Dorchester Terrace (45 page)

“Are you sure it was a farm cart?” Duke Alois questioned.

Stoker took a step toward him. “Maybe just an accident, sir, but maybe not.” He stopped close to Alois, as if to push him back inside the compartment.

The duke glanced at Pitt.

The train jerked to a halt.

One of Duke Alois’s men, tall, thin, and dark-haired, like the duke himself, came down the corridor.

“What the devil is—” he began.

A shot smashed the glass of the window. The man staggered backward and fell against the compartment wall, then slumped to the floor, a slow red stain spreading across his chest.

Stoker lunged toward Alois and forced him down onto the floor. One of the other men kneeled beside the fallen man, but Pitt knew without bothering to look again that he was beyond help. He turned and ran along the corridor toward the end of the carriage. Throwing open the door on the opposite side, he leaped down onto the track, his hand already on his gun. If he had gone onto the same side as the marksman, he would have been a perfect target, even an expected one. This gave him the cover of the train, but it also meant that he had the length of at least one carriage to run before he could get anywhere near the man.

Would the assassin want to take another shot? Or was he certain he had hit Duke Alois, and so would make his escape immediately? Who was it? Tregarron? Or one of the Austrian factions he had believed it was from the beginning? Tregarron would be alone. But if it was a political assassination attempt simply to draw attention, or any of the minor nations rebelling against Habsburg rule by shooting a member of the ruling family, then there could be half a dozen men. Was Stoker staying to guard Duke Alois? He hoped so. He was still a target.

He reached the end connection, and dropped to his hands and knees. He peered beneath and saw nothing but a narrow strip of woods on the other side. Was the marksman waiting just out of sight, ready to pick off anyone who appeared?

There had been no second shot. He probably knew he had hit someone, but he could not be certain it was Duke Alois. He would surely know that someone, either British, Austrian, or both, would come after him. Would the marksman retreat a little to a point from which he would see the train, but not be easily seen himself? Whoever
he was, he had chosen a farm cart to stop the train, and a wooded area from which to attack. Perhaps he was a countryman; he was an excellent shot, possibly a hunter.

Pitt had grown up in the country as well. He had followed Sir Arthur Desmond on pheasant shoots, even deer hunts once or twice. He knew how to stalk, to keep low, to stay downwind, to move silently. He had only a handgun to the other man’s rifle, which perhaps even had a telescopic sight on it, judging from the shot that had killed Duke Alois’s man. Pitt must take very great care.

He went the length of the next carriage as well, then dropped to his hands and knees again and peered under. No one in sight. He scrambled through the gaps quickly and stayed low, rolling down the embankment into the underbrush and then up onto his feet again as soon as he was within the copse of trees.

Which way would the man go after making the shot? Probably to the high ground, where he would have a chance of still seeing the train, and also of seeing anyone who might come after him. A slight hollow would hide him better. It was instinctive.

But how long would he watch the train to make sure he had killed the right man?

Pitt wished he had told Stoker to make it appear that they were flustered, and in some way to indicate that it was Alois who was dead. It was too late now. But perhaps he would think of it anyway.

Pitt moved forward through the thickest part of the trees. The ground was damp. He was leaving footprints. That meant the other man would also. If Pitt could find the tracks, he could follow him. But the assassin would realize that.

Pitt moved as quickly as he could toward where he judged the shot to have come from, trying to move silently, looking down to avoid snapping sticks or getting tangled in the long, winding branches of brambles. Every now and then he glanced up, but all he could see was underbrush and tree trunks with glistening wet bark, a lot of them birch, hazel, and black poplar, and here and there a few alder.

He looked backward once. The train was out of sight, except for the engine, which was stopped a few yards short of the huge hay wagon still splayed across the track, its load now largely moved onto the embankment.
From the way the whole thing listed, it seemed that one of the wheels had broken, or come off. But if it was off, somebody would have found a way to put it back on again. There were half a dozen men working to clear the track. When they did, surely the train would go, whether Pitt had returned or not? Stoker would see to that? Or the duke?

Pitt stopped and stood still. He strained to hear movement anywhere ahead of him. How long would the marksman wait? Even if he had not seen Pitt through his scope, he would likely assume his presence, or the presence of someone else coming after him. Why had he not shot at Pitt, at least when he was on the embankment? Had he been concentrating on what was going on inside the train?

Pitt could hear nothing except the steady drip of water off the branches onto the wet leaves, which by this point in March almost moldered down into the earth.

Was there any water here? Yes, a stream along the lower ground. That would be the place to hide tracks. What would a clever man do? Go to the stream, leaving footprints easy enough to follow, then walk along the bed of the stream, leaving no trace at all, and then step wherever he would leave the fewest marks. Perhaps he would even create a false trail, and go back into the water again upstream or downstream from his entry.

How did the assassin get here? How would he leave? Not by train, perhaps not by road—at least for the nearest few miles. Horseback. It was the obvious way, perhaps the only way in this part of the countryside. Faster and easier than walking.

Then where was his horse? He would have left it tied somewhere; the last thing he needed was to come back and find that it had wandered off. If Pitt could find the horse, then the man would come to him. And where was the main road from London?

He turned and started to make for the high ground himself. Perhaps it would even be a good idea to climb a sturdy tree and look around? The horse would be at some point close to the road. He increased his pace.

At the top of the next rise he selected a strong, well-grown alder. Putting his revolver in his pocket, he began to climb. It was awkward. It must have been at least twenty years since he last climbed a tree.

It took a few moments to reach a satisfactory height, where he could see at least a couple of miles in all directions. As he twisted his body the trunk swayed. Better not to risk going any higher. If it broke, it would not only send him crashing down to possible injury, it would also make a considerable noise and tell the marksman exactly where he was.

Holding the trunk hard with his left arm, he looked around as widely as he could, searching for the road in the distance. It was not hard to see. After a moment or two he could trace it from south to north, swinging away to the west eventually. Surely the marksman would have left his horse near it, for once he reached the road again, he would have escaped pursuit. No one on the train had a horse, or any way of communicating with the outside world to call for help.

Pitt climbed down carefully and set off as rapidly as he could without making noise in the direction of the road. If he was wrong, he would lose his quarry completely, but he had no way of knowing where the marksman was anyhow.

Every now and then he stopped to listen, but he heard nothing more than bird calls and the whir of wings now and then. A dog barked somewhere far in the distance a few times, and then fell silent.

He came out on the road about a mile away from the train, perhaps a little more. He kept to the trees at the side. When he had made certain of his bearings, he went back into the woods again and started moving very carefully, looking for a clearing where someone could leave a horse unseen. He had to be quick. Once the marksman had made certain of his kill, and was back here and mounted, it would be impossible for Pitt to stop him, except by shooting him. Pitt was good with a gun; he had learned from his father. But a handgun is very different from a rifle or a shotgun. He knew his chances of hitting a man astride a fast-moving horse would be pretty poor. There would be no time to even make sure he had the right person. It could be some innocent rider in the wrong place at the wrong time.

And the marksman would know all this too.

Pitt moved as rapidly as he could, sprinting through the few open patches he came to. He was deeper into the woods now. He realized
it, and swerved back toward the road. The marksman would have left the horse only far enough in to be hidden from passersby.

When he found it, he almost stumbled into it: a beautiful creature, moving quietly, cropping the grass in as wide a circle as its long tethering rope allowed it. It heard him at the same moment he saw it. It raised its head and looked at him curiously.

Pitt drew breath to speak, then realized the man could be close, so he stepped silently back into the shadow of the trees. The horse lowered its head again.

Pitt did not have long to wait. Less than four minutes later, he heard the faint crack of a twig. A man dressed in brown and green stepped out of the shadows and walked toward the horse, which lifted its head again and blew through its nostrils, taking a step toward him.

The man had a rifle with a telescopic sight fixed to it. It was Lord Tregarron.

Pitt stepped forward, his revolver raised high, pointing at Tregarron.

“If you move any closer to the horse I will shoot you,” Pitt said very clearly. “Not to kill, but enough to hurt very much indeed.”

Tregarron froze.

Pitt moved farther out of the shadow of the trees. Tregarron had killed a man. He would inevitably learn that he had not hit Duke Alois. Could he be charged with attempted assassination? There would have to be a trial. It would inevitably expose the duke’s secret position.

Was the bargain Duke Alois had proposed still useful? It was a risk, but then it always had been.

Pitt came farther forward, angling closer to the horse so Tregarron could not get behind it and spoil his clean shot. The revolver was pointed at Tregarron’s chest.

Tregarron smiled. Pitt knew its cruel twist was out of fear.

“Failed, didn’t you?” he said with malice edging his voice. “You let Duke Alois be killed. Not likely to remain in your position much longer, especially when the Austrians tell London who he really was. You didn’t know, did you?”

“Alois?” Pitt raised his eyebrows. “Is that who you were aiming
at?” He saw a moment’s doubt in Tregarron’s eyes. “I’d like to let you think you succeeded, but you’ll know soon enough that you didn’t.”

Tregarron blinked, not sure if he was being lied to or not.

“But you did kill someone,” Pitt went on. “Poor chap was one of Alois’s men. Resembled him, certainly.”

Tregarron was standing stiffly, the rifle still in his hands.

“Put it down,” Pitt told him.

“Or what? You’ll shoot me? How would you explain that? I’m out for a ride in the country. Thought I’d shoot a few rabbits. You’re a fool!”

“Good idea, shooting rabbits,” Pitt lifted the barrel of the revolver an inch higher. “Might shoot a few myself.”

“Don’t be so damn stupid!” Tregarron snapped. “You’re supposed to be on a train guarding the head of the Austrian Special Branch, not strolling through the woods shooting at small animals!”

“You’re right,” Pitt agreed. “I wasn’t shooting at small animals, I was shooting at the man who killed one of Alois’s companions. Didn’t see his face. Never realized it was one of our own Foreign Office staff.”

A little of the color drained from Tregarron’s skin. “You can’t try me in court, even if you imagine that you could find proof. You’d create a scandal.” But his voice was hollow. “This will look like an accident: tragic, but no one’s fault.”

“Not even mine, for incompetence?” Pitt asked sarcastically. “Shouldn’t I have foreseen that we would have one of our aristocratic ministers wandering around the woods shooting at rabbits—at head height? Roosting in the trees, were they?”

The blood surged up Tregarron’s face, and his grip tightened on his rifle till his knuckles were white.

“But as it happens,” Pitt went on, “I don’t wish to try you. I have a much better idea. You will pass me your rifle, then I will take your horse and ride to the nearest public transport back to London. You will walk to wherever you wish. I will say that I did not find the man who murdered our unfortunate Austrian visitor, and in return for that favor, at whatever time I wish in the future, you will pass on certain information that I will give you to your connections in the Austrian government.”

Tregarron stared at him as if he could not believe what he had heard. Then, as he studied Pitt’s face, he realized with horror that he really meant it.

“And if I should hear—and I would hear—that you have passed it incorrectly, then you will be exposed as the traitor you are,” Pitt continued. “And your father’s treason would become equally public, as would his regrettable affair with Serafina Montserrat.”

“You filthy bastard!” Tregarron spat.

“I’m a bastard because I would rather use a traitor than shoot him in cold blood and create a scandal I could not control?” Pitt asked, the sarcasm back in his voice. “I suppose that’s a matter of opinion. Mine is that you have betrayed your country rather than allow your father’s treason to be exposed, or your mother to be embarrassed. You had better make your choice quickly. I am not going to wait.”

“And what is to force me to keep my word?” Tregarron asked.

“Fear of exposure,” Pitt replied succinctly. “Pass me the rifle.”

Slowly, as if his limbs hurt to move, Tregarron obeyed.

Pitt took the rifle, still keeping his revolver pointed at Tregarron. Then he moved very carefully to untie the horse and walk it beyond Tregarron’s line of sight before he mounted it. Slinging the rifle over his shoulder, he urged the horse into a trot along the road.