Dorchester Terrace tp-27

by Anne Perry

  “Then she could not have known him far in the past.”

  “No. I must have misunderstood that.” Adriana looked at Charlotte’s plate and the unfinished dessert.

  “Oh, I’ve had sufficient,” Charlotte said quickly. “Let us go. It was a delicious meal. I shall have to eat Croatian food again. I had no idea it was so very good. Thank you for all you’ve shown me, and for the pleasure of your company.”

  Adriana smiled, her composure almost returned. “Didn’t your Lord Byron say that happiness was born a twin? Pleasures tasted alone lose half their savor. Let us go and find the carriage.”

  Charlotte arrived home in the middle of the afternoon, a trifle earlier than she had expected. She had much more information to give Pitt but no conclusions, other than the growing certainty in her own mind that Serafina had known who had betrayed Lazar Dragovic, but for some reason had never spoken of it to anyone. Was that the secret she had been so afraid of letting slip? It made sense. At least to Adriana Dragovic, it still mattered passionately, and Serafina had always tried to protect Adriana, whether out of love for Lazar, or simply human decency. She would have known what that knowledge would do to Adriana.

  Charlotte walked down the hall to the kitchen. It was too early for Daniel and Jemima to be home from school, but she was surprised to find the kitchen empty. Minnie Maude was not in the scullery either, nor was she in the dining room or the parlor. Could she be out shopping? Most of the household goods they required were delivered, and those that needed to be bought in person were bought in the morning.

  Charlotte went up the stairs and looked for Minnie Maude without finding her. Now she was worried. She even looked in the back garden to see if she could have tripped and been hurt. She knew even as she did it that the thought was absurd. Unless Minnie was unconscious, she would have made her way back into the house, even if she had been injured.

  She must be in the cellar; it was the only place left. But Charlotte had been home a quarter of an hour! Why on earth would Minnie Maude be in the cellar for that length of time? There was nothing down there that could take so long to collect, and it would be perishing cold.

  She opened the door. The light was on-she could see its dim glow from the top step. Had Minnie Maude slipped and fallen here? She went down quickly now, holding on to the handrail. Minnie Maude was sitting on a cushion in the corner, a blanket wrapped around her, and in her arms was a small, dirty, and extremely scruffy little dog, with a red ribbon around its neck.

  Minnie Maude and the puppy both looked up at her with wide, frightened eyes.

  Charlotte took a deep breath.

  “For goodness’ sake, bring it upstairs into the kitchen,” she said, trying to keep the overwhelming emotion inside her under some kind of control. Relief, pity, a drowning comprehension of Minnie Maude’s loneliness, and all the conflicting feelings for Adriana, and for Serafina, everything to do with need and loss churned in her mind. “And wash it!” she went on. “It’s filthy! I suppose one can’t expect it not to be, living in the coal cellar.”

  Minnie Maude climbed to her feet slowly, still holding the dog.

  “You’d better give it some dinner,” Charlotte added. “Something warm. It’s very young, by the look of it.”

  “Are you going to put it out?” Minnie Maude’s face was white with fear, and she held the animal so tightly it started squirming around.

  “I daresay the cats won’t like it,” Charlotte replied obliquely. “But they’ll just have to get used to it. We’ll find it a basket. Wash it in the scullery sink, or you’ll have coal dust all over the place.”

  Minnie Maude took a long, shuddering breath, and her face filled with hope.

  Charlotte turned away to go up the stairs. She did not want Minnie Maude to think she could get away with absolutely anything. “Does it have a name?” she asked huskily.

  “Uffie,” Minnie Maude said. “But you can change it if you want to.”

  “Uffie seems perfectly good to me,” Charlotte replied. “Bring her, or is it him, upstairs, and don’t put her down until you get to the scullery, or you’ll spend the rest of the day getting coal dust out of the carpets, and we’ll all have no dinner.”

  “I’ll carry ’er ter the kitchen,” Minnie Maude promised fervently. “An’ I’ll see she don’t make a mess anywhere, I promise. She’s ever so good.”

  She won’t be, Charlotte thought, not when she’s warm enough and properly fed, and realizes she can stay. But maybe that is better. “She’s your responsibility,” she warned as she held the cellar door open. Minnie Maude walked through into the hall, still holding the dog close to her, her face shining with happiness.

  When Pitt returned home, late and tired, Charlotte told him very briefly about the dog, not as a question, but simply so he would not be surprised when he found the little animal in the scullery. Daniel and Jemima had both fallen instantly in love with it, so no further decision could really be made.

  In the evening, alone with the parlor fire dying down and the embers settling in the hearth, Charlotte told Pitt what she had learned from Adriana.

  “Are you sure she said Tregarron?” he asked, sitting a little forward in his chair.

  “Yes. But of course I’m not sure that is what Serafina said, or if it was, that it was who she actually meant. But I believe that Serafina knew who betrayed Lazar Dragovic, and that, whether she meant to tell her or not, somehow Adriana realized who it was too.”

  “Well, it couldn’t have been Tregarron,” Pitt said reasonably. “He was too young to have been involved at all, and was here in England at boarding school anyway. He would have been about fourteen at the time. And why would Adriana have killed Serafina, even if Serafina did tell her? Who would she be protecting? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Yes, it does.” Charlotte spoke so quickly her voice was almost lost in the crackle from the fire as another log fell apart in a shower of sparks. “It makes sense if it was Serafina herself who betrayed Dragovic.”

  “Serafina?” He was startled. “But she was on the same side as him. And she rescued Adriana. My sources say she and Dragovic were lovers, at least for a while.”

  “Thomas, don’t be so naive,” Charlotte said. “The most passionate lovers also make the bitterest enemies, at times. And who knows now, or even then, if they were really lovers? Perhaps either one of them was only using the other?”

  He started to argue. “But they were both fighting for the same …” He trailed off.

  “Balkan politics are not so simple,” she said. “At least that is what I hear, from those who know. And love affairs hardly ever are.”

  He smiled with a flicker of ironic humor. “At least that is what you hear from those who know?”

  She blushed very slightly. “Yes.”

  “Do you think Adriana believed that Serafina betrayed her father?” he asked, all humor vanished.

  “I think it’s more likely than Nerissa Freemarsh murdering her aunt out of frustration, because she didn’t die quickly enough,” she said quietly.

  “And Tregarron?” he asked. “What was he doing at Dorchester Terrace?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Perhaps trying to make sure that Serafina didn’t tell any more secrets in her confused state. Ones we don’t even know about. They would be old, but perhaps still embarrassing. He’s responsible for a lot of the British relations with the Austrian Empire, and the countries around its borders. Maybe Poland, Ukraine, or the Ottoman Empire? Even if the people concerned are dead, or out of office, the matters might still be better left alone.”

  “But who could she tell?” he asked thoughtfully. “Not many people came to see her.”

  “Would he leave that to chance? Would you?”

  “No.” He sighed and leaned back again. “Tomorrow I had better go and speak to Nerissa Freemarsh, and to Tucker again. I don’t think it can have anything to do with … present cases … but I need to be certain. Thank you.”

  “For
what?” She was puzzled by his gratitude.

  “For questioning Adriana,” he explained. “I know you didn’t wish to.”

  “Oh. No. Thomas, you don’t mind about Uffie, do you?”

  “Who?”

  “The dog.”

  He laughed quietly. “No, of course I don’t.”

  In the morning Pitt went to see Narraway and told him about Charlotte’s conversation with Adriana Blantyre, and the conclusions he was forced to draw from it.

  “I was hoping the answer would be different,” Narraway said quietly. “I was sure it had to do with this wretched Duke Alois threat, but it seems the timing is coincidental after all. I’m sorry. What are you going to do?”

  “Go back to Dorchester Terrace and check on the exact amount of laudanum that was in the house,” Pitt replied. “And whether anyone from the outside ever had access to it.”

  “You think Adriana learned the truth from Serafina, went away and thought about it, then came back with laudanum? That’s cold-blooded.”

  “If Serafina betrayed her father to his death, perhaps. I hope to be wrong.”

  Narraway spread his hands in a small, rueful gesture. He said nothing, for which Pitt was grateful.

  At Dorchester Terrace he spoke first with Tucker and then with Nerissa Freemarsh. He checked on the laudanum, as he had told Narraway he would. The conclusion was inescapable: Whoever had given her the extra dosage had brought it with them. Killing her had been carefully planned.

  Tucker had nothing new to add; yes, Mrs. Blantyre had called several times, bringing flowers and once a box of candied fruit. She was always kind. Yes, she had seemed distressed the last time she had called, on the evening of Mrs. Montserrat’s death. Pale-faced, Tucker noted that Adriana had spent some time alone with Mrs. Montserrat in the bedroom. It had seemed to be what Mrs. Montserrat had wanted.

  With Nerissa, it was a different matter. She was tense as she came into the housekeeper’s sitting room, and closed the door behind her with a sharp snap. She was still in black, but today she had several rows of very fine jet beads around her neck, and excellent-quality jet earrings, which added a fashionable touch to her appearance.

  “I don’t know what else I can tell you, Mr. Pitt,” she said with a certain briskness. Being mistress of the house at last gave her a new air of confidence. The slightly nervous demeanor was gone. She stood straighter and somehow she looked taller. Perhaps she had new boots with a higher heel. Under the swirl of her black bombazine skirt it was not possible to tell. But there was unquestionably a touch of color on her skin.

  Pitt had decided to be totally open.

  “Did Lord Tregarron visit here often?” he asked.

  “Lord Tregarron?” she repeated.

  She was playing for time. It was a question she had not expected, and she needed to think what to say.

  “Is that something you find difficult to answer, Miss Freemarsh?” He met her eyes challengingly. “Why would that be? Surely he did not ask anyone to keep that fact hidden?”

  Now there was an angry flush on her cheeks. “Of course not! That is absurd. I was trying to recollect how often he did come.”

  “And have you succeeded?”

  “He came to visit my aunt because he had heard she was ill, and he knew how much she had done for England in her youth, particularly with regard to the Austrian Empire, and our relationship with Vienna.”

  “How very generous of him,” Pitt said with only the slightest asperity in his voice. “Since, as far as I can learn, Mrs. Montserrat was passionately on the side of the rebels, against the Habsburg throne. Was that not so? Or was she a spy for Austria perhaps, planted there to betray the freedom fighters?”

  Now Nerissa was really angry. “That is a dreadful thing to say! And completely irresponsible. But-” Suddenly she stopped as if a new and terrible thought had filled her mind. “I … I had not even …” She blinked. “I don’t know, Mr. Pitt. She always said …” Again she stopped. “Now I don’t know. Perhaps that was what it was all about. It would explain Mrs. Blantyre …” Her hand had flown to her mouth as if to stop herself from crying out. Now it fell to her side again. “I think perhaps I had better say no more. I would not wish to be unjust to anyone.”

  He felt cold, as if the fire had suddenly died, though it was burning so hot and red in the hearth that the whole chimney breast was warm.

  “Mrs. Blantyre visited your aunt quite often, including the evening she died.” His voice sounded hollow.

  “Yes … but … yes, she did.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes. Mr. Blantyre remained downstairs. He thought it would be less strain on Mrs. Montserrat. She did not find it easy to speak to several people at a time. And sometimes she and Adriana would converse in Italian, which he does not speak-at least not fluently.”

  “I see. Does he speak Croatian?”

  “I have no idea.” Her face was very pale. She sat rigidly, as if her bodice was suddenly constrictingly tight. “Perhaps. He speaks German, I know. He spent quite a lot of time in Vienna.”

  “I see. Thank you.” He was left with no choice. He must go and question Adriana Blantyre. There was nothing to be gained by delaying it, not that he wished to. If he went now, Blantyre himself might still be at home. That would make it more difficult, more embarrassing and emotionally wrenching, but it was the right way to do it.

  He thanked Nerissa again and left Dorchester Terrace to walk the short distance to Blantyre’s house.

  He was admitted by the butler, and Blantyre himself met him in the hall.

  “Has something happened?” he asked, searching Pitt’s face. “Some word about Duke Alois?”

  “No. It concerns Serafina Montserrat’s death.”

  “Oh?” Blantyre looked tired, and his face was deeply lined. He waved the butler away and the man disappeared obediently, leaving them standing alone in the middle of the beautiful hall. “Have you learned something further?”

  “I am not certain, but it begins to look like it,” Pitt replied. It was the worst part of his position as head of Special Branch, and he could pass the responsibility to no one else; Blantyre had been more than a friend; he had gone out of his way, even taken professional risks, to help Pitt learn the reality of the threat to Duke Alois and to persuade the prime minister to take the issue seriously. It made this investigation acutely painful, but it did not relieve him of the necessity of pursuing it.

  Blantyre frowned. When he spoke his voice was level and perfectly under control. “There’s something I can do? I know nothing about her death at all. Until you told me otherwise, I assumed it was natural. Then when you mentioned the laudanum, I thought perhaps she had dreaded the loss of her mind to the point where suicide had seemed preferable. Is that not the case?”

  “Is it possible that Serafina was working for the Austrian monarchy all the time, and that it was she who betrayed Lazar Dragovic to his death?” Pitt asked.

  “Dear God!” Blantyre gasped and swayed a little on his feet. Then he turned and strode across the floor to the foot of the stairs. He grasped the banister, hesitated a moment, then started up.

  Pitt followed after him, seized by a shadow of fear, but with no idea why he was afraid.

  Blantyre increased his speed, taking the steps two at a time. He reached the landing and went to the second door. He knocked, then stood with his hand still raised. He turned to Pitt a couple of yards behind him. There was a terrible silence.

  Blantyre lowered his hand and turned the knob. He pushed the door open and walked into the room.

  The curtains were still closed but there was sufficient daylight filtering through them to find their way across to the big bed, and to see Adriana’s black hair fanned across the pillow.

  “Adriana!” Blantyre choked on the word.

  Pitt waited, his heart pounding.

  “Adriana!” Blantyre cried out loudly. He lurched forward and grasped her arm where it lay on the coverlet. She did not move.

&n
bsp; Pitt looked and saw the empty glass on the bedside table, and the small piece of folded paper, such as holds a medicinal powder. He would not need to taste it to know what it was.

  He walked silently over to Blantyre and put his hand on his shoulder.

  Blantyre buckled at the knees and collapsed onto the floor, his body racked with pain, his sobs hollow, making barely a sound.

  11

  Pitt was in his office, looking yet again through the plans for Duke Alois’s visit, when Stoker knocked on the door.

  Pitt looked up as he came in.

  Stoker’s expression was anxious, and he was clearly uncomfortable.

  “Mr. Blantyre’s here, sir. He looks pretty bad, like he hasn’t eaten or slept for a while, but he wants to see you. Sorry, but I couldn’t put him off. I think it’s about Staum.”

  “Ask him in,” Pitt replied. There was no way to avoid it. Assassins do not stop for private grief; it might solve at least part of the problem if Staum was connected to Adriana, but there was nothing to suggest it. Adriana had killed Serafina in revenge for her father, and then apparently in remorse or despair, taken her own life. There was no reason to think she had even heard of Duke Alois, who would have been a child, even younger than herself, at the time of the uprising and the betrayal.

  “Fetch brandy and a couple of glasses,” he added, then, seeing the look on Stoker’s face, “I know it’s early, but he may well have been awake all night. It’s civil to make the offer. Poor man.”

  “I don’t know how he can bear it,” Stoker said grimly. “Wife killing an old lady who was dying anyway, then taking her own life. Mind, he looks as if he’d be better off dead himself, right now.”

  “Ask him in, and don’t be long with the brandy,” Pitt told him.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Blantyre came in a moment later. He looked like a man stumbling blindly through a nightmare.

  Pitt stood to greet him. It was impossible to know what to say. Pitt remembered Charlotte’s grief when he had told her about Adriana; she had been stunned, as if his words had made no sense to her. Then as understanding filled her, followed by horror at the torment she imagined Adriana must’ve been feeling, she had wept in Pitt’s arms for what seemed like a long time. Even when they had finally gone to bed, she had cried in the dark. When he touched her, her face had been wet with tears.