by Anne Perry
“This is a completely different matter. At least I believe it is. I would have asked Mrs. Montserrat, were she here to answer me. But as I was turning the matter over and over in my mind, I realized that a great deal of what she knew, you might also know.”
She looked startled, then very distinctly pleased.
He smiled, only faintly. He did not wish her to think him self-satisfied.
“What is it you think I might know?” she inquired, picking up her cup and testing to see if it was cool enough to sip. It was not, and she took instead a slice of bread and butter.
He took one also, then began. “This is of the utmost confidence. I must ask you to speak of it to no one at all, absolutely no one.”
“I shall not,” she promised.
“I shall ask you as I would have asked Mrs. Montserrat. What can you tell me of Lord Tregarron? It is imperative to Britain’s good name, to our honesty in dealing with other countries, most particularly Germany and Austria, that I know the truth.”
She sat very upright in her chair. A tired, proud old woman, at the end of a lifetime of service, was now being asked by a man—a lord—to help her country.
“The present Lord Tregarron, my lord, or his father?” she inquired.
Narraway stiffened, drew in his breath, and then let it out slowly. “Both, I think. But please begin with his father. You were acquainted with him?”
She smiled very slightly, as if at his innocence. “Mrs. Montserrat knew him intimately, my lord, at least for a while. He was married, you understand. Lady Tregarron was a nice woman, very respectable, at times a trifle …” She searched for the right word. “… Tedious.”
“Oh, dear.” Without realizing it, he had exactly mimicked Vespasia’s tone of voice. “I see.” He did see. A vision of endless polite, even affectionate, boredom sketched before him. “Was it love?”
She made a slight move with her lips. “Oh, no, just a romance, a straying to pick flowers that belonged to someone else. Vienna has a certain magic. One is away from home. People forget that it is just as real, just as good, or bad!”
“And did Mrs. Montserrat and Lord Tregarron part with ill feeling, or not?” he asked.
“Enmity, not at all. But ill feeling?” She sipped her tea. “I think Lord Tregarron was very afraid that Lady Tregarron might find out, and that would have troubled him greatly. He loved her. She was his safety, not just the mother of his children—they had one son and several daughters—but also she was socially very well connected. She was a good woman, just unimaginative, and—heaven help her—rather humorless.”
“Who else knew of the affair?”
“I don’t know. People are sometimes more observant than one would wish.”
“I see. And the present Lord Tregarron?”
“I know less of him. He thought well of his father, but even better of his mother. He is devoted to her.”
“But he wasn’t devoted to his father?” he asked.
“There was some estrangement between them,” she answered.
“Did Mrs. Montserrat know why?”
Tucker hesitated.
“Please, Miss Tucker. It may be of some importance,” he pleaded.
“I believe he learned of his father’s affair with Mrs. Montserrat, even though by that time it had been over for many years,” she said reluctantly.
“Thank you, I am very grateful to you.” He picked up his tea. It was at last cool enough to sip.
She frowned. “Is it of use?”
“I’m not sure. I’m not sure at all.” But an idea, vague and ill-defined as yet, was beginning to form in his mind.
PITT FELT UNCOMFORTABLE SITTING in the big carved chair behind the desk that used to be Narraway’s and looking at Narraway himself sitting opposite, as a visitor. It was only months since their positions had been reversed.
Narraway was smartly dressed, as always: slim and elegant, his dark suit perfectly cut, his thick hair immaculate. But he was worried. The lines in his face were deeply etched, his expression without even the shadow of a smile.
It was just a few days until Duke Alois would arrive at Dover.
“I’ve just come from Dorchester Terrace,” Narraway said without hesitation. “It’s not impossible that Serafina’s murder was domestic, but it’s extremely unlikely.”
“Who was it?” Pitt was saddened by the events at Dorchester Terrace, but not yet concerned. The infinitely deeper question of Duke Alois’s possible assassination engaged all his attention.
“It seems most likely that it was Adriana Blantyre,” Narraway replied. His voice was low, his face pinched with regret.
“Adriana Blantyre?” Pitt repeated, as if saying it aloud would make Narraway correct him, explain that she was not really who he had meant.
“I’m sorry,” Narraway said gravely. “I know that you have had great help from her husband, and that you like Adriana herself, but I can see no reasonable alternative.”
“There has to be,” Pitt protested. “Why in God’s name would Adriana Blantyre murder Mrs. Montserrat? How well did they even know each other? It makes no sense!”
Narraway sighed. “Pitt, you’re thinking with your emotions. Use your brain. There are a dozen ways in which it might make sense. The most obvious connection is Blantyre himself. He is an expert on the Austrian Empire, against whose dominion in Italy Serafina spent most of her life fighting. They would have had a hundred acquaintances in common, friends and enemies. There could have been a score of causes on which they were on opposite sides.”
“Causes that still matter now?” Pitt asked with an edge of disbelief. Adriana was at least a generation younger than Serafina. True, she was loyal to the country of her birth. He had seen her face light up at the mere mention of it. But she had been in England now for more than ten years, and Pitt had never seen her show more than a passing interest in politics, nothing to suggest that she had ever been actively involved in them before or was now.
“Did Nerissa suggest it? Perhaps she is trying to move suspicion away from herself to the only other person she could think of,” he said.
“Possibly,” Narraway conceded. “But Adriana was there at Dorchester Terrace the night Serafina died, and she was alone with her. Tucker confirmed that. We will probably never know what Serafina said that was the catalyst, but she was rambling, raking up all sorts of old memories, in bits and pieces that made little sense. We need to know a great deal more about Adriana Blantyre’s past, and what Serafina might have inadvertently given away about it. I’m sorry.
“I can’t do it,” Narraway went on, a slight edge to his voice, a self-lacerating humor. “You’ll need to look at Special Branch records, such as we have, of old Austrian and Croatian plots, things Serafina might have been involved in, or known about. There isn’t very much, and I can tell you where it’s filed.”
Pitt was pleased not to see regret in Narraway’s eyes, or anything to suggest a sense of feeling excluded or isolated.
“I’ll look,” he said quietly. “Are we sure no one else could have been in the house?”
“Not according to Tucker. But Blantyre himself and Tregarron were both there that week.”
Pitt stiffened. “Tregarron? Whatever for?”
“To see Serafina. They would hardly have gone to see Nerissa, except as courtesy demanded. At least on the surface.”
“The surface?” Pitt raised his eyebrows.
“There is still the question of Nerissa’s lover,” Narraway said drily.
“So Tregarron knew Serafina?” Pitt picked up the original thread. “Or else he went because of the questions I asked him about Duke Alois.”
“Presumably.”
“Thank you.”
Narraway smiled and rose to his feet. “Don’t sidestep any part of this matter, Pitt,” he warned. “You need to have the truth, whatever you decide to do about it.”
PITT READ ALL THE files about the Austrian oppression and revolts of the last forty years. They were exactly w
here Narraway had said they would be. He learned very little of use, except where to find a certain elderly gentleman named Peter Ffitch, who had once served in Special Branch, and had an encyclopedic memory. He had retired twenty years earlier and was a widower now, living quietly in a small village in Oxfordshire.
Pitt caught the next train and was in Banbury just after lunchtime. He then took a small branch line further into the country, and after a stiff walk through the rain, arrived at Ffitch’s steeply thatched house on a cobbled road off the main street.
The door was answered by a dark-haired woman of uncertain years, a white apron tied over a plain brown skirt and blouse. She looked at him with suspicion.
Pitt introduced himself, with proof of his identity, and told her that it was extremely important that he speak with Mr. Ffitch. After some persuasion she admitted him.
Ffitch must have been in his eighties, with the mild features of a child and quite a lot of white hair. Only when Pitt looked more closely into his eyes did he see the startling intelligence there, and a spark of humor, even pleasure, at the prospect of being questioned.
At Ffitch’s request the woman, mollified by his assurances, brought them tea and a generous portion of cake, and then left them alone.
“Well,” Ffitch said with satisfaction. “It must be important to bring the new head of Special Branch all the way out here. Murder or high treason, at the least. How can I help?” He rubbed his hands together. They were surprisingly strong hands, not touched by age or rheumatism. He reached forward and put several more pieces of coal on the fire, as if settling in for the full afternoon. “What can I tell you?”
Pitt allowed himself to enjoy the cake and tea. The cake was rich and full of fruit, and the tea was hot. He realized momentarily how long the train journey had seemed, and how chilly the carriage had been. He decided to tell Ffitch the truth, at least as far as Serafina was concerned.
“Oh, dear,” Ffitch said when Pitt was finished. His seemingly bland face was filled with grief, altering it completely. “What a sad way for such a marvelous woman to end. But perhaps whoever killed her did not do her such a great disservice.”
“Perhaps not,” Pitt agreed. “But I still need to know who it was, and why.”
“For justice?” Ffitch said curiously.
“Because I need to know the players in this particular drama, and what their ultimate goal is,” Pitt corrected him. “There is very much on the table currently, to win or lose.”
“Well, well.” Ffitch smiled, his body relaxing. “I am often reminded that not even the past is safe. Strange business we are in. More than most people, our old ghosts keep haunting us.” He frowned. “But you speak of present danger. Have some more tea, and tell me what I can do.”
“Thank you,” Pitt accepted. He glanced around the room. Ffitch may have lived in many countries, but the room was English to the bone. There were Hogarth cartoon prints on the walls, and leather-bound books on the five shelves on the far wall. From what Pitt could see they were mostly history and some of the great works of literature and commentary. He saw the light flicker on the gold lettering of Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, and Milton’s Paradise Lost.
Ffitch poured the tea and passed Pitt back his cup.
“Serafina,” Ffitch said thoughtfully. “I knew a lot about her, but I only ever met her a few times.” He smiled. “The first was at a ball in Berlin. I remember it very well. She was dressed in gold, very soft, like an evening sky. Still, she looked like a tigress, only temporarily made friendly by warmth and good food.”
The smile of memory left his face. “The second was in a forest. She came on horseback, slim as a whip, and lithe. She dismounted easily and walked with such grace, wearing trousers, of course, and carrying a pistol. What is it you need to know? If you are looking for whoever murdered her, it could have been any of a hundred people, for any of a hundred reasons.”
“Now, in 1896?” Pitt said skeptically.
Ffitch bit his lip. “Point taken, sir. No, not now. But some of those old victories and losses still matter, at least to those who were involved. It sounds as if you’re looking for something that came to light only recently, but from some old story?”
“Looks like it,” Pitt replied.
Ffitch pursed his lips. “So something she remembered, and let slip in her confusion of mind, affects someone alive today so deeply that the betrayal of it still matters.” He nodded slowly. “Interesting. There were some bad things. Some treason against England in Vienna, but I never knew who was involved. I tried very hard to find out because it was important. Quite a lot of information went from the British Embassy to the Austrians, and it embarrassed us severely. Not being able to stop it was one of my worst failures.” He could not hide the distress in his face.
Pitt hated embarrassing him, but he pressed the matter further. “Was it ever widely known within Special Branch?”
Ffitch looked at him bleakly. “No, not when I retired. If they had learned, I like to think someone would have told me. Perhaps I delude myself as to either my own importance or the regard they had for me.”
“I doubt that,” Pitt replied, hoping it was true. “I think at least Victor Narraway would have spoken of it, because if he had known, he would not have agreed that it was good for me to come out here and trouble you now.”
“Ah … yes, Victor Narraway. Always thought he would do well. Clever man. Ruthless, in his own way. Wondered why he left. Would have thought he had many good years in him yet. But I don’t imagine you’ll tell me.” His eyes narrowed. He looked at Pitt closely, quite openly assessing his ability, and almost certainly also his nerve.
Pitt waited, taking another piece of cake.
Ffitch sighed at last. “Serafina might have known,” he said thoughtfully. “Perhaps that was what she was afraid of.” He shook his head, the firelight flushing his cheeks. “In her prime she could keep a secret better than the grave. What a damn shame.”
“Adriana Blantyre,” Pitt said softly.
Ffitch blinked. “Blantyre? Evan Blantyre was young then, but clever, very clever. Always at the edge of things, never in the middle—at least that’s how it looked from the outside.”
“What things?” Pitt asked.
Ffitch looked surprised. “Plots to gain greater freedom from the Austrian yoke, what else? Italian plots, Croatian plots, even the odd Hungarian plot, although most Hungarians were willing enough to pay lip service to Vienna, and carry on with whatever they wanted to do in Budapest.”
“Not Serafina?”
“Certainly not. You want to know about the ones that went badly wrong? Of course you do. They all went wrong somehow. Most simply failed, fizzled out, or succeeded for a few months. One or two ended really badly, men shot before they could succeed, tricked or trapped one way or another. Probably the best organized, the bravest of the fighters, was Lazar Dragovic. Fine man. Handsome, funny, a dreamer with intelligence and courage.”
“But he failed …” The conclusion was obvious.
Ffitch’s eyes were sad.
“He was betrayed. Never knew by whom. But yes, he failed. The rest of the people involved escaped, but Dragovic was summarily executed. They beat him right there on the spot, trying to get the names of the others, but he died without telling them anything. They put the gun to his head and shot him, kneeling on the ground.” Even so long after, the misery of it pinched Ffitch’s face.
“Might Serafina have known who betrayed him?” Pitt asked quietly.
“Yes. I suppose so. But I’ve no idea why she wouldn’t have done something about it—shot whoever it was herself. I would have. She cared for Dragovic, perhaps more than for any of her other lovers. If she knew and did nothing, she must have had a devil of a good reason.”
“What sort of reason?” Pitt asked.
Ffitch considered for a few moments. “Hard to think of one. Perhaps it would’ve affected the lives of others, possibly several others? A better revenge? But Se
rafina wasn’t one to wait; she would’ve taken whatever chance she could get at the time.” He turned and looked into the flames of the fire. “I did hear a story—I don’t know if it’s true—that Dragovic’s eight-year-old daughter was there and saw her father executed. They say Serafina had to choose between going after the man who was behind Dragovic’s betrayal, or saving the child. She did what she knew Dragovic would have wanted, which was of course saving the child.” He turned from the flames and looked at Pitt, eyes filled with sudden understanding. “The child’s name was Adriana—Adriana Dragovic.”
The room was so quiet Pitt heard the coals settle in the grate.
“What did she look like?” he asked.
“No idea, but she had delicate health. I don’t even know if she lived.”
Pitt was already certain in his mind as to the answer. “She did,” he said quietly.
Ffitch stared at him. “Adriana Blantyre?”
“I believe so, but I will find out.”
Ffitch nodded, and reached to pour them both a third cup of tea.
PITT LOOKED THROUGH ALL the old records he could find dating back thirty years to the story of Lazar Dragovic, his attempted uprising, his betrayal, and his death. There was very little, but it removed any doubt that Adriana Dragovic was his daughter, and that she had later married Evan Blantyre.
There was also little room for doubt that it was Serafina Montserrat who had taken the child Adriana from the scene of the execution, and looked after her until she could be left with her grandparents.
What was conspicuously missing was any statement indicating who had betrayed Dragovic to the Austrians, resulting in the failure of the uprising and Dragovic’s own torture and murder.
Had Adriana found out who it was, after all these years? Or had she listened to Serafina’s ramblings and imagined that she had learned the truth?
What damage had been done to her when she had seen her father killed? What trust had been warped forever? Pitt had spent his professional life tearing the surface from secrets so well hidden that no one else had imagined them. He had found scorching pain concealed by facades of a dozen sorts: duty, obedience, faith, sacrifice. He had seen rage so silent that it had been completely overlooked, until the dam burst and everyone in its path was destroyed.
