Dorchester Terrace (15 page)

Thinking of that brought back sharp recollections of what Herbert, his commander at the time, had said to him. And with his memory of Herbert, he knew who he should seek for answers to Vespasia’s questions.

H
E WAS AT THE
railway station by half past seven the following morning, and caught the train southward into the bleak, rolling countryside of Kent before eight o’clock. At Bexley he alighted into a hard, driving wind and walked along the main platform to look for a carriage.

By nine o’clock he was knocking on the door of an old cottage just off the high street. Bare, twisted limbs of wisteria covered most of the front walls, but he imagined that in the summer they would be covered with soft, pale, lilac flowers. He could smell rain in the wind, and the bitter, clean aroma of woodsmoke drifting from the chimney.

The door was opened by a middle-aged woman wearing an apron over her dark skirt. She looked startled to see him.

“Mornin’, sir.” She seemed uncertain what to say next.

“Good morning.” Narraway saved her the trouble of finding the words. “Is this the home of Geoffrey Herbert?”

“Yes, sir, it is. Mr. Herbert is just eating his breakfast. May I tell him who is calling?” She did not add that it was an uncivil hour to visit, especially unannounced, but it was in her eyes.

“Victor Narraway,” he replied. “He will remember me.”

“Mr. Victor Narraway,” she repeated. “Well, if you would come in out of the cold, sir, and take a seat in the sitting room, I’ll tell him you’re here.” She grudgingly pulled the door open wider.

He stepped inside. “Actually … it’s Lord Narraway.” He was not used to the title himself, but this was an occasion when the respect it might command would be of service.

She looked startled. “Oh! Well … I’ll tell him, I’m sure. Would you like a cup o’ tea, sir, I mean, Your Lordship?”

Narraway smiled in spite of himself. “That would be most appreciated,” he accepted.

The sitting room was architecturally typical of a cottage: low-ceilinged; deep window ledges; large, open fireplace with heavy chimney breast. But there the ordinariness ended. One entire wall was lined with bookshelves; the carpets were Oriental with rich jewel-colored designs; and there were Arabic brass bowls on several of the surfaces. It all brought back sharp memories of Herbert, a man of vast knowledge and eclectic tastes.

Herbert himself came into the room twenty minutes later, when Narraway had finished his tea and was beginning to get restless. He had not seen Herbert in fifteen years and he was startled by the change in him. He remembered him as upright, a little gaunt, with receding white hair. Now he was bent forward over two sticks and moved with some difficulty. His clothes hung on him, and his hands were blue-veined. His hair had receded no further, but it was thin. The pink of his scalp was visible through it.

“Lord Narraway, eh?” he said with a faint smile. His voice was cracked, but his eyes were bright, and he maneuvered himself to the chair without stumbling or reaching to feel his way. He sat down carefully, propping the two sticks against the wall. “It must be important
to bring you all the way down here. Dawson told me you are not in the Branch anymore. That true?”

“Yes. Kicking up my heels in the House of Lords,” Narraway replied. He heard the edge of bitterness in his tone and instantly regretted it. He hoped Herbert did not take it for self-pity. He wondered what to add to take the sting from it.

Herbert was watching him closely. “Well, if you’re not in the Branch, what the devil are you doing?” he asked. “You aren’t here looking up old friends; you don’t have any. You were always a solitary creature. Just as well. Head of the Branch can’t afford to be dependent on anyone. You were the best we had. Hate to admit it, but I’d be a liar not to.”

Narraway felt a surge of pleasure, which embarrassed him. Herbert was a man whose good opinion was worth a great deal and had never been easily won.

“So what do you want?” Herbert went on, before Narraway could find any gracious way of acknowledging the compliment. “No need to explain yourself. I wouldn’t believe you anyway. If you could afford to tell me, it would hardly be worth the bother.”

“Austria-Hungary,” Narraway replied.

Herbert’s sparse eyebrows shot up. “Good God! You’re not still raking over Mayerling and Rudolf’s death, are you? Thought you had more sense. Poor bastard shot the girl, then shot himself. He was always a melancholy creature, other than the occasional attack of good cheer on social occasions. Give him wine, laughter, and a pretty face, and he was fine, until the music stopped. Just like his mother. He was always a disaster waiting to happen. Could have told you that years ago.”

“No,” Narraway said succinctly. “It’s not about Rudolf at all, so far as I know.”

“Then what? You said Austria-Hungary.”

“Going back thirty years, or more maybe, to uprisings, planned or actual,” Narraway said.

“Plenty of them.” Herbert nodded. “Autocratic old sod, Franz Josef. Relaxed his hold a bit recently, I’m told, but back then he ruled with a rod of iron. He and Rudolf never saw eye to eye. Chalk and
cheese. What about it?” He frowned, leaning forward a little and peering at Narraway. “Why do you care? Why now?”

“Thought you weren’t going to ask me,” Narraway said pointedly.

Herbert grunted. “Of course there were uprisings. You know that as well as any of us. Stop beating around the bush and tell me what it is you’re really asking.”

“A major revolt, drawing in other countries as well. Possibly a Hungarian uprising?”

A look of contempt flickered across Herbert’s gaunt face. “You can do better than that, Narraway. You know as well as I do—or you ought to—that the Hungarians are content to be a safe, second-rate power, ruled by Vienna while having a very comfortable life, if not quite cock of the walk. If they rose up against the Austrians they’d lose a great deal, and gain nothing. They are quite clever enough to know that.”

“The Croatians?” Narraway suggested.

“Different kettle of fish altogether,” Herbert agreed. “Erratic, unstable. Always plots and counterplots, but nothing has ever come of them, at least not yet. That’s not what all this is about, is it? Foreign Office thinks there’s going to be another Croatian problem of some sort, do they?”

“Not so far as I know,” Narraway said truthfully.

“Blantyre’s your chap,” Herbert observed. “Evan Blantyre. Knows the Croatians as well as anyone. Lived there for a while. Wife’s Croatian. Beautiful woman, but unstable, so I hear. Delicate health, always sick as a child. Not surprising, family caught up in rebellions and things.”

Narraway leaned back in his chair. “I’ll ask him, if things look like they’re heading that way. What about the Italians? They still haven’t got some of their northern cities back. Trieste and that region, for example.”

Herbert thought about it for a few moments. “Italian nationalists,” he said thoughtfully. “Could be trouble there. Disorganized, though, in spite of Cavour and Garibaldi and all the unification stuff. Still quarrel like cats in a bag. Thought they’d quieted down a bit.”

“Perhaps,” Narraway said dubiously. “Do you remember in the
past an Italian woman by the name of Montserrat?” He watched Herbert’s face for even the slightest flicker of recognition.

Herbert smiled a long, slow curl of amusement, his eyes bright. “Well, well,” he said with a sigh. “Serafina Montserrat. Why on earth are you asking about her? She must be seventy-five at least, if she’s still alive at all. I remember when she was thirty. Rode a horse better than any man I knew, and fought with a sword. Used to be quite good myself, but I was never in her class. Knew better than to try. Saved me from making a fool of myself.”

“Italian nationalist.” Narraway made it more a statement than a question.

“Oh, yes.” Herbert was still smiling. “But not averse to lending a hand to anyone who was against Austria, wherever they were from.”

“Openly?” Narraway asked.

Herbert looked shocked. “Good God, no! Secretive as a priest, and devious as a Jesuit too.”

“You make her sound religious.”

Herbert laughed. It was a purely happy sound, bringing to his face for a moment the shadow of the young man he had once been. “She was as far from a nun as a woman can get. Although I didn’t know most of that at the time.”

“How did you learn?” Narraway asked. “Perhaps more important to me, when did you learn and from whom?”

“From many people, and over several years,” Herbert replied. “She worked very discreetly.”

“That’s not what you implied,” Narraway pointed out.

Herbert laughed again, although this time it ended in a fit of coughing. “Sometimes, Narraway, you are not nearly as clever as you imagine,” he said after several moments, still gasping for breath. “You should have taken more notice of women. A little self-indulgence would have helped you learn a great deal, not only about women in general, but about yourself as well, and therefore about most men.” His eyes narrowed. “Too much brain and not enough heart, that’s your trouble. I think secretly you’re an idealist! It’s not pleasure you want—it’s love! Good God, man, you’re a total anachronism!”

“Serafina Montserrat,” Narraway reminded him sharply. “Was she
a wild woman, riding and fighting beside the men, and sleeping with a good few of them, or was she discreet? I’m not here simply because I have nothing to do and need somebody else’s business to meddle in. This could be important.”

“Of course you need something to meddle in!” Herbert said without losing his smile. “We all do. I’d have died of boredom if I didn’t meddle in everything I could. The locals all loathe me, or pretend they do, but they all come to see me now and then because they think I know everybody’s secrets.”

“And do you?” Narraway inquired.

“Yes, mostly.”

“Serafina,” he prompted.

“Yes, she was as tough and skilled as most of the men, better than many,” Herbert responded. “Not really a beauty, but she had so much vitality that you forgot that. She was …” He seemed to be staring back into memory. “Elemental,” he finished.

Narraway could not help wondering how well Herbert had known her himself. That was a possibility he had not considered before. Was he asking for information about a past lover of Herbert’s? Or was that merely imagination, and a little wishful thinking?

“You have not so far touched on anything remotely discreet about her,” he pointed out.

“No,” Herbert agreed. “She seemed to be so obvious in her support of Italian freedom fighters that most people assumed she was as open about everything else. She wasn’t. I deduced, completely without proof, that she knew a great deal about Bulgarian and Croatian plans as well, and even had connections with early socialist movements in Austria itself. That last I am convinced of, but I couldn’t produce an iota of evidence to support it.”

“A clever woman,” Narraway said ruefully. “Bluff and double bluff.”

“Exactly,” Herbert agreed. He leaned forward in his chair, wrinkling his jacket. “Narraway, tell me why you want to know. It’s all water under the bridge now. You can’t and shouldn’t prosecute her for anything. And if you ask me officially, I shall deny it.”

Narraway smiled, meeting the other man’s eyes. Herbert’s thin cheeks colored very slightly.

“She is ill and vulnerable,” Narraway answered, wondering, even as he said it, if he was wise to do so. “I want to make sure she is protected. To do that, I need to know from what directions attacks might come.”

Herbert’s face lost all its good humor. “Attacks?” he snapped.

“The threat may be more imagined than real. That is why I need to know.”

Herbert sat still without answering for several moments, staring past Narraway to the rainswept garden, with its sharply pruned roses and budding leaves fattening on the trees. When at last he returned his gaze to the present, his eyes were clouded.

“I’ve realized how little I actually knew about her,” he said quietly. “She was a creature of intense passion. Everything done with a whole heart. I assumed I knew why, and what her loyalties were, but since what you need now is far deeper than that, I have only observations and beliefs to offer you—for what they are worth.”

“It will be more than the little I know now,” Narraway replied immediately. “First, is she image or substance, in your belief?”

“At first, I thought image,” Herbert said with an honesty that clearly pained him. “Then I came to believe there was substance. I am still of that opinion.”

“What changed your mind?”

“A betrayal,” Herbert said very quietly. “There is no point in asking me the full story of it because I don’t know. At the time I only knew of the execution, and that it was for plotting an assassination …”

Narraway felt a sudden chill. “An assassination?”

Herbert looked at him sharply. “For God’s sake, man, it was thirty years ago, and it didn’t happen anyway. The whole thing was abortive. The leader himself was captured, beaten, and shot. Most of the others escaped.”

“But Serafina Montserrat was involved?” Narraway persisted. “How? Are you skirting around saying that she was the one who betrayed the leader?”

Herbert was horrified. He glared at Narraway as if he had blasphemed. “No! She was all kinds of things: willful, reckless, arrogant at
times—certainly promiscuous, if you want to call it that—but she would have died for the cause. It was only through a mixture of extreme skill and courage, and the loyalty of others, that she survived. And a degree of luck. ‘Fortune favors the bold’ was never truer of anyone than it was of her.”

Again Narraway wondered exactly how well Herbert had known her. Not that it mattered, as long as what he was saying was the truth, as far as he knew it.

“So she could be in danger?” he concluded. It was barely a question anymore.

“I don’t know,” Herbert said honestly, but there was more emotion in his eyes than Narraway could ever recall having seen there before. “It was so long ago, and from the standpoint of anyone in London, far away. Who do you know who gives a damn about Croatian independence now?”

“No one,” Narraway admitted. “But betrayals always matter. The time and place of them are irrelevant.”