Dorchester Terrace

THE EARLY AFTERNOON WAS sunny, but very cold, when Vespasia set out to visit Serafina again. She was not looking forward to it this time; to see Serafina in such confusion was distressing, and the very obvious fear she felt was even more difficult, as it made Vespasia feel helpless and a poor friend, unable to alleviate it.

The carriage passed through the long-familiar streets. Vespasia noticed a woman almost knocked off balance when a gust of wind caught her skirts; a hundred yards farther a man in gray held his hands up to keep his hat from being blown off. The clip of horses’ hooves rang loudly on the iron-hard stones.

Then suddenly Vespasia realized that the sound had vanished. They were slowing down, but still moving. With a chill of horror she recognized the familiar hush of sawdust in the road, and knew its meaning: They were passing the home of someone very recently dead. Except that they were not passing; they had stopped and the coachman was at the carriage door.

“My lady …” He sounded uncomfortable.

“Yes,” Vespasia knew the words he was reluctant to say. “I see what has happened. I will still go in. Please wait for me here. I do not imagine I shall be long.”

“Yes, my lady.” He held out his hand and helped her alight.

She walked over the sawdust to the footpath. The curtains were drawn. The dark blue dress she was wearing was no longer appropriate. It should have been black, but she had not known. She knocked on the door, and was about to knock again, when it was answered by Nerissa. Her face, normally stressed and a little colorless, looked completely bleached from shock, her eyes red-rimmed, the lids puffy. She drew in a breath to speak, and let it out again in a gasp. She looked on the verge of collapse.

Vespasia mastered her own feelings and took Nerissa by the arm, gently propelling her inside. She closed the door before turning to speak to her.

“I can see what has happened,” she said quietly. “I’m very sorry. It is always a shock, no matter how well one imagines one is prepared. I admit, I had not thought it would be so soon, or I would not have come so ill-prepared, and perhaps intrusively early.”

“No …” Nerissa gulped. “No, you are not intrusive in the slightest. You were so kind … to come …” She gulped again.

Vespasia felt a rush of pity for her. She was an unattractive young woman, not so much plain of feature as lacking in charm. Now she had lost perhaps the only relative she had, and even if she had inherited the house, it would do little to give her entrée to desirable social circles. Certainly it would bring her no friends of true value. In her sudden new loneliness she would be even more vulnerable than before. Vespasia hoped the lover she believed Nerissa had was indeed real, and in no way in pursuit of her inheritance from Serafina.

“Perhaps a cup of tea?” Vespasia suggested. “I am sure you would benefit from a chance to sit down for a few moments. It must be a heavy burden for you. Is there anyone who will assist you in whatever needs to be done? If not, I’m sure I can recommend a suitable person, and instruct them as to your wishes, and of course Serafina’s.”

“Thank you … thank you.” Nerissa seemed to compose herself a little more. “I have barely had time to think of it. But certainly tea. Tea would be excellent. I’m so sorry I did not offer it. My good manners seem to have evaporated …”

“Not at all,” Vespasia assured her. “I daresay the kitchen is in a bit of a state. Servants need a firm hand at such times, and something to do, or they tend to go to pieces. It is all very distressing. They will be worrying about their own positions, no doubt. The sooner you can reassure them, the better able they will be to assist you.”

“Yes … I hadn’t even thought …” Nerissa very deliberately steadied herself and turned to lead the way into the morning room. It was bitterly cold, as the fire was not lit. She stopped in dismay.

“Perhaps the housekeeper’s sitting room?” Vespasia suggested. “That is very often comfortable even when all else is in disarray.”

Nerissa seemed grateful for the suggestion. Ten minutes later they were in the small but very cozy room in the servants’ quarters from which Mrs. Whiteside governed the domestic arrangements. She was a short, stout woman with a surprisingly handsome face. At the moment she was clearly very distressed, but grateful to have something useful to do. Nerissa disappeared to address the servants and Mrs. Whiteside brought Vespasia a pot of tea while she waited.

There was a brief knock on the door. Vespasia answered, expecting Mrs. Whiteside back again, but it was Tucker who came in, closing the door behind her. She looked suddenly older, as if ten years had stricken her in one night, but she stood straight, head high. She was wearing a black dress without a white apron, and was completely without adornment of any kind. Her white hair was neatly dressed as always, but her skin was so colorless it looked like wrinkled paper.

Vespasia rose to her feet and went toward her. She took Tucker’s hands in hers, something she would normally never have imagined doing to a servant of any sort.

“My dear Tucker, I am so sorry. For all the warning one has of such an event, one can never anticipate the sense of loss.”

Tucker stood rigid, overcome by her emotions. She had lost a lifetime’s companionship. She wanted to speak, but she was painfully aware that she could not do so without losing her composure. She might have come intending to say something, but now was not the time.

“Would you care for tea?” Vespasia asked, gesturing toward the tray that had been prepared for her. There was still plenty left in the pot. All it required was another cup.

Tucker swallowed. “No, thank you, my lady. I just came …” She was unable to complete the sentence.

“Then please return to your duties,” Vespasia said gently. “No doubt we shall have other opportunities to speak.”

Tucker nodded, gulped, and retreated to the door.

It was another five minutes before Nerissa came back.

“Thank you,” she said with intense feeling. “It was kind of you to come.” She sat with her hands knotted in her lap, her knuckles white. “It … it seems much easier when there is something to do.”

“Indeed,” Vespasia agreed. “I gather from what Mrs. Whiteside said that Serafina died some time during the night, and it was you who found her this morning. It must have been extremely distressing for you.”

“Yes. Yes, we were not expecting it … for weeks … even months,” Nerissa agreed.

“We? You mean you and her doctor?”

“Yes. He … I … we sent for him, of course. Mrs. Whiteside and I. He came almost straightaway. Of course there was nothing he could do. It seemed she … died … quite early in the night.” She was gasping for breath, her speech disjointed.

Vespasia looked at the young woman sitting opposite her, tense, desperately unhappy, perhaps even feeling guilty because she had not been there when her aunt had died. That was natural, but not reasonable; there was nothing at all she could have done except make it so that Serafina had not died alone. But it was also true that Serafina may have gone in her sleep, and would not have known the difference.

Nerissa was waiting for Vespasia to speak, perhaps to offer some words of comfort. The silence between them had grown heavy.

Vespasia gave a bleak smile. “The fact of death is always painful. You are not alone, nor should you feel so. I am sure the doctor assured you that there was nothing you could have done to alter things, or even to help.”

“Yes … yes, he did say that,” Nerissa agreed. “But one feels so helpless, and as if one should have known.”

“It would not have comforted Serafina to have you sitting up with her day and night on the assumption that at any moment she might die,” Vespasia said drily.

Nerissa managed a small smile. “Would you care to go up to her room and say a last good-bye?”

Vespasia did not believe it was “good-bye,” only a last au revoir. But she was certainly curious to see if there had been any struggle, any fighting for the last breath, the final sleep. It would be more of a relief than she had imagined if there had not.

“Thank you.” She rose to her feet and Nerissa stood too. Vespasia followed her out of the housekeeper’s room back into the main hall, then up the stairs to the room where only a few days earlier she had visited Serafina.

Vespasia went in and stood alone. She looked at the body of the woman with whom she had never truly been friends, yet with whom she had had so much in common. The passion of their beliefs had separated them from others they knew day by day, even from their own families—perhaps especially from them.

Now all the fear was ironed out of Serafina’s features. The worst she could imagine had either happened, or the danger of it had passed, and she had moved beyond all earthly success or failure. Vespasia looked at her, and saw nothing but the shell. The spirit was gone.

What had she imagined she could learn? Whatever Serafina had been afraid of must be discovered in some other way. She turned and went back outside to thank Nerissa, and to offer her condolences once again. Then with increasing urgency, she gathered her cape and went outside. She was determined to visit Thomas Pitt.

SHE WAS KEPT WAITING at his office at Lisson Grove no more than twenty minutes. The young man named Stoker knew who she was and insisted that Pitt would wish to see her right away.

“Aunt Vespasia?” Pitt said with some alarm, when Stoker led her into the office. He rose from his chair and came over to her as she closed the door behind her. She did little more than glance at the pictures on the wall and the books, but she noticed the difference from when Victor Narraway had occupied the room.

“Good afternoon, Thomas. Thank you for seeing me immediately. I have just called at the home of Serafina Montserrat, and found that she died unexpectedly, some time last night.”

“I’m sorry,” he said gently. “I know that you knew her.”

“Thank you. She was a remarkable woman. But it is not the loss of a friend that concerns me. We were not especially close. Last time I visited her, a few days ago, she was profoundly afraid—indeed, I would say terrified—that her mind was affected to the point where she was lost in memory, and might have forgotten where and when she was, and to whom she was speaking. That in itself is not a unique circumstance in old age.” She gave a small, sad smile. “But in her case it was dangerous, or so she believed. She knew many secrets from her time as something of a revolutionary in the Austrian Empire many years ago. She was afraid there were people to whom she was still a danger.”

She saw the sudden, sharp attention in his face.

“I thought that at best she was romanticizing,” she continued. “But I took the precaution of asking Victor Narraway if perhaps it might be the truth. He inquired into it. At first it seemed that she was deluding herself, but he did not give up easily, and it transpired that she might have been understating her importance, if anything.”

“How far in the past?” he interrupted.

“A generation ago, at least. But she felt that some of her knowledge concerned people still alive, or those whom they might have loved and wished to protect. I can give you no names because I don’t know any. But she was very, very frightened, Thomas.”

He looked puzzled. “Of betraying someone accidentally, even now? Who? Did she tell you?”

“No. To me, she was very discreet. I suppose part of what made me think she was romanticizing was the fact that she gave no names. But Victor said that she was even more involved in events at the time than she claimed. And Thomas, I am not absolutely certain that she was mistaken in her fear. One moment she was as lucid as you or I, when we were alone, then when someone else came in she seemed to lurch into near insanity, as if she had no idea where she was.”

She took a deep, rather shaky breath, and let it out with a sigh. “I’m afraid that someone may have frightened her to the point where she took her own life, rather than continue with the risk of betraying a friend, an ally in the cause.” Pity overwhelmed her, and a sense of guilt because she had done nothing to prevent this. She had known about it, and Serafina had begged for her help. Now she was safe in Pitt’s office talking about it, too late, and Serafina was dead. “I feel like I should’ve done something more to help her.”

“What could you have done?” Pitt’s voice, gentle and urgent, intruded on her thoughts.

She looked at him. “I don’t know. Which is not a good enough excuse, is it?”

“Unless you were willing and able to move in and sleep in the room beside her, or perhaps be certain that she saw no visitors without your being present, there is nothing you could’ve done.”

“I tried to have Nerissa Freemarsh do that. I even asked her to engage a nurse,” Vespasia said bleakly. “I did not try hard enough.”

Thomas waited a beat. “What else is bothering you?” he prompted.

She stared at him, for long, level seconds. “As I said, there is the possibility that she was not afraid unnecessarily. And if there was someone she could still have betrayed, knowingly or not …” She saw the tension increase in Pitt, from the rigidity of his body. He knew what she was going to say. “They could have killed her,” she finished in a whisper.

Pitt nodded slowly. “Her address?”

“Fifteen Dorchester Terrace,” she replied. “Just off Blandford Square. It is only a few streets away. You may need to hurry, in case things are moved … or hidden …”

Pitt rose to his feet. “I know.”

PITT TOOK STOKER WITH him, explaining as they went. It was, as Vespasia had said, no more than a quarter of a mile away, and they walked at a rapid pace. He barely had sufficient time to acquaint Stoker with a little of Serafina’s history, and the reasons her fears were realistic enough that Special Branch must make certain they had not come to pass. Stoker did not question his reasoning; the mention of Austria was sufficient.

The door was opened by a parlormaid who was grim-faced and clearly in mourning. She was drawing in breath to deny them entrance when Nerissa came across the hall behind her.

“Good afternoon, Miss Freemarsh,” Pitt said to Nerissa. “I am Thomas Pitt, Commander of Special Branch. This is Sergeant Stoker. We are here regarding the very recent death of Mrs. Montserrat. May we come in, please?” He said it in a manner that did not allow her to refuse, and he took the first step across the threshold before she replied.

Beneath the red blotches from weeping, her face was ashen white.

“Why? What … what has happened?” She was shaking so badly that Pitt was worried she might faint.

“Please let us come in, Miss Freemarsh, where you can sit down. Perhaps your maid might bring us tea, or some other restorative. It is possible that this is unnecessary, but your aunt was a woman of great importance to her country, and there are aspects of her death that we need to assure ourselves are in order.”

“What do you mean?” Nerissa gulped. “She was old and ill. Her mind was wandering, and she imagined things.” She put her hands to her mouth. “This is Lady Vespasia’s doing, isn’t it!” she said accusingly. “She’s … meddling …”

“Miss Freemarsh, is there something about your aunt’s death that you wish to conceal from us?”

“No! Of course not! I want only decency and respect for her, not—not policemen tramping through the house and … and making a spectacle out of our family tragedy.”

“It is not a tragedy that the old should die, Miss Freemarsh,” he said more gently, “unless there is something about their death that is not as it should be. And I am not a policeman, I am the head of Special Branch. Unless you tell them so, no one needs to think me anything other than a government official come to pay my respects to a much-admired and -valued woman.”

Stoker stepped in behind Pitt and closed the front door.

Nerissa backed a little farther into the center of the beautiful hallway with its sweeping staircase and newel lamp.

“There is nothing for you to do!” she protested. “Aunt Serafina died in her sleep some time last night. The doctor says it was probably early, because … because when I touched her this morning, she was cold.” She shivered. “Why are you doing this? It’s brutal!”

Stoker fidgeted behind Pitt, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Pitt did not know if his impatience was with Pitt or Nerissa Freemarsh, and he could not afford to care.

“If I was in your place, Miss Freemarsh, I believe I would prefer to have my mind set at ease,” he said quietly. “But whether that is what you wish or not, I am afraid I must be certain; I would like to see Mrs. Montserrat, and then have the name and address of her doctor so I can see him, and perhaps the name of her lawyer as well. Special Branch will take care of the funeral arrangements, according to whatever her wishes were.”

Nerissa was aghast. “Can you do that?”

“I can do whatever is necessary to safeguard the peace and welfare of the nation,” Pitt replied. “But it can all be dignified and discreet, if you do not oppose it.”

Nerissa waved her hand reluctantly toward the stairs. “The doctor is upstairs with her now.”

Pitt swiveled around and went up the stairs two at a time. He threw open the door of the first bedroom facing the front of the house, and saw a young, fair-haired man in black bending forward over the bed. There was a gladstone bag on the floor beside him. He straightened up and turned as Pitt came through the door.

“Who the devil are you, sir, barging into a lady’s bedroom like this?” he demanded. His face was fair, but his features were stronger than might have been suggested by the slenderness of his build.

Pitt closed the door behind him. “Thomas Pitt, head of Special Branch. You, I presume, are Mrs. Montserrat’s physician?”

“I am. Geoffrey Thurgood. The reason for my presence here is obvious. What is the reason for yours?”

“I think our reasons are the same,” Pitt replied, coming further into the room. The ashes were cold in the grate but the colors in the room still gave it a suggestion of warmth. “To be certain as to the cause of Mrs. Montserrat’s death, although I may need to know more about the exact circumstances surrounding it than you do.”

“She was of advanced years, and her health was rapidly deteriorating,” Thurgood said with barely concealed impatience. “Her mind was wandering more with each day. Even with the most optimistic assessment, her death could not have been very far away.”

“Days?” Pitt asked.

Thurgood hesitated. “No. I would have expected her to have lived another several months, actually.”

“A year?”

“Possibly.”

“What was the cause of her death, exactly?”

“Heart failure.”

“Of course her heart failed,” Pitt retorted impatiently. “Everybody’s heart fails when they die. What caused it to fail?”

“Probably her age. She was an invalid.” Thurgood too was losing what was left of his patience. “The woman was almost eighty!”

“Being eighty is not a cause of death. I have a grandmother-in-law who is well over eighty. Regrettably, she is as strong as a horse.”

Thurgood smiled in spite of himself. “Then your mother-in-law may well have another thirty years.”

“There is nothing wrong with my mother-in-law, except her own mother-in-law.” Pitt pulled his face into an expression of pity and resignation, thinking of Charlotte’s grandmama. “Mrs. Montserrat was not a fantasist, Dr. Thurgood. She had done some remarkable things in her earlier years, and knew a great many secrets that might still be dangerous. It was not ghosts she was afraid of, but very real people.”

Thurgood looked startled, stared at Pitt for a moment, then went pale. “You’re serious?”

“Yes.”

“May I see proof that you are who you claim to be?”

“Of course.” Pitt fished in his untidy pockets and pulled out the proof of his identity and office, along with a ball of string, a knob of sealing wax, and a handkerchief. He gave the identification to Thurgood.

Thurgood read it carefully and handed it back. “I see. What do you want of me?”

“Complete professional discretion, then the exact cause, time, and any other details you can give me about Mrs. Montserrat’s death, and whether it is what you expected, or whether there are any aspects of it that surprise you or that are hard to explain.”

“I can’t tell you that without a postmortem …”

“Of course not,” Pitt agreed.

“I doubt the family will agree.”

“The family consists only of Miss Freemarsh,” Pitt pointed out. “But I’m afraid it is not within her rights to prevent it if there is the possibility of a crime.”

“You’ll have to have the necessary legal—” Thurgood began.

“No, I won’t,” Pitt interrupted him. “I’m Special Branch, not police. I will have no trouble ensuring that the law does not stand in our way. This may turn out to be unnecessary, but it is too important to ignore it.”

Thurgood’s lips tightened. “I shall begin the arrangements immediately. I leave it to you to inform the family solicitor, who is bound to object; Miss Freemarsh is sure to see that he does.”

Pitt nodded. He was beginning to like Thurgood. “Thank you.”

AS THURGOOD HAD FORETOLD, the lawyer, Mr. Morton, was less than obliging when Pitt went to see him at his office. He sputtered and protested, and talked about desecration of the body, but in the end he was forced to yield, albeit somewhat ungraciously.

“This is monstrous! You overstep yourself, sir. I have always been of the opinion that the police force is a highly dubious blessing, and the body that calls itself Special Branch even more so.” His chin quivered, and his blue eyes sparked with outrage. “I demand the name of your superior!”

“Lord Salisbury,” Pitt said with a smile. “You will find him at Number Ten Downing Street. But before you leave to appeal to him, I would like a very approximate figure as to Mrs. Montserrat’s estate, and information as to whom it is bequeathed to.”

“Certainly not! You trespass too far.” The old man folded his arms across his ample chest and glared at Pitt defiantly.

“If I have to find out by asking questions outside the family, it will be a great deal less discreet,” Pitt pointed out. “I am trying to deal with this as delicately as possible, and to protect Mrs. Montserrat’s heirs from unpleasantness, and possibly danger.”

“Danger? What danger? Mrs. Montserrat died in her sleep!”

“I hope so.”

“What do you mean, you ‘hope so’?”

“She was a woman of great distinction. She deserves the best attention we can give her. If there is something untoward in her death, or in the property and papers she leaves, I wish to keep it private. Indeed, I intend to. Allow me to do it gently.”

The lawyer grunted. “I suppose you have the power to force me if I refuse. And from the look on your face, and your taste for authority, you will do so.”

Pitt forbore from speaking.

“She left a nice bequest for her maid, Tucker,” the lawyer said reluctantly, “for whom she had considerable affection. It will take care of her for the rest of her life. Apart from that, the house in Dorchester Terrace and the balance of her estate go to her niece, Nerissa Freemarsh. It is several thousand pounds. If she is careful it will provide an income sufficient for her to live quite comfortably.”

“Thank you. Are there any papers other than the ordinary household and financial ones you would expect? Any diaries?”

The lawyer looked at Pitt with gleaming satisfaction. “No, there are not!”

Pitt had expected that answer, but it would have been remiss not to ask.

“Thank you, Mr. Morton. I am obliged to you. Good day.”

Morton did not reply.

THE FOLLOWING DAY THURGOOD sent a message to Pitt telling him that he had completed his examination and was prepared to offer his report. He was ready to give, at least, the exact cause of death, but the circumstances he would leave to Pitt to discern.

Pitt had been to morgues before. It had been a grim part of his duty for most of his adult life, although rather less often since joining Special Branch. The moment he stepped from the bright, windy street into the building with its uncanny silence, he could smell the odors of death and chemical preservation and feel a dampness in the air. It was as if the constant washing away of blood prevented the building from ever being fully dry, or warm. To him the smells of carbolic, vinegar, and formaldehyde were worse than any other scent.

“Well?” he asked when he was alone with Thurgood in the doctor’s office and the door was closed.

“Simply, it was laudanum,” Thurgood replied unhappily. “She took it regularly. She found that sleep eluded her, and often she would be awake all night, hearing every creak in the timbers of the house, imagining footsteps.”

“Are you saying she finally took too much?” Pitt asked with disbelief. “Could that be accidental? Wasn’t she given it by someone who knew what they were doing? Miss Freemarsh? Or the lady’s maid? Tucker had been with Mrs. Montserrat most of her life. She would never have made such a mistake.” It occurred to him then that Tucker could have done it on purpose, as an act of mercy to a woman living in such terrible fear. She would only have been hastening something that was inevitable. Then he remembered how, when he had interviewed Tucker briefly, before leaving for Mr. Morton’s office the previous afternoon, he had seen only grief in her face. The idea melted away.

“No. This was too large a dose to have been an accident,” Thurgood replied, his face betraying his unhappiness. “It was at least five times as much as she would have taken for sleep. Laudanum is not easy to overdose on because the solution is weak. One would have to take a second, or, in time, even a third dose within a short time to have it be fatal. I deliberately prepared it that way, precisely to avoid such accidents. And I made sure that both Tucker and Miss Freemarsh kept the supply out of the main bedroom or bathroom, in a cupboard with a lock.”

Pitt was growing even colder. “And the key?”

“On a ring in a cupboard, whose handle was higher than Mrs. Montserrat could have reached.” Thurgood looked as if he was chilled too. He stood stiffly, his hands clenched together, the bloodless skin stretched over his knuckles. “If Mrs. Montserrat had taken the same dose she was normally given at night before settling down to sleep, even if she was awake, she would have been too drowsy to have gotten up, gone from her room across the landing to the chambermaid’s room, and climbed on a chair to open the key cupboard, and then a second chair to reach the medicine cabinet. No, the laudanum was administered to her by someone else. What I cannot say is whether it was an accident, but I find it hard to believe anyone could give so much accidentally.” He met Pitt’s eyes. “I’m relieved to say that it is not my responsibility to find out.”

“I see. Thank you.” Pitt was bitterly disappointed, although in all honesty he had to admit that he had not wanted to think Serafina was so far departed from reality as to have taken her own life in a haze of fear and confusion—or even deliberately, as an alternative to the mental disintegration that had already begun. It would’ve been a humiliating end for a brave woman.

But this looked like murder.

Was it a simple domestic tragedy fueled by greed and impatience? Nerissa unwilling to play companion and dreamer-in-waiting another year or two, or even three? Perhaps her lover was losing the will to wait for her, or she was afraid he might soon? Perhaps it was just another wretched story of family misery turning into hatred, for an imprisonment in loveless tedium. How old would Nerissa be? Mid-thirties, perhaps. How many more childbearing years did she have? Desperation was a strong force, all but overwhelming.

Perhaps it had nothing to do with Serafina’s past, or Special Branch. But he must be sure.

“Thank you,” he said.

Thurgood smiled without pleasure. “I’ll send you a written report: amounts, and so on. But there is no doubt as to what it is, and I can’t tell you anything more.”

“No marks on the body?” Pitt asked. “Scratches, bruises? Anything to indicate her being held? Wrists? A cut inside the mouth? Anything at all?”

“Several,” Thurgood said thinly. “She was an old woman and she bruised easily. But if she had been forced to take it against her will I would have expected to find bruises all around her wrists. It takes some strength to hold a person fighting for her life, even an old woman.”

“Would you know if you were drinking laudanum?” Pitt persisted. “What does it taste like?”

“You’d know,” Thurgood assured him. “If she took that much, believe me, either she took it intentionally, or under some kind of duress. The only other alternative, and I’ve been thinking about this, is that she took the normal dose. Then, when she was in a half-asleep state, the rest was given to her. If there were some spilled, it could be mopped up, perhaps with a little water, and there’d be no discernible trace.” He shrugged with an air of hopelessness. “Even if there was, it would prove nothing. She might often spill things. She was old and shaky, sitting up in bed.”

“I see. Thank you.”

PITT ARRIVED BACK AT Dorchester Terrace later that afternoon. Already the light was fading from the sky. The footman admitted him and had him wait in the cold morning room until Nerissa sent for him to come to the withdrawing room. The curtains were drawn closed, as they had been the previous day, but she was rather more composed this time, even if just as tense.

“What is it now, Mr. Pitt? Have you not caused us sufficient distress?” she said coldly. “The doctor tells me that you have obliged him to perform an autopsy on my aunt. I don’t know what purpose you believe that will possibly serve. It is a horrible thing to do, a desecration of her body that I cannot protest against strongly enough—for all the good it will do now.”

“It was necessary to know how she died, Miss Freemarsh,” he replied, watching her face, her anger, the clenched hands by her side. “And I regret to say that it was from an overdose of laudanum.” He stopped, afraid she was going to faint. She swayed and grasped the back of the settee to steady herself.

“An … overdose?” she repeated hoarsely. “I thought … I thought laudanum was safe. How could that happen? It was not even kept in the same room with her. We were so careful. It was in an upstairs cupboard and Tucker has the key. Even if my aunt felt that she was not sleeping well enough, she could not have gotten up to dose herself. That makes no sense!”

“What would make sense, Miss Freemarsh?” Pitt asked more gently.

“I beg your pardon?”

“What do you think happened?”

“I … I don’t know. How could I? She must have …” She sat still, unable to finish.

“What?” He did not allow her to wait. “You have just told me that she could not have gotten up to find the laudanum herself.”

“Then … then someone must have …” Her hand went to her throat. “Someone must have … broken in … or …”

“Is that possible?”

“I would not have thought so.” She was beginning to regain a little of her composure. “But I do not know the facts. If you are quite certain that she died of too much laudanum, then I don’t see what other explanation there can be. I did not give it to her, and I cannot believe that Tucker did. She has been loyal to Aunt Serafina for years.” She was staring at Pitt defiantly now. She lowered her voice just a little. “Aunt Serafina used to speak rather a lot about her past. I always believed she was making up most of it, but perhaps she wasn’t. She was afraid someone would try to hurt her, to keep her from revealing secrets. If the doctor is right—and I have no idea if he is—then that may be the answer.”

Pitt waited, still watching her.

“I don’t know what else you expect me to say.” She shook her head very slightly. “Lady Vespasia came to see her several times. Perhaps she may know who would wish my aunt harm. Aunt Serafina trusted her. She may have confided in her. I really cannot help, and I will not have you distressing the servants. None of us knows anything. I will ask them if they heard noises of any sort in the night. And of course you may ask them if anything was found, but I will not have you frightening them with the idea that we have had a murderer in the house. Do you understand me?” She shook herself a little and glared at him. “I will hold you responsible if you have them walk out in terror and leave me alone here.”

It was not graceful, but it was a reasonable statement. If it was even remotely possible that someone had indeed broken in, then she had a right to be afraid.

“I will check the windows and doors myself, Miss Freemarsh,” he promised. “There is no need for any of your servants to be aware that Mrs. Montserrat’s death was anything but natural, unless you choose to tell them.”

“Thank you.” She gulped. “How am I supposed to explain your presence here?”

“Mrs. Montserrat was a woman of great distinction, to whom the country owes a debt,” he replied. “We are taking care of the arrangements for her funeral, and you will not argue with us over this. It will explain my continued presence perfectly.”

She let out her breath with a sigh. “Yes. Yes, that will do. I am obliged. Now what is it you wish to look at? Will it wait until tomorrow?”

“No, it will not. I’m sure your housekeeping staff is excellent. They may unintentionally remove all trace of anyone having broken in, if indeed such a thing happened.”

“I … see. Then I suppose you had better look. Although it is more than possible that they have removed such a thing already.”

Pitt gave a very tiny smile. “Of course.” But if he waited until the following day, it would allow her time to create such evidence, and he had no intention of permitting that. “Now, if you would be good enough to show me all the windows and doors, I will examine them myself.”

She obeyed without speaking again. They went to every door and window one by one, any place where anyone could possibly have gained entry. As he had expected, he found nothing that proved, or disproved, that someone might have broken in. He examined the key to the cupboard where the laudanum was kept, then the cupboard itself. It was all exactly as he had been told.

He thanked Nerissa and left.

Outside in the lamplit street, wind-whipped and cold, he hailed the first hansom he could find, and gave the driver Narraway’s address. He climbed in and sat sunk in thought as they bowled along, almost oblivious of where he was.

In spite of Vespasia’s fears, he had not expected the doctor’s findings. Suddenly the world that Serafina had apparently hinted at had become real, and he was not prepared for it. When Vespasia had told him everything, it had sounded very much like the ramblings of an old woman who was losing her grip on life and longed to be thought important and interesting for just a little longer. He had to admit he had assumed that Vespasia was seeing in Serafina a ghost of what might happen to herself one day, and was exercising kindness rather than critical judgment.

Now he needed Narraway’s opinion, something to balance the thoughts that teemed in his own mind. Narraway, of all people, would not be swayed by fancy.

It did not occur to him until he was almost at Narraway’s door that at this time in the early evening he might very well not be at home. He felt a sense of desperation rise inside himself and leaned forward, as if traveling faster would somehow solve the problem. He realized the stupidity of it and leaned back again with a sigh.

The hansom pulled up and he asked the driver to wait. There was no purpose in staying here if Narraway was out. He could be gone all evening. He was free to do as he wished—even take a vacation, if he cared to.

But the manservant told him Narraway was at home. As soon as he had paid the hansom, Pitt went in and was shown to the sparse, elegant sitting room with its book-lined walls. The fire sent warmth into every corner, and the heavy velvet curtains were drawn against the night.

Pitt did not bother with niceties. They knew each other too well, and had long ago dispensed with trivia. Now the balance was more even between them. Though Narraway was the elder, the command was Pitt’s.

“Serafina Montserrat is dead,” Pitt said quietly. “She died some time during the night before last.”

“I know,” Narraway replied gravely. “Vespasia told me. What is there about it that concerns you? Is it not better that she went before her mind lost all its grasp, and fear and confusion had taken over? She was once a great woman. The cruelties of old age are … very harsh.” He waited, dark eyes steady on Pitt’s, knowing that there had to be something else. Pitt would not have come simply to share grief. “Did she say anything dangerous before she died?”

“I don’t know,” Pitt answered. “It seems possible, even more so than I thought. She died of an overdose of laudanum.” He saw Narraway flinch but he did not interrupt. “According to the postmortem, it was many times the medically correct amount,” Pitt continued. “Miss Freemarsh said that the bottle was kept locked in a cupboard in the maid’s pantry, and was higher than Mrs. Montserrat could have reached, even had she had the key. I checked and she is right. I questioned the lady’s maid, Tucker, and she agrees. I searched the house, and while it is not impossible that someone broke in, there is nothing that indicates it.”

Narraway bit his lip, his face troubled. “I assume there is no possibility she could have accidentally been given a large dose? Or that she deliberately took it?”

“No, the doctor has assured me that it couldn’t have been done unknowingly. And she didn’t handle the bottle herself, which rules out deliberately too, unless Tucker helped her.”

“A killing performed out of mercy to hasten what was inevitable, but before Serafina betrayed all that she had valued?” Narraway asked. “Not a pleasant thought, but imaginable, in extreme circumstances?” His lips tightened into a bitter line. “I think I would be grateful if someone were to do that for me.”

Pitt considered it. He tried to picture the frail, elderly maid, after a lifetime of service, doing her desperate mistress the last kindness she could, the final act of loyalty to the past. It made perfect sense, and yet, thinking of Tucker’s face, he could not believe it.

“No. After having spoken to Tucker, I don’t believe that she would do such a thing.”

“Not even to save Serafina from having the same thing done to her by somebody else, perhaps more brutally? Not a quiet going to sleep from which she didn’t waken, but perhaps strangling, or suffocating with a quick, hard pillow over the face?” Narraway asked. “This would have been gentle. If not Tucker, perhaps the niece, Miss Freemarsh? She could have done it as easily.”

“I thought of that,” Pitt replied. “But I don’t think the niece has any understanding of what Serafina accomplished in the past, or any profound loyalty to her. The possibility that someone else coerced Tucker into it is more likely, but I don’t believe that either.”

“Reason? Instinct?”

“Instinct,” Pitt replied. “But they could have gotten to the niece. That’s possible. And I think she’s lying about the circumstances of Mrs. Montserrat’s death, at least to some degree. There are two reasons I can see as to why she might lie. One, a certain amount of fairly natural resentment could blossom out of spending one’s youth as a dependent, a companion and housekeeper, while childbearing years slip away.”

Narraway winced. “You make it sound pretty grim.”

“It is pretty grim. But it’s better than not having a roof over your head,” Pitt pointed out. “Which may well have been her only alternative. I’ll have it looked into, just in case it matters.”

“And the other reason?”

“I think she has a lover.”

Narraway smiled. “So her life is not as grim as you painted it, after all?”

“Depends on who he is, and what he’s after,” Pitt responded drily. The thought flickered through his head that Narraway seemed to know comparatively little about women. It was a surprise to perceive how having a wife, and also children, was such a large advantage in that sense.

Narraway was watching him, his face grave, an intense sadness in his eyes.

“Poor Serafina,” he said softly. “Murdered after all.” He rubbed the heel of his hand across his face. “Damn! If someone killed her, it means she knew things that still matter. She had all sorts of connections in the whole Balkan area: Austria, Hungary, Serbia, Croatia, Macedonia, and of course most of all in northern Italy. She was part of all the nationalist uprisings from ’48 onward. If there’s something brewing now, she might have known who was involved: connections, old debts.”

Pitt did not have to weigh whether he should tell Narraway about the current assassination threat. It was never a possibility in his mind that Narraway would betray anything.

“We have word that there might be an assassination attempt on Duke Alois Habsburg when he visits here in a couple of weeks,” he said very quietly. He did not yet want to tell Narraway what a bloody and violent plan it was.

“Alois Habsburg?” Narraway was stunned. “For God’s sake, why?” He took a deep breath. “Is he far more important than we ever supposed? What does the Foreign Office say?”

“That I have a severe case of inflated imagination,” Pitt replied. “Due, in all likelihood, to having been promoted beyond my ability.”

Narraway swore, with a vocabulary Pitt had not known he possessed.

“But Evan Blantyre is taking it very seriously, and has already given me a great deal of help,” Pitt added.

“Blantyre? Good. He knows as much about the Austrian Empire as anyone, probably more than the Foreign Secretary. If he thinks it’s serious, then it is. God, what a mess! But I don’t understand: Why Duke Alois?” He bit his lip. “Have you considered the possibility that Special Branch is actually the target, and Duke Alois is incidental?”

“Yes,” Pitt said softly. “He may be simply a convenient pawn, the man in the right place at the right time. Perhaps it doesn’t matter who’s killed, as long as it’s done here.”

“But could he be a troublemaker, like Crown Prince Rudolf?” Narraway asked doubtfully. “Socialist sympathies? Does he write articles for left-leaning papers, with dangerous philosophical ideas, or subversive elements of any sort?”

“No,” Pitt replied. “As far as we can find out, he’s a totally harmless dabbler in science and philosophy. If he hadn’t been distantly royal, and with money, he probably would have been a university professor.”

Narraway frowned. “There’s a hell of a lot we don’t know about this, Pitt, and you need to find out damn quickly. How much help is Blantyre being? And why?”

Pitt smiled bitterly. “I thought of that too, but the answer’s fairly simple. He sees the pivotal position of Austria in Europe, and the increasingly fragile threads that hold the empire together. One really good hole ripped in it, such as would be caused by a major scandal—something that, say, forced the Austrians to react violently against one of the smaller member nations like Croatia—and the whole fabric could unravel.”

Narraway looked skeptical. “Croatia has caused trouble for years,” he pointed out. “And Blantyre, of all people, knows that.”

“There is something new in it,” Pitt argued. “Blantyre pointed it out to me. We now have a unified Germany, with the strong, energetic power of Prussia at the head. If Slavic Croatia seems to be the victim of German-speaking Austria’s aggression, Slavic Russia will very naturally come to its aid. Newly unified German-speaking Teutonic Prussia will come to Vienna’s aid, and we will have a European war in the making that we might not be able to stop.”

“God Almighty!” Narraway said in horror as the enormity of it dawned on him. “Then guard Alois with your life, if necessary. Use Blantyre, use everybody. I’ll do all I can, starting with finding out what happened to poor Serafina Montserrat, particularly whether she knew anything about this.” His face was ashen but there was a tension in his body, as if every nerve in him had come alive. His breathing was faster. There was a tiny muscle jumping in his temple, and his slender hands were locked rigidly together as he leaned forward. “We have to succeed.”

“I know,” Pitt agreed quietly.

“And Serafina’s death?” Narraway asked. Then, when Pitt did not answer immediately, he continued. “I have nothing to do, at least nothing that matters. Let me look into that. It may be important, but even if it has nothing to do with politics and is merely some miserable domestic tragedy, she deserves better than having it be ignored.”

Pitt stared at him for several seconds.

“I assure you, I have solved the occasional crime before now,” Narraway said, his eyes bright with amusement. “You will be challenging me no more to step into your shoes than I have you stepping into mine.”

Pitt drew breath to apologize, then changed his mind and simply smiled.

“Of course. She does deserve better.”

CHARLOTTE REASONED THAT JUST because Pitt could not tell her about his current case, that did not mean that she could not use her own intelligence and considerable deductive powers to work out what she could do to be of use to him anyway.

It was perfectly obvious that Evan Blantyre was important to Pitt. At dinner at the Blantyres’ house, the men had spent the rest of the evening in the dining room with the door closed, and had given instructions to the butler not to interrupt them unless sent for. When they had finally emerged, they had seemed in close agreement about something. Pitt had expressed a gratitude that was far deeper than the thanks one owes for a good dinner and a pleasant evening.

On the way home he had said nothing, but Charlotte had seen that the tension in him had eased somewhat; certainly that night he had slept better than for over a week.

Therefore she judged it a good idea to cultivate a friendship with Adriana Blantyre. This was not in the least difficult, since she had liked her instinctively, and found her unusually interesting. Having grown up in Croatia and then northern Italy, Adriana had a different perspective on many things. And she was certainly a very agreeable person, in spite of the anxiety that was often in her face, and the sense Charlotte had that there were secrets within her that she shared with no one. Perhaps that was because those secrets were rooted in experiences an Englishwoman could not even imagine.

So Charlotte had invited Adriana to visit an exhibition of watercolors with her that afternoon. Adriana had accepted without hesitation.

They met at two o’clock on the steps of the gallery and went inside together. They laughed a little as they clutched at their hats, the wind picking up even the heavy cloth of winter skirts, whose edges were dampened by rain.

Adriana was dressed in a warm wine color, which lent a glow to her pale skin. It was a beautifully cut costume with a slightly sporty air, which made one think of a hunting dress. Her hat was narrow-brimmed, tipped well forward, and had a towering crown. It looked vaguely Austrian. Charlotte saw at least a dozen other women glance at Adriana and then look away, their faces filled with disapproval and envy. Everyone else looked dull in comparison, and they knew it.

Adriana saw, and seemed a little abashed.

“Too much?” she asked almost under her breath.

“Not at all,” Charlotte said with amusement. “You may guarantee that at least three of them will go straight to their milliners tomorrow morning and demand something like it. On some it will look wonderful, and on others absurd. Hats are the hardest things to get right, don’t you think?”

Adriana hesitated a moment to make sure that Charlotte was serious, then her face relaxed into a wide smile. “Yes, I do. But with hair like yours it seems a shame to wear a hat at all. But I suppose you must, at least out in the street—oh, and in church, of course.” She laughed lightly. “I wonder if God had the faintest idea how many hours we would spend in front of the glass rather than on our knees, fussing over what to wear to worship Him.”

“In what to be seen while worshipping Him,” Charlotte corrected her. “But if He is a man, as everyone says, then He probably did not think of it.” She smiled, and walked side by side with Adriana across the wide entrance hall and into the first display room. “But if He is a woman, or had a wife, then He would certainly know,” she continued softly, so as not to be overheard. “Presumably He invented our hair. He must have at least some idea how long it takes to pin it up!”

“Every picture I have seen of Eve, she has hair long enough to sit on!” Adriana exclaimed. “To cover her … womanly attributes. I don’t think mine would ever grow so long.”

“Of course, a number of gentlemen have very little hair at all, especially in their advancing years,” Charlotte replied. “You should feel free to have as wide a skirt and as large a hat as you please.”

They went around the paintings slowly, looking at each one with care.

“Oh, look!” Adriana said in sudden excitement. “That is just like a bridge I used to know near where I was born.” She stood transfixed in front of a small, delicate pastoral scene. It was simple: a small river meandering over its bed and disappearing beneath a stone bridge, the light shining in the water beyond. Cows grazed nearby, so perfectly depicted that it seemed as if at any moment they would amble out of the painting.

Charlotte looked at Adriana and saw a range of emotions in her face. She seemed very close to both laughter and tears.

“It’s beautiful,” Charlotte said sincerely. “You must find it very different here. I sometimes wish I had grown up in the country, but if I had, I think I would miss it so terribly that I might never reconcile myself to paved streets and houses close to each other—not to mention noise, and smoke in the winter.”

“Oh, there’s mud in the country,” Adriana assured her. “And cold. And in the winter it can be unbearably tedious, believe me. And so much darkness everywhere! It closes in on you in every direction, almost without relief. You would miss the theater, and parties, and gossip about famous people, rather than just the talk of your neighbors: Mrs. This about her grandchildren; Mr. That about his gout; Miss So-and-so about her aunt, and how bad the cook is.”

Charlotte looked at her closely, trying to see how much she meant what she was saying, and how much she was very lightly mocking. After several seconds, she was still uncertain. That was invigorating. It was a bore to always be able to read people.

“Perhaps one should have a city home for the winter to go to the theater and operas and parties,” she said with an answering half-seriousness, “and a country home for the summer, to go for rides and walks, to dine in the garden, and … whatever else one chooses to do.”

“But you are English.” Adriana was close to laughter now. “So you spend the summer in town and go to your country estate for the winter, where you gallop around the fields behind a pack of dogs, and apparently enjoy yourself enormously.”

Charlotte laughed with her, and they moved to the next painting. Charlotte only barely noticed Adriana glance back once at the gentle bridge in the sun, with the cows grazing nearby. She must have loved Blantyre very much to have left behind the country she clearly adored and come to England.

“Have you traveled to many places in Europe?” she asked aloud. “I have never been to Italy, for instance, but from the pictures I have seen, it is very beautiful indeed.”

“It is,” Adriana agreed. “But I have found that it isn’t really places that matter; it all comes down to people, in the end.” She turned to look at Charlotte. “Don’t you agree?” There was complete honesty in her eyes, and almost a challenge.

“Yes. I suppose I like London because the best things that have happened to me have happened here,” Charlotte agreed. “Yes, of course it is all to do with people; in the end, it comes down to being with those you love. Beauty is exciting, and thrilling; you never entirely forget it, but you still need to share it with someone.”

Adriana blinked and turned away. “I don’t think I really want to go back to Croatia. It wouldn’t ever be the same. My family is gone …” She stopped abruptly, as if she regretted having begun. She straightened her back and shoulders, and moved to another painting, depicting a girl of about sixteen sitting on the grass in the shade of a tree. She was wearing a pale muslin dress, and the dappled light made her seem extraordinarily fragile, as if not altogether real. She had dark hair, like Adriana. In fact, the resemblance was remarkable.

Adriana stared at her. “It was another world, wasn’t it? Sixteen?” she said at last.

“Yes,” Charlotte agreed, thinking back to being with Sarah and Emily in the garden at Cater Street every summer when they were young.

Adriana moved a little closer to her. “She looks so delicate,” she said, facing the painting. “She probably isn’t. I was ill a lot as a child, but I have been well for years now. Evan doesn’t always believe it. He treats me as if I need watching all the time: extra blankets, another scarf, gloves on, don’t step in the puddles or you’ll get your feet wet. You’ll catch a cold.” She pulled her lips into a strange, rueful half-smile. “Actually I hardly ever get colds. It must be your bracing climate here. I have become English, and tough.”

This time it was Charlotte who laughed. “We get colds,” she admitted. “Some people seem to always be coughing and sniffling. But I’m very glad to hear that you have outgrown your ill health. If you are strong now, that’s all that counts.”

Adriana turned away quickly, tears slipping down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry!” Charlotte said instantly, wondering what she had said. Had Adriana lost someone to a simple illness? Perhaps a child? How tragic and painful, if that was the case.

Adriana shook her head. “Please don’t be. One cannot go backward. There are always losses. I don’t think there is anyone in the world I ever loved as I cared for my father. I wish he could know that I am well and strong here, and that I …” She waved her hand impatiently. “I apologize. I shouldn’t even allow the memories to come to my mind. We all lose people.” She looked back at Charlotte. “You are very patient, and gentle.”

“I had two sisters. I lost one of them,” Charlotte said quietly. “Sometimes I think of her and wonder what it would be like if she were still alive. If we would be better friends than we were then.” She forced her memory back to those dreadful days when the family, the whole neighborhood, looked at each other with fear, when she had realized how little she knew of what the people closest to her really believed in, loved, or dreamed of.

She blushed now, when she wondered if Sarah had known that Charlotte had been in love with Dominic, Sarah’s husband. That was something she preferred not to recall. Everyone had embarrassing moments in their past, pieces they would like to live over again, to create a better outcome.

She linked her arm in Adriana’s. “Come on, let’s go and get a hot cup of tea, and maybe some cake, or crumpets. You mentioned where you first met Mr. Blantyre the other evening. It sounded far more romantic than London. I first met Mr. Pitt when he was investigating a fearful crime near where I lived, and we were all suspect, at least of having seen something and lying about it, in order to protect those we loved. It was all grim and awful. You have to have a better tale to tell than that.”

Adriana looked at her with interest, and then, as their eyes met for longer, with understanding. “Certainly,” she said cheerfully. “Tea and crumpets, then I’ll tell you how Mr. Blantyre and I met, and more about some of the really wonderful places I’ve been. The blue and green lakes in the mountains in Croatia. You’ve never even imagined such colors! They lie like a necklace dropped carelessly by some great goddess of the sky. And I wish I could really describe for you the forests of Illyria,” she went on. “They are all deciduous trees, and in the spring, when the young leaves are just out, it is as if the whole world were newly made.”

Charlotte tried to imagine it. Perhaps it was something like a beech forest in England, but she did not want to put words to it, or try to compare.

“And we have the Dinaric Alps,” Adriana went on. “And caves, dozens of them, seven or eight hundred feet deep.”

“Really?” Charlotte was amazed, but mostly she was moved by the depth of emotion in Adriana’s voice, the passion behind her words. “Have you been in some of them?”

Adriana shivered. “Only once. My father took me, and held my hand. There is nothing on earth darker than a cave. It makes the night sky, even with clouds, seem full of light. But you should see Istria, and the islands. There are over a thousand of them strung all along the coast. Those in the farthest south are almost tropical, you know.”

“You must miss such beauty, here.”

“I do.” Adriana gave her a sudden smile of great warmth; then she changed the subject abruptly, as if the memories of her own country were too overwhelming to continue discussing. “Vienna is marvelous,” she said cheerfully. “You have never really danced till you have heard a Viennese orchestra play for Mr. Strauss. And the clothes! Every woman should have a dress to waltz in, once in her life. Come!”

Charlotte obeyed, falling into step with her.

THE FOLLOWING DAY CHARLOTTE was in the parlor giving serious consideration to the matter of whether to buy new curtains, possibly in a different color, when she heard Daniel shouting angrily. He must have turned at the bottom of the stairs to go along the passage to the kitchen, because his feet were loud on the linoleum.

The next moment Jemima came after him.

“I told you you’d break it!” she shouted. “Now look what you’ve done!”

“I wouldn’t have if you hadn’t left it there, stupid!” Daniel shouted back.

“How was I to know you’d go banging around like a carthorse?” Jemima was at the bottom of the stairs now.

Charlotte came out of the parlor. “Jemima!”

Jemima stopped in the passage and swung around, her face flushed with anger. “He broke it!” she said, holding up the remnants of a delicate ornamental box. She was close to tears from fury and disappointment.

Charlotte looked at it and knew it was beyond mending. She met Jemima’s eyes, so much like her own.

“I’m sorry. I don’t think there’s anything we can do with that. I don’t suppose he meant to.”

“He didn’t care!” Jemima retorted. “I told him to be careful.”

Charlotte looked at her, and imagined how tactful Jemima’s warning had likely been. “Yes,” she said calmly. “You’d better put it in the wastebasket, under the lid so you don’t keep looking at it. I’ll go and speak to him.”

Jemima did not move.

“Go on,” Charlotte repeated. “Do you want to make it better, or worse? If I talk to him about it in front of you, it will definitely make it worse, that I can promise you.”

Reluctantly Jemima turned around and climbed slowly back up the stairs.

Charlotte watched her until she had disappeared up the next flight as well, to her own bedroom, then she went along to the kitchen.

Minnie Maude was peeling potatoes at the sink. Daniel was sitting on one of the chairs at the kitchen table, swinging his feet and looking miserable and angry. He glared at Charlotte as she came in, ready to defend himself from Jemima if she was immediately behind.

“Did you break it?” Charlotte asked.

“It was her fault,” he responded. “She left it in the way!”

“Did you mean to?”

“Of course I didn’t!”

“Daniel, are you sure?”

“Yes! That’s not fair! I didn’t see it.”

“That’s what I thought. So what are you going to do about it?”

He looked at her resentfully. “I can’t put it together again,” he protested.

“No, I don’t think anybody can,” she agreed. “I think you’ll have to find her another one.”

His eyes widened. “I can’t! Where would I get it?”

“You won’t get one just like it, but if you save up your pocket money, you might find one nearly as nice.”

“She shouldn’t have left it there!” He drew in a deep breath. “It’ll be all my money for weeks! Maybe months!”

“What if she puts in half?” Charlotte suggested. “Her half for leaving the box in the way, your half for not looking where you were going and breaking it?”

Reluctantly he agreed, watching to see if she was pleased.

“Good.” She smiled at him. “Now Minnie Maude will get you a piece of cake, then you will go upstairs and tell Jemima you are sorry, and offer to share pocket money with her to find another box.”

“What if she says no?” he asked.

“If you ask nicely, and she refuses, then you are excused.”

He was happy. He turned to Minnie Maude and waited for the promised cake.

“I’m going out for a little while,” Charlotte told them both. “I may be an hour or two, or even longer. Minnie Maude, please tell Mr. Pitt, if he comes home before I do, that I’ve gone to visit my sister.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Minnie Maude agreed, reaching for the cake.

Charlotte did not bother to change. She took her coat, hat, and gloves and left immediately, before she could lose the conviction within herself that she must go to Emily and make peace with her.

She walked briskly along Keppel Street to Russell Square, where she caught a hansom. During the ride, she composed in her mind, over and over, what she would say, how she would vary her answers according to Emily’s responses, and how best to keep both of their tempers in check.

The weather was getting milder. She passed several carriages bowling along briskly with ladies out visiting, or simply taking the air. Another month and it would be a pleasure to go to the botanical gardens. Trees and shrubs would begin to show green leaves, even flower buds. There would be daffodils in bloom.

She arrived at Emily’s spacious, handsome house and alighted. She paid the driver, then walked up to the front door and pulled the bell.

She waited only a few moments before the door was opened and a footman greeted her with apologies.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Pitt, but neither Mr. nor Mrs. Radley is at home. You are welcome to come in and take a little refreshment, if you would care to?” He held the door wide and stepped back to allow her to pass.

Charlotte felt ridiculously disappointed. It had never occurred to her that Emily would be out at this hour, but of course that was perfectly reasonable. All her screwing up of courage, her swallowing of pride, was to no avail.

“Thank you,” she accepted, going into the warmth of the hallway. It was windy outside. Already the light was fading from the sky, and dusk was in the air. “That would be very pleasant. Perhaps I may leave a message for Mrs. Radley?”

“Certainly, ma’am. I shall bring you a pen and paper, unless you would prefer to use Mrs. Radley’s desk in the morning room?”

“That would be a very good idea. Thank you.”

“I’ll have your tea served here when you return. Would you care for hot crumpets and butter as well?”

She smiled at him, liking his thoughtfulness. “Yes, please.”

She found the paper in Emily’s desk and wrote:

Dear Emily

,

I came by on the spur of the moment, because I quite suddenly realized how little I wish to quarrel with you. There is nothing of such importance that I should allow it to make me unreasonable or ill-tempered

.

She hesitated. Maybe she was taking rather too much of the blame for what had been, at the very least, quite as much Emily’s fault? No, better to continue in this vein. She could always be a trifle sharper if Emily took advantage. And it was true: none of the differences mattered, in the end.

All that is good outweighs everything else, and small differences must not be allowed to matter

.

Affectionately,

Charlotte

She folded the note and put it in her reticule, then put the top back on the ink and laid the pen down.

She returned to the morning room, and hot tea and crumpets were served to her a few moments later. She gave her note to the footman, thanked him, and sat down to enjoy her treat, before going back outside into the cold to look for a hansom to take her home again.