Dorchester Terrace

PITT’S OFFICE WAS WARM and comfortable. The fire burned well, and every time it sank down, he put more coal on it. Outside the rain beat against the windows, sharp with the occasional hail. Gray clouds chased across the sky, gathering and then shredding apart as the wind tore through them. Down in the street passing vehicles sent sprays of water up from the gutters, drenching careless pedestrians walking too close to the curb.

Pitt looked at the pile of papers on his desk. They were the same routine reports that greeted him every day, but if he did not read them, he might miss one thread that was different, an omission or cross-reference that indicates a change, a connection not made before. There were patterns that anything less than the minutest care would not disclose, and those patterns might be the only warning of a betrayal or an attack to come.

He was disturbed in the rhythm of his reading by a sharp rap on the door. He turned the page down reluctantly.

“Come,” he answered.

The door opened and Stoker came in, closing it silently behind him. His face was difficult to read, as usual. Pitt had learned to interpret his agitation or excitement by studying the way he moved, the ease or stiffness in his body, and the angle of his shoulders. Now he judged Stoker to be alert and a trifle apprehensive.

“What is it?” he asked, gesturing toward the chair opposite his desk.

Stoker sat obediently. “Maybe nothing,” he replied.

“If it was nothing, you wouldn’t be here,” Pitt pointed out. He trusted Stoker’s instincts. He was the only one who had believed in Narraway when Narraway had been accused of treason in the O’Neil case. Everyone else had believed only what the evidence seemed to show them. Stoker had had the courage to risk not only his career but also his life to work secretly with Pitt against those who had corrupted and usurped the power. It was Stoker who had saved Pitt’s life in the desperate struggle at the end.

Stoker’s mastery of small observations was acute. He heard the evasions that skirted around a lie, saw the smile that indicated nervousness, the tiny signs of vanity in a conspicuous watch chain, a folded silk handkerchief a shade too bright, the overly casual manner that concealed a far better acquaintance than that admitted to.

“What is it?” Pitt insisted.

Stoker frowned. “Down Dover way. There have been a few questions about railway signals and points.”

“Railway points?” Pitt was puzzled. “You mean where the tracks join, or branch? What specifically is being asked? Are you sure it’s not just routine maintenance?”

Stoker’s face was grim. “Yes. It’s a stranger, asking about how the signals work, where they’re controlled from, can it be done by hand, that sort of thing. Thought it might just be some fellow wanting to explain it to his son, at first. But there have been questions about timetables, the freight trains and passenger trains from Dover to London, and branch lines as well, as if someone wanted to figure out where they cross.”

Pitt thought for a moment or two. Some of the possibilities were ugly. “And you’re sure it’s the same man asking?”

“That’s a bit hard to tell. Extremely ordinary-looking, except he had very pale, clear eyes. The man who asked about the freight trains had on spectacles. Couldn’t see his eyes.”

“And the man who asked about the signals and points?” Pitt asked, a tiny knot of anxiety beginning to tighten in his stomach.

“Different hair, as much as you could see under his hat. Doesn’t mean anything. Anybody can put a wig on.”

“What’s being moved in and out of Dover on the lines he asked about?” Pitt pressed.

“I looked into that. Heavy industrial stuff, mostly. Some coal. Fish. Nothing worth stealing, not with a rail crash anyway.”

Pitt thought for a moment. “And you said he asked about passenger trains as well?”

“From Dover to London. Think it’s some passenger they could be after?” Stoker asked.

“It’s a lot of trouble to go through for one passenger,” Pitt replied. “It sounds more like some kind of anarchist thinking to create a major disaster, just to show us that he can.”

“What for?” Stoker was frowning, puzzled. “Couldn’t even pretend there’s any idealism or political motive in that.”

“That’s what worries me,” Pitt admitted. “It doesn’t make sense. We haven’t understood it yet. But you’re right, there’s something planned, even if this is just a distraction, something to keep us occupied so we miss the real thing. But we can’t ignore it. And if, as you say, someone is prepared to cause a train crash just to kill one person, then it has to be someone of overwhelming importance.”

Stoker moved his thin, strong hands in a very slight gesture of helplessness. “Whatever they are planning, it would have to be soon. They wouldn’t want to risk a change in the timetables wrecking their plan.”

Pitt took a deep breath, and suddenly the room felt colder, even though the fire was still burning and the windows were still closed.

“So who could it be?” he asked. “Who’s coming from Dover to London in the next couple of months? Who would anarchists want to kill?”

“Nobody that matters, far as I can tell.” Stoker shook his head. “Some Russian count is coming to stay for a private visit. Might be visiting some of our royal family at the same time, I suppose. One or two politicians, but no one important: a Frenchman and an American. Can’t see why any of them would be worth killing, especially here. Probably far easier to do it at home, if you wanted to. Oh, one minor Austrian duke, Duke Alois, but he doesn’t hold any office, and he’d be easy enough to kill in Vienna. And whoever did it could escape there. Whole of Europe to go to. We’re an island: A foreigner would stick out like a sore thumb, unless he hid in one of the immigrant communities in London. But why bother? It makes no sense.”

“Then this is to divert us from something else,” Pitt answered. “Something more important.”

Stoker nodded, his jaw tight. “More important than a foreign count or duke being assassinated right here in London, under our noses?”

“Well, if it’s a diversion, that’s the point,” Pitt said grimly. “They can’t hold our attention unless they do something drastic. Keep looking. And tell me what you find.”

Stoker rose to his feet. “Yes, sir. Maybe it’s a dry run to see if we pick it up?”

“I thought of that,” Pitt agreed. “Learn everything you can. But discreetly.”

When Stoker was gone, Pitt sat back in his chair and considered. Many cases in the past had begun as a whisper, a rumor that seemed trivial at first, a fact that didn’t quite fit, an alliance that was outside the usual pattern. Narraway had years of experience in seeing the anomaly that was the first indication of a new plot, or an attack on a new target.

Until his arrival at Special Branch, Pitt had been used to being called in only after a crime had been committed. He then worked backward to unravel it, the history, the motives, and the proof of guilt that would stand up at trial. It was a new discipline for him to be faced with an event before it occurred, and to be responsible for preventing it.

Did those who had appointed him in Narraway’s place really have any understanding of exactly the skills involved in this process? Had they misjudged Pitt’s abilities because they had seen Narraway’s successes, and had known that Pitt had contributed to most of the later ones? Could they be so naive?

He had a gnawing fear in the pit of his stomach that they could be.

His own judgment had sometimes been desperately flawed. He had been taken in completely during the whole O’Neil affair; he had been just as duped as the rest of them, until close to the end. And he had believed Narraway innocent out of personal loyalty, which had nothing to do with reason, logic, or ability.

He thought of Narraway’s Irish past, the tragedies and compromises, the things Narraway had done that Pitt would not have. Narraway was subtler, more experienced, and infinitely more devious than Pitt, a loose cannon, whereas Pitt was predictable. And yet even Narraway had come within an inch of being ruined, despite all his skill and experience.

Was Special Branch itself on trial now? Was that the crux of it? Was this all part of a larger plan to ultimately proclaim it a failure and get rid of Special Branch altogether? Pitt knew that even within the government, not everyone wanted them to succeed.

Pitt made it his first priority to learn whatever he could regarding possible assassination targets. If the intended victim was indeed someone visiting a member of the royal family, then the minister in the Foreign Office responsible for Central and Eastern Europe would be a good person to begin his inquiries with. Accordingly, he was at Lord Tregarron’s office a little after half-past two. If there was anything in the rumor, then foiling the plot was a matter of urgency. An assassination on British soil would be one of the most acute embarrassments imaginable, whoever the victim was.

He was still a trifle self-conscious announcing himself as Commander Pitt of Special Branch, but he managed to hide it. He was received with courtesy by a smart young man, who was presumably a secretary of some sort, and who invited him to wait in a very comfortable room.

The armchairs were of brown leather, and there were newspapers and quarterly magazines on the table before a briskly burning fire. He was even offered whisky, which he declined. The secretary made no move toward the tantalus on the sideboard when he offered, as if he had expected Pitt to refuse.

“Right, sir,” he said smoothly. “We’ll not keep you longer than we have to.”

Ten minutes later it was not the secretary who returned, nor Lord Tregarron himself, but Jack Radley. He came in and closed the door behind him. He was dressed in a black coat and striped trousers. He looked extraordinarily elegant, and slightly uncomfortable.

“Good afternoon, Thomas,” he said with a half-smile. “I assume this must be important for you to have come here in person. May I tell Lord Tregarron what it concerns?”

Pitt was a trifle taken aback. He had not expected to have to explain his errand to anyone else, but he had not called on Tregarron before. Perhaps he should have foreseen it.

“I urgently need some information on visitors any of the royal family may be expecting from overseas within the next month or so,” he replied a little stiffly.

Jack’s eyes widened, curious but unconcerned. “Anyone in particular?”

“I don’t know. That is what I have come to ask. It might be either official or private.”

“Is there some concern for Her Majesty?” Now Jack looked more anxious. “Special Branch doesn’t usually bother Lord Tregarron with this sort of thing.”

“Not so far as I know,” Pitt replied a little coolly. He had heard Jack’s implied criticism that he was wasting their time. “My information suggests that the danger may be to the visitor, but it could be extremely unpleasant either way. I need to speak to Lord Tregarron as soon as possible.”

Jack nodded. “I’ll inform him.” He turned and left, closing the door behind him with a click.

Pitt waited, pacing back and forth across the deep red Turkish carpet, until Jack returned several minutes later, alone. Pitt started toward the door, but instead of opening it for them both to leave, Jack closed it again.

“This seems rather general,” Jack said unhappily. His finger was still on the handle, his body blocking the way out. “What is it that makes you believe there is some threat? You made it sound as if it could come from almost any quarter. Who do you suspect, and of what, precisely? If I could take that information to Lord Tregarron, he might be able to help you.”

Pitt was not easily ruffled. Years in the police had taught him the virtue of patience, and also that when people are shocked or frightened, they often react aggressively. However, this faintly patronizing tone from Jack, of all people, was as abrasive as vinegar on a cut.

“You make it sound as if I’m looking for some kind of personal favor to help me out of a predicament,” Pitt said tartly. “It is Special Branch’s duty to prevent any assassination attempts on British soil, and doing so is as much in the interest of the Foreign Office as it is in Special Branch’s.”

Jack paled and the skin across his cheekbones tightened. “An assassination attempt? Is that likely?”

“I don’t know! Because I don’t know who’s visiting, apart from the official government list.”

Jack stiffened. “Exactly what do you know, Thomas? I’ll see how it squares with the information we have. After all the recent problems with Special Branch, you must understand why Lord Tregarron is cautious.” There were spots of color on Jack’s cheeks, but his gaze did not waver.

“That is why I came in person,” Pitt said between his teeth. He was on the verge of adding that if Tregarron didn’t trust him, then he had better ask the prime minister to have Pitt replaced, because nothing would ever get done. Then he realized how childish that would have sounded, and how appallingly vulnerable. Had he heard someone else say such a thing, he would have immediately seen their weakness.

He took a breath and spoke more levelly. “I am aware of the delicacy of the situation, and Special Branch’s one recent near failure,” he said, faintly emphasizing the word “near.” “I would remind Lord Tregarron that in the end we succeeded—rather spectacularly.”

Jack stood motionless. “I will remind him. He will still want to know the details behind your concern. What shall I tell him?”

Pitt was prepared. He had expected to answer to Tregarron personally, but he could see that it was going to have to be through Jack. He outlined what Stoker had told him.

“It doesn’t seem like much,” Jack said gravely.

“By the time it does seem like much, it will be too late to deal with it quickly and discreetly,” Pitt pointed out. “You might mention that also. Special Branch’s job is not to stage dramatic rescues. It is, if possible, to avoid the danger and embarrassment in the first place.”

Jack bit his lip. “I’ll go and tell him. Please wait.”

Again Pitt was too restless to sit in any of the chairs, comfortable as they were. He stood by the window, then paced, then stared out the window again at the busy street below. The blustering wind whipped at coattails, caught umbrellas, and endangered hats. He could imagine the hiss and splash as the wheels of passing carriages sent arcs of muddy water up into the air behind them.

It was a quarter of an hour later when Jack finally reappeared. This time he looked distinctly embarrassed.

“I’m sorry, but we can offer no practical help. Lord Tregarron says that he has considered the information you passed to us, and he does not feel that it refers to any of the private visits of which we are aware, nor does it seem connected to any of the anarchist groups in Europe of which we know. In his opinion, it is no more than careless gossip, and there is no need for you to be anxious.”

He gave a bleak smile. “He asked me to convey to you his thanks for passing on your concern, and for taking the trouble to come personally, especially in view of recent past events.” He seemed about to add something further, then changed his mind. Perhaps a glance at Pitt’s face told him that he was already beyond the point of condescension.

Pitt felt acutely like the policeman he had once been, whom well-trained butlers would send to the servants’ entrance when he had been bold enough to knock on the front door. As if they felt that the gamekeeper’s son was putting on the airs of a gentleman and needed to be put in his place.

What would Narraway have done in this situation? The answer was obvious: He would not have been in this situation. Tregarron would have seen him, regardless of what he thought of the evidence.

Or would Narraway have been confident enough to judge the entire situation more accurately, and thus not needed Tregarron’s opinion? Was that where Pitt had failed?

“Thank you for attempting to help,” Pitt said coolly. “I shall have to acquire the information from some other source. This has been a waste of time, but it seems that neither you nor I have the power to avoid that. Good day.”

Jack started to say something, then changed his mind. He was pale, but his cheeks were flushed. He opened the door for Pitt, who went out and into the long corridor without looking back.

JACK WATCHED PITT UNTIL he was out of sight, then returned to Tregarron’s office, knocking lightly. He was answered immediately.

Tregarron looked up from his desk, the question on his face.

Jack closed the door behind him. He found this embarrassing. Pitt was his brother-in-law, and he both liked and respected him. But he knew something of the circumstances of Pitt’s promotion to Narraway’s position, and how close the whole affair had come to disaster. He knew that Pitt must be nervous now, perhaps leaning too far toward caution, afraid of missing a clue, and consequently overreaching himself, and his authority. If he became officious, he would make enemies.

“I think he was just being careful, sir,” he said to Tregarron.

Tregarron smiled, but it was tight-lipped. “Don’t let him be a nuisance over this, Radley. If people realize he’s jumpy, they may start to imagine that there’s something real behind it. We can’t have Europe thinking we don’t know what we’re doing. Keep a tight rein on him, will you?”

Jack stood very straight. “Yes, sir.” He considered adding something more, then thought better of it. He was new to his position too. Tregarron was one of the most dynamic figures in the Foreign Office. He had clearly taken a liking to Jack, much to Emily’s delight.

He sincerely hoped Emily had had no hand in his promotion. It was extremely important to him to succeed on his own merit.

Early in their marriage, he had been content to live very comfortably on the wealth Emily had inherited from George Ashworth, but as time had gone by he had become less happy with it. Possibly that was due in part to the sense of purpose he saw in Pitt, and Charlotte’s confidence in him because of it. He wanted Emily to look at him with the same regard: a regard born of belief, not duty.

Tregarron cleared his throat impatiently.

Jack smiled. “Yes, sir, I’ll see that he doesn’t embarrass himself, or us.”

“Thank you,” Tregarron said. “You’d better look over those papers from the German ambassador.”

AFTER DINNER THAT EVENING, Pitt sat in the parlor in the big chair opposite Charlotte. The gaslight was bright, and the heavy velvet curtains were closed. The fire burned well, and the sound of the wind in the trees outside, mixed with the faint spatter of rain on the glass, was oddly comfortable. They were discussing moving house, but seemed to be deciding against it, at least for the time being.

“Are you sure you don’t want to?” he asked, looking at her. She was mending one of Jemima’s dresses. The faint click of the needle against her thimble was the only sound from inside the room, except for the whisper of the flames. “We could afford it,” he added.

“I know.” She smiled. “The job is enough change for the moment.”

“You mean, it might not last?” he interpreted, recalling Jack’s stiff figure standing by the door, relaying Tregarron’s dismissal. Should he tell Charlotte about it? Not being able to discuss his concerns was the highest price of his promotion. It left him alone, in a way he had not been used to in fourteen years of marriage. He tried to put the warmth back into his eyes, to take the sting—and perhaps the fear—out of his words. She was just as sharply aware as he was that if he failed he would not be able to go back into the ranks again, that there was nowhere else for him. He had no private means, unlike Narraway or Radley.

“No,” Charlotte said firmly, looking up and meeting his eyes. “I mean that I like this house and I’m not ready to leave it yet—if I ever will be. We’ve had a lot of good times here, and bad—or they’ve looked bad for a while. Victor Narraway, Aunt Vespasia, Gracie, and you and I have sat up all night in the kitchen, and fought some desperate battles.” She shook her head a little, ignoring her sewing. “A new house would be empty in comparison. And I’m not ready to let the old ones go. Are you?”

“No, perhaps I’m not.” He smiled, feeling the warmth blossom inside him. “Every time I go down the corridor to the kitchen I see Gracie standing on tiptoe, still a couple of inches too short to reach the plates on the top of the dresser. I’m not used to seeing Minnie Maude, five inches taller. But she’s a good girl. You’re happy with her, aren’t you?”

“I’ll always miss Gracie, but yes, I am,” she said with certainty. “And Daniel and Jemima like her, which is almost as important.” Then she frowned, aware that something was wrong. She was uncertain whether he was not telling her because it was confidential, or because he did not want to spoil the evening. She could read the tension in him as easily as if he had spoken. For more than fourteen years they had been friends, as well as husband and wife. He kept all manner of secrets from the government, the police, and the general population, but he kept only the most specific, confidential details from her.

She saw in his eyes that he had made a sudden decision.

“I saw Jack today,” he said, after a moment.

Charlotte waited, watching his face, reading the conflicting emotions.

“I had to see Tregarron about something, or at least try to,” he went on. “But he sent Jack for me to report to, and relay his replies back.”

“Jack’s new promotion,” she said with a little tightening of her lips. “I think Emily’s prouder of it than he is.”

“Did she push him into it?” he asked.

“Possibly.” A shadow crossed her face. “Was he arrogant?”

Pitt relaxed at last, allowing his shoulders to ease and his body to sink into the familiar shape of the chair. “Not really. I was annoyed because I was damn sure Tregarron wouldn’t have dismissed Narraway like that, but I think I went to them with too little information. Tregarron didn’t believe there was any cause for concern, and it may well be that he is right. I need to know a lot more. I should have waited. Narraway would have.”

“And you expect to walk in and be as good in your first year as he was after twenty?” she asked, her eyebrows raised.

“I need to be,” he said quietly. “Or at least as near as makes no visible difference.”

“He failed sometimes as well, Thomas. He wasn’t always right.”

“I know.” He did know, but that did not ease his anxiety, or change the fact that he knew what failure would cost not just him, but the entire Branch.

CHARLOTTE LEFT HOME AT nine o’clock the following morning, stepping out onto the pavement feeling a trifle self-conscious in her new riding habit. She looked extremely smart in it, which she was happily aware of, but it had been a long time since she had worn such a flattering and rather rakish outfit. It had not been possible until lately. Money had been reserved for essentials, which this most certainly was not, especially when one had children who seemed to grow out of every piece of clothing within months.

A week ago she had agreed to meet Emily in Rotten Row in Hyde Park, to spend an hour or two on horseback. Accordingly she now walked briskly toward Russell Square, where she was certain she could find a hansom cab. The wind had dropped, and there was a very slight frost in the air. It was a perfect winter morning for a ride.

However, when she alighted in Hyde Park she felt far less enthusiastic than she had expected to when the arrangement had been made. She could not put from her mind Pitt’s conversation about his meeting with Jack in Lord Tregarron’s office.

The trees of the park were bare, a fretwork of black lace against the sky. The earth of the long bridle path was already churned up by hooves, and the grass beyond was the strange, almost turquoise color that the frost crystals lent it. In the distance there were at least twenty riders already out: women sidesaddle, graceful in perfectly cut habits; men riding astride, some of them in military uniform.

The sound of laughter drifted on the slight breeze; she also heard the jingle of harnesses and the thud of hooves as a horse broke into a canter.

Charlotte walked across the hard, frosty earth toward the group of horses still held by their grooms, and she wondered how much of the previous day’s encounter Jack had relayed to Emily. Did he consider his work also to be bound by secrecy? More probably he had imagined that she would hear of it from Charlotte today, and would have prepared her for that, regardless of protocol.

She saw Emily standing by her horse. She was easily distinguishable from the other women there by her slenderness, and the gleam of winter light on her knot of fair hair, visible beneath the brim of her exquisite riding hat, which was like a shallower version of a gentleman’s top hat, its brim slightly curled. Charlotte estimated the cost of it, and felt a flicker of envy.

She walked onto the gravel, which crunched under her boots.

Emily turned. She saw Charlotte and immediately started toward her.

“Good morning,” she said with a tentative smile, her eyes searching Charlotte’s. “Are you ready to ride?”

“Very much,” Charlotte replied. “I’ve been looking forward to it.” It was a strangely stilted conversation, nothing like the ease and good humor they usually shared.

Side by side, without meeting glances, they walked back to the grooms standing with the animals. They mounted and moved out at a walk. They nodded to other riders they passed, but did not speak to anyone, as there was no one with whom they were acquainted.

The longer the silence lasted, the more difficult it would be to break it. Charlotte knew she must say something, even if it was completely trivial. Words often meant little; it was the act of speaking that mattered.

“We’ve been thinking about moving,” she began. “Thomas asked me if I would like to, but I’m fond of the house on Keppel Street. A lot of important things have happened while we’ve been there, memories I like to live with, or at least I don’t want to let go of yet.”

Emily looked sideways at her. “But wouldn’t you like to live somewhere slightly larger? Perhaps on one of the squares? Or do you think it’s just a little early to move?” She meant, was Charlotte certain that Pitt would measure up to the job?

For a moment Charlotte did not answer. She was the elder, but she would always be socially the junior because of Pitt’s humble beginnings, and because Emily had a wealth Charlotte could never even dream of.

Emily colored uncomfortably and looked away, fussing with her reins as though she needed to guide her horse along this safe, flat, fine gravel and earthen path.

“It is always a good idea not to take success for granted,” Charlotte replied levelly. “Then, if one does fail, one has so much less distance to fall.” She saw Emily’s expression tighten. “But actually, I simply meant that I am not yet ready to leave a house so full of happy memories. I have no intention of entertaining, so we don’t require the extra rooms.”

“Surely you’ll have to entertain?” Emily asked. “And anyway, it’s such fun!” A smile flickered across her face.

“Yes, we will have to entertain. But only friends,” Charlotte said quickly, keeping her horse even with Emily’s. “And our friends are perfectly content with Keppel Street.”

“But in Thomas’s new position he will be expected to entertain people who are not necessarily your friends.” Emily raised her fair eyebrows. “There are certain social obligations with promotions, you know? Head of Special Branch is a great deal more than just a policeman, even a gifted one. You will have to get used to speaking easily to government ministers, ambassadors, and all kinds of other ambitious and useful people.”

“I doubt we would ever be able to afford a house fit to entertain people like that,” Charlotte said drily. “It’s a promotion, not an inheritance.”

Emily winced. “I didn’t realize you felt so badly about it. I’m sorry.”

Charlotte reined in her horse. “It?” she questioned.

Emily stopped too. “Money. Isn’t that what we’re talking about?”

“It’s what you’re talking about,” Charlotte corrected her. “I was talking about living in a house where I’m comfortable, rather than buying a bigger one that I don’t need and that is a strange place to me, without familiarity or memories. I’m not you, Emily, and I don’t want the same things.”

“Don’t be so pompous!” Emily snapped back. “This is really about Jack having to tell Thomas he couldn’t see Lord Tregarron, isn’t it?” Her tone was challenging, almost daring Charlotte to deny it.

“Well, if we’re speaking of pompous …” Charlotte began.

“It was not—”

“Really?” Charlotte cut across her. “Well, it seems you know far more about it than I do. But then Thomas’s work is secret. He can’t tell anyone, even me.” She urged her horse on, moving ahead of Emily. She hated quarreling, especially with someone she cared for so deeply. It left her feeling unhappy and oddly alone. But she would not let Jack’s sudden promotion go to Emily’s head, or Jack’s for that matter, and allow them to thoughtlessly make worse Pitt’s sense of being out of his depth. Perhaps she was being unnecessarily protective, but then, so was Emily.

She reined in her horse again and waited until Emily caught up with her. Without meeting Emily’s eyes she started again.

“I don’t want to move yet. It’s taking things for granted that haven’t happened for certain. I would have thought you, of all people, would understand that. Your social position is assured, and your financial one, but you’ve a long way to go before you can say the same politically.”

“Is that Thomas’s opinion?” Emily was not yet mollified.

Charlotte forced herself to laugh. “I have no idea. He didn’t mention it. Why? Do you think Jack has very little further to go? That would be a shame.”

Emily muttered under her breath, and Charlotte knew very well that what she said was distinctly impolite.

WHILE CHARLOTTE WAS RIDING in Hyde Park, Pitt was already in his office at Lisson Grove asking for all the recent information Special Branch had gathered about any dissident groups in Central or Eastern Europe, particularly within the vast Austro-Hungarian Empire. The empire stretched from Austria itself eastward to include Hungary; south into northern Italy and down the Balkan Peninsula, encompassing Serbia, Croatia, Slovenia, and Romania; and north to Bohemia, Moravia, Slovakia, and parts of Poland and Ukraine. Within its borders, twelve different languages were spoken and several major religions were observed, including Roman Catholicism, Eastern Orthodoxy, and Islam. Additionally, there was a large number of Jews in prominent and highly influential positions in Vienna, a place where anti-Semitism was deep, ugly, and growing. Unrest of one sort or another was normal there.

Vienna might be the cradle of all sorts of new thoughts in politics, philosophy, medicine, music, and literature, but it was also a city of sporadic violence, with a shadow of unease, as if there was some doom just beyond the horizon, waiting for the moment when all the gaiety would end.

Pitt had requested to see Evan Blantyre, whom he had met at the recent musical evening. Evan’s knowledge of the Austro-Hungarian Empire was extensive, and he might be able to offer the information and assistance Lord Tregarron had declined to provide.

He was pleasantly surprised when Blantyre agreed to see him almost immediately. Less than an hour later, Pitt stood in a pleasant anteroom, which had paintings of the Austrian Tyrol on the walls. He was there only briefly before he was ushered into Blantyre’s office. This was a large, comfortable room with a fire burning in the hearth, and armchairs on either side of it. There were worn patches on the carpet, and the color was faded from age and sunlight. The desk was old, the wood gleaming like satin.

“Good morning, Commander,” Blantyre said with interest, holding out his hand.

“Good morning, sir,” Pitt replied, accepting the greeting. “I appreciate your taking the time to see me so quickly. It may prove to be nothing of importance, but I can’t let this matter go until I know for sure.”

“Quite right,” Blantyre said. “Although I must say from the little you told my secretary, it all seemed rather coincidental, no real reason to suspect that any foreign visitor is the focus of an attack, if indeed an attack is even being planned.” He indicated the chairs near the fire and they sat down opposite each other.

“It is probably nothing,” Pitt agreed. “But a lot of issues start out as a whisper, one coincidence, and then another too soon after it, people showing an unexplained interest in something that appears to be harmless, but then isn’t.”

Blantyre smiled ruefully, curiosity lighting his face. “Well, how the devil do you know which coincidences matter? Is there an intellectual formula for it, or is it instinct, a particular skill?” His eyes were steady and bright. “Or something only experience can teach you, and perhaps one or two very near misses?”

Pitt shrugged. “I’m tempted sometimes to think there’s a hell of a lot of luck in it, but I suppose to call it luck is just a different way of saying that it requires constant observation and the need to run down everything that strikes a jarring note.” He smiled. “And, as you say, one or two close shaves.”

Blantyre nodded. “In other words, paying attention to detail, and a lot of damned hard work. Tell me more about exactly what alarms you in these particular inquiries. Do you really think this is about some intended violence? Against whom, for God’s sake? And if Duke Alois really is the target, why here? It sounds unlikely to me, conspirators setting up an attack in a foreign country. It would require them to go into a place where they have no network of friends nor many sympathizers. Every man’s hand would be against them.”

“True,” Pitt conceded. “But they would also be unknown to the general public. Fewer people here to recognize or betray them. And there is the other possibility.”

Blantyre frowned. “What’s that?”

“That they don’t intend to escape. If they feel passionately enough about their cause, they may be prepared to sacrifice their own lives in the process.”

Blantyre looked down at the worn pattern of the carpet. “I hadn’t thought of that,” he said grimly. “Of course, men do such things—and women too, I suppose. Patriots, misguided or not, come in all forms. Martyrs as well.” He looked up at Pitt again. “I still don’t find it very likely. That sort of great sacrifice isn’t something you offer in order to kill a nonentity. In sheer practical terms, the world doesn’t take enough notice.” He pulled his mouth into a bitter smile, and then let it fade. “Tell me exactly what you’ve found, and I’ll do all I can to learn if it’s part of a greater plot. God knows, the last thing we need is some Austro-Hungarian duke blown to bits on our front doorstep.”

Pitt told him the core of what he had gathered from Stoker’s reports, and added the further information he had received since then. As he spoke he watched Blantyre’s expression grow darker and more troubled.

“Yes, I see,” Blantyre said as soon as Pitt had stopped speaking. He sat pensively, with his strong hands held so the fingertips touched. “If there were substance to it, it would be appalling. But how seriously have you considered that it is a wretched string of coincidences making a few unconnected inquiries look sinister, when in fact they are not at all? Or else—and this seems more likely to me—someone deliberately concocting this stuff to take your attention away from something else that is serious, and far more relevant?” Blantyre raised his eyebrows.

Pitt nodded and smiled bleakly. “I considered that as well. That it could all be a bluff.” He thought for a moment. “Or perhaps a double bluff?”

Blantyre let out a sigh. “Of course you are right. I really don’t think there is any likelihood of an assassination here at the moment, but I will look into it, ask a few discreet questions, at least about the possibility.”

“Thank you.” Pitt rose to his feet. “I can’t afford to ignore it.”

Blantyre smiled and stood also. He held out his hand and Pitt took it, returning the firm grip before he turned to go.

Pitt left the office feeling relieved, if only because Blantyre had taken him seriously. He had treated him as he would have treated Narraway.

Pitt smiled to himself as he went down the steps and out into the street and the heavy traffic.

TWO DAYS LATER, Pitt was sitting alone in his office. It was close to the end of February, and the daylight faded all too quickly. Within the next quarter-hour he would have to stand up and turn on the gaslight.

There was a knock on the door, and Stoker put his head around it.

“Mr. Evan Blantyre here to see you, sir,” he said, his tone a mixture of surprise and respect. “Says it’s pretty urgent.”

Pitt was surprised too. He had accepted that Blantyre, for all his courtesy, had still mostly seemed to think that the whole possibility of a threat to any visiting Austrian dignitary was largely a misreading of the information.

“Show him in,” he said immediately, rising to his feet.

A moment later Blantyre came in, closing the door behind him. He shook Pitt’s hand briefly, and started to speak even before both of them were seated.

“I owe you an apology, Pitt,” he said gravely, hitching his trousers a little at the knees to preserve their shape as he crossed his legs. “I admit, I didn’t take this theory of yours very seriously. I thought you were jumping at shadows a bit. Understandable, after some of the recent tragedies.”

Pitt presumed he was referring to the Gower case and Narraway’s dismissal. He said nothing. It was ridiculous to have hoped that some of that wretched betrayal would have remained secret, but it still hurt him that so many people seemed to know of it. He waited for Blantyre to continue.

Blantyre’s face was very solemn. “I looked into the information you gave me,” he went on. “At first it seemed to be very superficial, a series of odd but basically harmless questions, unconnected to each other. But then I examined them a little more deeply, one at a time, beginning with the tracing of the most likely route from Dover to London, which of course is by train.”

Pitt watched Blantyre’s face, and the intensity in it alarmed him. He waited without interrupting.

“It seemed to mean very little.” Blantyre gave a slight shrug. “Hundreds of people must make such a journey. Inquiries would be natural enough, even several days in advance of travel. Then I looked at the signals you mentioned, and the places where such trains would pass a junction on the track. You are perfectly right, of course. Freight trains also travel there regularly, and a series of accidents—signals green when they should be red; points changed and a freight train diverted onto the wrong track—could create a disaster with enormous proportions. You would have far more than just one man dead.”

He drew his breath in slowly, then let it out again.

“But I thought I had better see if the route tied in with any known person of importance. It did, rather more than I supposed. It turns out that you are right. One of the minor Austrian dukes is coming. He is of no importance himself, but he’s still a member of the imperial family, and grandnephew of our queen, or something of the sort. He is making a private visit to a grandson of the queen’s. It is not a government matter at all. But his coming, and the time that the inquiries concern coincide precisely with the plans made for him to travel from Vienna to Paris, then to Calais, and across the Channel. From Dover he goes by train to London. He’ll be staying at the Savoy.”

“Not the palace?” Pitt asked in surprise.

“It seems he wants to do a little entertaining himself,” Blantyre said with a tight little smile. “But you see my point. When I made a few inquiries of certain friends in Europe, they also investigated, and found that questions had been asked about the entire route. It seems he will be bringing only a few servants: a secretary, a valet, that sort of thing.”

He hesitated only a moment. “I’m sorry, Pitt. Your instincts were correct. This is something you have to take seriously.”

Pitt was cold, in spite of the embers burning in the grate only a few feet from him. Until now he had been allowing himself to think that he was probably imagining the danger, as Tregarron and even Blantyre had said, but Blantyre’s news changed everything.

“Here.” Blantyre held out a small bundle of papers. They looked to be hastily scribbled notes, perhaps half a dozen sheets in all. “You will need to follow up on it, of course, so I have given you the names of the people I spoke to, the facts and references I checked. I cannot oblige you to keep them secret, but I would ask that you tell as few people as possible, and only those you are certain you can trust absolutely, not only their honesty but also their discretion. Usually, I would not have committed anything to paper, but I fear this is far too serious to bother with the usual protocol. This is, potentially at least, a monstrous crime, which would kill not only a member of the Austrian royal family, but also God knows how many innocent Britons, if we don’t prevent it.” He held the notes out for Pitt to take.

Pitt met Blantyre’s gaze, then took the papers and looked down at them. They were exactly as Blantyre had said: names, places, dates—all the information Pitt needed to check the routes, and, above all, the names and descriptions of known anarchists involved in assassinations in Europe and the methods they had used. Particular emphasis had been given to those who resembled the man who had inquired about railway signals and points.

He looked back up at Blantyre.

“I’m sorry,” Blantyre said again, gravely. “I know you would rather have been wrong, but I’m afraid it seems that you are not. Something is planned that could, at its worst, set us at war with Austria.”

Pitt’s mind raced. He did not have enough military or diplomatic knowledge to understand why anyone would want to do such a thing. If a British train was wrecked, though, feelings would be high in both countries. Accusations would be made, things said that would be impossible to deny later. Grief and confusion would turn to anger. Each country could so easily blame the other.

“God knows who or what is behind it,” Blantyre said softly. “It may be no more than yet another petty uprising of one of the Balkan nations wanting more independence, and resorting to their usual violence. It happens quite regularly. But it may also be a far deeper plan, intended to damage Britain. Otherwise, why do it here?”

“You mean someone prompting them to do it?” Pitt asked quietly. “In order to accomplish … what?”

“I don’t know,” Blantyre admitted. “The possibilities are considerable. Maybe there is some treaty these people wish broken, and this is the easiest way to go about it.”

“Thank you. I shall look into all these.” Pitt rose to his feet and offered Blantyre his hand.

THE FOLLOWING DAY Pitt sent for Stoker, who came into the office looking unusually cheerful. However, his lightness of mood disappeared as soon as he sat down obediently and waited for Pitt to speak.

“You’ll remember that Evan Blantyre came here yesterday afternoon,” Pitt said quietly. “I’d given him the information we had. At first he thought it was all irrelevant, but he looked into it anyway …”

Stoker sat up a little more stiffly.

“And there are plans for Duke Alois Habsburg to visit London from March sixteenth to nineteenth. He is to travel first from Vienna to Paris, then Calais, to take the steamer to Dover, lastly the train to London. He won’t stay at the palace, but at the Savoy Hotel. There are plans to throw a party at Kensington Palace for his friends.” He grimaced as he saw Stoker’s face. “It is exactly the route we were concerned about, and on the day for which inquiries were made.”

Stoker let out his breath with a sigh, his eyes wide. “So it’s real!”

“It could be,” Pitt answered. “Or it could be something we have been very subtly allowed to know about in order to draw our attention away from something else. But either way, we can’t afford to ignore it. This is the information Mr. Blantyre gave me.” He passed it over. “Read it. Check each of the details and each of the names.”

“Yes, sir. What are you planning to do?”

“Learn all I can about Duke Alois Habsburg, and look into anyone who could have the slightest interest in assassinating him,” Pitt replied.

Stoker picked up Blantyre’s papers, looked at them, and made very brief notes from the top two. “I’ll come back and get more tomorrow,” he said, rising to his feet.

“Anything else?” Pitt asked.

“No, sir.” Stoker looked slightly surprised.

“You looked unusually cheerful,” Pitt answered, leaving the question in the uplift of his voice.

Stoker smiled. “Yes, sir.” He hesitated, a faint color in his cheeks. He realized Pitt was waiting for him to elaborate. “Had to follow someone yesterday evening; he was a bit suspect.”

“And?” Pitt pursued. “What did you catch him doing? Don’t make me pull your teeth, Stoker!” He heard his own words, and how much he sounded like Narraway. Now the heat burned up his own face.

“Nothing, sir, actually. Turned out to be a blind alley.”

“And?” Pitt snapped.

“He went to a concert, sir. The music was rather good. I thought I’d hate it, but it was … sort of beautiful.” He looked embarrassed but happy, as if the memory still lingered with him.

“What was it?” Now Pitt was curious. Even after all this time, he knew nothing of Stoker beyond his professional skills and his indisputable courage. His personal tastes, and his life apart from Special Branch, were a complete mystery.

“Beethoven, sir. All piano.”

Pitt masked his surprise. “Yes, you’re right,” he agreed. “It must have been good.”

Stoker smiled, then excused himself and went out.

Pitt bent to study the rest of Blantyre’s notes. He added to them a large sheaf of papers he had borrowed from the Special Branch files, and began to study the history of the last ten years, quickly moving forward to the present, and the character and politics of Duke Alois Habsburg.

Two hours later, his eyes stung and his head ached. He had read a mass of facts, opinions, and fears. The Austrian Empire was geographically enormous and a single entity, as far as land was concerned. It was nothing like the British Empire, which was composed of countries, islands, and—in the cases of India, Australia, and Canada—parts of other continents, half the earth away from each other. Austria was one large mass loosely held together by a dual monarchy: one in Austria, one in Hungary. It included the best part of a dozen other countries and territories, each with its own history, language, and culture, and frequently, its own religions as well.

It had always been an empire of unease. Its history was marked with plots, protests, uprisings, suppressions, the occasional assassination attempt, and of course plenty of individual executions.

Franz Josef had been emperor for nearly fifty years. In some ways he ruled with a light hand, allowing a considerable degree of individuality to remain, but in others ways he was rigid, conservative, and autocratic. The very nature of the ramshackle empire meant that it was only a matter of time before it fell apart. The question was, which of all the many divisive elements was going to be the catalyst?

Socialism and its reforms had raised their voices in Vienna. Pitt was startled to learn that the dead crown prince, Rudolf, the heir to the throne who had died at Mayerling, had believed in its principles so passionately that he had expressed his intent to declare the Austrian Empire a republic and to rule as its president upon his succession to the throne.

Pitt sat motionless with the papers in his hands and tried to imagine what old Franz Josef had thought of that. And what now of the new heir, Archduke Franz Ferdinand?

Blantyre had written a long note about him. Apparently, for all his radical differences with the old emperor, Ferdinand had no sympathies of the socialist nature. He abhorred socialism and its reforms just as heartily as did his uncle.

Blantyre’s conclusions were the only ones likely, given the evidence. There was a plot to assassinate Duke Alois Habsburg when he was on British soil, presumably in London, since there had been anonymous inquiries about arrangements at the Savoy Hotel and Kensington Palace.

If it happened, it would be a tragedy, and an appalling embarrassment for Britain. And it would be a disaster for Special Branch.

THE NEXT MORNING PITT went again to see Lord Tregarron. He must make the Foreign Office minister aware of the threat, at the very least, and possibly see if he could have the trip altered in time, place, or even route of travel, at the last minute. And Duke Alois himself must also be made aware of the danger.

As before, he was met first by Jack, who was again very smartly dressed in a black coat and striped trousers. He looked just as uncomfortable as he had previously, when he came into the room where Pitt had been asked to wait. He closed the door behind him and took a deep breath.

“Good morning, Thomas. How are you?”

It was an obvious attempt at civility in a situation he already foresaw as being awkward.

Pitt had anticipated resistance, until Jack made Tregarron aware of the seriousness of the threat. He was determined to keep his temper, not only for Charlotte’s sake—she had told him of her encounter with Emily at Hyde Park—but also because the moment he lost control of himself, he would lose control of the situation.

“Well, thank you,” he replied. “But concerned.” He tried to keep his expression neutral. “I took the various pieces of evidence I have to Evan Blantyre, as he is the best expert I know on the Austro-Hungarian Empire. I asked him to evaluate the likelihood of it being linked to serious trouble in Britain within the next couple of months.” He saw Jack’s face darken.

“Apparently Duke Alois Habsburg is visiting one of our royal family in a few weeks’ time. He plans to travel from Vienna to Paris, then to Calais, by ferry to Dover, and lastly by train to London—”

“The obvious route,” Jack interrupted.

“I am aware of that,” Pitt replied. “The exact timetable might be less obvious, but people are making inquiries about it, even so far as the Savoy Hotel, where it is known he will stay, and Kensington Palace, where a party will be given.”

A flash of anxiety crossed Jack’s face. “Really? Is it Austrian officials making sure the route is well planned and safe?”

“No, the people who are checking are known agitators and anarchists,” Pitt replied. “One or two of them are implicated in bombings in Paris.”

“Arrest them,” Jack told him.

“For what? Checking railway timetables?”

“Exactly. Aren’t you being a bit alarmist? Alois is a very minor figure, you know.” Jack gestured with his hands, as if appealing to reason. “Or maybe you don’t? If somebody planned an assassination, Alois wouldn’t be worth their time, or the risk.”

“Are you certain?” Pitt asked very seriously.

“Yes,” Jack responded immediately. However, his tone of irritation made Pitt wonder if he really was certain, or if he had actually not given the matter any thought until that moment. Either way, he would defend his superior’s opinion instinctively, and ascertain the details later. That was what a loyal second-in-command did.

Pitt shook his head. “I think there is quite a lot about the Austrian royal family and its difficulties that we do not know. For example, did you expect the suicide at Mayerling?”

Jack was angry, caught off-guard by Pitt’s question. “No, of course not. No one did,” he said with considerable annoyance.

“But with hindsight, we can see that perhaps we should have,” Pitt pointed out. “It was a tragedy waiting to happen.”

“How do you know that?” Jack demanded, coming farther into the room.

Pitt smiled. “It’s my job to know a certain number of things. Unfortunately, I didn’t piece together then what I now realize were signs, and I doubt Narraway did either. Or if he did, then no one listened to him.”

Jack winced and his eyes became harder. “I’ll go and ask his lordship, but honestly, I think you are scaremongering, Thomas, and I believe he will think so too. There is no earthly reason to assassinate Alois Habsburg. He’s harmless, a lightweight junior member of the Austrian royal family, of which there are hordes, just as there are of ours.” Without adding anything more, he turned and went out of the room, leaving Pitt to wait again.

This time it was no more than five minutes before he came back into the room looking tense, as if he now wanted to say far more than he dared.

“Lord Tregarron will see you, but he can only spare a few minutes.” He held the door open for Pitt to go through. “He has a meeting with our ambassador to Poland in a very short while.”

“Thank you,” Pitt accepted, going out and following Jack down a wide, elegant corridor. About thirty feet along, Jack stopped and tapped quietly on a large, arched door.

Tregarron greeted them stiffly but with the necessary courtesy, then looked only at Pitt as Jack retired to the back of the room, making himself all but invisible.

“Radley informs me that Evan Blantyre seems to believe there is some assassination attempt planned against Duke Alois Habsburg when he visits London next month.” He spoke quickly, giving Pitt no chance to interrupt him. “I imagine you have to take notice of these things, but in my opinion, someone is trying to distract you from your more urgent business. Duke Alois is, as Radley has told you, a charming, somewhat feckless young man of no importance whatsoever. It would be completely senseless for anyone to waste their time harming him, let alone to set up an elaborate plot to do it in a foreign country.”

He shook his head with annoyance. “It is out of the question that we should admit to the Austrian government that we cannot look after him or guarantee his safety in the capital city of our own empire. I imagine they would find it impossible to believe we were so incompetent, and so would see it as a rebuff. If you think Special Branch cannot deal with it, I will ask the Home Secretary to take care of the matter. He has the ordinary police at his beck and call.” He smiled bleakly. “Perhaps you should ask Narraway’s advice. I’m sure he would make himself available to you.”

Pitt was so angry he could think of no words he dared say. His hands were shaking. He could feel the color burn into his skin. He knew Jack was looking down at the floor, too embarrassed to meet his eyes.

“Good day, Mr. Pitt,” Tregarron said bluntly.

“Good day, sir,” Pitt replied, and swung on his heel to go out. He passed Jack without even glancing at him, nor was he aware of the rain in his face as he stepped into the street.

WALKING INTO HIS own house that evening was like walking into a warm embrace, even before Charlotte met him at the kitchen door. She took a long, careful look at his face, and guided him away from the kitchen’s savory cooking smells and into the front parlor. The fire was burning and the gaslamps were lit but turned low. This enveloping comfort was new since his promotion, and the ability to afford so much coal.

“What is it?” she asked as soon as she had closed the door.

“What’s wrong with sitting in the kitchen?” he countered, avoiding answering her.

“Thomas! Minnie Maude is not Gracie, but she’s far from unobservant. You are the master of the house. She watches you to see if all is well, if the day is good or bad, what she might do to please you. This is her home now, and it matters to her very much.”

Pitt breathed out slowly, letting some of the anger ease from him. He realized with self-conscious displeasure how little he had appreciated the effect his mood had on others. He had been born in the servant class; he should have known better. Without any warning, he was whisked back to his childhood and saw his mother in the kitchen of the big house and remembered the look on her face, the sudden anxiety that would descend when Sir Arthur Desmond had been in one of his rare dark moods, or when word had come down that he was not feeling well.

“I saw Lord Tregarron today,” he told Charlotte. “First Jack, of course, who suggested, obliquely, that I am fussing over nothing. Then Tregarron implied that if I can’t manage my job, I should ask for Narraway’s help.” He could not keep the bitterness out of his voice.

She considered it for a moment before replying. “That is extremely rude,” she said at length. “I wonder what is bothering them, that they should descend to such ill manners.”

“Are you asking in a sideways fashion if I was rude first?” he said with a tight smile. He knew every word he spoke was driving a further wedge between her and Emily, and yet he could not stop himself. He felt horribly vulnerable. “I wasn’t. I told Jack my information came from Blantyre. He’s as good a source as there could be.”

“Perhaps that is the problem,” she said thoughtfully. “Are you sure you are right, Thomas?”

“No,” he admitted. “I’m just sure of the price if I am right and we do nothing.”