Dorchester Terrace

PITT SAT IN THE housekeeper’s room at Dorchester Terrace waiting for Nerissa Freemarsh to come. He had expected her to deliberately keep him waiting, and he was not disappointed. It gave him time to think very carefully about what he intended to say, how much of the truth to tell her, and how much pressure to exert. He had felt a certain compassion toward her when they had first met. At one time or another during his career in the police he had seen many single young women who were dependent upon a relative who made full use of them as unpaid servants. Occasionally, a parent had intentionally kept one daughter home for precisely that purpose.

It was wretched for anyone being such a dependent, an onlooker at life but never a participant. Nerissa had been one of those with very little choice. She did not have the charm or the daring to have set out on her own. She could not create adventure for herself, as Serafina had done; perhaps Serafina had secretly despised her for that. If so, Nerissa would’ve realized it, even if she could not have put a name to it or explained why.

Was Nerissa flattered that another woman’s husband had made advances to her, professed a kind of love? Or had she genuinely cared for him, probably far more than he had for her? Was Pitt insulting her in assuming that Blantyre’s interest was solely in Serafina, and that Nerissa was merely the excuse to visit? He felt a certain anger for a man who could use a woman’s obvious vulnerability in such a way.

The door opened, without a knock, and Nerissa came in, closing it behind her. She stood facing him as he rose to his feet. Today she had a jet-and-crystal brooch at her throat and matching earrings giving light to her face. They were beautiful. Pitt wondered briefly if they had been Serafina’s.

“Good morning, Miss Freemarsh,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry to disturb you again, but several new facts have come to light, and I need to ask you some further questions.”

She seemed calmer today. There was no sign of anxiety in her face as she heard this news.

“Indeed? I am aware of Mrs. Blantyre’s suicide,” she answered coolly, facing him with her hands folded in front of her. “A tragedy, and yet it appears to have been inevitable. I gather that she held my aunt responsible for her father’s death, or at least for his being caught by the Austrians and executed for insurrection. I was aware that she was …” She looked for the right word, cutting but not overtly cruel. “… fragile. I was not aware that it was so very serious. I’m sorry. I know that suicide is a sin, but in the circumstances, perhaps it is better that she should have taken her own life, rather than face arrest and trial, and the shame of all that.” Her face tightened. “And they might have locked her away in an asylum, or even hanged her, I suppose. Yes, I … I have to respect her for her choice. Poor creature.”

Pitt looked at her, a well of pity, disgust, and revulsion building up inside him. Did she know that it was Blantyre who had betrayed Lazar Dragovic, killed Serafina, and then Adriana too? Was she a party to it, or ignorant of everything, guilty of nothing but falling in love with another woman’s husband? He did not know.

“Please sit down, Miss Freemarsh. I’m afraid the situation is not as simple as that.”

She sat obediently, hands folded in her lap, and he returned to the housekeeper’s chair.

“You’re not going to make the case public, are you?” she asked in dismay. “Surely that is not in the government’s interest? It is simply the tragedy of a woman who suffered as a child, and did not recover from it.” Her scowled. “You would drag her husband through a mire of shame and embarrassment he does not deserve, and to what purpose? Please do not say that it is justice. That is complete nonsense, and would be the utmost hypocrisy on your part. My aunt caused the death of Mrs. Blantyre’s father, politically justified or not. Mrs. Blantyre’s mind was unhinged as a child because of it. I believe she was actually there and witnessed the whole appalling thing. She never knew who betrayed him, until Aunt Serafina’s own mind began to wander, and somehow in her ramblings she gave herself away. In a hysteria of revenge, Mrs. Blantyre killed her, and then, realizing what she had done, took her own life. Justice has already been more than served.”

He looked at her and wondered how much of that she truly believed, and how much she had convinced herself of.

“Are you sure?” he asked, as if he was seeking proof himself.

“Quite sure,” she replied. “And if you consider it, you will see that it makes perfect sense.” There was no doubt visible in her, no unease. He could see no sign of real pity either. She could not, or did not, wish to imagine herself in Adriana’s place.

“When did your aunt tell you about Lazar Dragovic’s death?” he asked, affecting only mild interest. “And when did you realize that Dragovic was Adriana’s father?”

Nerissa looked startled. “I beg your pardon?”

She was playing for time, trying to understand what he was looking for, and how to answer him.

“You know about Dragovic, and that Adriana witnessed his death herself, as an eight-year-old child,” he explained. “Someone told you. It is not recorded in any written history, obviously, or Adriana would have known it all the time. Only those present knew the truth.”

Nerissa swallowed. He could see her throat convulse.

“Oh. Yes, I see.” Her hands were knotted in her lap now, her knuckles white.

“So when did your aunt tell you this?” he persisted. “And why? She cannot have wished you to tell anyone, least of all Adriana Blantyre.”

“I … I can’t recall.” She took a deep breath. “I must have pieced it together from her ramblings. She was very incoherent at times. Lady Vespasia would tell you that. Bits and pieces, jumbled, not knowing who was with her.”

“And you realized from all those ‘bits and pieces’ that Adriana Blantyre was actually Lazar Dragovic’s daughter, that Serafina had betrayed him to the Austrians, that she and Adriana had witnessed his execution, and that it had turned Adriana’s mind, although she did not know who was behind the betrayal.” He kept the disbelief from his tone, but barely. “And then Adriana later pieced together the truth, also from Mrs. Montserrat’s ramblings, and lost her mind so completely that she murdered her, using the laudanum whose whereabouts she happened to know. But you did not think to mention this to anyone when Mrs. Montserrat was killed. You are a brilliant, complex, and quite extraordinary woman, Miss Freemarsh.” Now he did not even attempt to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

What little color was in her face was draining away, leaving her almost gray.

“I don’t … I don’t know what you mean,” she stammered.

“Yes, you do, Miss Freemarsh. You know a great deal about Mrs. Blantyre and her past, which you did not learn from her, because she did not know it herself. Her whole motive for killing Mrs. Montserrat would’ve been that she had just discovered this apparent betrayal. And Mrs. Montserrat was quite unaware that she had revealed it, or she would have taken precautions to protect herself, would’ve at least told Miss Tucker. Mrs. Blantyre also could not have told anyone, because that would’ve immediately made her suspect in Mrs. Montserrat’s death. So again, how did you know all of this?”

“I …” She gulped again, as if starving for air. “I told you. I … learned it from Aunt Serafina’s rambling, the same way Mrs. Blantyre learned. Why is it difficult for you to understand that?”

“Because you would have me believe that she acted on it, and yet you did not mention any of this to me, even after we discovered that Mrs. Montserrat was murdered.”

Nerissa was rigid now, her muscles locked so tight her shoulders strained against the fabric of her dress. She started to speak, and then stopped, staring at him defiantly.

“So. If I am to understand it, you assume that Mrs. Blantyre learned the truth from your aunt’s disjointed ramblings, and was certain enough of what she pieced together to kill Mrs. Montserrat, without making any attempt to check the truth of it with anyone?” he asked patiently.

Nerissa’s eyebrows rose. “Check the truth of it? With whom?” she demanded. “Where would she find anyone who could do that? Are you saying she should have taken a trip to Croatia and started searching for survivors of the rebels and insurgents of thirty years ago? That’s absurd!” She gave a little snarl of laughter. “And even if she succeeded, Aunt Serafina could have been dead by the time she returned,” she added.

“Exactly,” he agreed. “No satisfaction in killing someone who is dying anyway. In fact, there’s really very little purpose in that, don’t you think?”

Her eyes were like pinpoints. “Then why are we having this ridiculous conversation?”

“Croatia was your suggestion, Miss Freemarsh. I was not thinking of her going there, or anywhere else. I was thinking of her simply going home.”

Now she was sarcastic. “I beg your pardon?”

“I was supposing she would have asked her husband,” he explained. “After all, he was involved with the insurgents at that time. He was one of them. Or pretending to be. I think, actually, he was always loyal to Austrian unity and dominance in all the regions of its empire.”

She said nothing.

“If it had been me, I would simply have gone home and asked him. Isn’t that what you would’ve done?” he pressed.

She stared at him in angry silence, as if his question did not merit an answer.

“Unless, of course, Serafina did let something slip.” He went on relentlessly now. “But it was not that she was the betrayer. And why would she be? She was always an insurgent, a fighter for freedom—if not for Croatia, then for that part of northern Italy that was under Austrian rule.”

“What are you saying?” Nerissa’s voice was hoarse.

“That the betrayer was not Serafina. It was Evan Blantyre himself. That is what Adriana discovered.”

She was struggling now, to find a way to deny the truth. “That makes no sense!” she said sharply. “How dare you say such a thing? If Aunt Serafina knew that, or even believed it, why didn’t she say so long ago? Why did she ever let Adriana Dragovic marry him?”

“I wondered that myself,” Pitt admitted. “Then I realized that Adriana was beautiful, but poor, the orphan daughter of a man who had been executed by the Austrians. She was in ill health. She might very likely not bear children. What were her opportunities? She had met Evan Blantyre; he was in love with her and could offer her a very good life. Serafina probably had no proof against him. He had acted according to his own loyalties to Austria, because he believed passionately that the empire acted for the good of Europe—a conviction he still holds. Serafina loved Adriana enough to let her be safe, and happy. Accidentally revealing the truth and giving her a burden she could not live with was the thing she was most afraid of, when she knew that her control was slipping away and that she might forget where she was, or to whom she was speaking.”

Nerissa breathed out slowly. “Then it seems she was right to fear it, since that was exactly what happened.”

“Really?” he said with a disbelief she could not miss. “And when it did, Adriana killed her, then waited several days before going home and killing herself? Why, for God’s sake?”

Nerissa started to shake her head.

Pitt leaned forward a little, his voice urgent now. “It was her husband who betrayed her father, not Serafina. So surely if Adriana was going to kill anyone, it would have been him? Except she didn’t know, Miss Freemarsh. Serafina kept her secrets and died with them, before she could tell anyone else—except perhaps Mr. Blantyre. He spent time with her, didn’t he? He came here telling you it was to see you, as your lover, but he sat with her, so it would look respectable. Only it was really the other way around; he came to see Serafina, not you, to find out how far her mind had disintegrated, and what of the past she might betray to Adriana.”

“No!” she cried out. “No! That’s horrible!” She made a swift movement with her hand, as if to sweep the suggestion away.

“Yes, it is,” he agreed. “But we are speaking of a man who believes in the value of the Austrian Empire above all else. He betrayed his friend Lazar Dragovic, to his torture and death. He married Dragovic’s daughter, perhaps from guilt, perhaps because she was beautiful and vulnerable. Maybe he felt safer, knowing where she was. And it would give him standing in the community of those who still seek to throw off the Austrian yoke. Heaven knows, the whole Balkan Peninsula is teeming with them.”

“That’s …” she began, but could not finish the sentence.

“Logical,” he said. “Yes, it is. And you are just one more of his victims, both emotionally and morally.”

She stiffened but the tears were sliding down her face. “I have done nothing …” She stopped again.

“I am prepared to accept that you did not know beforehand that Blantyre would kill Serafina, and perhaps not immediately after,” he said more gently. “You may have willfully refused to think about Adriana’s death, or to work out for yourself what the truth had to be. At the moment I can see no purpose in charging you as an accessory. But if you do not cooperate now, that will change.”

“Co … cooperate? How?” She started to deny her complicity, even her knowledge, but the words died on her tongue. She had known—or at least guessed—but refused to allow the thoughts to complete themselves in her mind. She knew that Pitt could see as much in her eyes.

“Tell me who was in the house the day Serafina Montserrat was killed, and the day before as well.”

“The … day before?” Her hands twisted around each other in her lap.

“Yes. And please don’t make any mistakes or omissions. If you do, and we discover them afterward, it will point very powerfully to guilt on your part—and probably to whoever you are attempting to protect.”

She was trembling now.

“You have no choice, Miss Freemarsh, if you wish to save yourself. And I will, naturally, be speaking to at least some of the staff again.”

It was several seconds before she spoke.

He waited for her in silence.

“Mr. Blantyre was here the day Aunt Serafina died,” she said at last. “He came often. I don’t remember all the days. Two or three times a week. He spent some time with me … and some with her.”

“And he was definitely here the day she died?” he persisted.

“Yes.”

“Did he see her alone, before Mrs. Blantyre was here?”

“Yes.” Her voice was barely audible.

“What reason did he give?” he pressed her.

“What you said. For the … sake of appearance.”

“Anyone else?” He was not even certain why he asked, except that he sensed a reluctance in her. “I would prefer to have it from you rather than from the staff. Allow yourself that dignity, Miss Freemarsh. You have little enough left. And by the way, I would not let your staff go, if I were you. Employed here, they have an interest in maintaining some discretion. If they leave, it will make a great many people wonder why, and they will most certainly talk, no matter what threats you make. You are not in a good position to do anything other than maintain silence yourself. If you are not prosecuted for anything, you will be in a comfortable financial situation, and free to conduct yourself as you please.”

Her eyes widened a little.

“Who else was here?” he pressed.

“Lord Tregarron.” It was little more than a whisper.

“Why?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why was Lord Tregarron here? To see you, or to see Mrs. Montserrat? I assume it was both, or you would not have been so reluctant to say so.”

She cleared her throat. “Yes.”

“Why did he wish to see Mrs. Montserrat? Were they friends?”

She hesitated.

He did not ask again.

“No,” she said at last, speaking in gasps as if it caused her an almost physical pain. “His calling on her was … an excuse. I’m not certain if he was interested in me—he pretended to be—or in Aunt Serafina and her recollections.”

“He spent time talking to her?”

“Not … much. I …” She breathed in and out several times, struggling to control her emotions. “I had the feeling that he did not like her, but that he wished to hide it. But not merely from good manners, or to spare my feelings because she was my aunt.”

“Thank you,” he said sincerely. “Did he express any interest in Mr. or Mrs. Blantyre?”

“Not … more than I would expect …” She trailed off again.

“I understand. Thank you, Miss Freemarsh. I think that is all, at least for the time being. I would like to speak to Miss Tucker now.”

Tucker confirmed all that Nerissa had said, including several visits from Tregarron, over the period of the last four or five weeks.

Pitt thanked her and left. He walked back to Lisson Grove with his mind in turmoil. The heart of this case was no longer anything to do with Serafina’s death, or Adriana, but two other matters.

The first and most urgent was the question of Evan Blantyre’s loyalties. Had he given Pitt the information regarding Duke Alois out of loyalty to the Austrian Empire, which it seemed he had never lost, in spite of working for the British government? If that was so, and his betrayal of Lazar Dragovic, and the later murders of Serafina and Adriana, were to preserve the unity at the heart of Europe, then his information would be safe for Pitt to rely on. He could deal with Blantyre’s prosecution and conviction after Duke Alois had come and gone.

If, on the other hand, Blantyre had some other purpose, his information about Duke Alois was very far from reliable.

And then the other obvious question arose: After Duke Alois left, what was Pitt going to do about Blantyre? What could he do? What evidence was there? He had no doubt now that Blantyre had killed Serafina and Adriana, but he doubted that there was sufficient proof to convict a man of such prominence and high reputation.

But that would have to wait. It was two days until the duke crossed the Channel and landed in England. Murder, however tragic, would pale beside the effects of a political assassination in London.

PITT CHECKED IN WITH Stoker at Lisson Grove. Then, after one or two items of urgent business, he left again and took a hansom to Blantyre’s office. In spite of his bereavement, Blantyre had chosen to continue working. Duke Alois’s visit could not be put off; there were arrangements to make and details to be attended to, and Blantyre, with his intimate and affectionate knowledge of Austria, was the best man for the job.

“Anything further?” Blantyre asked as he sat down in his large chair close to the fire. He poured whisky for both of them without bothering to ask. In spite of it being the middle of March, it was a bitter day outside, and they were both tired and cold.

“Yes,” Pitt answered, accepting the exquisite glass, but putting it down on the small table to his right without drinking from it. “I now know who killed Serafina, and why. But then so do you.” He watched Blantyre’s sensitive, haggard face and saw not a flicker in it, not even a change in his eyes.

“And who killed Mrs. Blantyre,” Pitt continued. “But again, so do you.”

This time there was a twitch of pain, which Pitt believed was perfectly real. Blantyre must have hated killing her, but had known that if he himself were to survive, then he had no alternative. Adriana would never forgive him for her father’s death, and maybe not for Serafina’s either. Even if she told no one, he would never be able to sleep again if she was in the house; perhaps not eat or drink. He would always be aware of her watching him. His mind would run riot imagining what she felt for him now and when she would lose control and erupt into action.

Pitt went on levelly. “I also know who betrayed Lazar Dragovic to the Austrians, which of course was the beginning of all this.”

“It was necessary,” Blantyre said almost conversationally. They could have been discussing the dismissal of an old but ineffectual servant.

“Perhaps you don’t understand that,” he went on. “You are a man of reason and deduction who comes to conclusions, and leaves it for others to do something about those conclusions. My father was like that. Clever. And he cared. But never enough to do anything that risked his own moral comfort.” Bitterness filled his face and all but choked his voice. “Whoever lived or died, he must always be able to sleep at night!”

Pitt did not answer.

Blantyre leaned forward in his chair, still holding the whisky glass in his hand. He looked steadily at Pitt. “The Austrian Empire lies at the heart of Europe. We have discussed this before. I tried to explain to you how complex it is, but it seems you are a ‘little Englander’ at heart. I like you, but God help you, you have no vision. You are a provincial man. Britain’s empire covers most of the globe, in patches here and there: Britain itself, Gibraltar, Malta, Egypt, Sudan, most of Africa all the way to the Cape, territories in the Middle East, India, Burma, Hong Kong, Shanghai, Borneo, the whole subcontinent of Australia, New Zealand, Canada, and islands in every ocean on Earth. The sun never sets on it.”

Pitt stirred.

Temper flared in Blantyre’s eyes. “Austria is completely different! Apart from the Austrian Netherlands, it stretches in one continuous landmass from parts of Germany in the northwest to Ukraine in the east, south to most of Romania, north again as far down the Adriatic coast as Ragusa, then west through Croatia and northern Italy into Switzerland. There are twelve main languages there, the richest, most original culture, scientific discoveries in every field of human endeavor … but it is fragile!”

His hands jerked up, and apart, as if he were encompassing some kind of explosion with his strong fingers.

“Its genius means that it is also liable to be torn apart by the very nature of the ideas it creates, the individuality of its people. The new nations of Italy and Germany, born in turmoil and still testing their strength, are tearing at the fabric of order. Italy is chaotic; it always has been.”

Pitt smiled in spite of himself.

“Germany is altogether a different matter,” Blantyre went on with intense seriousness. “It is sleek and dangerous. Its government is not chaotic; anything but. It is highly organized and militarily brilliant. It will not be contained against its will for long.”

“Germany is not part of the Austrian Empire,” Pitt pointed out. “It has a language in common, and a certain culture, but not an identity. Austria will never swallow it; it will not allow that.”

“For God’s sake, Pitt, wake up!” Blantyre was nearly shouting now. “If Austria fractures or loses control of its possessions, or if there is an uprising in the east that is successful enough to be dangerous, Vienna will have to make reprisals, or lose everything. If there is trouble in northern Italy it hardly matters, but if it is in one of the Slavic possessions, like Croatia or Serbia, then it will turn to Russia for help. They are blood brothers, and Russia will not need more than an excuse to come to their aid. And then teutonic Germany will have found the justification it needs to take German Austria.”

His voice was growing harsher, as if the nightmare was already happening. “Hungary will secede, and before you know how to stop any of it, you will have a war that will spread like fire until it embroils most of the world. Don’t imagine that England will escape. It won’t. There will be war from Ireland to the Middle East, and from Moscow to North Africa, maybe further. Perhaps all of Africa, because it is British, and then Australia will follow, and New Zealand. Even Canada. Perhaps eventually the United States as well.”

Pitt was stunned by the enormity of it, the horror and the absurdity of the view.

“No one would let that sort of thing happen,” he said soberly. “You are suggesting that one act of violence in the Balkans would end in a conflagration that would consume the world. That’s ridiculous.”

Blantyre took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“Pitt, Austria is the linchpin, the glue that holds together the political body of Europe.” He was staring intently. “It wouldn’t be overnight, but you’d be appalled how quickly it would happen, if Vienna loses control and the constituent parts of the empire turn on one another. Picture a street riot. You must have had to deal with them, in your days on the beat. How many men does it take before the crowd joins in, and every idiot with a grudge, or too much to drink, starts swinging his fists? All the old enmities under the surface smolder and then break out.”

Pitt remembered a time that was very similar to what Blantyre had just described: rage, hysteria, violence spreading outward until it took hold for no reason at all. Too late to regret it afterward, when houses were in ruins and broken glass was everywhere among fire-blackened walls and blood.

Blantyre was watching him. He knew Pitt understood what he was saying.

“There will be a vacuum at the heart,” Blantyre went on. “And however much you like to imagine that Britain is the center of Europe, it isn’t. England’s power lies in pieces, all over the globe. We have no army and no presence at the core of Europe. There will be chaos. The Austrian and German part of Europe will be at the throats of the Slavic northern and eastern parts. There will be a pan-European war, economic ruin, and in the end possibly a new and dominant Germany. Is the peaceful death, in her sleep, of one old woman so important to you in the face of that?”

“That is not the point,” Pitt said quietly, facing Blantyre across the two untouched glasses of whisky. “I have no intention of pursuing Serafina’s death right now. What concerns me is the validity of the information you have given Special Branch regarding Duke Alois, and the apparent threat of his assassination.”

Blantyre raised his eyebrows. “Why should you doubt it? Surely you can see that I, of all people, do not want an Austrian duke assassinated. Why the hell do you think I turned Dragovic over to the Austrians? He was planning the assassination of a particularly brutal local governor. He was a pig of a man, but the vengeance for his death would have been terrible.” He leaned forward, his face twisted with passion. “Think, damn it! Use whatever brain you have. Of course I don’t want Alois assassinated.”

Pitt smiled. “Unless, of course, he is another dissident. Then it would be very convenient if he was killed while he was here in London. Not the Austrians’ fault—it’s all down to the incompetent British, with their Special Branch led by a new man, who’ll swallow any story at all.”

Blantyre sighed wearily. “Is this all about your promotion, and the fact that you don’t think you are fit for the job?”

Pitt clenched his jaw to keep his temper. “It’s about the fact that most of the information we have on the assassination planned here came from you, and that you are a murderer and a liar, whose principal loyalty is to the Habsburg crown, and not the British,” he replied, carefully keeping his voice level. “If Duke Alois was your enemy rather than your friend, you would be perfectly capable of having him murdered wherever it was most convenient to you.”

Blantyre winced, but he did not speak.

“Or alternatively, there is no plot at all,” Pitt continued. “You wanted to keep Special Branch busy, and the police away from investigating the murder of Serafina Montserrat, and then, most regrettably, of your wife. You had to kill Serafina, once you knew she was losing her grip on her mind, and might betray you to Adriana. And you need to survive now, or else how can you be of service in helping Austria keep control of its rapidly crumbling empire, after the suicide of its crown prince, and his replacement by Franz Ferdinand, who the old emperor despises?”

Blantyre’s jaw was tight, his eyes hard.

“A fair estimate,” he said between his teeth. “But you will not know if I am telling the truth or not, will you? You have checked all the information I gave you, or you should have. If you haven’t, then you are a greater fool than I took you to be. Dare you trust it?” He smiled thinly. “You damned well don’t dare ignore it!”

Pitt felt as if the ground were sinking beneath him. Yet the fire still burned gently in the hearth, the flames warming the whisky glasses, which shone a luminous amber.

“Be careful, Pitt,” Blantyre warned. “Consider deeply what you do, after Alois has been here and gone. Assuming you manage to keep him alive, don’t entertain any ideas of arresting me, or bringing me to any kind of trial.” He smiled very slightly. “I visited Serafina quite often, and I listened to her. A good deal of that time she had no idea who I was. But then you know that already. You will have heard it from Lady Vespasia, if nothing else.”

“Of course I know that,” Pitt said tartly. “If you were not afraid of her talking candidly again, to others, you would not have taken the risk of killing her.”

“Quite. I regretted doing it.” Blantyre gave a slight shrug. “She was a magnificent woman, in her time. She knew more secrets about both personal and political indiscretions than anyone else.”

Pitt was aware of a change in the atmosphere: a warmth in Blantyre, a chill in himself.

Blantyre nodded his head fractionally. “She rambled on about all manner of things and people. Some I had already guessed, but much of it was new to me. I had no idea that her circle was so wide: Austrian, Hungarian, Croatian, and Italian were all what I might have imagined. But the others: the French, for example; the German; and of course the British. There were some considerable surprises.” He looked very steadily at Pitt, as if to make certain that Pitt grasped the weight of what he was saying.

Pitt thought of Tregarron, also using Nerissa Freemarsh to disguise his visits to Serafina. What did he fear that could be so much worse than being thought to have an affair with a plain, single woman of no significance, and almost on his own doorstep? It was a despicable use of a vulnerable person whose reputation it would permanently ruin.

“The British Special Branch, and various other diplomatic and intelligence sources, have a record of some very dubious actions,” Blantyre continued. His voice dropped a little. “Some have made them vulnerable to blackmail, with all its shabby consequences. And of course there are also the idealists who set certain values above the narrow love of country. Serafina was another little Englander like you. She kept silent.” He left the suggestion hanging in the air. It was not necessary to spell it out.

Pitt stared at him. He had no doubt whatsoever that Blantyre meant everything he was saying. There was a confidence in him, an arrogance that filled the room.

Blantyre was smiling broadly. “Victor Narraway would have killed me,” he said with almost a kind of relish. “You won’t. You don’t have the courage. You may think of it, but the guilt would cripple you.

“I like you, Pitt,” he said with intense sincerity, his voice thick with emotion. “You are an intelligent, imaginative, and compassionate man. You have quite a nice sense of humor. But in the end, you haven’t the steel in your soul to act outside what is predictable, and comfortable. You are essentially bourgeois, just like my father.”

He took a deep breath. “Now you had better go and make sure you save Duke Alois. You can’t afford to have him shot in England.”

Pitt rose to his feet and left without speaking. There was no answer that had any meaning.

Outside he walked along the windy street. He was chilled and shivering in spite of the sun, which sat low in the sky, giving off a clean-edged, late winter light. Was Blantyre right? Would Narraway have shot Blantyre? Would he find himself unable to do the same, standing with a pistol in his hand, unable to kill in cold blood a man he knew, and had liked?

He did not know the answer. He was not even certain what he wanted the truth to be. If he could do such a thing, what would he gain? And what would he lose? His children might never know anything about it, but it would still be a barrier between them and him.

And what ruthlessness would Charlotte see in him, which she had not seen before, and had not wanted to? Or Vespasia? Or anyone? Above all these, what would he learn about himself? How would it change him from who he was now? Was Blantyre right that his inner comfort was what he cared about most, in the end?

He was walking rapidly, not certain where he was going. He was less than half a mile from the part of the Foreign Office where Jack worked. There were no secrets left about Blantyre. Pitt knew the worst. But the resolution as to what to do was lost in the turmoil of his own mind.

VESPASIA KNEW FROM THE moment Victor Narraway came into her sitting room that he had serious news. His face was pinched with anxiety, and he looked cold, even though it was a comparatively mild evening.

Without realizing she was doing so, she rose to greet him.

“What is it, Victor? What has happened?”

His hands were chill when he took hers, briefly, but she did not pull away.

“I have learned something further about Serafina, which I am afraid may be more serious than I had supposed. Tregarron visited Dorchester Terrace several times. I thought at first it was primarily to see Nerissa …”

“Nerissa?” For an instant she wanted to laugh at the idea, then the impulse died. “Really? It seems an eccentric idea. Are you sure?”

“No, I’m not sure. Men do sometimes have the oddest tastes in affairs. But now I believe that Nerissa was the excuse and Serafina the reason.”

“She was at least a generation older than he, and there is no proof, in fact, not even a suggestion, that they knew each other,” she pointed out.

“But his father knew Serafina,” Narraway said grimly, watching her face. “Very well.”

“Oh. Oh, dear. Yes, I see. And you are assuming that perhaps Serafina was indiscreet about that too. Or perhaps others were able to deduce that the present Lord Tregarron was visiting for fear of her saying something unfortunate. Who is he protecting, though? His father’s reputation? Is his mother still alive?”

“Yes. She is very old, but apparently quite clear in her mind.” His expression was sad and gentle. “What a devil of a burden it is to know so many secrets. How much safer it would be to understand nothing, to see all manner of things before you, and never add it up so you perceive the meaning.”

It was not necessary for either of them to say more. Each carried his or her own burden of knowledge, differently gained but perhaps equally heavy.

They sat by the fire for a few more moments, then he rose and wished her good night.

But when he left, going out into the mild, blustery wind, Vespasia remained sitting beside the last of the fire, thinking about what he had said. Of course Tregarron would rather his mother never heard of her husband’s affair with Serafina, on the assumption that she did not already know. But it did not seem a sufficient motive for Tregarron to make quite so many visits to see Serafina; surely there was something else, possibly something about that affair uglier and more dangerous than just unfaithfulness?

She must make her own inquiries. The day after tomorrow Duke Alois Habsburg would land in Dover. There was no time to spare for subtlety. It was not a thought she wished to face, but she knew who she must ask for this possibly dangerous piece of knowledge. She had reached the point where the price of evasion would be greater than that of asking.

VESPASIA ALIGHTED IN CAVENDISH Square the next morning at a quarter to ten. It had been a long time—over two decades—since she had last seen Bishop Magnus Collier. He was a little older than she, and had retired several years earlier.

The footman who answered the door had no idea who she was. She offered her card, telling him that she was an old acquaintance and the matter was of extreme urgency.

He looked doubtful.

“His lordship would not be amused should you leave me standing on the step in the street,” she said coldly.

He invited her in and, in a manner no more than civil, showed her to a morning room where the fire was not yet lit. It was fifteen very cool minutes before he returned, pink-faced, and conducted her into the bishop’s study. There, the fire was burning well, and the warmth in the air wrapped around her comfortingly.

She accepted the offer of tea, and occupied herself looking at the rows of bookshelves. Many of the titles she was familiar with from long ago, though they were works she had never read herself. She found the writings of most of the very early Church fathers more than a trifle pompous.

She heard the door open and close and turned to find Bishop Collier standing just inside, a curious smile on his lean face. He was very thin, and far grayer than when they had last met, but the warmth in his eyes had not changed.

“All my life it has been a pleasure to see you,” he said quietly. “But I am concerned that you say it is a matter of such urgency. It must be, to bring you here, after our last parting. What can I do to help?”

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, and she meant it. The impossible feelings they had once had for each other were no longer there, but it had still been wise for them to decide not to meet again. They had to consider the perceptions of the outside world.

He gestured toward the chairs near the fire and they both sat. She arranged her skirts with a practiced hand, in a single, graceful movement.

“Perhaps you read that Serafina Montserrat died recently?” she began.

“Time is catching up with us rather more rapidly than I expected,” he said ruefully. “But perhaps that is its nature, and ours is to be taken by surprise by what was utterly predictable. But I’m sure you did not come to discuss the nature of time and its peculiar elastic qualities. I hope her passing was easy. She was a remarkable woman. She would have faced death with courage. I would be surprised if it had the temerity to inconvenience her overmuch.”

Vespasia smiled in spite of herself. She was reminded sharply of what it was in him that she had liked so much, and why they had decided to stay apart.

“I think it was simply a matter of going to sleep and not waking again,” she replied. “The part of it that brings me here is that the sleep was the result of having been given a massive overdose of laudanum.”

All the light vanished from his face. He leaned forward a little. “Are you saying that it was given to her without her knowledge, or that she took it herself, intending to die? I find the latter very difficult to believe.”

“No, that isn’t what I am saying. She rambled in her mind, sometimes forgot what year it was, or to whom she was speaking, which caused her profound anxiety. She was worried she would accidentally let slip a confidence that could do much damage.” She recalled the terror on Serafina’s face with acute pain. “She did make such slips, and she was murdered because of it.”

He shook his head. “Are you certain beyond doubt?”

“Yes. But that is not why I have come. My concern is with one of the secrets she let slip, and the damage it could cause now.”

“What can I do to help?” He looked puzzled.

“The secret concerns an affair she had very many years ago, with the late Lord Tregarron.” She stopped, seeing the change in his face, the sudden darkness. It would be impossible now for him to deny that he was bitterly aware of what it was she was going to ask.

“I cannot repeat to you things that were told to me in confidence,” he said. “Surely you know better than to ask?”

“There is a very slight deviousness in you, Magnus,” she said with a curve of her lips that was almost a smile. “Anything Tregarron might have told you may be confidential, although the man has been dead for years. What Serafina told you, though, I doubt was in the nature of confession. Is keeping confidence about an old affair really so very important that we can allow it to cost a man his life now? And, if the worst comes to pass, it may be more than one life at stake.”

“Surely you are exaggerating?” he demurred, but there was no conviction in his eyes.

This time she did smile. “You are not built for deceit, Magnus.”

“What is it that you imagine I am hiding, Vespasia?” he asked.

“A truth that is a great deal uglier than a mere indiscretion,” she replied.

“He was married,” he pointed out reasonably. “It was a betrayal of his vows to his wife.”

“Would you excommunicate him for it?” She raised her silver eyebrows curiously.

“Of course not! And I daresay he repented. I do not have the right to assume that he did not.”

“Of course you don’t,” she agreed. “So we may dispense with the fiction that it had anything to do with that.”

“But it did, I assure you,” he said immediately.

“A sophistry, Magnus. I gather it sprang from that. By having an affair with Serafina he laid himself open to blackmail. He may have wished profoundly at the time to keep the matter secret. He was in a senior diplomatic position in Vienna. It would have made his discretion severely suspect.”

His gaze wavered for an instant. “I cannot tell you, Vespasia.”

“You do not need to, my dear. I can deduce it for myself. Now that I know where to look, I can inform the appropriate people.”

“I believe Victor Narraway is no longer in office,” he observed, this time meeting her gaze squarely.

“That is true. His place has been taken by Thomas Pitt, who is married to my grandniece. I have known Thomas for years. His brother-in-law is Jack Radley, who is assistant to the present Lord Tregarron.”

“Vespasia! Please …” he began, then stopped.

“I assume it was treason of which his father was guilty?” she said so quietly it was almost a whisper.

“I cannot say,” he answered, but his face showed that she was right.

She stood up slowly. “I’m sorry. You deserved better from me than this. Were it not now a matter of treason, and more murder yet to come, I would not have asked.”

He rose also. “You always had the better of me, in the end.”

“It was not a battle, Magnus. I understood you more than you did me, because your beliefs were never hidden. It is a good way to be. I am glad you have not changed. That is your victory; don’t regard it as anything else.”

He smiled, but his eyes were still grave. “Be careful, Vespasia. Although I suppose that is a foolish thing to say. You haven’t changed either.”

VESPASIA HAD NO DOUBT now what she must do. She would have liked to have seen Jack at his rooms in the Foreign Office, but she could not go there without Tregarron being aware of it. Instead she would have to speak to Emily, and hope to impress on her the desperate urgency of what she had to say.

As it transpired, Emily was not at home. Vespasia had to either wait for her or leave and return again in the late afternoon. She went home and used her telephone—an instrument of which she was becoming increasingly fond. However, on this most urgent occasion it did not help her. She failed to contact Victor Narraway, or Charlotte, and she did not dare spark curiosity or alarm by trying to reach Jack.

So, in the end, she returned to Emily’s home at five o’clock. She had only half an hour to wait before Emily herself arrived.

“Aunt Vespasia!” She was instantly concerned. “The butler tells me you called this morning as well. Is everything all right? What has happened? It … it isn’t Jack, is it?” Now she was afraid.

“No, not at all. As far as I know Jack is perfectly well, at least so far,” Vespasia replied. “But there is a situation of which he is unaware, which may endanger him very badly, unless he acts now. It will not be easy, but I am afraid circumstances may not allow him the luxury of waiting.”

“What?” Emily demanded. “What is it?”

“When do you expect him home?”

Emily glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantel. “In half an hour, maybe a little more. Can you not tell me what it is?”

“Not yet. Perhaps you would care for a cup of tea while we wait?” Vespasia suggested.

Emily apologized for her oversight in hospitality and rang the bell for the maid. When she had requested the tea, she paced the floor, unable to relax. Vespasia thought of asking her to desist, and then changed her mind.

When Jack got home, the butler informed him of the situation. He stopped only to hand his overcoat to the footman before he went to the withdrawing room.

He saw Emily at the window. She swung around to face him as soon as she heard the door. Vespasia was sitting on the sofa before the fire. The remnants of cookies and tea were on the tray, Emily’s un-drunk.

“Is it something serious?” Jack said, as soon as he had greeted them both.

“I am afraid it is,” Vespasia replied. “If Emily is to remain, then she will have to give her word that she will repeat no part of this to anyone at all, not even Charlotte or Thomas. And in my opinion it would be better if she left.”

“I’m staying,” Emily said firmly.

“You are not,” Jack responded. “If I think it is wise, I shall tell you afterward. Thank you for keeping Aunt Vespasia company until I arrived.”

Emily drew in her breath to argue. Then she looked again at his face, and obediently left the room. On the way out, she instructed the footman to see that no one intruded into the withdrawing room for any reason.

Briefly, and with as few explanations as she could manage, Vespasia told Jack what she had learned.

He stood by the fire, his mind racing, his whole body feeling battered. He wanted to cry out that it was impossible: only a collection of circumstances that did not fit together and, in the end, meant nothing at all.

But even as the words formed in his mouth, he knew that it was not so. There were other things that Vespasia did not know, but that fit into place like the last pieces of a jigsaw: the way Tregarron had dismissed Pitt, the contradictions in the reports that Jack had tried not to see. The small items of information that had turned up with people who should not have known them.

“I’m sorry,” Vespasia said quietly. “I know you believed that Tregarron was a good man, and that it was a considerable promotion for you to assist him as closely as you do. But he will be brought down, Jack, sooner or later. You must see to it that you do not go down with him. Treason is not a forgivable offense.”

But Jack’s mind was already elsewhere. Tomorrow Alois Habsburg was due to arrive in Dover. Pitt would go there tonight to be on the train with him when he came up to London. Tregarron had left the office at midday. There was no decision to be made. Of course Tregarron had denied that there was going to be an attempt on Alois’s life—he was the one who was going to make it!

“I’m going to warn Thomas,” he said, his voice shaking. “I must go immediately. We’ll leave for Dover tonight. Please tell Emily.” He turned and strode toward the door.

“Jack!” Vespasia called after him.

“I have no time to stay. I’m sorry!”

“I know you don’t,” she replied. “My carriage is at the door. Take it.”

“Thank you,” he said over his shoulder. He ran out onto the footpath and looked for the carriage. It was only a few yards away. He called out to the coachman and gave Pitt’s home address. Then he stopped. Should he go to Lisson Grove?

“Sir?” The coachman waited for his confirmation.

“No—right! Keppel Street.” Jack scrambled into the carriage and it pulled away from the curb. He sat white-knuckled while they raced through the streets. It was not far, but it seemed as if they must’ve crossed half of London.

They skated to a stop. He flung the door open and strode over the pavement. He knocked on the door, which was opened by Minnie Maude.

“Yes, sir?”

“Is Commander Pitt at home?”

“No, sir. I’m afraid yer just missed ’im.”

“Has he gone to Lisson Grove?”

“No, sir. ’E’s gone ter the railway station.”

“How long ago? Quickly!”

“Quarter of an hour, sir. Mrs. Pitt’s at ’ome, if you’d like to see her.”

“No … thank you.” He swung around and went back to the carriage. He was too late. There was nothing he could do now but go home and get money, and perhaps a swordstick from the library, and go down to Dover himself.