Dorchester Terrace tp-27

by Anne Perry

  The trees of the park were bare, a fretwork of black lace against the sky. The earth of the long bridle path was already churned up by hooves, and the grass beyond was the strange, almost turquoise color that the frost crystals lent it. In the distance there were at least twenty riders already out: women sidesaddle, graceful in perfectly cut habits; men riding astride, some of them in military uniform.

  The sound of laughter drifted on the slight breeze; she also heard the jingle of harnesses and the thud of hooves as a horse broke into a canter.

  Charlotte walked across the hard, frosty earth toward the group of horses still held by their grooms, and she wondered how much of the previous day’s encounter Jack had relayed to Emily. Did he consider his work also to be bound by secrecy? More probably he had imagined that she would hear of it from Charlotte today, and would have prepared her for that, regardless of protocol.

  She saw Emily standing by her horse. She was easily distinguishable from the other women there by her slenderness, and the gleam of winter light on her knot of fair hair, visible beneath the brim of her exquisite riding hat, which was like a shallower version of a gentleman’s top hat, its brim slightly curled. Charlotte estimated the cost of it, and felt a flicker of envy.

  She walked onto the gravel, which crunched under her boots.

  Emily turned. She saw Charlotte and immediately started toward her.

  “Good morning,” she said with a tentative smile, her eyes searching Charlotte’s. “Are you ready to ride?”

  “Very much,” Charlotte replied. “I’ve been looking forward to it.” It was a strangely stilted conversation, nothing like the ease and good humor they usually shared.

  Side by side, without meeting glances, they walked back to the grooms standing with the animals. They mounted and moved out at a walk. They nodded to other riders they passed, but did not speak to anyone, as there was no one with whom they were acquainted.

  The longer the silence lasted, the more difficult it would be to break it. Charlotte knew she must say something, even if it was completely trivial. Words often meant little; it was the act of speaking that mattered.

  “We’ve been thinking about moving,” she began. “Thomas asked me if I would like to, but I’m fond of the house on Keppel Street. A lot of important things have happened while we’ve been there, memories I like to live with, or at least I don’t want to let go of yet.”

  Emily looked sideways at her. “But wouldn’t you like to live somewhere slightly larger? Perhaps on one of the squares? Or do you think it’s just a little early to move?” She meant, was Charlotte certain that Pitt would measure up to the job?

  For a moment Charlotte did not answer. She was the elder, but she would always be socially the junior because of Pitt’s humble beginnings, and because Emily had a wealth Charlotte could never even dream of.

  Emily colored uncomfortably and looked away, fussing with her reins as though she needed to guide her horse along this safe, flat, fine gravel and earthen path.

  “It is always a good idea not to take success for granted,” Charlotte replied levelly. “Then, if one does fail, one has so much less distance to fall.” She saw Emily’s expression tighten. “But actually, I simply meant that I am not yet ready to leave a house so full of happy memories. I have no intention of entertaining, so we don’t require the extra rooms.”

  “Surely you’ll have to entertain?” Emily asked. “And anyway, it’s such fun!” A smile flickered across her face.

  “Yes, we will have to entertain. But only friends,” Charlotte said quickly, keeping her horse even with Emily’s. “And our friends are perfectly content with Keppel Street.”

  “But in Thomas’s new position he will be expected to entertain people who are not necessarily your friends.” Emily raised her fair eyebrows. “There are certain social obligations with promotions, you know? Head of Special Branch is a great deal more than just a policeman, even a gifted one. You will have to get used to speaking easily to government ministers, ambassadors, and all kinds of other ambitious and useful people.”

  “I doubt we would ever be able to afford a house fit to entertain people like that,” Charlotte said drily. “It’s a promotion, not an inheritance.”

  Emily winced. “I didn’t realize you felt so badly about it. I’m sorry.”

  Charlotte reined in her horse. “It?” she questioned.

  Emily stopped too. “Money. Isn’t that what we’re talking about?”

  “It’s what you’re talking about,” Charlotte corrected her. “I was talking about living in a house where I’m comfortable, rather than buying a bigger one that I don’t need and that is a strange place to me, without familiarity or memories. I’m not you, Emily, and I don’t want the same things.”

  “Don’t be so pompous!” Emily snapped back. “This is really about Jack having to tell Thomas he couldn’t see Lord Tregarron, isn’t it?” Her tone was challenging, almost daring Charlotte to deny it.

  “Well, if we’re speaking of pompous …” Charlotte began.

  “It was not-”

  “Really?” Charlotte cut across her. “Well, it seems you know far more about it than I do. But then Thomas’s work is secret. He can’t tell anyone, even me.” She urged her horse on, moving ahead of Emily. She hated quarreling, especially with someone she cared for so deeply. It left her feeling unhappy and oddly alone. But she would not let Jack’s sudden promotion go to Emily’s head, or Jack’s for that matter, and allow them to thoughtlessly make worse Pitt’s sense of being out of his depth. Perhaps she was being unnecessarily protective, but then, so was Emily.

  She reined in her horse again and waited until Emily caught up with her. Without meeting Emily’s eyes she started again.

  “I don’t want to move yet. It’s taking things for granted that haven’t happened for certain. I would have thought you, of all people, would understand that. Your social position is assured, and your financial one, but you’ve a long way to go before you can say the same politically.”

  “Is that Thomas’s opinion?” Emily was not yet mollified.

  Charlotte forced herself to laugh. “I have no idea. He didn’t mention it. Why? Do you think Jack has very little further to go? That would be a shame.”

  Emily muttered under her breath, and Charlotte knew very well that what she said was distinctly impolite.

  While Charlotte was riding in Hyde Park, Pitt was already in his office at Lisson Grove asking for all the recent information Special Branch had gathered about any dissident groups in Central or Eastern Europe, particularly within the vast Austro-Hungarian Empire. The empire stretched from Austria itself eastward to include Hungary; south into northern Italy and down the Balkan Peninsula, encompassing Serbia, Croatia, Slovenia, and Romania; and north to Bohemia, Moravia, Slovakia, and parts of Poland and Ukraine. Within its borders, twelve different languages were spoken and several major religions were observed, including Roman Catholicism, Eastern Orthodoxy, and Islam. Additionally, there was a large number of Jews in prominent and highly influential positions in Vienna, a place where anti-Semitism was deep, ugly, and growing. Unrest of one sort or another was normal there.

  Vienna might be the cradle of all sorts of new thoughts in politics, philosophy, medicine, music, and literature, but it was also a city of sporadic violence, with a shadow of unease, as if there was some doom just beyond the horizon, waiting for the moment when all the gaiety would end.

  Pitt had requested to see Evan Blantyre, whom he had met at the recent musical evening. Evan’s knowledge of the Austro-Hungarian Empire was extensive, and he might be able to offer the information and assistance Lord Tregarron had declined to provide.

  He was pleasantly surprised when Blantyre agreed to see him almost immediately. Less than an hour later, Pitt stood in a pleasant anteroom, which had paintings of the Austrian Tyrol on the walls. He was there only briefly before he was ushered into Blantyre’s office. This was a large, comfortable room with a fire burning in the hearth, and a
rmchairs on either side of it. There were worn patches on the carpet, and the color was faded from age and sunlight. The desk was old, the wood gleaming like satin.

  “Good morning, Commander,” Blantyre said with interest, holding out his hand.

  “Good morning, sir,” Pitt replied, accepting the greeting. “I appreciate your taking the time to see me so quickly. It may prove to be nothing of importance, but I can’t let this matter go until I know for sure.”

  “Quite right,” Blantyre said. “Although I must say from the little you told my secretary, it all seemed rather coincidental, no real reason to suspect that any foreign visitor is the focus of an attack, if indeed an attack is even being planned.” He indicated the chairs near the fire and they sat down opposite each other.

  “It is probably nothing,” Pitt agreed. “But a lot of issues start out as a whisper, one coincidence, and then another too soon after it, people showing an unexplained interest in something that appears to be harmless, but then isn’t.”

  Blantyre smiled ruefully, curiosity lighting his face. “Well, how the devil do you know which coincidences matter? Is there an intellectual formula for it, or is it instinct, a particular skill?” His eyes were steady and bright. “Or something only experience can teach you, and perhaps one or two very near misses?”

  Pitt shrugged. “I’m tempted sometimes to think there’s a hell of a lot of luck in it, but I suppose to call it luck is just a different way of saying that it requires constant observation and the need to run down everything that strikes a jarring note.” He smiled. “And, as you say, one or two close shaves.”

  Blantyre nodded. “In other words, paying attention to detail, and a lot of damned hard work. Tell me more about exactly what alarms you in these particular inquiries. Do you really think this is about some intended violence? Against whom, for God’s sake? And if Duke Alois really is the target, why here? It sounds unlikely to me, conspirators setting up an attack in a foreign country. It would require them to go into a place where they have no network of friends nor many sympathizers. Every man’s hand would be against them.”

  “True,” Pitt conceded. “But they would also be unknown to the general public. Fewer people here to recognize or betray them. And there is the other possibility.”

  Blantyre frowned. “What’s that?”

  “That they don’t intend to escape. If they feel passionately enough about their cause, they may be prepared to sacrifice their own lives in the process.”

  Blantyre looked down at the worn pattern of the carpet. “I hadn’t thought of that,” he said grimly. “Of course, men do such things-and women too, I suppose. Patriots, misguided or not, come in all forms. Martyrs as well.” He looked up at Pitt again. “I still don’t find it very likely. That sort of great sacrifice isn’t something you offer in order to kill a nonentity. In sheer practical terms, the world doesn’t take enough notice.” He pulled his mouth into a bitter smile, and then let it fade. “Tell me exactly what you’ve found, and I’ll do all I can to learn if it’s part of a greater plot. God knows, the last thing we need is some Austro-Hungarian duke blown to bits on our front doorstep.”

  Pitt told him the core of what he had gathered from Stoker’s reports, and added the further information he had received since then. As he spoke he watched Blantyre’s expression grow darker and more troubled.

  “Yes, I see,” Blantyre said as soon as Pitt had stopped speaking. He sat pensively, with his strong hands held so the fingertips touched. “If there were substance to it, it would be appalling. But how seriously have you considered that it is a wretched string of coincidences making a few unconnected inquiries look sinister, when in fact they are not at all? Or else-and this seems more likely to me-someone deliberately concocting this stuff to take your attention away from something else that is serious, and far more relevant?” Blantyre raised his eyebrows.

  Pitt nodded and smiled bleakly. “I considered that as well. That it could all be a bluff.” He thought for a moment. “Or perhaps a double bluff?”

  Blantyre let out a sigh. “Of course you are right. I really don’t think there is any likelihood of an assassination here at the moment, but I will look into it, ask a few discreet questions, at least about the possibility.”

  “Thank you.” Pitt rose to his feet. “I can’t afford to ignore it.”

  Blantyre smiled and stood also. He held out his hand and Pitt took it, returning the firm grip before he turned to go.

  Pitt left the office feeling relieved, if only because Blantyre had taken him seriously. He had treated him as he would have treated Narraway.

  Pitt smiled to himself as he went down the steps and out into the street and the heavy traffic.

  Two days later, Pitt was sitting alone in his office. It was close to the end of February, and the daylight faded all too quickly. Within the next quarter-hour he would have to stand up and turn on the gaslight.

  There was a knock on the door, and Stoker put his head around it.

  “Mr. Evan Blantyre here to see you, sir,” he said, his tone a mixture of surprise and respect. “Says it’s pretty urgent.”

  Pitt was surprised too. He had accepted that Blantyre, for all his courtesy, had still mostly seemed to think that the whole possibility of a threat to any visiting Austrian dignitary was largely a misreading of the information.

  “Show him in,” he said immediately, rising to his feet.

  A moment later Blantyre came in, closing the door behind him. He shook Pitt’s hand briefly, and started to speak even before both of them were seated.

  “I owe you an apology, Pitt,” he said gravely, hitching his trousers a little at the knees to preserve their shape as he crossed his legs. “I admit, I didn’t take this theory of yours very seriously. I thought you were jumping at shadows a bit. Understandable, after some of the recent tragedies.”

  Pitt presumed he was referring to the Gower case and Narraway’s dismissal. He said nothing. It was ridiculous to have hoped that some of that wretched betrayal would have remained secret, but it still hurt him that so many people seemed to know of it. He waited for Blantyre to continue.

  Blantyre’s face was very solemn. “I looked into the information you gave me,” he went on. “At first it seemed to be very superficial, a series of odd but basically harmless questions, unconnected to each other. But then I examined them a little more deeply, one at a time, beginning with the tracing of the most likely route from Dover to London, which of course is by train.”

  Pitt watched Blantyre’s face, and the intensity in it alarmed him. He waited without interrupting.

  “It seemed to mean very little.” Blantyre gave a slight shrug. “Hundreds of people must make such a journey. Inquiries would be natural enough, even several days in advance of travel. Then I looked at the signals you mentioned, and the places where such trains would pass a junction on the track. You are perfectly right, of course. Freight trains also travel there regularly, and a series of accidents-signals green when they should be red; points changed and a freight train diverted onto the wrong track-could create a disaster with enormous proportions. You would have far more than just one man dead.”

  He drew his breath in slowly, then let it out again.

  “But I thought I had better see if the route tied in with any known person of importance. It did, rather more than I supposed. It turns out that you are right. One of the minor Austrian dukes is coming. He is of no importance himself, but he’s still a member of the imperial family, and grandnephew of our queen, or something of the sort. He is making a private visit to a grandson of the queen’s. It is not a government matter at all. But his coming, and the time that the inquiries concern coincide precisely with the plans made for him to travel from Vienna to Paris, then to Calais, and across the Channel. From Dover he goes by train to London. He’ll be staying at the Savoy.”

  “Not the palace?” Pitt asked in surprise.

  “It seems he wants to do a little entertaining himself,” Blantyre said with
a tight little smile. “But you see my point. When I made a few inquiries of certain friends in Europe, they also investigated, and found that questions had been asked about the entire route. It seems he will be bringing only a few servants: a secretary, a valet, that sort of thing.”

  He hesitated only a moment. “I’m sorry, Pitt. Your instincts were correct. This is something you have to take seriously.”

  Pitt was cold, in spite of the embers burning in the grate only a few feet from him. Until now he had been allowing himself to think that he was probably imagining the danger, as Tregarron and even Blantyre had said, but Blantyre’s news changed everything.

  “Here.” Blantyre held out a small bundle of papers. They looked to be hastily scribbled notes, perhaps half a dozen sheets in all. “You will need to follow up on it, of course, so I have given you the names of the people I spoke to, the facts and references I checked. I cannot oblige you to keep them secret, but I would ask that you tell as few people as possible, and only those you are certain you can trust absolutely, not only their honesty but also their discretion. Usually, I would not have committed anything to paper, but I fear this is far too serious to bother with the usual protocol. This is, potentially at least, a monstrous crime, which would kill not only a member of the Austrian royal family, but also God knows how many innocent Britons, if we don’t prevent it.” He held the notes out for Pitt to take.

  Pitt met Blantyre’s gaze, then took the papers and looked down at them. They were exactly as Blantyre had said: names, places, dates-all the information Pitt needed to check the routes, and, above all, the names and descriptions of known anarchists involved in assassinations in Europe and the methods they had used. Particular emphasis had been given to those who resembled the man who had inquired about railway signals and points.

  He looked back up at Blantyre.

  “I’m sorry,” Blantyre said again, gravely. “I know you would rather have been wrong, but I’m afraid it seems that you are not. Something is planned that could, at its worst, set us at war with Austria.”