by Anne Perry
“Thank you,” he said sincerely. “Did he express any interest in Mr. or Mrs. Blantyre?”
“Not … more than I would expect …” She trailed off again.
“I understand. Thank you, Miss Freemarsh. I think that is all, at least for the time being. I would like to speak to Miss Tucker now.”
Tucker confirmed all that Nerissa had said, including several visits from Tregarron, over the period of the last four or five weeks.
Pitt thanked her and left. He walked back to Lisson Grove with his mind in turmoil. The heart of this case was no longer anything to do with Serafina’s death, or Adriana, but two other matters.
The first and most urgent was the question of Evan Blantyre’s loyalties. Had he given Pitt the information regarding Duke Alois out of loyalty to the Austrian Empire, which it seemed he had never lost, in spite of working for the British government? If that was so, and his betrayal of Lazar Dragovic, and the later murders of Serafina and Adriana, were to preserve the unity at the heart of Europe, then his information would be safe for Pitt to rely on. He could deal with Blantyre’s prosecution and conviction after Duke Alois had come and gone.
If, on the other hand, Blantyre had some other purpose, his information about Duke Alois was very far from reliable.
And then the other obvious question arose: After Duke Alois left, what was Pitt going to do about Blantyre? What could he do? What evidence was there? He had no doubt now that Blantyre had killed Serafina and Adriana, but he doubted that there was sufficient proof to convict a man of such prominence and high reputation.
But that would have to wait. It was two days until the duke crossed the Channel and landed in England. Murder, however tragic, would pale beside the effects of a political assassination in London.
PITT CHECKED IN WITH Stoker at Lisson Grove. Then, after one or two items of urgent business, he left again and took a hansom to Blantyre’s office. In spite of his bereavement, Blantyre had chosen to continue working. Duke Alois’s visit could not be put off; there were arrangements to make and details to be attended to, and Blantyre, with his intimate and affectionate knowledge of Austria, was the best man for the job.
“Anything further?” Blantyre asked as he sat down in his large chair close to the fire. He poured whisky for both of them without bothering to ask. In spite of it being the middle of March, it was a bitter day outside, and they were both tired and cold.
“Yes,” Pitt answered, accepting the exquisite glass, but putting it down on the small table to his right without drinking from it. “I now know who killed Serafina, and why. But then so do you.” He watched Blantyre’s sensitive, haggard face and saw not a flicker in it, not even a change in his eyes.
“And who killed Mrs. Blantyre,” Pitt continued. “But again, so do you.”
This time there was a twitch of pain, which Pitt believed was perfectly real. Blantyre must have hated killing her, but had known that if he himself were to survive, then he had no alternative. Adriana would never forgive him for her father’s death, and maybe not for Serafina’s either. Even if she told no one, he would never be able to sleep again if she was in the house; perhaps not eat or drink. He would always be aware of her watching him. His mind would run riot imagining what she felt for him now and when she would lose control and erupt into action.
Pitt went on levelly. “I also know who betrayed Lazar Dragovic to the Austrians, which of course was the beginning of all this.”
“It was necessary,” Blantyre said almost conversationally. They could have been discussing the dismissal of an old but ineffectual servant.
“Perhaps you don’t understand that,” he went on. “You are a man of reason and deduction who comes to conclusions, and leaves it for others to do something about those conclusions. My father was like that. Clever. And he cared. But never enough to do anything that risked his own moral comfort.” Bitterness filled his face and all but choked his voice. “Whoever lived or died, he must always be able to sleep at night!”
Pitt did not answer.
Blantyre leaned forward in his chair, still holding the whisky glass in his hand. He looked steadily at Pitt. “The Austrian Empire lies at the heart of Europe. We have discussed this before. I tried to explain to you how complex it is, but it seems you are a ‘little Englander’ at heart. I like you, but God help you, you have no vision. You are a provincial man. Britain’s empire covers most of the globe, in patches here and there: Britain itself, Gibraltar, Malta, Egypt, Sudan, most of Africa all the way to the Cape, territories in the Middle East, India, Burma, Hong Kong, Shanghai, Borneo, the whole subcontinent of Australia, New Zealand, Canada, and islands in every ocean on Earth. The sun never sets on it.”
Pitt stirred.
Temper flared in Blantyre’s eyes. “Austria is completely different! Apart from the Austrian Netherlands, it stretches in one continuous landmass from parts of Germany in the northwest to Ukraine in the east, south to most of Romania, north again as far down the Adriatic coast as Ragusa, then west through Croatia and northern Italy into Switzerland. There are twelve main languages there, the richest, most original culture, scientific discoveries in every field of human endeavor … but it is fragile!”
His hands jerked up, and apart, as if he were encompassing some kind of explosion with his strong fingers.
“Its genius means that it is also liable to be torn apart by the very nature of the ideas it creates, the individuality of its people. The new nations of Italy and Germany, born in turmoil and still testing their strength, are tearing at the fabric of order. Italy is chaotic; it always has been.”
Pitt smiled in spite of himself.
“Germany is altogether a different matter,” Blantyre went on with intense seriousness. “It is sleek and dangerous. Its government is not chaotic; anything but. It is highly organized and militarily brilliant. It will not be contained against its will for long.”
“Germany is not part of the Austrian Empire,” Pitt pointed out. “It has a language in common, and a certain culture, but not an identity. Austria will never swallow it; it will not allow that.”
“For God’s sake, Pitt, wake up!” Blantyre was nearly shouting now. “If Austria fractures or loses control of its possessions, or if there is an uprising in the east that is successful enough to be dangerous, Vienna will have to make reprisals, or lose everything. If there is trouble in northern Italy it hardly matters, but if it is in one of the Slavic possessions, like Croatia or Serbia, then it will turn to Russia for help. They are blood brothers, and Russia will not need more than an excuse to come to their aid. And then teutonic Germany will have found the justification it needs to take German Austria.”
His voice was growing harsher, as if the nightmare was already happening. “Hungary will secede, and before you know how to stop any of it, you will have a war that will spread like fire until it embroils most of the world. Don’t imagine that England will escape. It won’t. There will be war from Ireland to the Middle East, and from Moscow to North Africa, maybe further. Perhaps all of Africa, because it is British, and then Australia will follow, and New Zealand. Even Canada. Perhaps eventually the United States as well.”
Pitt was stunned by the enormity of it, the horror and the absurdity of the view.
“No one would let that sort of thing happen,” he said soberly. “You are suggesting that one act of violence in the Balkans would end in a conflagration that would consume the world. That’s ridiculous.”
Blantyre took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“Pitt, Austria is the linchpin, the glue that holds together the political body of Europe.” He was staring intently. “It wouldn’t be overnight, but you’d be appalled how quickly it would happen, if Vienna loses control and the constituent parts of the empire turn on one another. Picture a street riot. You must have had to deal with them, in your days on the beat. How many men does it take before the crowd joins in, and every idiot with a grudge, or too much to drink, starts swinging his fists? All the old enmit
ies under the surface smolder and then break out.”
Pitt remembered a time that was very similar to what Blantyre had just described: rage, hysteria, violence spreading outward until it took hold for no reason at all. Too late to regret it afterward, when houses were in ruins and broken glass was everywhere among fire-blackened walls and blood.
Blantyre was watching him. He knew Pitt understood what he was saying.
“There will be a vacuum at the heart,” Blantyre went on. “And however much you like to imagine that Britain is the center of Europe, it isn’t. England’s power lies in pieces, all over the globe. We have no army and no presence at the core of Europe. There will be chaos. The Austrian and German part of Europe will be at the throats of the Slavic northern and eastern parts. There will be a pan-European war, economic ruin, and in the end possibly a new and dominant Germany. Is the peaceful death, in her sleep, of one old woman so important to you in the face of that?”
“That is not the point,” Pitt said quietly, facing Blantyre across the two untouched glasses of whisky. “I have no intention of pursuing Serafina’s death right now. What concerns me is the validity of the information you have given Special Branch regarding Duke Alois, and the apparent threat of his assassination.”
Blantyre raised his eyebrows. “Why should you doubt it? Surely you can see that I, of all people, do not want an Austrian duke assassinated. Why the hell do you think I turned Dragovic over to the Austrians? He was planning the assassination of a particularly brutal local governor. He was a pig of a man, but the vengeance for his death would have been terrible.” He leaned forward, his face twisted with passion. “Think, damn it! Use whatever brain you have. Of course I don’t want Alois assassinated.”
Pitt smiled. “Unless, of course, he is another dissident. Then it would be very convenient if he was killed while he was here in London. Not the Austrians’ fault—it’s all down to the incompetent British, with their Special Branch led by a new man, who’ll swallow any story at all.”
Blantyre sighed wearily. “Is this all about your promotion, and the fact that you don’t think you are fit for the job?”
Pitt clenched his jaw to keep his temper. “It’s about the fact that most of the information we have on the assassination planned here came from you, and that you are a murderer and a liar, whose principal loyalty is to the Habsburg crown, and not the British,” he replied, carefully keeping his voice level. “If Duke Alois was your enemy rather than your friend, you would be perfectly capable of having him murdered wherever it was most convenient to you.”
Blantyre winced, but he did not speak.
“Or alternatively, there is no plot at all,” Pitt continued. “You wanted to keep Special Branch busy, and the police away from investigating the murder of Serafina Montserrat, and then, most regrettably, of your wife. You had to kill Serafina, once you knew she was losing her grip on her mind, and might betray you to Adriana. And you need to survive now, or else how can you be of service in helping Austria keep control of its rapidly crumbling empire, after the suicide of its crown prince, and his replacement by Franz Ferdinand, who the old emperor despises?”
Blantyre’s jaw was tight, his eyes hard.
“A fair estimate,” he said between his teeth. “But you will not know if I am telling the truth or not, will you? You have checked all the information I gave you, or you should have. If you haven’t, then you are a greater fool than I took you to be. Dare you trust it?” He smiled thinly. “You damned well don’t dare ignore it!”
Pitt felt as if the ground were sinking beneath him. Yet the fire still burned gently in the hearth, the flames warming the whisky glasses, which shone a luminous amber.
“Be careful, Pitt,” Blantyre warned. “Consider deeply what you do, after Alois has been here and gone. Assuming you manage to keep him alive, don’t entertain any ideas of arresting me, or bringing me to any kind of trial.” He smiled very slightly. “I visited Serafina quite often, and I listened to her. A good deal of that time she had no idea who I was. But then you know that already. You will have heard it from Lady Vespasia, if nothing else.”
“Of course I know that,” Pitt said tartly. “If you were not afraid of her talking candidly again, to others, you would not have taken the risk of killing her.”
“Quite. I regretted doing it.” Blantyre gave a slight shrug. “She was a magnificent woman, in her time. She knew more secrets about both personal and political indiscretions than anyone else.”
Pitt was aware of a change in the atmosphere: a warmth in Blantyre, a chill in himself.
Blantyre nodded his head fractionally. “She rambled on about all manner of things and people. Some I had already guessed, but much of it was new to me. I had no idea that her circle was so wide: Austrian, Hungarian, Croatian, and Italian were all what I might have imagined. But the others: the French, for example; the German; and of course the British. There were some considerable surprises.” He looked very steadily at Pitt, as if to make certain that Pitt grasped the weight of what he was saying.
Pitt thought of Tregarron, also using Nerissa Freemarsh to disguise his visits to Serafina. What did he fear that could be so much worse than being thought to have an affair with a plain, single woman of no significance, and almost on his own doorstep? It was a despicable use of a vulnerable person whose reputation it would permanently ruin.
“The British Special Branch, and various other diplomatic and intelligence sources, have a record of some very dubious actions,” Blantyre continued. His voice dropped a little. “Some have made them vulnerable to blackmail, with all its shabby consequences. And of course there are also the idealists who set certain values above the narrow love of country. Serafina was another little Englander like you. She kept silent.” He left the suggestion hanging in the air. It was not necessary to spell it out.
Pitt stared at him. He had no doubt whatsoever that Blantyre meant everything he was saying. There was a confidence in him, an arrogance that filled the room.
Blantyre was smiling broadly. “Victor Narraway would have killed me,” he said with almost a kind of relish. “You won’t. You don’t have the courage. You may think of it, but the guilt would cripple you.
“I like you, Pitt,” he said with intense sincerity, his voice thick with emotion. “You are an intelligent, imaginative, and compassionate man. You have quite a nice sense of humor. But in the end, you haven’t the steel in your soul to act outside what is predictable, and comfortable. You are essentially bourgeois, just like my father.”
He took a deep breath. “Now you had better go and make sure you save Duke Alois. You can’t afford to have him shot in England.”
Pitt rose to his feet and left without speaking. There was no answer that had any meaning.
Outside he walked along the windy street. He was chilled and shivering in spite of the sun, which sat low in the sky, giving off a clean-edged, late winter light. Was Blantyre right? Would Narraway have shot Blantyre? Would he find himself unable to do the same, standing with a pistol in his hand, unable to kill in cold blood a man he knew, and had liked?
He did not know the answer. He was not even certain what he wanted the truth to be. If he could do such a thing, what would he gain? And what would he lose? His children might never know anything about it, but it would still be a barrier between them and him.
And what ruthlessness would Charlotte see in him, which she had not seen before, and had not wanted to? Or Vespasia? Or anyone? Above all these, what would he learn about himself? How would it change him from who he was now? Was Blantyre right that his inner comfort was what he cared about most, in the end?
He was walking rapidly, not certain where he was going. He was less than half a mile from the part of the Foreign Office where Jack worked. There were no secrets left about Blantyre. Pitt knew the worst. But the resolution as to what to do was lost in the turmoil of his own mind.
VESPASIA KNEW FROM THE moment Victor Narraway came into her sitting room that he had serious n
ews. His face was pinched with anxiety, and he looked cold, even though it was a comparatively mild evening.
Without realizing she was doing so, she rose to greet him.
“What is it, Victor? What has happened?”
His hands were chill when he took hers, briefly, but she did not pull away.
“I have learned something further about Serafina, which I am afraid may be more serious than I had supposed. Tregarron visited Dorchester Terrace several times. I thought at first it was primarily to see Nerissa …”
“Nerissa?” For an instant she wanted to laugh at the idea, then the impulse died. “Really? It seems an eccentric idea. Are you sure?”
“No, I’m not sure. Men do sometimes have the oddest tastes in affairs. But now I believe that Nerissa was the excuse and Serafina the reason.”
“She was at least a generation older than he, and there is no proof, in fact, not even a suggestion, that they knew each other,” she pointed out.
“But his father knew Serafina,” Narraway said grimly, watching her face. “Very well.”
“Oh. Oh, dear. Yes, I see. And you are assuming that perhaps Serafina was indiscreet about that too. Or perhaps others were able to deduce that the present Lord Tregarron was visiting for fear of her saying something unfortunate. Who is he protecting, though? His father’s reputation? Is his mother still alive?”
“Yes. She is very old, but apparently quite clear in her mind.” His expression was sad and gentle. “What a devil of a burden it is to know so many secrets. How much safer it would be to understand nothing, to see all manner of things before you, and never add it up so you perceive the meaning.”
It was not necessary for either of them to say more. Each carried his or her own burden of knowledge, differently gained but perhaps equally heavy.
They sat by the fire for a few more moments, then he rose and wished her good night.
But when he left, going out into the mild, blustery wind, Vespasia remained sitting beside the last of the fire, thinking about what he had said. Of course Tregarron would rather his mother never heard of her husband’s affair with Serafina, on the assumption that she did not already know. But it did not seem a sufficient motive for Tregarron to make quite so many visits to see Serafina; surely there was something else, possibly something about that affair uglier and more dangerous than just unfaithfulness?
