Dorchester Terrace (47 page)

He also saw Vespasia, but then she was usually easy to see in any crowd. She was beside Narraway and they were talking to each other, heads bent a little.

What could Charlotte be wearing? Blue, burgundy, some warmer color that flattered the rich tones of her skin and hair; lots of women were wearing such shades. All the skirts were enormous, the sleeves high and almost winged at the shoulder—it was the fashion.

He saw Duke Alois briefly, laughing at some joke or other and smiling at a duchess. He looked exactly the pleasant, absentminded sort of academic he affected to be. The serious and idealistic man who was willing to risk his life, to carry a dangerous burden of secret office, the man who had seen his friend shot to death only this afternoon, seemed like something Pitt had dreamed.

It was small wonder Tregarron had tried to kill Duke Alois. What
man would not want to rid himself of such mastery by another, such power to manipulate, or destroy? What he had done, he had done to protect his father’s name, and his mother’s feelings. Not a bad motive. Most people would understand it.

Pitt still could not see Charlotte; he gave up trying from this vantage. He went down the steps slowly and into the crowd. Hardly anyone knew him, so he had no need to stop and acknowledge people.

How had Alois known of Tregarron’s vulnerability? That was something that could not have come from Serafina Montserrat. She had been active long before Duke Alois’s time, and he had not been to London before.

Yet Pitt could not rid himself of the belief that it was Serafina’s crumbling memory that had fired this whole complex series of events. It was Serafina’s memory of Lazar Dragovic’s death that had driven Blantyre to kill her, and then to kill Adriana.

Blantyre also knew about Tregarron. He had said as much. So had Blantyre told Duke Alois about it?

That made no sense at all. Blantyre might have cooperated with Duke Alois, within limits, but he would never have given him, or anyone else, control of his own means of power, the secret knowledge that enabled him to manipulate Tregarron.

Then, like the sun rising on a hideous landscape, the whole picture became clear in his mind. Blantyre would want Duke Alois dead now. As long as he was alive, he could also control Tregarron. With Duke Alois dead, no one but Pitt knew the secrets, and Blantyre discounted Pitt’s courage to act.

Perhaps he also believed that if Duke Alois was murdered while under Pitt’s protection in London, Pitt might be disposed of. Surely it would not be too difficult a task. Pitt was now the head of Special Branch, but he had not proven himself yet. He was still something of an experiment: a man risen from the ranks of the police, rather than a gentleman from the military or diplomatic services. Kill Alois and blame Pitt’s incompetence, and Blantyre would be the only man left with the power to manipulate Tregarron into telling Vienna whatever Blantyre wished, and learning whatever he wished in return. He needed both Duke Alois and Pitt out of the way for Tregarron to be of use to him.

It had to have been Blantyre who had sent Tregarron to kill Duke Alois today. It would have worked perfectly. Pitt would like to have seen Blantyre’s face when the duke arrived this evening, very clearly alive and well!

Where was Blantyre? Was he here? He started to look more earnestly. He would have to find Charlotte later. He pushed through the gaps in the crowds, excusing himself, brushing past, turning from right to left, searching for Blantyre. He ought to be able to spot him. He was a little taller than average, and he stood and moved with a unique kind of elegance, a trifle stiff. He carried his head in a characteristic way.

Pitt glanced over to where Duke Alois had been talking to a duchess, or whoever she was. She was still there, but now she was speaking with a large, middle-aged man.

Pitt turned around slowly, taking a deep breath and letting it out between his teeth. He could not see the duke. One of his men was standing over near the wall, but there was a slight frown on his face, and he too was looking from side to side.

Pitt started to look for Emily. Her fair hair and the pale green of her gown might stand out. Yes, there she was, and Jack was still beside her.

“Excuse me,” Pitt said hastily, brushing his way past a woman in a mulberry-colored silk gown. She glared at him, but he barely noticed. He walked right between two elderly gentlemen, excusing himself again. He must not lose sight of Jack.

“Here! I say!” a young man protested as Pitt bumped him. He in turn trod on a woman’s skirt, which was a fraction too long for her.

“I’m sorry,” Pitt said over his shoulder, and kept going.

“Jack!” he called just as Jack appeared about to begin a conversation with a young man wearing lush side whiskers. “Jack.”

Jack turned, startled. “Thomas! What’s wrong?”

“Excuse me,” Pitt said to the young man. “Something of an emergency.” He took Jack’s arm and pulled him to the side, several steps away from the nearest group. “There was an incident on the train this afternoon. One of Duke Alois’s men was shot—killed outright.”

Jack looked appalled. The blood drained from his face. His eyes swept down Pitt to reassure himself that he was unhurt, then a flash of relief filled his eyes. “I’m sorry. The duke himself is putting a hell of a good face on it. Or is he too stupid in his studies for physical reality to touch him? He does know, I presume?”

“Yes. And he’s anything but out of touch, I promise you.”

“Do you know who it was?”

“Yes, but this is not the time to explain. The duke was here a few minutes ago, but I can’t see him now. Blantyre was behind the shooting, and I can’t see him either. I think he’ll try to finish the job …”

“Here? For God’s sake, Thomas, the place is full of women and—”

“Where better?” Pitt cut across him. “No one will be expecting it. Duke Alois and his men will think he’s safe. I nearly did, until I realized exactly why Blantyre has to kill him. He can’t afford to let him get back to Vienna.”

Jack gulped. “What do you want me to do?”

“Find the duke, tell him you’re my brother-in-law, and keep him in the middle of a crowd, any crowd.”

“What about you?”

“I’m going to find Blantyre.”

“And do what, for God’s sake?”

“Arrest him, but if he forces me to, I’ll shoot him.” As soon as he said it, Pitt was not certain if he would do it—if he could. He was not even certain if he could prove that Blantyre had murdered Serafina.

Jack stood motionless for an instant, then he gave a very slight nod, and turned on his heel, disappearing into the crowd immediately.

Where would Blantyre have gone? One of two places. He could hide in the crowd, where he would be concealed among hundreds of other men dressed in exactly the same fashion. However, his face was known, so people would stop to speak to him, to express condolences over Adriana’s death.

The alternative would be to stay out of sight almost altogether, in the darker, narrower passages, any place where he would not be expected. Change his attitude, his grace of stance or movement, and—
from the back at least—he would appear like anyone else, even a servant. The footmen were in livery, but there were always others: a butler, a valet, even a messenger of some sort.

And if he really meant to kill Duke Alois, he would have to do that when he had privacy. He would not intend to be caught.

Pitt went back up the stairs, taking them rapidly. They were too wide and shallow to take two at a time, unless he drew attention to himself by doing it at a run. At the top he stopped, looking for more private rooms, corridors, anterooms, galleries—anything away from the crowd. If he could find Stoker he would ask for his help, but he had no time now to look for him. He too could be anywhere.

There was a door to his left. It was as good a place as any to begin. He had opened it and gone inside when he realized how much better it would be to get some order into his search. Blantyre would not wait forever for the duke; he would stalk him, go where he knew the duke would be, and, sooner or later, get him alone.

Where? The room where the orchestra was playing? A gallery beyond that? A corridor? A lavatory—the one place where a man could spend a few minutes and expect, quite reasonably, to be alone? Blantyre could close a door and be there indefinitely, unseen.

Pitt walked away from the room toward one of the footmen standing at the bottom of the stairs.

“Excuse me,” he said calmly. “Can you direct me to the gentlemen’s lavatory, please? The most convenient, if there is more than one.”

“Just the one available to guests, sir,” the footman replied. “If you go along there to your right.” He gestured discreetly, so no onlooker would have been aware of where he was pointing. “It is the third door along that passage, sir.”

“Thank you,” Pitt accepted, and walked quickly in the direction the man had indicated. He came to the door, hesitated a moment, then turned the handle and went inside. It was beautifully appointed, with half a dozen stalls, each with its own door. Only one was occupied. Was Blantyre in there, waiting until Duke Alois came? Surely in the course of the evening it was certain that he would?

Pitt stood silently with his back against the wall, his heart pounding.
Seconds ticked by. There was no sound from the occupied cubicle. Perhaps Alois was already there, already dead? Or unconscious and dying while Pitt stood out here like a fool?

There was a noise outside: footsteps, men’s voices.

Pitt turned his back to the room and pretended to be drying his hands on a towel.

Behind him two men came in. He glanced around. Neither was Alois. He went to the basin and washed his hands, slowly, as if he had something under a fingernail. After several minutes first one man left, then the other. The door at the far end remained locked. There was no sound from within. Was it someone ill? Someone dead? If it was Blantyre waiting for Alois, why had he not even looked out to see who had come in?

More minutes went by. Another man came in and left.

Was Pitt standing here, incessantly pretending to wash his hands, while outside, Blantyre was stalking Alois, and perhaps catching him? Was the duke already stabbed and bleeding to death behind some curtain?

Pitt went to the outside door and, pulling it open abruptly, slipped out. He closed it, then waited. How had Alois walked? Upright, but not like a soldier. With grace, a sort of lanky elegance, as if nothing troubled him. He tried to picture it exactly. A slight swagger—a very slight limp, as if his left leg was just a little stiff.

He walked away a few steps, turned, and walked back, trying to imitate Alois. He put his hand on the door and opened it, then went in walking casually, dragging his left foot so slightly he was not even certain it was enough. He swallowed, gulping air.

The last door opened and he was looking at Evan Blantyre, a long, curved knife in one hand. For a silent, burning second they stared at each other. Then Pitt’s fingers closed around the revolver in his pocket and he lifted it out slowly.

Blantyre smiled. “You don’t have the courage,” he said slowly.

Pitt did not take his eyes from Blantyre’s. “You killed Serafina, Adriana …”

“And Lazar Dragovic,” Blantyre added. “He was a traitor to Austria. But you can’t prove any of it.”

“Austria is not my territory,” Pitt told him. “London is.”

“Austria is the heart of Europe, you provincial fool!” Blantyre said between his teeth. “Get out of my way.”

“And London is the heart of England,” Pitt replied. “Which is irrelevant, except that it is my responsibility. You blackmailed Tregarron into trying to kill Duke Alois, and only ended up killing his friend instead. But one dead man is as important as another.”

“You can’t prove that either, without exposing Tregarron, and his father, and the whole sordid mess of treason. And you’ll expose Duke Alois as well, of course,” Blantyre said. “So there isn’t a damn thing you can do. Now get out of my way, and don’t oblige me to hurt you.”

Pitt stood still, his heart beating so violently he felt certain he must be shaking. His hand ached, gripping the revolver.

Blantyre moved the knife a little so the light caught its blade.

“What are you going to do, stab Alois?” Pitt asked, his voice rough-edged.

Blantyre paled a little.

“Because you can’t afford to leave him alive,” Pitt added.

There was a flash of understanding in Blantyre’s eyes, perhaps of the knowledge that he couldn’t afford to leave Pitt alive either. For an instant he moved the knife a fraction, then let it fall again.

“You can’t arrest me; you’d only make a fool of yourself. And you don’t have the nerve,” he said very softly. “I’m walking out of here and I’ll find Duke Alois another time. Perhaps I’ll follow him back to Vienna. No reason I shouldn’t. You’re out of your depth, Pitt. Pity, because I liked you.” He gave a slight shrug and took a step forward.

Everything that Blantyre said was true.

Pitt raised the revolver. “God forgive me,” he said to himself, and fired.

The sound was deafening.

For an instant Blantyre’s eyes were wide with amazement, then he staggered backward against the cubicle door and it crashed open behind him. He fell, his chest soaked in red. He slithered to the floor, and lay still.

Pitt forced himself to walk over to the cubicle and look down. Blantyre’s eyes were still open, and sightless. Pitt felt his stomach
twist violently with regret. Hours seemed to pass before he heard shouts and footsteps along the corridor. He put the revolver back in his pocket and took out his identification. He had it in his hand when two men in dinner suits flung the door open and stopped abruptly. Narraway was immediately behind them, Jack Radley on his heels.

“God Almighty!” the first man exclaimed, his face ashen, staring first at Pitt, then past him to the open door, and Blantyre covered in blood, lying on the tiled marble floor.

Narraway pushed past him, then stopped.

Pitt started to speak, cleared his throat, and started again.

“I am Thomas Pitt, head of Special Branch. I regret to say that there has been an unpleasant incident, but there is no danger now. You might be civil enough to inform Duke Alois Habsburg that the immediate danger to his life is over.”