Dorchester Terrace (39 page)

The first drops of rain spattered against the windows.

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

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

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

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

Perhaps it was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Charlotte was watching him, waiting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not proud of it.”

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

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

“Because I’d find out?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Him?”

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

“You want revenge?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You are right,” he agreed.

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

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

“Did she care about him?” he asked.

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

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

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

“And Blantyre?” he asked bitterly.

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

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

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

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

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

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