by Anne Perry
“Because now Princess Stéphanie is also infected,” he replied.
The expression in Adriana’s face was unreadable: surprise, pity, but—more complex than that—it seemed to Charlotte to include a kind of hope, as if a long-standing problem had at last been resolved.
“So it would have been the Archduke Franz Ferdinand anyway?” Adriana said after a couple of seconds.
“Yes,” Blantyre agreed. “Did you think poor Rudolf’s death could have had something to do with the succession? It wasn’t political, at least in that sense. If Rudolf had become emperor, he had planned to make the empire a republic and be president of it, with far greater freedom for the individual nations within.”
“Would that have worked?” Adriana asked dubiously.
He smiled. “Probably not. He was an idealist, very much a dreamer. But maybe.”
Pitt looked from one to the other of them. “Is there any doubt that it was suicide?”
Blantyre shook his head. “None at all. I know there are all kinds of rumors flying around, but the truth is far beyond that which is known to the public. But I believe that some griefs should remain the property of those who are the victims. That is about the only decency we can offer them. I am quite certain that his death and that of Marie Vetsera were by their own hands, and there were no others involved. Who has blame for the patterns of their lives is not an issue for us.”
Pitt seemed about to say something, then changed his mind, and instead made some remark about one of the many beautiful paintings on the wall.
Adriana’s face lit with pleasure immediately. “The Croatian coast,” she said eagerly. “That’s where I was born.” She went on to describe it, her words full of nostalgia.
Charlotte noted Blantyre’s face. There was a lingering sadness in his eyes as he listened to his wife remembering her childhood, the changing seasons, the sounds and the touch of the past.
Adriana said nothing more of Vienna, as if it were part of another world.
AFTER DINNER CHARLOTTE AND Adriana returned to the withdrawing room for tea and delicate, prettily decorated sweets.
“Your country sounds very beautiful,” Charlotte said with interest.
“It’s unique,” she said, smiling. “At least it was. I haven’t been back for several years now.”
“Surely you can go back, at least to visit?” Charlotte asked.
Suddenly Adriana was very still. The delicate color of her skin became even lighter, almost as if it were translucent.
“I don’t think I would like to. Evan is very protective of my feelings. He keeps telling me that it would bring back old pain that is best left to heal, and perhaps he is right.”
Charlotte waited, believing an explanation would come. Even if it did not, it would be clumsy to ask.
“I’m sorry, I am making no sense. My father died a long time ago, and my mother some time before that. His death is something I still find hard to think about. Others loved him and grieved also, but not as I did.” For some minutes she had difficulty keeping her emotions under control. She looked at Charlotte with startling trust, as if there was clearly a friendship between them, but she did not say anything more.
Charlotte thought of her own elder sister’s death: the grief, the fear, the disillusionment that had followed it. It was during that series of murders that she had first met Pitt. She had grown up during that time, had learned to look more honestly at the people she loved. She had tried to accept failure, her own and theirs, and learn not to blame them because they fell short of her idealistic and rather immature perceptions of them.
She had no idea how Adriana’s father had died, but clearly it had been part of some complicated situation that had caused her much pain, if, even now, she would not speak of it.
Charlotte looked around the withdrawing room and chose a lovely, very ornate piece of carving in wood to admire and ask about.
The tension was broken, and Adriana responded with a flush of gratitude, giving an account of its history.
IN THE DINING ROOM, the butler brought in port and cigars; at Blantyre’s request he left them alone. Then the serious conversation began. Blantyre offered no preamble.
“I have looked more closely at the situation, Pitt. I have been obliged to change my mind. I admit, I thought you were being a little hasty and had jumped to conclusions. I was mistaken. I now believe that you are right to consider the danger serious, possibly even as catastrophic as it looks.”
Pitt was stunned.
Blantyre leaned forward. “Of course, the indications are slight: an inquiry about timetables, which seems natural enough; a desire to know how the signals work, in more detail than the average person knows, or wishes to; a technical description of how the points work. They do not indicate to the Foreign Office that there is anything amiss.” He gave a rueful, self-deprecating smile. “To me, knowing the names of the men concerned, it indicates that they plan something large and complicated enough to require the use of men who have killed before, and are willing to cause any number of civilian casualties in order to succeed.”
“Why Duke Alois?” Pitt asked him. “Does he actually have far more political significance than we realize?”
Blantyre’s face was very grave.
“I am unaware that he has any significance at all, but there may be a number of things that have changed since my last accurate bulletin. But even if he does not, this is a far bigger issue than the death of any one man, whoever he is.” He spread his hands on the white cloth. They were lean and strong.
“The Austro-Hungarian Empire is pivotal to the future of Europe. I don’t believe the government of Britain fully realizes that. Perhaps no other government does either. Look at the map, Pitt. The empire is enormous. It lies in the heart of Europe between the rising industrial strengths of the Protestant countries in the west, especially Germany, newly united and growing in power every year, and the old, fractured east, which includes all the quarrelsome Balkan states, and Greece, Macedonia, and of course, Turkey—‘the sick man of Europe.’ ”
Pitt did not interrupt. The brandy sat forgotten, the cigars unlit.
“And to the south is Italy,” Blantyre went on. “Like Germany, it is newly united, but still with that open wound in the north, an Austrian-occupied territory containing some of its most valuable cities. And then there are Serbia, Croatia, Montenegro, and the other Adriatic countries, where the real powder keg lies. Small as they are, if they explode, they could eventually take the whole of Europe with them.”
His hands tightened a little. “And to the north lies the vast, restless bear of Russia: Slavic in its loyalties, Orthodox in its faith. It’s ruled by a tsar in Moscow who hasn’t the faintest idea what really lies in his own people’s hearts, never mind anywhere else.”
Pitt felt cold. He began to understand where Blantyre was going with this train of thought.
“And Austria lies in the heart of it.” Blantyre moved his hand very slightly, as if it lay on a map, not the white linen tablecloth. “The empire has twelve different languages, and a multitude of faiths—Catholic, Orthodox, Muslim, and Jewish. Although admittedly the anti-Semitism is ugly, and rising, still the general tolerance is there. The culture is old and deeply sophisticated, and the government is long practiced at holding the reins of power strongly enough to govern, but lightly enough to give individual countries their breathing space.”
He looked at Pitt, judging his reaction.
“Teutonic Germany is impatient, chomping at the bit of its own power. Bismarck said, ‘chaining the trim, seaworthy frigate of Prussia to the ancient, worm-eaten galleon of Austria.’ We have not taken enough notice of that. The Germans are dangerous and growing increasingly restless. Their young lions are waiting to take down the old. But even that is only peripheral to the real danger. Austria is the heart where all the different interests meet, safely. Remove it, and there is no neutral core. Teutons and Slavs are face-to-face. Protestant, Catholic, Muslim, and Jew have no forum in whi
ch to speak familiarly. There is no longer a single culture where all take part.”
Pitt could see the indisputable logic in what Blantyre was saying.
“But why kill a minor member of the Austrian royal family, and here in England? What purpose does that serve?” he asked.
Blantyre smiled, his face tight, eyes bleak. “It doesn’t matter who it is; the victim is incidental. Assassinate him at home and the authorities might be able to cover it up, make it seem like some horrible accident. Do it in England, where they have no control, in the territory of one of the best secret services in Europe, and it cannot be hidden. And no doubt when you catch whoever is responsible, they will unmistakably prove to be Croatian. Austria will have no choice whatsoever except to try him and execute him, then to find all his allies and do the same—do you see?”
Pitt began to see, and the vision was appalling.
Blantyre nodded slowly. “It is in your face. Of course you see. Austria would then be at war with Croatia. Croatia is Slavic. It will appeal to its mighty Russian cousins, who will weigh in on its side, even if not invited to. Then Germany will come in on the side of German-speaking, German-cultural Austria, and before you can stop the landslide, you will have war, the likes of which we have never seen before.”
“No sane man would …” Pitt began, and trailed off.
“No sane man,” Blantyre repeated softly. “How many sane nationalist revolutionaries do you know? How many dynamiters and assassins who see only a few days ahead of them, instead of looking to the future, to six months, a year, or a decade?”
“None,” Pitt said almost under his breath. “God, what a mess.”
“We must prevent it,” Blantyre answered. “Special Branch may never have had a more important job to do. Any help I can give, any service I can provide, I offer it to you, day or night.”
Pitt stared down at the table, shoulders hunched, all the muscles of his face and neck aching.
“Thank you.”
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.
