Dorchester Terrace (34 page)

She heard Emily breathe in quickly. “Yes … yes, it is just that type of play.”

The bridge had been created. “Good,” she went on aloud. “Because Thomas is so busy at the moment, he is often away from home late into the evening. Thank goodness Minnie Maude is working out so well.”

“Don’t you miss Gracie?” Emily asked.

“Yes, of course. But I’m also happy for her.”

They talked for a few moments about trivial things: the latest word from Gracie in her new home, china she had bought and been proud to show Charlotte. None of the conversation mattered in the slightest, but as they spoke, Charlotte became more and more certain that Emily was afraid of something. Charlotte wanted to ask her outright, but their newfound peace was still far too delicate for that, so she ended the conversation cheerfully, with a silly story about a mutual acquaintance. She had Emily laughing before she replaced the receiver on its hook.

After dinner, when Daniel and Jemima had gone to bed, Charlotte told Pitt about the call.

“It was Emily who telephoned me earlier, while you were in your study,” she began. “She was very agreeable. We didn’t discuss our differences at all.

“She didn’t mention Jack,” she went on. “Not that she does always … but … Don’t look at me with that patient expression! I think she’s worried, even frightened. Thomas, does this thing you are
investigating really have anything to do with Jack? Is he making some kind of mistake?”

“I don’t know,” he said quietly. “And I’m not being oblique. I just really don’t.”

“Would you tell me if you did?” she asked, uncertain what answer she wanted to hear.

He smiled. He knew her so very well. “No. Then you would feel guilty because you wouldn’t be able to warn Emily. Better she blame me.”

“Thomas …?”

“Charlotte, I don’t know,” he repeated. “I really don’t. Perhaps I am the one who is mistaken, and I’m not even sure what about. You can tell Emily we don’t know anything, and do it with a clear conscience.”

She made herself smile, and saw the relief in his eyes. They laughed together, but it was a little shaky. They were too much aware of what could not be said.

S
TOKER WAS PACING BACK
and forth in Pitt’s office, his hands pushed hard into his pockets, his outdoor scarf still wound around his neck. The windowsill behind him was white with a dusting of snow, and flakes were drifting past, almost invisible against a flat, leaden sky.

“The street sweeper is Staum all right,” he said, stopping and facing Pitt. “I’ve seen a photograph of him now.”

“What happened to the previous sweeper?” Pitt asked.

“Took a vacation,” Stoker replied. “Came in and told the office he’d come into a little money from some relative who’d died, and he was going away for a while. Staum was the first person to apply for the job, and no one else showed up within a day or two, so they gave it to him. Don’t know what money changed hands.” He pulled his face into an expression of disgust. “Might not have taken much.” He winced. “On the other hand, I suppose, from what I know of Staum, he wouldn’t shrink from killing the man, if it was necessary.”

Pitt felt the heaviness settle inside him. “Then we can expect an attack in Dover itself. But I don’t dare take men away from the signals
and points, just in case.” He slumped against his chair. “The dust cart was a brilliant idea. He can wheel the thing anywhere, and no one’ll be surprised, or suspicious. Wear dirty clothes, a cap, keep his face down, and he’s practically invisible.”

“Are we going to tell the local police?” Stoker asked.

“Not yet. Once they know, it’ll be public in hours. They won’t be able to hide it. Everyone’s behavior will be different. And a man of Staum’s skill will be watching for that. He’ll change plans.”

Stoker’s face tightened. A small muscle in his jaw flickered.

“I know,” Pitt said quietly. “And I still can’t find out anything more useful about Duke Alois. They say he has a nice, very dry sense of humor, and he’s very fond of music, especially the heavier sort of German stuff, Beethoven’s last works.”

“Doesn’t make any sense.” Stoker was unhappy. “We’ve missed something.”

“Perhaps that’s the point,” Pitt replied thoughtfully. “You can’t guard against what you can’t understand or foresee.”

“I want to arrest Staum, any reason at all, but I know we need to have him where we can see him in case he leads us to other conspirators,” Stoker said miserably, his voice edged with anger.

“Yes, we do,” Pitt agreed sharply, sitting up straight suddenly. “Watch him. He’s probably too clever to give anything away, but if he doesn’t know we’re onto him he may slip up, contact someone.”

“And then on the other hand, he may know very well that we’re watching him, and keep our attention from what’s really happening.” Stoker hunched his shoulders. “I want to get this man.”

Pitt smiled bleakly. “So do I, but it’s second place to getting Alois in and out of Britain safely.”

“Yes, sir.”

T
HIS TIME PITT WAS
granted fifteen minutes with the prime minister without any difficulty. He did not waste any of it.

“Anything further?” Salisbury asked, standing with his back to the fire, his long face grave, his fluff of white hair standing on end.

“Yes, my lord,” Pitt replied. “We know who is in place in Dover,
and along the railway line, but we don’t know where they intend to strike. Some of the men are definitely decoys.”

Salisbury sighed. “What a bloody mess. Anything good in it at all? Such as who is behind it, and why? Why Duke Alois, and why here in England?”

“The more I learn about Duke Alois the more I believe he is of no tactical value himself.”

Salisbury’s eyebrows rose but he smiled. “Really …” His expression gave nothing away, but the amusement in his eyes conveyed his opinion of minor royal dukes. Europe was teeming with distant relatives to Queen Victoria, and at one time or another he had had dealings with most of them. “So he would be an incidental victim,” he said.

“Yes, sir. Most anarchists’ victims are. One person’s blood is as good as another’s to protest with.”

“As long as it isn’t your own,” Salisbury added a little acidly.

“For some,” Pitt agreed. “For others that’s all part of it. Dying for the cause.”

“God Almighty! How do we fight madmen?”

“Carefully.” Pitt shrugged. “With knowledge, observation, and keeping in mind that they are mad, so don’t look for sanity in their intentions.”

“What do they actually want? Do you know?”

“I’m not sure that even they know what they want,” Pitt answered. “Except change. They all want change.”

“So they can be the ones with power, money, and privilege.” It was a conclusion rather than a question.

“Probably, yes. But they are not thinking things through. If they were, they’d know that sporadic assassinations have never achieved social change. If they kill Duke Alois they’ll make him out to be a martyr.”

“And they’ll make us out to be incompetent fools!” Salisbury said bitterly. “Which is probably what they are really after. Duke Alois is just the means to an end, poor devil.”

“Yes, sir. As they see it, to the greater good.”

“Stop them, Pitt. If they win, not just Britain but all civilized mankind is the loser. We can’t be held ransom to fear like this.”

Pitt decided to try one last time, though he was fairly certain what Salisbury would say.

“Are you sure there is no point in letting him know how serious the threat is, and asking him to come at another time?”

“Yes, I’m quite sure,” Salisbury replied.

Pitt drew in his breath to argue, but decided against it.

Salisbury looked at him wearily. “I’m sure because I have already tried. He insists he will be perfectly safe in your hands.”

“Yes, sir,” Pitt replied, his mind using many different and far less civil words.

Salisbury smiled. “Quite,” he said grimly.

C
HARLOTTE WAS IN THE
hall about to pick up the ringing telephone when she saw Minnie Maude come out of the cellar door and catch sight of her. Minnie Maude colored unhappily, brushed something off her arms, gave a brief smile, and turned away.

Charlotte ignored the telephone. Something was troubling the girl and it was time Charlotte learned what it was. She followed Minnie Maude into the kitchen. She was standing at the sink with a string of onions on the counter and a knife in her hand. She had cut into the first onion and the pungent scent already filled the air.

The table was completely cleared away, the dishes washed and dried and back on the dresser. An uneaten slice of toast had disappeared. Was that why Minnie Maude had been in the cellar, to eat it herself? Had she grown up in such poverty that food was still so treasured that she felt compelled to take scraps in secret?

“Minnie Maude,” Charlotte spoke gently.

Minnie Maude turned around. Her eyes were red, perhaps from the onion, but she looked afraid.

Charlotte felt a tug of pity, and of guilt. The girl was only four or five years older than Jemima, and would possibly spend the rest of her life as a servant in someone else’s home, with only one room she could
call her own. And in their house she was the only resident servant, so there was not even anyone else to befriend. She knew she was replacing Gracie, who had been so beloved. The loneliness, the constant effort to be good enough, must be a heavy burden at times, and yet she had nowhere to go to escape it, except the cellar.

“Minnie Maude,” Charlotte said again, this time smiling, “I think it would be a good idea if you toasted some teacakes. I know we have some. Let’s have them hot-buttered, with a cup of tea. Perhaps in half an hour? You work hard. A break would be nice for both of us.”

Minnie Maude’s shoulders relaxed. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll toast ’em then.” Clearly she had been expecting Charlotte to say something else.

“Are you getting enough to eat, Minnie Maude?” Charlotte asked. “You may have as much as you wish, you know. If necessary, please cook more and help yourself. We have no need to restrain ourselves. Just don’t waste it.” She smiled. “We have had our difficult times in the past, and it is good not to forget them, but now there is more than enough for you to eat as you like.”

“I’m … I’m fine, ma’am.” Minnie Maude’s face colored pink with embarrassment, but she said nothing more. Very slowly, uncertain whether she had permission, she turned back to continue cutting the onions.

Charlotte knew she had not arrived at the truth. Perhaps the trips to the cellar had nothing to do with food; maybe Minnie Maude just wanted to be alone? That made no sense. The cellar was cold. Minnie Maude had a perfectly good bedroom upstairs, which was properly furnished and warm. The problem was something else. Temporarily defeated, she went back to the hall.

She was almost beside the telephone when it rang. She picked it off its hook and answered, and Adriana Blantyre was put through. Her voice was a little altered by the machine, but still perfectly recognizable with its huskiness, and very slight accent.

“How are you?” Adriana asked. “I am sorry to call you so hastily. This is all most improper, but there is an exhibition in a private gallery that I am very eager to see, and I thought you might enjoy it too. Have you ever heard of Heinrich Schliemann?”

“Of course!” Charlotte said quickly. “He discovered the ruins of Troy, through his love of Homer. He died a few years ago. Is something of his work on display?” It was not difficult to sound enthusiastic. It was the perfect opening for her to see Adriana again, and perhaps learn something of the evidence Pitt needed. She hoped fervently that she could help prove Adriana innocent.

“Yes,” Adriana replied instantly, excitement lifting her voice. “I only just heard of it. I’ve canceled my other engagements and I’m going. But it would be so much more fun if you were to come with me. Please don’t feel obliged … but if you can …”

“I can. We shall make a journey through time, and for a few hours today will disappear. Where shall we meet?”

“I shall come for you in my carriage in an hour. Is that too early?”

“No, not at all. I assure you, I have nothing more pressing to do, and anything else that arises can wait.”

“Then I shall see you in an hour. Good-bye.”

Charlotte replaced the receiver. She would tell Minnie Maude where she was going, and then change into the smartest morning dress she had and prepare to be charming, friendly, and intelligent, and—if she found out a difficult truth—betray her friend to Pitt.

She sat in front of her bedroom mirror but found it difficult to face her reflection. She despised what she was about to do, and yet she could see no alternative, except refusing to help Pitt, which wasn’t an alternative at all. Someone had murdered Serafina, lying frightened and alone in her bed, terrified of the darkness that was closing in on her mind, robbing her of everything she had been, betraying her in a way against which there was no defense.

All she could hope was that her discoveries would prove Adriana innocent, not guilty.

A
S SOON AS THEY
entered the doors of the exhibition, the past seemed to close in around them and whisk them away. The whole display was as much about Schliemann himself as the objects he had discovered. He had died in Naples, the day after Christmas in 1890, but his energy and the power of his dreams filled the gallery. A large
portrait of him hung at the entrance: a balding man with spectacles, wearing a neat formal suit with a high-buttoned waistcoat. He looked to be in his late fifties or early sixties.