Dorchester Terrace (32 page)

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 Serafina 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.

P
ITT 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.

All sorts of emotions can mask themselves as something else, until they grow too unbearable. That could be as true of Adriana Blantyre as of anyone.

P
ITT WAS TOO LATE
getting home that evening to visit Blantyre, but he did so the following morning. He could not afford to allow any more time to slip through his fingers.

He arrived at Blantyre’s house early, in case Evan had intended to go anywhere other than to his office.

“Another development?” Blantyre said with surprise when Pitt was shown into his study. He was busy answering correspondence; notepaper and envelopes were stacked on the corner of the desk, the cap was off the inkwell, an elegant thing in the shape of a sleeping lion, and there was a pen in his hand.

“I apologize for disturbing you,” Pitt began.

“I assume it must be necessary.” Blantyre put his pen down and recapped the ink. “Something has happened? More word of Duke Alois? Please sit, and tell me.”

He indicated a comfortable, leather-padded captain’s chair.

Pitt obeyed.

“It is the death of Serafina Montserrat that concerns me today,” he answered. “I don’t know whether it’s connected to Duke Alois or not, but I can’t afford to assume that it isn’t.” He hated having to tell Blantyre this, but there was no escape. “I’m afraid there is no question that she was murdered. There is no other possible conclusion from the evidence.” He saw the surprise and dismay in Blantyre’s face and dreaded the possibility that Narraway was right. Was that why Blantyre had seemed so protective of Adriana? Because he knew she was so emotionally fragile that she could be capable of such a thing? How does any man protect the woman he loves from the demons within herself?

Blantyre was waiting, his dark eyes searching Pitt’s face.

“The amount of laudanum in her body was far more than an accidental second dose could explain,” Pitt went on, knowing it was irrelevant. “I have to consider the possibility that she knew something that has bearing on the reasons for the attempt on Duke Alois. And what she knew might tell us who is behind it.”

Blantyre nodded slowly. “Of course. Poor Serafina. What a sad ending for such a brave and colorful woman.” He lifted his shoulders very slightly. “What can I tell you that would be useful? If I had the faintest idea who was behind the attempt to assassinate Duke Alois, I would have already told you. I am still learning whatever I can, but there are dozens of dissident groups of one sort or another within the
Austrian Empire. All of them are capable of violence. I still don’t know if Alois is any more than he seems to be on the surface, or if he is merely a pawn to be sacrificed in some cause we haven’t yet identified—at least not specifically. All I know is, if it happens here, no one will be able to cover it up, or pass it off as an accident.” His expressive face reflected a sharp, sad humor. “Or a suicide,” he added.

“Are you suggesting that what happened at Mayerling was a concealed murder?” Pitt asked with surprise.

“No.” Blantyre did not hesitate. “I think they did what they could to keep it private, perhaps mistakenly. Rudolf was always high-strung, veering between elation and melancholy, and his childhood was enough to turn anyone into a lunatic. God knows, his mother is eccentric, to put it as gently as possible. He grew up with literally dozens of tutors, and no friends, no parental support …”

Pitt did not interrupt. Blantyre spoke softly, looking not at Pitt, but somewhere beyond him.

“Austrian politics are infinitely more complicated than ours. The Hungarians are afraid of both Germany overtaking Austria itself, to their west, and all the Slavic parts of the empire, backed of course by Russia, to the east. The Ottoman Empire is falling apart, and Russia will surely pounce there, wherever it can. Serbia and Croatia could be the gateway to a slow erosion that will eventually eat into the heart of Austria itself.”

He smiled bleakly, looking at Pitt now. “And of course Vienna is a hotbed of ideas about the socialism that is raging all over Europe, the ideas and philosophies that Rudolf admired. There was nothing of the autocrat in him. He was a dreamer, a man in love with the idealism of the future as he wanted it to be.”

The ashes settled in the fire with a very slight sound, but Blantyre did not move to restoke it.

“He was friendly with our own Prince of Wales,” he went on. “They were distantly related, as most European royalty is, but far more than that, they were in extraordinarily similar positions. Like Edward, everything was expected of him, but he seemed to be waiting for it indefinitely. Unlike Edward, he had a wife he couldn’t abide: cold, critical, boring, but eminently suitable for a Habsburg emperor.”

“And then he fell in love with Marie Vetsera,” Pitt concluded.

“No. I think he just came to the end of the road,” Blantyre said sadly. “There was nothing left for him to hope for. He had syphilis, among other things. Not a pleasant disease, and of course incurable.”

“I have learned a great deal more about Serafina Montserrat’s past,” Pitt said quietly, wanting to turn the conversation back to the matter. “Including her presence at the beating and execution of one Lazar Dragovic, and her rescue of his eight-year-old daughter, Adriana.” He saw Blantyre’s face lose its color. If any proof had been needed of Adriana’s identity, the expression on Blantyre’s face would have been sufficient. “Apparently, it is still not known who betrayed Dragovic to the Austrians,” he added. “Unless, of course, Serafina knew.”

Blantyre breathed in and out, and swallowed. His eyes met Pitt’s without wavering, but he did not speak.

“In her rambling, it is possible that Serafina told Adriana, either directly,” Pitt continued, “or enough in bits and pieces that Adriana was able to piece it together and deduce the truth.”

Blantyre swallowed again, with difficulty.

“Are you saying that Adriana believed it was Serafina who betrayed her father?” he asked. “Why, for God’s sake? Serafina was an insurgent herself. Are you suggesting that she was secretly on the side of the Austrians?” There was intense disbelief in his voice.

“I don’t know why,” Pitt admitted. “It makes no political sense, from what we know, but there may be other elements that we know nothing about.”

Blantyre thought for several seconds. “Personal?” he said at last.

“Perhaps.” Pitt waited for him to say that Dragovic and Serafina had been lovers. Did Blantyre know that? If he had been involved in the uprisings himself, on either side, then he might. Or he might have deduced it from what others had said.

Blantyre’s face twisted into a gesture of misery and contempt. “Are you suggesting that they were once lovers, and she took his rejection so bitterly that she was prepared to betray him, and the cause, to have her revenge? I find that impossible to believe. Serafina had many lovers. I never knew of her taking revenge for anything. Life was too short and sweet for that.”

“And Dragovic was loyal to the cause?” Pitt explored another line of thought.

Blantyre’s eyes widened. “As far as I know. But if he wasn’t, what has that to do with Serafina’s death now? Are you saying that she admitted to betraying him because he was a traitor himself? That’s nonsense. No one would believe her. Dragovic was a hero. Everyone knew that; he was willing to die rather than tell the Austrians who else was involved. There is no doubt about that, because no one else was ever arrested. I know that myself.”

“Could he have been betrayed by one of Serafina’s other lovers, out of jealousy over her?” Pitt asked. He hoped that was true. It would remove suspicion from Adriana, and he wanted that very much, for her sake, for Charlotte’s, and above all for Blantyre himself.

“Yes …” Blantyre said slowly. “Yes … that makes more sense. Though God knows who!”

“Someone who cares about their reputation enough to kill Serafina in order to preserve it, and is not only still alive, but is here in London, aware that Serafina was rambling and could betray the truth accidentally,” Pitt replied. “And of course, the person would have to have had access to the house in Dorchester Terrace in order to poison Serafina with laudanum. That must restrict the possibilities to a very few indeed.”

Blantyre rubbed a hand across his face in a gesture of intense weariness. He sighed. “Nerissa Freemarsh?”

“Do you think so?” Pitt asked with surprise.

“She has a lover,” Blantyre said. “Though I doubt very much that you will get his name from her. She is a … a very desperate woman, no family except Serafina, no husband, no child. Such women can be very … unpredictable.” He frowned.

Pitt thought of Lord Tregarron, and what Tucker had told Narraway about Tregarron’s visits to Dorchester Terrace. He needed to know a great deal more about that, absurd as it seemed. What on earth could Nerissa Freemarsh offer a man in Tregarron’s position? A hunger, a need for his attention that perhaps his wife no longer had, unquestioning praise, a willingness to do anything he wished, which again,
perhaps his wife would not? Maybe it was no more than simply a safe escape from pressure, duty, and fulfilling other people’s expectations. The more he thought about it, the more reasons there seemed to be.