that Helen of Troy was really quite plain. I couldn’t bear it.”

Adriana laughed. “They burned the topless towers of Ilium for her, so the poets tell us.” Her eye caught another portrait on the wall a few yards away. It showed a dark-haired woman, quite young, wearing a gorgeous headdress with long, trailing pieces at the ears, and also a heavy necklace comprised of fifteen or more strands of gold.

Charlotte walked over to it, Adriana immediately behind her.

“She’s rather beautiful,” Charlotte said, regarding her closely. She read the inscription below: “Sophie Schliemann, wearing the treasures discovered at Hisarlik, said to be the jewels of Helen of Troy.” She turned to Adriana. “I wonder what Helen was really like. I can’t imagine anyone being so beautiful that a whole city and all its people were ruined because of it. Not to mention the eleven-year war, and all the death and despair it brought. Is any love worth that?”

“No,” Adriana said without hesitation. “But I have often wondered about the connection between love and beauty. To marry a woman because of the way she looks, when you do not care about who she is inside that shell, is no more than acquiring a work of art for the pleasure it gives you to look at it, or to exhibit it to others. If she is not a companion to you, one with whom you share your dreams, your laughter and pain, is that not like buying food you cannot eat?”

Adriana’s face was quite calm, the skin unblemished across its perfect bones, her eyes fathomless.

Charlotte was left speechless; such a life would be terribly empty. Was that how Blantyre felt about Adriana: that she was a fragile, exquisite possession? What would he feel when the first lines appeared, when the bloom faded from her cheeks, when her hair thinned and turned gray, when she no longer moved with such grace?

Charlotte had always secretly wanted to be beautiful: not merely handsome, as she was, but possessed of the kind of beauty that dazzles, the kind Aunt Vespasia had had. Now she was almost dizzy with gratitude that she looked as she did; Pitt was not only her husband, he was also the dearest, most intimate friend she had ever had, closer than Emily, or anyone else.

Collecting herself, she replied, “Poor Helen. Do you suppose that is all it was: a squabble over possessions that a whole nation paid for?”

“No,” Adriana shook her head. “The classical Greek idea of beauty was as much about the mind as the face. She must have been wise and honest and brave as well.”

“And gentle?” Charlotte continued. “Do you think that she had a wild and vivid sense of humor as well? And that she was quick to forgive, and generous of spirit?”

Adriana laughed. “Yes! And no wonder they burned Troy for her! I’m surprised it wasn’t the whole of Asia Minor! Let’s look at the rest of this.” She touched Charlotte’s arm and they moved forward together, marveling at the ornaments, the golden masks, the photographs of the ruins, the walls that must once have kept out the armies of Agamemnon and the heroes of legend.

“How much of it do you think is true?” Charlotte said after several minutes of silence. She must not waste this opportunity to try to learn some information that could help Thomas. “Do you think they felt all the same things we do: envy, fear, the hunger for revenge for wrongs we can’t forget?”

Adriana turned from the photographs she was looking at and faced her. “Of course. Don’t you?” A flicker of fear crossed her face. “Those things never change.”

Charlotte racked her brain for something relevant that could continue the conversation. “Agamemnon killed his daughter, didn’t he? A sacrifice to the gods to make the winds turn in his favor and carry his armies to Troy. And when he came home again eleven years later, his wife killed him for it.”

“Yes,” Adriana agreed. “I can understand that. Mind, she had married his brother in the meantime, so there were a lot of different emotions there. And then her son killed her, and on and on. It was a pretty nasty mess.”

“Revenge often is,” Charlotte said with a sudden change of tone, as if they were speaking of something present.

Adriana looked at her curiously. “You say that as if they were people you knew.”

“Aren’t all good stories really about people we know?”

Adriana thought for a moment. “I suppose they are.” She gave a sudden, brilliant smile. “I knew coming here with you would be more fun than with anyone else! Can you spare time to have luncheon as well? There is a most excellent place near here where the chef is Croatian. I would like you to taste a little of the food from my country. It is not so very different. You will not find it too strong, or too heavy.”

“I would be delighted,” Charlotte said sincerely. “I know so very little about Croatia. I wish you would tell me more …”

“That is a dangerous request,” Adriana said happily. “You may wish you had never asked. Stop me when it gets dark and you have to go home.”

Charlotte felt the guilt well up inside her, but it was too late to turn back. “I will,” she promised. “Now let us see the end of what Mr. Schliemann found in Troy and Mycenae.”

“Did you know he spoke thirteen different languages?” Adriana asked. “He wrote in his diary in the language of whatever country he was in. English, French, Dutch, Spanish, Portuguese, Swedish, Italian, Greek, Latin, Russian, Arabic, and Turkish. And German, of course. He was German.” Her face was animated with excitement and admiration.

“He actually wrote a paper on Troy in Ancient Greek,” she went on. “He was an extraordinary man. He made and spent at least two fortunes. He named his children Andromache and Agamemnon. He allowed them to be baptized, but placed a copy of The Iliad on their heads at the time, and recited a hundred hexameters of it. Wouldn’t life be so much emptier without the world’s eccentrics?” She was laughing as she said it, but there was a ring of passion in her voice and a vividness in her face that lent her the sort of beauty that made others in the room turn to look at her, as if she might, for an instant, have been Helen herself.

Charlotte thought back to the intensity of the emotion she had seen in Blantyre’s face when he looked at Adriana: the protection, the pride, something that could have been lingering amazement that she should have chosen him, when she had had perhaps a dozen suitors, a score. How much did her beauty matter to him? Would he still have loved her had she been ordinary to look at? How much was her vulnerability, and his need to protect her, a part of his feelings for her?

Charlotte knew she had to learn more about Croatia, about the past there, about Adriana’s father’s death, and above all about Serafina Montserrat.

They finished the tour of the exhibit and Adriana’s carriage took them to luncheon at the restaurant she had spoken of. She was eager to share everything about her country and the culture with which she had grown up.

“You’ll enjoy this,” she said as each new dish was brought. “I used to like this when I was a child. My grandmother showed me how it was made. And this was always one of my favorites. It is mostly rice with tiny little shellfish, and very delicate herbs. The art is in cooking it to just the right tenderness, and being careful with the seasoning. Too strong and it is horrible.”

“Do the Croatians eat a lot of fish?” Charlotte asked.

“Yes. I don’t know why, except that it’s easy to cook, and not very expensive.”

“And like us, you have a long coastline,” Charlotte added.

Adriana gazed at some vision inside her own mind. “Ah.” She let out a sigh. “Beautiful as England is, you’ve never seen a shore like ours. The air is warm, and the sky seems so high, with tiny drifting clouds in wonderful shapes, delicate, like feathers, and bright. The sand is pale, no shingle, and the water is colors you wouldn’t believe.”

Charlotte tried to see it in her mind. She pictured blue water bright in the sun, warmth that seeped through the skin to the bones. She found that she was smiling.

“Croatia is very old,” Adriana went on. “Not older than England, of course. We became part of the Roman Empire in AD 9, and we had Greek colonies before that. In AD 305 the Roman emperor Diocletian built a palace in Split. The very last emperor, Julius Nepos, ruled from there, until he was killed in AD 408. You see, we too have great Roman ruins.” She said it with pride.

“Our first king, Tomislav, was crowned in AD 925.” She stopped and pulled her face into an expression of resignation. “In 1102 we entered a union with Hungary; that would be after you were conquered by William of Normandy. Then in 1526 we chose a Habsburg king, and I suppose that was the beginning of the end. At least that is what my father used to say.” Pain laced through her voice, and was apparent in her eyes. She looked down quickly. “That was about the time of your Queen Elizabeth, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, yes, it was,” Charlotte said quickly, struggling to remember. Elizabeth had died around 1600, so it must be close. She felt brutal, but she had no better chance than this. She might betray Adriana’s guilt, but on the other hand, she might prove her innocence. That would be infinitely worth all her efforts and discomfort.

The second course was a white fish baked in vine leaves with vegetables Charlotte was unfamiliar with. She tried them, tentatively at first, then, aware that Adriana was watching her, with more relish. Their time was slipping away. She must introduce the subject of Serafina; how could she do it without being appallingly clumsy?

“I wish I could travel,” she said, not knowing where that subject might lead. “You must miss your home. I mean the one where you grew up.”

Adriana smiled with an edge of sadness. “Sometimes,” she admitted.

“Do you know other people who have lived there, beside Mr. Blantyre, of course?”

“Not many, I’m afraid. Perhaps I should seek a little harder, but it seems so … forced.”

Charlotte took a deep breath. “Did you know Mrs. Montserrat, who died recently? She lived in Croatia once, I believe.”

Adriana looked surprised. “Did you know her? You never mentioned it before.” Her voice dropped. “Poor Serafina. That was a terrible way to die.”

Charlotte struggled to keep from contradicting herself and letting too much of the truth into her questions.

“Was it?” She affected ignorance. “I know very little. I’m sorry if I gave the impression that I knew her myself. She was a great friend of my aunt Vespasia—Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould.”

“Lady Vespasia is your aunt?” Adriana asked with delight.

“Actually she is my sister’s great-aunt, by marriage to her first husband. But we hold her in higher regard and affection than any other relative we have.”

“So would I,” Adriana agreed. “She is quite marvelous.”

Charlotte could not afford to let the conversation slide away from Serafina. “I’m so sorry about Mrs. Montserrat. Aunt Vespasia said she died quite peacefully. At least I thought that was what she said. Was I not listening properly? Or was she …? No, Aunt Vespasia would never circle around the truth to make it meaningless.”

Adriana looked down at the table. “No. She wouldn’t. She was a fighter for freedom too, I believe.”

“Like Mrs. Montserrat,” Charlotte agreed. “They knew each other long ago. Aunt Vespasia said Mrs. Montserrat was very brave—and outspoken in her beliefs.”

Adriana smiled. “Yes, she was. I remember her laughter. And her singing. She had a lovely voice.” She struggled for a moment, trying to catch her breath and steady her voice before going on. “My father used to say she was the bravest of them all. Sometimes she succeeded just because no one expected a woman to ride all night through the forest, and then be able to think clearly by daylight, and even hold a gun steady and shoot. He said …” Tears filled her eyes and ran down her cheeks. Blindly she fumbled in her bag for a handkerchief, finally finding it and blowing her nose gently.

“There is no need to apologize,” Charlotte assured her. “The loss of your father must have been terrible, and I know that you still miss him very much. Did you say that Serafina was there, when he died?”

Adriana was surprised. “Yes. I … I must have. I don’t talk about it because it always makes me lose my composure. I apologize. This is ridiculous. Everyone must be looking at me.”

“Lots of people were looking at you anyway,” Charlotte responded with a smile. “Men look at beautiful women with pleasure, women with envy, and if they are stylish as well, to see what they might copy. Or to see if they can find a flaw, if they are particularly catty.”

“Then I will have satisfied them,” Adriana said wryly.

“Nonsense. There is nothing wrong with a tender heart,” Charlotte assured her. She was losing her grip on the conversation. “Did Mrs. Montserrat talk to you about your father? That must have been sweet as well as painful for you, to have someone to remember with, who could tell you stories of his courage, or just the little things he liked and disliked.”

Adriana’s eyes softened. “Yes. She told me about his love of history, and how he could tell all the old tales of the medieval heroes: Porga who went to the Byzantine emperor Heraclius, and had the Pope send Christian missionaries to the Croatian Provinces in AD 640. And Duke Branimir, and on and on. Serafina knew all their names, and what they did, even though she was Italian. She enabled me to recall the stories he told me, when I had only bits of them in my mind.”

Charlotte tried to imagine Adriana sitting beside Serafina’s bed, waiting patiently as the old woman salvaged fragments from her wandering mind and pieced them together, bringing back for a brief moment the presence of her beloved father.

Did she remember that she had seen him beaten, covered in his own blood, and then forced to his knees and shot in the back of the head? The sight of faces distorted with rage, the gleam of light on gun barrels, the cries of terror and pain, then the stillness and the smell of gun smoke; and then Serafina coming, grasping her, holding her, hurrying her away, perhaps on horseback, on the saddle in front of her as she rode like a wild thing to escape, to protect the child Adriana.

Looking at her now, so exquisitely dressed, her skin paper white, Charlotte could see that the demons were still in her eyes. If Serafina had let something slip, been careless in even a couple of words, had she led Adriana to believe that it was she who had betrayed Lazar Dragovic?

Or had she given the name of someone else who had?

“I’m so sorry she’s gone,” she said to Adriana. “But Aunt Vespasia told me it was peaceful. As if she had taken much laudanum, and simply gone to sleep.” Was that enough? It was a lie, of course. It was Pitt who had told her, but it was unimportant.

Adriana stared at her. “Would a double dose of laudanum kill you?”

Charlotte hesitated. What should she say? Should she evade the truth, or tell it, and see how Adriana reacted? She had to know. Pitt’s case might rest on it.

“No,” she answered levelly. “I believe it takes far more than that, several times a single dose.”

Everyone else in the restaurant seemed as if they were moving in slow motion as Adriana stared at Charlotte. She started to speak but her mouth was so dry her voice faltered. She tried again. “Several times?”

Charlotte nodded. “Apparently.”

“Then …” Adriana did not finish the sentence, but it was not necessary. They both knew what the end was.

“I’m sorry,” Charlotte said softly. “Perhaps I should not have told you. Would a lie, or at least an evasion, have been better?”

“No.” Adriana sat motionless for a few more moments. “I’m sorry, I can’t eat any more. I think I need to go home. Do you know who gave it to her? Was it Nerissa Freemarsh, do you think? Serafina was so distressed by her failing memory … her mind …” She did not complete the train of thought.

“I don’t know,” Charlotte said honestly. “It might be considered an act of mercy by some, but the law would regard it as murder, all the same.”

“Perhaps she took it herself?” Adriana said desperately.

Charlotte knew that was not possible. Care had been taken to prevent that, but perhaps this was not the time to say so.

“Perhaps,” she agreed. “She was terribly afraid of being indiscreet and letting slip old secrets that might cause harm to someone who is still alive and vulnerable. I have no idea who that could be, or indeed if there even is such a person. Do you know?”

“No … she said nothing about anyone to me. I can’t think of a person …” Adriana spoke hesitantly, as if she was raking her memory for anything Serafina might have said.

“No one at all?” Charlotte pressed. Was she being deliberately and pointlessly cruel?

“Well, Serafina knew Lord Tregarron,” Adriana said tentatively. “Quite well, it seemed, from the way she spoke of it.”

Charlotte was puzzled. There had been the faintest flicker of amusement in Adriana’s eyes, gone again the next instant. Tregarron was at least twenty-five years younger than Serafina, if not more. Thirty-five years ago that might have mattered less, but then he would have been very young, no more than a boy, and she in her late thirties. That was ridiculous. Adriana must be mistaken.

“Could it have been someone else, whose name sounded like his?” she suggested. “Someone Austrian, or Hungarian, for example?”

“No, it was Tregarron,” Adriana insisted. “He visited her at Dorchester Terrace.”

“Then she could not have known him far in the past.”

“No. I must have misunderstood that.” Adriana looked at Charlotte’s plate and the unfinished dessert.

“Oh, I’ve had sufficient,” Charlotte said quickly. “Let us go. It was a delicious meal. I shall have to eat Croatian food again. I had no idea it was so very good. Thank you for all you’ve shown me, and for the pleasure of your company.”

Adriana smiled, her composure almost returned. “Didn’t your Lord Byron say that happiness was born a twin? Pleasures tasted alone lose half their savor. Let us go and find the carriage.”

CHARLOTTE ARRIVED HOME IN the middle of the afternoon, a trifle earlier than she had expected. She had much more information to give Pitt but no conclusions, other than the growing certainty in her own mind that Serafina had known who had betrayed Lazar Dragovic, but for some reason had never spoken of it to anyone. Was that the secret she had been so afraid of letting slip? It made sense. At least to Adriana Dragovic, it still mattered passionately, and Serafina had always tried to protect Adriana, whether out of love for Lazar, or simply human decency. She would have known what that knowledge would do to Adriana.

Charlotte walked down the hall to the kitchen. It was too early for Daniel and Jemima to be home from school, but she was surprised to find the kitchen empty. Minnie Maude was not in the scullery either, nor was she in the dining room or the parlor. Could she be out shopping? Most of the household goods they required were delivered, and those that needed to be bought in person were bought in the morning.

Charlotte went up the stairs and looked for Minnie Maude without finding her. Now she was worried. She even looked in the back garden to see if she could have tripped and been hurt. She knew even as she did it that the thought was absurd. Unless Minnie was unconscious, she would have made her way back into the house, even if she had been injured.

She must be in the cellar; it was the only place left. But Charlotte had been home a quarter of an hour! Why on earth would Minnie Maude be in the cellar for that length of time? There was nothing down there that could take so long to collect, and it would be perishing cold.

She opened the door. The light was on—she could see its dim glow from the top step. Had Minnie Maude slipped and fallen here? She went down quickly now, holding on to the handrail. Minnie Maude was sitting on a cushion in the corner, a blanket wrapped around her, and in her arms was a small, dirty, and extremely scruffy little dog, with a red ribbon around its neck.

Minnie Maude and the puppy both looked up at her with wide, frightened eyes.

Charlotte took a deep breath.

“For goodness’ sake, bring it upstairs into the kitchen,” she said, trying to keep the overwhelming emotion inside her under some kind of control. Relief, pity, a drowning comprehension of Minnie Maude’s loneliness, and all the conflicting feelings for Adriana, and for Serafina, everything to do with need and loss churned in her mind. “And wash it!” she went on. “It’s filthy! I suppose one can’t expect it not to be, living in the coal cellar.”

Minnie Maude climbed to her feet slowly, still holding the dog.

“You’d better give it some dinner,” Charlotte added. “Something warm. It’s very young, by the look of it.”

“Are you going to put it out?” Minnie Maude’s face was white with fear, and she held the animal so tightly it started squirming around.

“I daresay the cats won’t like it,” Charlotte replied obliquely. “But they’ll just have to get used to it. We’ll find it a basket. Wash it in the scullery sink, or you’ll have coal dust all over the place.”

Minnie Maude took a long, shuddering breath, and her face filled with hope.

Charlotte turned away to go up the stairs. She did not want Minnie Maude to think she could get away with absolutely anything. “Does it have a name?” she asked huskily.

“Uffie,” Minnie Maude said. “But you can change it if you want to.”

“Uffie seems perfectly good to me,” Charlotte replied. “Bring her, or is it him, upstairs, and don’t put her down until you get to the scullery, or you’ll spend the rest of the day getting coal dust out of the carpets, and we’ll all have no dinner.”

“I’ll carry ’er ter the kitchen,” Minnie Maude promised fervently. “An’ I’ll see she don’t make a mess anywhere, I promise. She’s ever so good.”

She won’t be, Charlotte thought, not when she’s warm enough and properly fed, and realizes she can stay. But maybe that is better. “She’s your responsibility,” she warned as she held the cellar door open. Minnie Maude walked through into the hall, still holding the dog close to her, her face shining with happiness.

WHEN PITT RETURNED HOME, late and tired, Charlotte told him very briefly about the dog, not as a question, but simply so he would not be surprised when he found the little animal in the scullery. Daniel and Jemima had both fallen instantly in love with it, so no further decision could really be made.

In the evening, alone with the parlor fire dying down and the embers settling in the hearth, Charlotte told Pitt what she had learned from Adriana.

“Are you sure she said Tregarron?” he asked, sitting a little forward in his chair.

“Yes. But of course I’m not sure that is what Serafina said, or if it was, that it was who she actually meant. But I believe that Serafina knew who betrayed Lazar Dragovic, and that, whether she meant to tell her or not, somehow Adriana realized who it was too.”

“Well, it couldn’t have been Tregarron,” Pitt said reasonably. “He was too young to have been involved at all, and was here in England at boarding school anyway. He would have been about fourteen at the time. And why would Adriana have killed Serafina, even if Serafina did tell her? Who would she be protecting? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Yes, it does.” Charlotte spoke so quickly her voice was almost lost in the crackle from the fire as another log fell apart in a shower of sparks. “It makes sense if it was Serafina herself who betrayed Dragovic.”

“Serafina?” He was startled. “But she was on the same side as him. And she rescued Adriana. My sources say she and Dragovic were lovers, at least for a while.”

“Thomas, don’t be so naive,” Charlotte said. “The most passionate lovers also make the bitterest enemies, at times. And who knows now, or even then, if they were really lovers? Perhaps either one of them was only using the other?”

He started to argue. “But they were both fighting for the same …” He trailed off.

“Balkan politics are not so simple,” she said. “At least that is what I hear, from those who know. And love affairs hardly ever are.”

He smiled with a flicker of ironic humor. “At least that is what you hear from those who know?”

She blushed very slightly. “Yes.”

“Do you think Adriana believed that Serafina betrayed her father?” he asked, all humor vanished.

“I think it’s more likely than Nerissa Freemarsh murdering her aunt out of frustration, because she didn’t die quickly enough,” she said quietly.

“And Tregarron?” he asked. “What was he doing at Dorchester Terrace?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Perhaps trying to make sure that Serafina didn’t tell any more secrets in her confused state. Ones we don’t even know about. They would be old, but perhaps still embarrassing. He’s responsible for a lot of the British relations with the Austrian Empire, and the countries around its borders. Maybe Poland, Ukraine, or the Ottoman Empire? Even if the people concerned are dead, or out of office, the matters might still be better left alone.”

“But who could she tell?” he asked thoughtfully. “Not many people came to see her.”

“Would he leave that to chance? Would you?”

“No.” He sighed and leaned back again. “Tomorrow I had better go and speak to Nerissa Freemarsh, and to Tucker again. I don’t think it can have anything to do with … present cases … but I need to be certain. Thank you.”

“For what?” She was puzzled by his gratitude.

“For questioning Adriana,” he explained. “I know you didn’t wish to.”

“Oh. No. Thomas, you don’t mind about Uffie, do you?”

“Who?”

“The dog.”

He laughed quietly. “No, of course I don’t.”

IN THE MORNING Pitt went to see Narraway and told him about Charlotte’s conversation with Adriana Blantyre, and the conclusions he was forced to draw from it.

“I was hoping the answer would be different,” Narraway said quietly. “I was sure it had to do with this wretched Duke Alois threat, but it seems the timing is coincidental after all. I’m sorry. What are you going to do?”

“Go back to Dorchester Terrace and check on the exact amount of laudanum that was in the house,” Pitt replied. “And whether anyone from the outside ever had access to it.”

“You think Adriana learned the truth from Serafina, went away and thought about it, then came back with laudanum? That’s cold-blooded.”

“If Serafina betrayed her father to his death, perhaps. I hope to be wrong.”

Narraway spread his hands in a small, rueful gesture. He said nothing, for which Pitt was grateful.

AT DORCHESTER TERRACE he spoke first with Tucker and then with Nerissa Freemarsh. He checked on the laudanum, as he had told Narraway he would. The conclusion was inescapable: Whoever had given her the extra dosage had brought it with them. Killing her had been carefully planned.

Tucker had nothing new to add; yes, Mrs. Blantyre had called several times, bringing flowers and once a box of candied fruit. She was always kind. Yes, she had seemed distressed the last time she had called, on the evening of Mrs. Montserrat’s death. Pale-faced, Tucker noted that Adriana had spent some time alone with Mrs. Montserrat in the bedroom. It had seemed to be what Mrs. Montserrat had wanted.

With Nerissa, it was a different matter. She was tense as she came into the housekeeper’s sitting room, and closed the door behind her with a sharp snap. She was still in black, but today she had several rows of very fine jet beads around her neck, and excellent-quality jet earrings, which added a fashionable touch to her appearance.

“I don’t know what else I can tell you, Mr. Pitt,” she said with a certain briskness. Being mistress of the house at last gave her a new air of confidence. The slightly nervous demeanor was gone. She stood straighter and somehow she looked taller. Perhaps she had new boots with a higher heel. Under the swirl of her black bombazine skirt it was not possible to tell. But there was unquestionably a touch of color on her skin.

Pitt had decided to be totally open.

“Did Lord Tregarron visit here often?” he asked.

“Lord Tregarron?” she repeated.

She was playing for time. It was a question she had not expected, and she needed to think what to say.

“Is that something you find difficult to answer, Miss Freemarsh?” He met her eyes challengingly. “Why would that be? Surely he did not ask anyone to keep that fact hidden?”

Now there was an angry flush on her cheeks. “Of course not! That is absurd. I was trying to recollect how often he did come.”

“And have you succeeded?”

“He came to visit my aunt because he had heard she was ill, and he knew how much she had done for England in her youth, particularly with regard to the Austrian Empire, and our relationship with Vienna.”

“How very generous of him,” Pitt said with only the slightest asperity in his voice. “Since, as far as I can learn, Mrs. Montserrat was passionately on the side of the rebels, against the Habsburg throne. Was that not so? Or was she a spy for Austria perhaps, planted there to betray the freedom fighters?”

Now Nerissa was really angry. “That is a dreadful thing to say! And completely irresponsible. But—” Suddenly she stopped as if a new and terrible thought had filled her mind. “I … I had not even …” She blinked. “I don’t know, Mr. Pitt. She always said …” Again she stopped. “Now I don’t know. Perhaps that was what it was all about. It would explain Mrs. Blantyre …” Her hand had flown to her mouth as if to stop herself from crying out. Now it fell to her side again. “I think perhaps I had better say no more. I would not wish to be unjust to anyone.”

He felt cold, as if the fire had suddenly died, though it was burning so hot and red in the hearth that the whole chimney breast was warm.

“Mrs. Blantyre visited your aunt quite often, including the evening she died.” His voice sounded hollow.

“Yes … but … yes, she did.”

“Alone?”

“Yes. Mr. Blantyre remained downstairs. He thought it would be less strain on Mrs. Montserrat. She did not find it easy to speak to several people at a time. And sometimes she and Adriana would converse in Italian, which he does not speak—at least not fluently.”

“I see. Does he speak Croatian?”

“I have no idea.” Her face was very pale. She sat rigidly, as if her bodice was suddenly constrictingly tight. “Perhaps. He speaks German, I know. He spent quite a lot of time in Vienna.”

“I see. Thank you.” He was left with no choice. He must go and question Adriana Blantyre. There was nothing to be gained by delaying it, not that he wished to. If he went now, Blantyre himself might still be at home. That would make it more difficult, more embarrassing and emotionally wrenching, but it was the right way to do it.

He thanked Nerissa again and left Dorchester Terrace to walk the short distance to Blantyre’s house.

He was admitted by the butler, and Blantyre himself met him in the hall.

“Has something happened?” he asked, searching Pitt’s face. “Some word about Duke Alois?”

“No. It concerns Serafina Montserrat’s death.”

“Oh?” Blantyre looked tired, and his face was deeply lined. He waved the butler away and the man disappeared obediently, leaving them standing alone in the middle of the beautiful hall. “Have you learned something further?”

“I am not certain, but it begins to look like it,” Pitt replied. It was the worst part of his position as head of Special Branch, and he could pass the responsibility to no one else; Blantyre had been more than a friend; he had gone out of his way, even taken professional risks, to help Pitt learn the reality of the threat to Duke Alois and to persuade the prime minister to take the issue seriously. It made this investigation acutely painful, but it did not relieve him of the necessity of pursuing it.

Blantyre frowned. When he spoke his voice was level and perfectly under control. “There’s something I can do? I know nothing about her death at all. Until you told me otherwise, I assumed it was natural. Then when you mentioned the laudanum, I thought perhaps she had dreaded the loss of her mind to the point where suicide had seemed preferable. Is that not the case?”

“Is it possible that Serafina was working for the Austrian monarchy all the time, and that it was she who betrayed Lazar Dragovic to his death?” Pitt asked.

“Dear God!” Blantyre gasped and swayed a little on his feet. Then he turned and strode across the floor to the foot of the stairs. He grasped the banister, hesitated a moment, then started up.

Pitt followed after him, seized by a shadow of fear, but with no idea why he was afraid.

Blantyre increased his speed, taking the steps two at a time. He reached the landing and went to the second door. He knocked, then stood with his hand still raised. He turned to Pitt a couple of yards behind him. There was a terrible silence.

Blantyre lowered his hand and turned the knob. He pushed the door open and walked into the room.

The curtains were still closed but there was sufficient daylight filtering through them to find their way across to the big bed, and to see Adriana’s black hair fanned across the pillow.

“Adriana!” Blantyre choked on the word.

Pitt waited, his heart pounding.

“Adriana!” Blantyre cried out loudly. He lurched forward and grasped her arm where it lay on the coverlet. She did not move.

Pitt looked and saw the empty glass on the bedside table, and the small piece of folded paper, such as holds a medicinal powder. He would not need to taste it to know what it was.

He walked silently over to Blantyre and put his hand on his shoulder.

Blantyre buckled at the knees and collapsed onto the floor, his body racked with pain, his sobs hollow, making barely a sound.