Dorchester Terrace tp-27

by Anne Perry

  “I’m sorry,” the Foreign Secretary said grimly. “It would be quite impossible to cancel the visit now. Such a thing would signal to all Europe that Britain cannot guarantee the safety of a member of a foreign royal family visiting our own monarch.” His voice became even sharper. “It would be a flag of surrender to every predator in the world. Surely you see that it cannot even be considered?”

  Reluctantly, Pitt had to agree. He could imagine with horrible clarity the results that would follow.

  “Yes, sir, I do see,” he said quietly. “I would very much like to know who is behind this. I will not let it go until I do.”

  It was late and Pitt was tired, but he felt that he must speak with Narraway; however, he was torn, because to do so was a kind of yielding, an admission that he needed advice. He hesitated even as he walked along the cold street, his breath making wispy trails in the air.

  But not to speak with him was to set his own vanity above the lives of the men and women who would be killed if there really was a train crash. Not to mention the all-but-crippling damage to the service to which he was sworn.

  He reached Narraway’s door with no indecision left, and when the manservant let him in, he accepted the offer of supper and hot tea. Blantyre’s wine at luncheon had been more than he was used to.

  “Any progress on Serafina Montserrat’s death?” he asked Narraway as they sat by the fire, Pitt leaning toward it, warming his hands after the cold walk.

  “Not yet,” Narraway answered. “But you didn’t come just to ask me that.”

  Pitt sighed and sat back in the chair. “No,” he conceded. “No, it is something rather bigger than that.”

  “Pitt, stop beating around the bush,” Narraway ordered.

  Briefly Pitt told him what he feared about a possible rail crash and what Blantyre had said at lunchtime about Duke Alois’s visit.

  “If it’s Staum,” Narraway said quietly, “then there’s a lot of money involved. He has no loyalty to anyone, and he is expensive. If he has ever failed, we don’t know about it.” He thought for a few more moments in silence, staring at the fire.

  Pitt waited.

  “Staum has no loyalties, no interests,” Narraway said at last. “A rail crash, with all the civilian casualties, is very extreme. Even anarchists are not usually so indiscriminate; this could kill scores of people.”

  “I know.”

  “Either the target is someone so well guarded they cannot reach him any other way-but that profile doesn’t fit Duke Alois at all-or else it is a decoy.”

  “I’ve thought of that!” Pitt said more sharply than he had intended. It was not anger speaking but fear.

  “Any rumor of something else that might be happening, however slight?” Narraway asked. “What else is vulnerable?”

  Pitt gave him a thorough update on every issuse, even the most trivial and seemingly irrelevant. They were all issues going back to Narraway’s own time as head of the Branch, so there could be no question of confidences broken.

  “Who else is traveling with the duke?” Narraway asked when he had considered them all and come up with nothing.

  “No one who seems important,” Pitt replied, feeling the sense of helplessness twist even more tightly inside him. “And time is short. We have little more than a week before he comes.”

  Narraway sighed. “Then my best guess is that the rail crash is a diversion, because the assassination will happen before they ever reach the train. Staum will get Duke Alois somewhere in the streets of Dover. He won’t know that we have anyone who can recognize him.”

  “That’s true. In fact, how did Blantyre recognize him, do you think?” Pitt asked.

  “Austrian connection, I presume,” Narraway replied. “Staum has committed a few assassinations in Europe, but never here before, so far as we know.”

  “Blantyre could be wrong,” Pitt said.

  “Of course he could. Are you willing to take that risk?”

  “No. We don’t have enough men to guard all the streets in Dover, especially if it means drawing them back from the points and the signals.”

  “Which they are counting on,” Narraway agreed.

  “If they blow up the main street of Dover, they’ll kill scores of people, and they might still miss Duke Alois-”

  “They won’t,” Narraway cut across him. “They’ll cause a diversion at the last moment, an overflowing drain, an overturned cart, anything to force him to go down a side street, or else stand around as a stationary target while they clear the way. In those situations you must keep moving. Have several alternative routes. Never allow yourself to be cut off and have to stop.” Narraway’s face was deeply lined, almost haggard in the firelight. “You haven’t much time, Pitt.”

  “Find out who killed Serafina, and why,” Pitt urged.

  “You really think that what she was afraid of telling someone had to do with this? She was rambling …”

  “Do you know of a better reason someone is willing to go to this length to kill Duke Alois?” Pitt asked. “Or someone else in his retinue?”

  “I think he could be incidental, just the excuse,” Narraway reminded him, his voice gravelly with weariness and the tension of knowledge and fear. “Special Branch is important, Pitt. It’s our defense against all kinds of violence from slow treason to anarchy that kills in minutes. If I wanted to cripple England, I would try to get rid of Special Branch first. And if I can think of that, so can others.”

  “I know.” Pitt stood up slowly, surprised how his muscles ached from clenching them. “I’ll start again tomorrow morning.”

  Early the next day at Lisson Grove, Pitt and Stoker went over every detail of Alois’s visit from the time he stepped aboard the steamer at Calais until he boarded it again at Dover to leave.

  The office was warm, the fire beginning to burn well in the clear air after the sluggishness of rain, but there was no ease in the room.

  “He’ll be bringing just four men with him,” Stoker said, pointing to Calais on the map spread across Pitt’s desk.

  “What do we know about them?” Pitt asked.

  “All part of his family’s regular household retainers,” Stoker replied. “As far as we can tell. Nothing we can find that would make them vulnerable to betrayal. None of them gambles or has debts out of the ordinary, no love affairs with anyone of suspicious background or politics. No one drinks more than average, which is pretty high.” He pulled his face into an expression of distaste. Pitt had no idea whether it was for what he imagined these men in particular to be like, or for foreigners in general.

  “They’re just what you’d expect of hangers-on of a minor royal duke,” Stoker went on. “Decent enough, in their own way, I expect.” He looked up from the map to meet Pitt’s eyes, but his own were unreadable.

  “Competent to guard him from an attack?” Pitt asked.

  Stoker shrugged. “Can’t say, because they’ve never had to. Honestly, sir, he’s not somebody anyone would bother to attack. Are we going to put someone in with them?”

  “Yes. It’ll need to be someone who speaks German, if possible.”

  “He speaks good English,” Stoker replied.

  “Good. But we need to understand what they say to each other as well,” Pitt pointed out.

  “We’ve got Beck, sir, and Holbein. They’re both pretty good.”

  “We’ll use them,” Pitt agreed.

  Stoker raised his eyebrows. “Both?”

  “Yes, both. We can’t afford to fail, you know that.”

  Stoker stiffened. “Yes, sir. Whatever happens to the Duke, it bloody well won’t happen while he’s in England!” He bent to the map again, intense concentration in his face. “The ferry leaves Calais at nine in the morning, weather permitting. It should arrive in Dover at noon. He’ll be the first to disembark. He has a special carriage set apart for his use.” He looked up at Pitt. “What about this man Staum, sir? Are we sure it’s him? How do we know it isn’t someone who just looks a bit like him? His f
ace can’t be that memorable, or he’d have been caught by now.”

  “No, we’re not certain it’s him,” Pitt conceded. “But using such a man makes more sense than creating a train crash that kills scores of people.”

  “Depends what this person, or people, hope to gain,” Stoker said bitterly. “Anarchists don’t usually make that much sense. That’s why they’re so damn difficult to predict.”

  “I know. And people who don’t care whether they are caught always have a kind of advantage over those who do. But I don’t envy them. Who the hell wants to have nothing worth living for?”

  “I can’t imagine what that’s like.” Stoker shook his head, his expression puzzled and sad. “I suppose that’s why we find them so hard to catch. We just don’t understand them. What about this duke, sir? Do you think he’s going to do pretty much what we tell him? Or will he want to show everyone how brave he is, and behave like a fool?”

  “I don’t know,” Pitt admitted. “I’m still trying to find out more about him, and the rest of his men.”

  Stoker swore gently and colorfully, under his breath.

  “Couldn’t have put it better myself,” Pitt agreed, surprised at the width of Stoker’s imagination.

  Stoker colored. “Sorry, sir.”

  “Don’t be.” Pitt smiled briefly. “I am thinking much the same, but I can’t put it as concisely as you do! Your vocabulary makes me think you spent some time in the navy, but I didn’t see it on your record, at least not the one they showed me.”

  “No, sir.” Stoker was clearly uncomfortable. “It was … not quite official …” He stopped, lost for an explanation.

  “Learn anything?” Pitt asked.

  “Yes, sir, quite a lot.” He stood still, waiting for the rest of the interrogation.

  “Then it wasn’t time wasted,” Pitt answered. He was determined to ask Narraway one day what Stoker’s story was. It would be wise to know, but it did not matter now.

  “Sir-” Stoker began.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Pitt cut him off.

  “Sir … I was going to say that if you want me to go to Dover and travel on the train with Duke Alois, I’ll do that.”

  “You don’t have to,” Pitt replied. “It’ll be dangerous.”

  “Aren’t you going?” Stoker challenged.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Then I’m coming too, sir. Anyway, I could use the bit of extra pay.” He smiled slightly.

  “Really?” Pitt spoke lightly. “Saving for something, are you?”

  “Yes, sir.” Stoker straightened his shoulders a little. “I want to buy a cello, sir.”

  Pitt could think of no possible answer to that, but he felt inordinately pleased.

  8

  Narraway sat by the fire in his study, the gaslight turned low, and thought about Serafina Montserrat. Pitt said he had asked the doctor to keep his own counsel regarding the conclusion that her death could not have been accidental. He said he had given the doctor his word that the death would not be investigated by the police, but by Special Branch, because of its possible connection with a current case.

  The possible plot against Duke Alois needed to occupy all of Pitt’s attention; he could not afford to be distracted by anything else. But Narraway was not certain if his promise to investigate Serafina’s death was wise. Detection was not a skill he had refined to anything like Pitt’s degree. However, he still believed it possible that there was a direct link between Serafina’s fears and the proposed assassination of Duke Alois. If there was, it was imperative that he find it before it was too late.

  If Serafina’s death was a political act by someone afraid she might reveal a long-dead scandal or personal indiscretion, surely it must have ceased to be embarrassing to anyone but the attacker himself?

  He did not think, from what Vespasia had said of her, that Nerissa Freemarsh had the nature to contemplate killing her aunt as an act of compassion to free her from the mental suffering of knowing that her own mind was betraying her.

  Tucker, the lady’s maid? That was more likely. She was devoted to Serafina. Vespasia had told him that, and he trusted her judgment without question. She had certainly had enough maids to know, and seen dozens of others.

  But then Tucker would also lose her position at Serafina’s death. And she must know that she would be suspected before anyone else if an overdose was discovered. After the years of looking after Serafina, no one would believe her capable of doing such a thing accidentally.

  That left only the far uglier thought that Nerissa Freemarsh had killed her aunt for personal reasons: possibly the inheritance of the house and whatever money Serafina possessed, before it was too late for her to enjoy it-or perhaps before the money had been spent on Serafina’s care.

  He would have to interview the household staff. There was no one else who could answer the difficult, probing questions he needed to ask. He stared up at the firelight patterns on the ceiling and tried to think of facts, physical evidence, anything at all that could prove who had given Serafina the extra laudanum. Nothing came to mind. Whoever had done it would have cleaned up after themselves. The house would be dusted and polished every day, the dishes washed, everything put back into the cupboard or onto the shelf where it was normally stored. All household staff would have access to all parts of the house, though it was likely that only Tucker and Nerissa would spend time in Serafina’s bedroom, and perhaps one of the housemaids.

  Had anyone else been there? Would they have been noticed? And what reason would they have to harm Serafina … unless they had been paid by someone? But no, that thought was absurd.

  By midnight the fire had burned down. Narraway stood up, turned off the lights, and went upstairs to bed. He had not thought of any solution to his quandary, except to investigate personal motives. He had little more than a week before Duke Alois arrived in Dover.

  In the morning he decided to ask Vespasia’s opinion. He dressed smartly, as was suitable for a visit to a lady for whom he had not only a deep affection, but also a certain awe.

  “Victor! How pleasant to see you,” Vespasia said with some surprise when he was shown into the withdrawing room a little after ten o’clock. She wore a highly fashionable dress of a pale blue-green shade with white lace at the throat, large sleeves, and her customary pearls. She was smiling. She knew, of course, that he had come for a specific reason.

  “Well?” she inquired, when she had sent the maid for tea.

  He told her briefly the thoughts he had entertained the previous evening. She listened to him in silence until he had finished, merely moving her head fractionally every now and then in agreement.

  “There is one thing you have apparently not considered,” she observed. “Nerissa is not a particularly charming young woman, and, judging from her present position as companion to her aunt, she has no great means of her own.”

  “I know that,” he said. “Maybe she decided not to risk Serafina spending all of what would be her inheritance.”

  Vespasia smiled. “My dear Victor, there is another consideration far more urgent in a woman’s mind than mere money.” She noted his expression with amusement. “Nerissa is not plain in appearance, but she is quite unaware of how to flatter or charm, to amuse, to make a man feel high-spirited or at ease. She is also rapidly coming toward the end of her childbearing years. At the moment her prospects are good; but if Serafina were to have lived even another five years, which she might have, then it would have been a different matter. Her present lover may not be willing to wait so long for Nerissa to come into her inheritance.”

  Narraway froze. “Her present lover! Are you certain?”

  “Yes. But I am not certain if it is an affair that has any realistic hope of ending in marriage. If it does not, then privacy may be all that she desired.”

  “But surely Serafina Montserrat would be the last woman on earth to interfere in an affair, let alone disapprove of one?” he said reasonably.

  “Perhaps. But Nerissa may
not have realized that. I am not sure whether she is fully aware of Serafina’s earlier life. These are things it might be profitable for you to discover.”

  “Yes,” he agreed, ceasing the conversation while the maid brought in the tea and Vespasia poured it.

  Vespasia smiled at him. “Tucker will know,” she remarked, taking one of the tiny crisp cookies off the plate. “Treat her with respect, and you will learn all kinds of things.”

  He thought for a moment. “If this lover of Nerissa’s is serious, might he have killed Serafina, to preserve the money Nerissa could inherit? With the house, it would make him very comfortable.”

  “Possibly.” Vespasia’s face expressed her pity for such a thought, and her contempt. “Which is why it is important that you discover who he is.” Her eyes softened with a deeper kind of sadness. “It is also possible that his reason was nothing to do with money, or with Nerissa at all, except insofar as she gave him access to Serafina, and her disintegrating memory.”

  “I know,” he agreed. “I will investigate that too.”

  AFTER LEAVING VESPASIA’S HOME, Narraway rode in the hansom to visit Serafina’s doctor, consumed in thought. He was starting to realize how much more difficult detection was than he had originally appreciated. He was guilty of having taken Pitt’s skill very much for granted in the previous years. He did not even notice the brilliant blue sky darken over, or the people on footpaths hastening their steps. He did not see the first heavy spots of rain. He was unaware of the swift change in the weather until one man lost grip of his umbrella and it whisked into the street, startling horses and causing a near-accident.

  Dr. Thurgood was unable to give any further assistance. There was nothing medical to add to the bare fact that Serafina had died of an overdose of laudanum so huge that it was impossible that she had given it to herself accidentally.

  He caught a hansom to go to Dorchester Terrace. On the journey he turned over in his mind the practical facts, which severely limited the number of people able to administer such a dose.