Dorchester Terrace (11 page)

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.

T
WO 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.

T
HE 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?