Dorchester Terrace

PITT WAS IN HIS office, looking yet again through the plans for Duke Alois’s visit, when Stoker knocked on the door.

Pitt looked up as he came in.

Stoker’s expression was anxious, and he was clearly uncomfortable.

“Mr. Blantyre’s here, sir. He looks pretty bad, like he hasn’t eaten or slept for a while, but he wants to see you. Sorry, but I couldn’t put him off. I think it’s about Staum.”

“Ask him in,” Pitt replied. There was no way to avoid it. Assassins do not stop for private grief; it might solve at least part of the problem if Staum was connected to Adriana, but there was nothing to suggest it. Adriana had killed Serafina in revenge for her father, and then apparently in remorse or despair, taken her own life. There was no reason to think she had even heard of Duke Alois, who would have been a child, even younger than herself, at the time of the uprising and the betrayal.

“Fetch brandy and a couple of glasses,” he added, then, seeing the look on Stoker’s face, “I know it’s early, but he may well have been awake all night. It’s civil to make the offer. Poor man.”

“I don’t know how he can bear it,” Stoker said grimly. “Wife killing an old lady who was dying anyway, then taking her own life. Mind, he looks as if he’d be better off dead himself, right now.”

“Ask him in, and don’t be long with the brandy,” Pitt told him.

“Yes, sir.”

Blantyre came in a moment later. He looked like a man stumbling blindly through a nightmare.

Pitt stood to greet him. It was impossible to know what to say. Pitt remembered Charlotte’s grief when he had told her about Adriana; she had been stunned, as if his words had made no sense to her. Then as understanding filled her, followed by horror at the torment she imagined Adriana must’ve been feeling, she had wept in Pitt’s arms for what seemed like a long time. Even when they had finally gone to bed, she had cried in the dark. When he touched her, her face had been wet with tears.

She and Adriana had been friends for only a few weeks. What Blantyre must be feeling was a devastation imaginable only to those who had experienced it.

Blantyre eased himself into the chair like an old man with brittle bones. Stoker came in almost on his heels with the brandy, and Blantyre accepted it. He held the glass in both hands as if to warm the bowl and send the aroma up, but his fingers were bloodless and shaking.

“Stoker said you had some news,” Pitt prompted him after a few moments of silence.

Blantyre looked up. “Staum is no longer alone in Dover,” he said quietly. “There is another man called Reibnitz there. Elegant, ineffectual-looking fellow, very tidy, humorless. He looks like an accountant, and you half expect his fingers to be stained with ink. Until he speaks; then he sounds like a gentleman, and you take him for some third son from a decent family, the sort in England who would go into the Church, for the lack of something better to do.”

“Reibnitz,” Pitt repeated.

Blantyre’s face tightened. “Johann Reibnitz, so ordinary as to be almost invisible. Average height, slender build, light brown hair, gray eyes, pale complexion. Could be any one of a million men in Austria or any of the rest of Europe. Speaks English without an accent.”

“Nothing to distinguish him?” Pitt asked with growing alarm.

“Nothing at all. No moles, no scars, no limp or twitch or stutter. As I said, an invisible man.” There was no expression in Blantyre’s eyes; he spoke mechanically.

“So Staum might be a decoy, as we feared?” Pitt said.

“I think so. He would be, if I were planning it.”

“How do you know this?”

The ghost of a smile crossed Blantyre’s face but vanished so completely Pitt wasn’t sure he had actually seen it. “I still have contacts in Vienna. Reibnitz has killed several times before. They know, but they cannot prove it.”

It was Pitt’s turn to smile. “And you expect me to believe that a lack of proof prevents them from removing him? Is Vienna so … squeamish?”

Blantyre sighed. “Of course not. You are quite right. They use him also, as it suits them. He was one of their own originally. They believe that he has gone rogue.” He looked at Pitt with sudden intensity, as if something alive had stirred within him again. “Would you order one of your own shot, simply because you believed he had become unreliable? Would you not want him tried, given a chance to defend himself? How could you be sure the evidence was good? Should he not face his accuser? And would you detail one of your men to do it? Or would you feel that as head of the service, it was your burden to bear?”

Pitt was startled. It was a question he had avoided asking himself since the O’Neil affair. It was one thing to defend yourself in the heat of the moment; it was very different to order an execution, a judicial murder, in cold blood.

Blantyre sipped his brandy. “You are a detective, a brilliant one.” There was sincerity in his voice, even admiration. “You uncover truths most men would never find. You make certain. You weigh evidence, you refine your understanding until you have as much of the whole picture as anyone ever will. You have intense emotions. You empathize with pain; injustice outrages you. But you hardly ever lose your self-control.” He made a slight gesture with his strong, graceful hands. “You think before you act. These are the qualities that make you a great leader in the service of your country. Perhaps one day you will even be better than Victor Narraway, because you know people better.”

Pitt stared at him, embarrassed. He understood that there was a “but” coming and he did not want to hear it.

Blantyre twisted his mouth in a grimace. “But could you execute one of your men, without trial?”

“I don’t know,” Pitt admitted. It was difficult to say. The expression on Blantyre’s face gave him no indication as to whether he respected Pitt’s answer, or despised it.

“I know you don’t.” Blantyre relaxed at last. “Perhaps your counterpart in Vienna hasn’t decided yet either. Or perhaps Reibnitz is a double agent, working for the head of the Austrian Secret Service, and betraying his other masters to them, as the occasion arises.”

“Well, if he attempts to murder Duke Alois, perhaps we can relieve them of the decision,” Pitt said grimly. “Is there anything more you can tell me about Reibnitz? Where he has been seen? Habits, dress, any way we can recognize him? Anything known of his likes and dislikes? Any associates?”

“Of course. I have written down everything known.” Blantyre pulled a folded piece of paper from his inside pocket and handed it to Pitt. “The name of my informant is there separately. I would be obliged if you would note it somewhere absolutely safe, and show it to no one else, except possibly Stoker. I know you trust him.”

Pitt took it. “Thank you,” he said sincerely. “Duke Alois will owe you his life, and we will all owe you for saving us from a national embarrassment, which could have cost us very dearly indeed.”

Blantyre finished his brandy. “Thank you.” He put the glass down on the desk and stood up. He hesitated a moment as if to say something more, then changed his mind and walked unsteadily to the door.

As soon as he was gone, Pitt sent for Stoker and told him all that Blantyre had said, including the name of the informant regarding Reibnitz. It took them the rest of that day to follow it up, but every fact that Blantyre had offered was verifiable, and proved to be true.

Leaving Stoker and the others under his command to check and double check all the arrangements from the moment the ferry landed in Dover, Pitt went to see Narraway.

It was the middle of the afternoon with rain sweeping in from the west. Pitt was soaked, and put his hat, gloves, and scarf on the leather-padded brass railing in front of the fire.

Narraway put more coal and wood on the embers and settled in his chair, gazing at Pitt.

“You are certain about Reibnitz?” he asked gravely.

“I’m certain that what Blantyre told me is true,” Pitt replied. “I’ve checked on the few Austrian political murders we know about. It’s difficult to pin them down. Too many are anarchists striking at anyone at all, just as they are here, or else the cases are unsolved. Reibnitz fits the description for a murder in Berlin, and one in Paris. As Blantyre said, there’s no proof.”

“But he’s here in Dover?” Narraway pressed.

Pitt nodded. “There is an ordinary-seeming man answering his description, calling himself John Rainer, just returned from Bordeaux after apparently having been away on business for several months. He has no friends or family who can confirm it, only a passport with that name.”

Narraway pursed his lips. “He doesn’t sound like an anarchist; more like a deliberate and very careful assassin.”

“He could still be paid by anarchists,” Pitt reasoned. The rain beating on the windows sounded threatening, as if it were trying to come in.

Narraway looked at him steadily, the shadows from the firelight playing across his face.

“In case it’s all a misdirection, I have put only four men on the Duke Alois case, until he actually gets here. Everyone else is on their usual rounds, watching for any movement, any change that stands out. We’ve got a socialist rally in Kilburn, but the regular police can deal with anything there. An exhibition of rather explicit paintings in one of the galleries in Piccadilly; some protests expected there. Nothing else that I know of.”

“Then you’d better prepare for the worst.” Narraway’s eyes were bleak, his mouth pulled into a thin line. “You need all the allies you can find. It might be time to exert a little pressure, even call in a few favors. This information from Blantyre needs further checking. It doesn’t smell like casual anarchist violence.”

It was what Pitt had thought, and feared.

“I don’t have any favors to call in,” he said grimly. “Blantyre is crippled by his wife’s death. I still have no idea if any of it had to do with Duke Alois or not, but I can’t see any connection. The duke is Austrian, and has no visible ties with Italy or Croatia. He has no interest we can find in any of the other smaller parts of the Austrian Empire.”

“Prussia? Poland?” Narraway asked.

“Nothing.”

Narraway frowned. “I don’t like coincidences, but I can’t think of any way in which Serafina’s rambling mind, or the secrets she might have known forty years ago, have anything to do with anarchists today, or Duke Alois at any time. Tragically, the connection with Adriana and Lazar Dragovic is all too obvious. Although it surprises me. I would never have thought of Serafina Montserrat as one to betray anyone. But then I knew her only through other people’s eyes.”

“Vespasia’s?” Pitt asked.

“I suppose so. You have no doubt that it was Adriana who killed her?”

“I wish I did, but I can’t see any. She was there that night.” A deep, painful heaviness settled inside him. “We know that Serafina was one of Dragovic’s allies, and that she was there when he was executed. She took Adriana away and looked after her. It was an appalling piece of duplicity, whatever reason she did it for, whoever’s power or freedom was bought that way. No wonder she was afraid when she knew that Adriana, as a grown woman, was coming to see her. That explains the terror that Vespasia saw.”

“And when she realized you knew, Adriana killed herself,” Narraway added. He watched Pitt steadily, his eyes probing to see how harshly Pitt felt the guilt.

Pitt gave a bleak smile in return. “There is one other person to consider in all this,” he said, not as an evasion, but to move the conversation forward.

Narraway nodded, lips drawn tight. “Be careful, Pitt. Don’t create enemies you can’t afford. If you’re going to use people, be damned careful how you do it. People understand favors and repayment, but no one likes to be used.”

He leaned forward and picked up the poker from the hearth. He pushed it into the coals, and the flames gushed up.

“There are a few people you can set at each other’s throats, if you need to shake things up a little. See what falls out,” he added.

Pitt watched him closely, waiting for the next words, dreading them.

“Tregarron,” Narraway went on, replacing the poker gently. “He is devoted to his mother, but had a certain ill feeling toward his father.”

“Wasn’t his father a diplomat in Vienna?”

“Yes. You might see if he knew anything about Dragovic, or Serafina, for that matter. There are one or two others, people I could …” He looked for the right word. “Persuade to be more forthcoming. But they’re heavy debts, ones I can call in only once.” He looked up at Pitt, whose face was tense, uncertain in the flickering light. “You tell me what you would like me to do.”

Pitt could not answer. He wanted to ask someone’s advice—perhaps Vespasia’s—but he knew that it was his decision. He was head of Special Branch.

“I want to know if the betrayal of Dragovic was the only secret Serafina was afraid of revealing,” he said aloud. “And who Nerissa Freemarsh’s lover is, if he exists at all.”

“Freemarsh’s lover?” Narraway’s head jerked up. “Yes, find that out. Find out if it was Tregarron. Find out what he really went to that house for.”

“I intend to.”

PITT WENT TO ONE of the sources that Narraway had mentioned. He took the train on the Great Eastern Line to just beyond Hackney Wick. From there he walked three-quarters of a mile through sporadic sunshine to Plover Road. It overlooked Hackney Marsh, which was flat as a table, and crossed by narrow, winding waterways.

There he found the man whose name Narraway had given him, an Italian who had fought with the Croatian nationalists when Dragovic was one of their leaders. He was well into his eighties now, but still sharp-witted, in spite of failing physical health. When Pitt had identified himself and proved to the man’s satisfaction that he knew Victor Narraway, they sat down together in a small room with a window overlooking the marsh.

Beyond the glass, flights of birds raced across the wide sky, chasing sunlight and shadows, and wind combed the grasses in ever-changing patterns.

“Yes, of course I remember Serafina Montserrat,” the old man said with a smile. He had lost most of his hair, but he still had beautiful teeth. “What man could forget her?”

“What about Lazar Dragovic?” Pitt asked.

The old man’s face filled with sadness. “Killed,” he said briefly. “The Austrians shot him.”

“Executed,” Pitt put in.

“Murdered,” the old man corrected him.

“Wasn’t he planning to assassinate someone?”

The old man’s seamed face twisted with contempt. “A butcher of the people, put there to rule. He had no damned business being set on the throne there. Foreigner. Barely even spoke their language. And he was brutal. Killing him—now that would have been an execution.”

“Was Dragovic betrayed by one of his own?” Pitt asked.

“Yes.” The old man’s eyes burned with the memory. “Of course he was. Never would have been caught otherwise.”

“Do you know who?”

“What does it matter now?” There was weariness and a sudden overwhelming defeat in his voice. He stared out the window. “They’re all dead.”

“Are they?” Pitt asked. “Are you sure?”

“Must be. It was a long time ago. People like that are passionate, vivid. They live with courage and hope, but they burn out.”

“Serafina died only a few weeks ago,” Pitt told him.

He smiled. “Ah … Serafina. God rest her.”

“She was murdered,” Pitt said, feeling brutal to deliver such news.

“Is that why you came?” That was an accusation. “English policeman, with a murder to solve?”

“There have been three deaths counting Lazar Dragovic. And, more urgently, there is the threat of more death to come,” Pitt corrected him. “Who betrayed Lazar Dragovic?”

“Who else is dead? You said three deaths, but Serafin and Lazar makes two.”

“Adriana Dragovic.”

Tears filled the old man’s eyes and slipped down his withered cheeks. “She was a lovely child,” he whispered.

Pitt thought of Adriana, picturing her vividly in his mind: beautiful, delicate, and yet perhaps far stronger than Blantyre had imagined. Or was she? Had she killed Serafina, after all these years? Or not? Why did he still question it? He had all the evidence.

The old man blinked. “When did it happen? When?”

“A few days ago.”

“How? Was she ill? She was fragile as a child. Lung diseases, I think. But …” He sighed. “I thought she was better. It’s so easy to wish. But you said only a few days ago? Was it her lungs still?”

“No. She killed herself. But I don’t know why, not for certain.”

The old man blinked again. “What can I tell you all this time later that can help? It was all long ago. Dragovic is dead; so are those who fought with him. And now you say Serafina and Adriana are dead too. What could I know that matters anymore?”

“Who betrayed Dragovic,” Pitt answered.

“Do you think if I knew, that person would still be alive? I would’ve killed him long ago!” The old man’s voice shook with anger. His face was crumpled, his eyes wet.

“Did Serafina know?” Pitt persisted.

Seconds ticked by and the silence in the room remained unbroken. More cloud shadows chased one another over the marsh. There would be rain before sunset.

Pitt waited.

“I’m not sure,” the old man said at last. “I didn’t think so, at first. Later I began to wonder.”

“Weren’t she and Dragovic lovers?”

“Yes. That’s why I was sure at first that she didn’t know. She’d have taken her revenge if she had, I thought. She grieved for him, inside. Few people saw it, but it was there. I’m not sure it ever really healed.”

“You are certain of that?”

“Of course I am. I knew Serafina.” Now there was anger in the old man’s voice, a challenge.

Pitt wondered how well he had known her. Had he been her lover too? Might Dragovic’s betrayal have been nothing political at all, but an old-fashioned triangle of love and jealousy?

“Did you know her well?” he asked.

The old man smiled, showing the beautiful teeth again. “Yes, very well. And before you ask, yes, we were lovers, before Dragovic. But you dishonor me if you think I would betray the cause out of personal jealousy. The cause came first, always.”

“For everyone?”

“Yes! For everyone!” Anger flared in his eyes, against Pitt, because he was young and knew nothing about their passion and their loss.

“Then, logically, whoever betrayed Dragovic was secretly on the side of a different cause.” Pitt stated the only conclusion.

The old man nodded slowly. “Yes, that must be so.”

“But if Serafina knew, why wouldn’t she expose that person?”

“She would have. She cannot have known. I was wrong.”

“When did you think she might have learned?”

“Oh … ten, maybe fifteen years later.”

“How would she have found out, so long after?”

“I’ve thought about that too, and I don’t know.”

“Are you certain it was not Serafina herself?” Pitt loathed asking, but it was unavoidable.

“Serafina?” The old man was shocked, and angry again, sitting more upright in his chair. “Never!”

“Then perhaps it was someone she loved.” It was the most obvious conclusion.

“No. Men came and went. There was no one she would have forgiven for betraying Dragovic.” His voice was filled with cutting contempt. Pitt could imagine the young man he must have been, slightly built but wiry, handsome, filled with passion.

“Are you certain?” he probed.

“Yes. The only person she loved that much was Dragovic’s child, Adriana.”

Adriana had been only eight when her father was killed. Could she have let something slip by accident, something that ended up killing her father? Was that terrible realization what Blantyre had been trying to protect her from? If Serafina had told her in one of her ramblings, little wonder that Adriana had gone home and killed herself.

Except the timing made no sense. If she had found out such a thing, surely she would’ve been wild with distress on the day Serafina told her, driven to take her life then, not several days and social engagements later. And why would she kill Serafina for that?

The old man was studying his face. “What is it?” he asked anxiously. “Do you know something?”

“No, I don’t,” Pitt replied. “What I was thinking makes no sense. But Serafina knew. That’s why she was killed, to prevent her from telling anyone else.”

“That doesn’t explain why Adriana killed herself,” the old man said. “Unless she killed Serafina to silence her, and then couldn’t take the guilt of it. But what reason could she have had to do that?”

“To protect her husband.” Pitt had spoken the words before he realized the full impact of what he was saying.

“Her husband?” The old man was aghast. “Evan Blantyre?”

Pitt looked at him, studying the fragile skin, the deep lines, the strength in the bones. In its own way, it was a beautiful face. “Yes—Evan Blantyre.”

The old man crossed himself. “Yes … God forgive us all, that would make sense. That would be why Serafina never told. She didn’t know it until later, when Blantyre returned and courted Adriana. He must have let something slip, and Serafina put it together.”

“And she let Adriana marry him?” Pitt asked incredulously.

“How was she going to stop it? They were in love, passionately and completely. Adriana was beautiful, but she had nothing: no money, no status. She was the orphan daughter of a traitor to the empire, an executed criminal. And Serafina probably had no proof, only her own inner certainty.” He shrugged his thin shoulders. “Not that proof would have made a difference. Blantyre would have been regarded as a hero by the Viennese emperor. No, she would have kept her silence and let Adriana be happy. She was delicate, needing someone to look after her, to help her regain her health. In poverty, she would have been left to die young and alone. Serafina never had a child of her own. Adriana was the only thing left of the man she loved.”

Pitt tried to imagine it: Serafina watching the marriage of Adriana to the man who had betrayed them both. And perhaps that was it: the depth of real love, more powerful than the need for revenge, and deeper, infinitely more selfless than any kind of hate or hunger for justice. He felt a pain in his chest and a tightness in his throat; tears glistened in the old man’s eyes.

The first drops of rain spattered against the windows.

If Blantyre had betrayed Lazar Dragovic, and Serafina knew it, then she might well have let something slip to Adriana. And if Adriana had confronted Blantyre with it, what would he have done?

Serafina was terrified that she would say something that sooner or later would lead to the truth. That made perfect sense. But Blantyre must have also feared that it would happen, so he killed her to prevent it. Then when Adriana knew Serafina had been murdered—and realized she was about to be blamed for it by Pitt—she had killed herself in despair!

Or Blantyre thought that Adriana would put together all the different things Serafina had said and deduce the truth, so with terrible, agonizing regret, he had killed her, to protect himself.

Everything suddenly crystalized in Pitt’s mind: the detail with which Blantyre had explained to Pitt and Charlotte the crucial place of the Austrian Empire in European politics, the passion he had shown while discussing the subject. Was he right? Was the empire’s survival necessary to the continued peace of Europe?

Perhaps it was.

It did not excuse the murder of Serafina Montserrat. Even less did it excuse the murder of Adriana.

Pitt rose to his feet. “Thank you, sir,” he said gravely. “You have saved the good name of two women who were murdered and defamed. I will do all I can to see that that injustice is corrected, but I may not be able to do it quickly. Believe me, I will not forget or abandon it.”

The old man nodded slowly. “Good,” he said with conviction. “Good.”

ON THE TRAIN HOME, Pitt stared out the window, even though it was streaked with rain and there was little he could see. He ignored the other two men sitting in the carriage reading newspapers.

If Blantyre had been with Serafina long enough to hear that she knew the truth, then he must’ve spent quite a lot of time with her. How often had he visited her? Why had neither Adriana nor Nerissa mentioned it?

The answer to the first was simple: Adriana might not have known.

The answer to the second was more complicated. Nerissa could not escape knowing, unless Blantyre had visited when she was out of the house, possibly in the afternoons. The more probable answer was that she did know, and had chosen not to tell Pitt. Had that been to protect herself, because she had allowed him to see Serafina without anyone else in the room? Or—more likely—to protect him from suspicion, perhaps because he had asked her to? Or—most likely of all—because he was her lover?

Except what, in heaven’s name, would the brilliant, charming Evan Blantyre see in a woman like Nerissa Freemarsh? But then, who knew what anyone saw in another person? The outer appearance was trivial, if one understood the mind or the heart. Perhaps she was generous, easy to please, uncritical. Maybe she listened to him with genuine interest, laughed at his jokes, never contradicted him or compared him with others. It could be as simple as that she loved him unconditionally, and asked nothing in return, except a little time, a little kindness, or the semblance of it. Perhaps it was in defiance of the beautiful, and maybe demanding, Adriana?

The rain beat harder on the carriage window now, and it was growing dark outside. The rattle of the train was rhythmic, soothing.

The most likely explanation of all was that Blantyre had visited Dorchester Terrace once with Adriana, realized how dangerously Serafina was rambling, and secured for himself an ostensible reason for returning again and again so he could figure out just how great the danger might be.

Then a new thought occurred to Pitt: Blantyre could’ve learned from Serafina’s disintegrating mind any other secret she might know about anyone or anything else. He might now have stored in his own mind all the secrets Serafina was so afraid she would let slip: names of men and women who had participated in indiscretions of all sorts, over half of Europe, for the last forty years.

Most of them were probably trivial: affairs, illegitimate children, romantic betrayals as opposed to political ones; possibly thefts or embezzlements, purchases of office, blackmails or coercions. The list was almost endless.

What would Blantyre do with them? That was a troubling thought, but it might have to wait until after Duke Alois had safely completed his visit.

But then, had Blantyre gained his knowledge about the assassination plot from Serafina? It did not seem possible. Serafina had been ill and confined to her bed for half a year. It was far longer than that since she had been involved in any affairs of state in England or Austria.

Was it even conceivable that Duke Alois was connected with someone else from that time? That seemed fanciful in the extreme. Pitt was skeptical of coincidences. Ordinary police work had taught him that, even before Special Branch. But on the other hand, it was equally foolish to imagine that everything was connected, or to see cause and effect where there was none.

He sat back and let the rhythm and movement of the train lull him into near sleep. It was still at least half an hour before he would reach the station in London, and then as long again before he was home.

PITT FOUND CHARLOTTE waiting for him, with the kettle on the burner and the fire still burning in the parlor. He stood by the scrubbed table as she made tea and cut him a sandwich of cold beef and pickles. He glanced at the basket beside the stove and saw the little dog, Uffie, half asleep, her nose twitching as she smelled the meat.

He smiled, took a tiny piece from where Charlotte had sliced it, and offered it to the dog. She snapped it up immediately.

“Thomas, I’ve already fed her!” Charlotte smiled.

He picked up the tray and carried it through to the parlor. He had not realized how hungry he was, or how cold. He set it down and watched while she poured tea for both of them. The room was warm and silent except for the slight crackling of the flames in the hearth, and, now and then, the sound of wind and rain on the windowpanes beyond the closed curtains. He glanced at the familiar pictures on the walls: the Dutch water scene he was so used to, with its soft colors, blues and grays, calm as a still morning. On the other wall was a drawing of cows grazing. There was something very beautiful about cows, a kind of certainty that always pleased him. Perhaps that was based on some memory from childhood.

Charlotte was watching him, waiting.

How much could he tell her? He could fail to see something important, something she might catch. Especially if it was based on something Adriana had told her that she had not previously understood the relevance of.

On the other hand, there were the promises of secrecy he had made regarding his office in Special Branch. If he could not be trusted to keep them, he was no use to anyone, and no protection to Charlotte herself. He must choose his words carefully.

“You don’t believe that Adriana killed Serafina, do you.” He made it more of a statement than a question.

“No,” she said instantly. “I know you think Serafina was responsible for Lazar Dragovic’s death, but even if she was—and I don’t know that you’re right—Adriana wouldn’t have murdered her. It would be stupid, apart from anything else. Serafina was dying anyway, and in some distress. If you hate someone deeply, you want them to suffer, not to be let off lightly.”

“Revenge is usually stupid,” he said quietly. “For an instant it feels wonderful, then the fury dies away and you’re left empty, and wondering why it didn’t make you feel any better, what it was you were expecting that didn’t happen.”

She stared at him. “When did you ever take revenge on anyone?”

“I’ve wanted to,” he replied, with a sense of shame. “Some people I’ve arrested, some people for whom I didn’t have enough proof that they were guilty, or simply couldn’t catch them at the crime. Even recently, people I just had to arrest calmly, but whom I would like to have beaten with my fists. The only thing stopping me was the fact that I wasn’t alone with them; I don’t know whether I would have, if I’d been certain of getting away with it.”

She looked at him with amazement, and a degree of curiosity. “You’ve never told me that before.”

“I’m not proud of it.”

“Do you tell me only the things you’re proud of?” she challenged.

“No, of course not.” He smiled ruefully, softening the moment. “I would probably have told you if I’d actually done it.”

“Because I’d find out?”

“No, because it was a weakness I hadn’t overcome.”

She gave a little laugh, but there was no edge to it, no criticism. “What about Adriana? If she didn’t kill Serafina, who did? And why did she then kill herself?” Her voice dropped. “Or didn’t she?”

Pitt avoided her question. “You spent quite a lot of time with her. Do you think you learned to know her at all? I want your true opinion of her. A great deal may depend on it, even people’s lives.”

“Whose?” she came back instantly. “Blantyre’s?”

“Among others. But I wasn’t principally referring to him. It has to do with other people, most of whom you don’t even know.” He made a slight, rueful gesture. “And my job as well.”

The last vestige of amusement vanished from Charlotte’s face. Her eyes were steady and serious. “I don’t think she was fragile at all. She had been hurt terribly, seeing her father beaten and then executed. But many people see very bad things. It’s painful. One never forgets them, but they don’t make you deranged. Nightmares, maybe? I’ve had a few. Sometimes if I sleep really badly, or I’m worried or frightened, I remember the dead people I’ve seen.”

She did not move her gaze from his, but he saw the sudden return of memory in her eyes. “One of the worst was the skeleton of the woman on the swing, with the tiny bones of the baby inside her. I still see that sometimes, and it makes me want to weep and weep until I have no strength left. But I don’t.”

Pitt started to reach across to touch her, then changed his mind. This was not the moment. “Adriana?” he said again.

“She wasn’t hysterical,” she said with conviction. “And I don’t believe she would ever have killed herself. Who killed her, Thomas? Why? Wouldn’t it have been the same person who betrayed her father? Did Serafina know who that was? She would have. That was why she was killed too. That’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“I imagine so.” Should he tell her? Did she have to know, for her own safety? Or would knowing endanger her? And even if he did not tell her, Blantyre might assume he had.

“It was him, wasn’t it?” Her voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Him?”

“Blantyre!” she said sharply. “He was the only one who could have betrayed Dragovic, killed Serafina, and killed Adriana.” She made it sound so simple. “Thomas, I don’t care what secrets he knows, or what kind of office he holds, you can’t let him get away with that! It’s … monstrous!”

“You want revenge?” he asked.

“Maybe! Yes. I want revenge for Adriana. And for Serafina. She deserved better than to die like that! But call it justice, if you like. It is—and you’ll feel better.”

“Justice can mean many different things to different people,” Pitt pointed out.

“Then call it an act of necessity. You can’t have someone like that in a high office in the government. Such a man could do anything!”

“Oh, indeed. And probably will. Some of it we will praise him for, and some we will be glad enough not to know about.”

Charlotte said nothing. He looked across at her and could not read what she was thinking.

FIRST THING IN THE morning, Pitt went to see Vespasia. It was far too early to call, but he disregarded courtesy and told the maid that it was urgent. Vespasia’s maid had become used to him, his polished boots and crooked ties, and above all, the fact that Vespasia was always willing to receive him.

He found her in the yellow breakfast room, sitting at the cherry-wood table with tea, toast, and marmalade. The maid set another place for Pitt and went to fetch fresh tea and more toast.

“Good morning, Thomas,” Vespasia said gravely. “Please sit down. You give me a crick in my neck staring up at you.”

He smiled bleakly and accepted the invitation. He loved this room. It always seemed as if the sun were shining inside it.

“Serafina Montserrat knew who betrayed Lazar Dragovic,” he said without preamble.

Vespasia inclined her head very slightly. “I thought she might. She was seldom fooled, and she loved him enough to not rest easily until she knew. Her fear makes perfect sense now; if she had not told Adriana already, then it was because she did not wish her to know. She was probably worried that she would ultimately let it slip.”

“You are right,” he agreed.

The maid returned with fresh tea, a second cup, and more toast. She left without speaking and closed the door behind her.

“Which must mean it was Evan Blantyre,” Vespasia concluded. “If it was anyone else, Serafina would not have gone to such lengths to bury the truth.”

“Did she care about him?” he asked.

Vespasia raised her eyebrows in exasperation. “Don’t be absurd, Thomas! She must have found out after Adriana was committed to marrying him. That would have made it impossible for her to do anything! She would have stifled her own feelings and kept silent for Adriana’s sake.”

“In the end it served neither of them,” Pitt said unhappily. “Poor Serafina. She paid a very high price for nothing.”

“Not for nothing,” she corrected him simply. “Adriana had many happy years. She grew to be a strong, beautiful woman, and I think she always knew that Serafina loved her like a mother.”

“And Blantyre?” he asked bitterly.

“Perhaps, in his own way, he also loved her. But not as he cared for his ideals and his beliefs in Austria.”

“I’ll prove it, one way or another,” he said grimly, as if he were making an oath.

“I daresay you will.” She poured a cup of tea for him and passed it over.

“Thank you.” He took it and then a piece of toast, buttering it absentmindedly.

“That is hardly your most urgent concern,” she observed. He looked up at her.

“My dear, if Evan Blantyre spent long enough at Dorchester Terrace to realize that Serafina knew he was the one who betrayed Lazar Dragovic, then he must have listened to a great deal that she said. What else was there, do you suppose? Most of it may be irrelevant now, but what about that which is not? Who does it concern?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “That same thought occurred to me. I could find out all the places where Blantyre has served, but it wouldn’t tell me much, except the extent of the possibilities, and I can already guess that.”

She spread more butter on her piece of toast.

“All kinds of people have served in the embassies of Europe at some time or another, especially that of Vienna,” Vespasia said.

She passed him the marmalade. “And apart from government positions, most of the aristocracy travels for pleasure, to hunt, to drink beer, to exchange ideas—philosophy, sciences. To climb mountains in the Tyrol, or to sail on the lakes. To visit Venice and the Adriatic, especially the coast of Croatia with its islands. And always we go to the glory and the ruin of Rome, and imagine ourselves heirs to the days of its empire. Some of us go to Naples to gaze at Vesuvius and imagine the eruption that burned Pompeii. We see the sunlight on the water and dream for a little while that it always shines.”

“What does that have to do with Austria’s survival as an empire?” he asked.

“Very little,” she replied. “But a great deal to do with indiscretions, with secrets that people might still wish to keep, even forty years later.”

The crisp toast and sharp marmalade lost their taste. Pitt could have been eating cardboard.

“You mean Serafina was in those places and would have known all sorts of things?”

“She was very observant. It was part of her skill.”

“So there were likely many Austrians she could’ve blackmailed,” he concluded.

“Certainly. Britishers as well. She was neither spiteful nor irresponsible,” Vespasia said gently, “but she understood the weaknesses of people. And now Blantyre may know a great many things from Serafina’s confused mind, and he may well have no moral boundaries in his crusade to preserve the power of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and all that he believes depends upon it.”

Pitt leaned forward slowly, his hands pressed hard against his face.

“It is time for some very difficult decisions, my dear,” Vespasia said after a moment or two. “When you have made sure that Duke Alois is safe, you are going to have to deal with Evan Blantyre. You have the heart of a policeman, but you must have the brain of the head of Special Branch. Don’t forget that, Thomas. Too many people are relying on you.”