Dorchester Terrace (38 page)

“I’m certain that what Blantyre told me is true,” Pitt replied. “I’ve checked on the few Austrian political murders we know about. It’s difficult to pin them down. Too many are anarchists striking at anyone at all, just as they are here, or else the cases are unsolved. Reibnitz fits the description for a murder in Berlin, and one in Paris. As Blantyre said, there’s no proof.”

“But he’s here in Dover?” Narraway pressed.

Pitt nodded. “There is an ordinary-seeming man answering his description, calling himself John Rainer, just returned from Bordeaux after apparently having been away on business for several months. He has no friends or family who can confirm it, only a passport with that name.”

Narraway pursed his lips. “He doesn’t sound like an anarchist; more like a deliberate and very careful assassin.”

“He could still be paid by anarchists,” Pitt reasoned. The rain beating on the windows sounded threatening, as if it were trying to come in.

Narraway looked at him steadily, the shadows from the firelight playing across his face.

“In case it’s all a misdirection, I have put only four men on the Duke Alois case, until he actually gets here. Everyone else is on their usual rounds, watching for any movement, any change that stands out. We’ve got a socialist rally in Kilburn, but the regular police can deal with anything there. An exhibition of rather explicit paintings in one of the galleries in Piccadilly; some protests expected there. Nothing else that I know of.”

“Then you’d better prepare for the worst.” Narraway’s eyes were
bleak, his mouth pulled into a thin line. “You need all the allies you can find. It might be time to exert a little pressure, even call in a few favors. This information from Blantyre needs further checking. It doesn’t smell like casual anarchist violence.”

It was what Pitt had thought, and feared.

“I don’t have any favors to call in,” he said grimly. “Blantyre is crippled by his wife’s death. I still have no idea if any of it had to do with Duke Alois or not, but I can’t see any connection. The duke is Austrian, and has no visible ties with Italy or Croatia. He has no interest we can find in any of the other smaller parts of the Austrian Empire.”

“Prussia? Poland?” Narraway asked.

“Nothing.”

Narraway frowned. “I don’t like coincidences, but I can’t think of any way in which Serafina’s rambling mind, or the secrets she might have known forty years ago, have anything to do with anarchists today, or Duke Alois at any time. Tragically, the connection with Adriana and Lazar Dragovic is all too obvious. Although it surprises me. I would never have thought of Serafina Montserrat as one to betray anyone. But then I knew her only through other people’s eyes.”

“Vespasia’s?” Pitt asked.

“I suppose so. You have no doubt that it was Adriana who killed her?”

“I wish I did, but I can’t see any. She was there that night.” A deep, painful heaviness settled inside him. “We know that Serafina was one of Dragovic’s allies, and that she was there when he was executed. She took Adriana away and looked after her. It was an appalling piece of duplicity, whatever reason she did it for, whoever’s power or freedom was bought that way. No wonder she was afraid when she knew that Adriana, as a grown woman, was coming to see her. That explains the terror that Vespasia saw.”

“And when she realized you knew, Adriana killed herself,” Narraway added. He watched Pitt steadily, his eyes probing to see how harshly Pitt felt the guilt.

Pitt gave a bleak smile in return. “There is one other person to
consider in all this,” he said, not as an evasion, but to move the conversation forward.

Narraway nodded, lips drawn tight. “Be careful, Pitt. Don’t create enemies you can’t afford. If you’re going to use people, be damned careful how you do it. People understand favors and repayment, but no one likes to be used.”

He leaned forward and picked up the poker from the hearth. He pushed it into the coals, and the flames gushed up.

“There are a few people you can set at each other’s throats, if you need to shake things up a little. See what falls out,” he added.

Pitt watched him closely, waiting for the next words, dreading them.

“Tregarron,” Narraway went on, replacing the poker gently. “He is devoted to his mother, but had a certain ill feeling toward his father.”

“Wasn’t his father a diplomat in Vienna?”

“Yes. You might see if he knew anything about Dragovic, or Serafina, for that matter. There are one or two others, people I could …” He looked for the right word. “Persuade to be more forthcoming. But they’re heavy debts, ones I can call in only once.” He looked up at Pitt, whose face was tense, uncertain in the flickering light. “You tell me what you would like me to do.”

Pitt could not answer. He wanted to ask someone’s advice—perhaps Vespasia’s—but he knew that it was his decision. He was head of Special Branch.

“I want to know if the betrayal of Dragovic was the only secret Serafina was afraid of revealing,” he said aloud. “And who Nerissa Freemarsh’s lover is, if he exists at all.”

“Freemarsh’s lover?” Narraway’s head jerked up. “Yes, find that out. Find out if it was Tregarron. Find out what he really went to that house for.”

“I intend to.”

P
ITT WENT TO ONE
of the sources that Narraway had mentioned. He took the train on the Great Eastern Line to just beyond Hackney Wick. From there he walked three-quarters of a mile through sporadic
sunshine to Plover Road. It overlooked Hackney Marsh, which was flat as a table, and crossed by narrow, winding waterways.

There he found the man whose name Narraway had given him, an Italian who had fought with the Croatian nationalists when Dragovic was one of their leaders. He was well into his eighties now, but still sharp-witted, in spite of failing physical health. When Pitt had identified himself and proved to the man’s satisfaction that he knew Victor Narraway, they sat down together in a small room with a window overlooking the marsh.

Beyond the glass, flights of birds raced across the wide sky, chasing sunlight and shadows, and wind combed the grasses in ever-changing patterns.

“Yes, of course I remember Serafina Montserrat,” the old man said with a smile. He had lost most of his hair, but he still had beautiful teeth. “What man could forget her?”

“What about Lazar Dragovic?” Pitt asked.

The old man’s face filled with sadness. “Killed,” he said briefly. “The Austrians shot him.”

“Executed,” Pitt put in.

“Murdered,” the old man corrected him.

“Wasn’t he planning to assassinate someone?”

The old man’s seamed face twisted with contempt. “A butcher of the people, put there to rule. He had no damned business being set on the throne there. Foreigner. Barely even spoke their language. And he was brutal. Killing
him
—now that would have been an execution.”

“Was Dragovic betrayed by one of his own?” Pitt asked.

“Yes.” The old man’s eyes burned with the memory. “Of course he was. Never would have been caught otherwise.”

“Do you know who?”

“What does it matter now?” There was weariness and a sudden overwhelming defeat in his voice. He stared out the window. “They’re all dead.”

“Are they?” Pitt asked. “Are you sure?”

“Must be. It was a long time ago. People like that are passionate, vivid. They live with courage and hope, but they burn out.”

“Serafina died only a few weeks ago,” Pitt told him.

He smiled. “Ah … Serafina. God rest her.”

“She was murdered,” Pitt said, feeling brutal to deliver such news.

“Is that why you came?” That was an accusation. “English policeman, with a murder to solve?”

“There have been three deaths counting Lazar Dragovic. And, more urgently, there is the threat of more death to come,” Pitt corrected him. “Who betrayed Lazar Dragovic?”

“Who else is dead? You said three deaths, but Serafin and Lazar makes two.”

“Adriana Dragovic.”

Tears filled the old man’s eyes and slipped down his withered cheeks. “She was a lovely child,” he whispered.

Pitt thought of Adriana, picturing her vividly in his mind: beautiful, delicate, and yet perhaps far stronger than Blantyre had imagined. Or was she? Had she killed Serafina, after all these years? Or not? Why did he still question it? He had all the evidence.

The old man blinked. “When did it happen? When?”

“A few days ago.”

“How? Was she ill? She was fragile as a child. Lung diseases, I think. But …” He sighed. “I thought she was better. It’s so easy to wish. But you said only a few days ago? Was it her lungs still?”

“No. She killed herself. But I don’t know why, not for certain.”

The old man blinked again. “What can I tell you all this time later that can help? It was all long ago. Dragovic is dead; so are those who fought with him. And now you say Serafina and Adriana are dead too. What could I know that matters anymore?”

“Who betrayed Dragovic,” Pitt answered.

“Do you think if I knew, that person would still be alive? I would’ve killed him long ago!” The old man’s voice shook with anger. His face was crumpled, his eyes wet.

“Did Serafina know?” Pitt persisted.

Seconds ticked by and the silence in the room remained unbroken. More cloud shadows chased one another over the marsh. There would be rain before sunset.

Pitt waited.

“I’m not sure,” the old man said at last. “I didn’t think so, at first. Later I began to wonder.”

“Weren’t she and Dragovic lovers?”

“Yes. That’s why I was sure at first that she didn’t know. She’d have taken her revenge if she had, I thought. She grieved for him, inside. Few people saw it, but it was there. I’m not sure it ever really healed.”

“You are certain of that?”

“Of course I am. I knew Serafina.” Now there was anger in the old man’s voice, a challenge.

Pitt wondered how well he had known her. Had he been her lover too? Might Dragovic’s betrayal have been nothing political at all, but an old-fashioned triangle of love and jealousy?

“Did you know her well?” he asked.

The old man smiled, showing the beautiful teeth again. “Yes, very well. And before you ask, yes, we were lovers, before Dragovic. But you dishonor me if you think I would betray the cause out of personal jealousy. The cause came first, always.”

“For everyone?”

“Yes! For everyone!” Anger flared in his eyes, against Pitt, because he was young and knew nothing about their passion and their loss.

“Then, logically, whoever betrayed Dragovic was secretly on the side of a different cause.” Pitt stated the only conclusion.

The old man nodded slowly. “Yes, that must be so.”

“But if Serafina knew, why wouldn’t she expose that person?”

“She would have. She cannot have known. I was wrong.”

“When did you think she might have learned?”

“Oh … ten, maybe fifteen years later.”

“How would she have found out, so long after?”

“I’ve thought about that too, and I don’t know.”

“Are you certain it was not Serafina herself?” Pitt loathed asking, but it was unavoidable.

“Serafina?” The old man was shocked, and angry again, sitting more upright in his chair. “Never!”

“Then perhaps it was someone she loved.” It was the most obvious conclusion.

“No. Men came and went. There was no one she would have forgiven for betraying Dragovic.” His voice was filled with cutting contempt. Pitt could imagine the young man he must have been, slightly built but wiry, handsome, filled with passion.

“Are you certain?” he probed.

“Yes. The only person she loved that much was Dragovic’s child, Adriana.”

Adriana had been only eight when her father was killed. Could she have let something slip by accident, something that ended up killing her father? Was that terrible realization what Blantyre had been trying to protect her from? If Serafina had told her in one of her ramblings, little wonder that Adriana had gone home and killed herself.

Except the timing made no sense. If she had found out such a thing, surely she would’ve been wild with distress on the day Serafina told her, driven to take her life then, not several days and social engagements later. And why would she kill Serafina for that?

The old man was studying his face. “What is it?” he asked anxiously. “Do you know something?”

“No, I don’t,” Pitt replied. “What I was thinking makes no sense. But Serafina knew. That’s why she was killed, to prevent her from telling anyone else.”

“That doesn’t explain why Adriana killed herself,” the old man said. “Unless she killed Serafina to silence her, and then couldn’t take the guilt of it. But what reason could she have had to do that?”

“To protect her husband.” Pitt had spoken the words before he realized the full impact of what he was saying.

“Her husband?” The old man was aghast. “Evan Blantyre?”

Pitt looked at him, studying the fragile skin, the deep lines, the strength in the bones. In its own way, it was a beautiful face. “Yes—Evan Blantyre.”

The old man crossed himself. “Yes … God forgive us all, that would make sense. That would be why Serafina never told. She didn’t know it until later, when Blantyre returned and courted Adriana. He must have let something slip, and Serafina put it together.”

“And she let Adriana marry him?” Pitt asked incredulously.

“How was she going to stop it? They were in love, passionately and completely. Adriana was beautiful, but she had nothing: no money, no status. She was the orphan daughter of a traitor to the empire, an executed criminal. And Serafina probably had no proof, only her own inner certainty.” He shrugged his thin shoulders. “Not that proof would have made a difference. Blantyre would have been regarded as a hero by the Viennese emperor. No, she would have kept her silence and let Adriana be happy. She was delicate, needing someone to look after her, to help her regain her health. In poverty, she would have been left to die young and alone. Serafina never had a child of her own. Adriana was the only thing left of the man she loved.”

Pitt tried to imagine it: Serafina watching the marriage of Adriana to the man who had betrayed them both. And perhaps that was it: the depth of real love, more powerful than the need for revenge, and deeper, infinitely more selfless than any kind of hate or hunger for justice. He felt a pain in his chest and a tightness in his throat; tears glistened in the old man’s eyes.