Dorchester Terrace

by Anne Perry

  Pitt met Blantyre’s gaze, then took the papers and looked down at them. They were exactly as Blantyre had said: names, places, dates—all the information Pitt needed to check the routes, and, above all, the names and descriptions of known anarchists involved in assassinations in Europe and the methods they had used. Particular emphasis had been given to those who resembled the man who had inquired about railway signals and points.

  He looked back up at Blantyre.

  “I’m sorry,” Blantyre said again, gravely. “I know you would rather have been wrong, but I’m afraid it seems that you are not. Something is planned that could, at its worst, set us at war with Austria.”

  Pitt’s mind raced. He did not have enough military or diplomatic knowledge to understand why anyone would want to do such a thing. If a British train was wrecked, though, feelings would be high in both countries. Accusations would be made, things said that would be impossible to deny later. Grief and confusion would turn to anger. Each country could so easily blame the other.

  “God knows who or what is behind it,” Blantyre said softly. “It may be no more than yet another petty uprising of one of the Balkan nations wanting more independence, and resorting to their usual violence. It happens quite regularly. But it may also be a far deeper plan, intended to damage Britain. Otherwise, why do it here?”

  “You mean someone prompting them to do it?” Pitt asked quietly. “In order to accomplish … what?”

  “I don’t know,” Blantyre admitted. “The possibilities are considerable. Maybe there is some treaty these people wish broken, and this is the easiest way to go about it.”

  “Thank you. I shall look into all these.” Pitt rose to his feet and offered Blantyre his hand.

  THE FOLLOWING DAY Pitt sent for Stoker, who came into the office looking unusually cheerful. However, his lightness of mood disappeared as soon as he sat down obediently and waited for Pitt to speak.

  “You’ll remember that Evan Blantyre came here yesterday afternoon,” Pitt said quietly. “I’d given him the information we had. At first he thought it was all irrelevant, but he looked into it anyway …”

  Stoker sat up a little more stiffly.

  “And there are plans for Duke Alois Habsburg to visit London from March sixteenth to nineteenth. He is to travel first from Vienna to Paris, then Calais, to take the steamer to Dover, lastly the train to London. He won’t stay at the palace, but at the Savoy Hotel. There are plans to throw a party at Kensington Palace for his friends.” He grimaced as he saw Stoker’s face. “It is exactly the route we were concerned about, and on the day for which inquiries were made.”

  Stoker let out his breath with a sigh, his eyes wide. “So it’s real!”

  “It could be,” Pitt answered. “Or it could be something we have been very subtly allowed to know about in order to draw our attention away from something else. But either way, we can’t afford to ignore it. This is the information Mr. Blantyre gave me.” He passed it over. “Read it. Check each of the details and each of the names.”

  “Yes, sir. What are you planning to do?”

  “Learn all I can about Duke Alois Habsburg, and look into anyone who could have the slightest interest in assassinating him,” Pitt replied.

  Stoker picked up Blantyre’s papers, looked at them, and made very brief notes from the top two. “I’ll come back and get more tomorrow,” he said, rising to his feet.

  “Anything else?” Pitt asked.

  “No, sir.” Stoker looked slightly surprised.

  “You looked unusually cheerful,” Pitt answered, leaving the question in the uplift of his voice.

  Stoker smiled. “Yes, sir.” He hesitated, a faint color in his cheeks. He realized Pitt was waiting for him to elaborate. “Had to follow someone yesterday evening; he was a bit suspect.”

  “And?” Pitt pursued. “What did you catch him doing? Don’t make me pull your teeth, Stoker!” He heard his own words, and how much he sounded like Narraway. Now the heat burned up his own face.

  “Nothing, sir, actually. Turned out to be a blind alley.”

  “And?” Pitt snapped.

  “He went to a concert, sir. The music was rather good. I thought I’d hate it, but it was … sort of beautiful.” He looked embarrassed but happy, as if the memory still lingered with him.

  “What was it?” Now Pitt was curious. Even after all this time, he knew nothing of Stoker beyond his professional skills and his indisputable courage. His personal tastes, and his life apart from Special Branch, were a complete mystery.

  “Beethoven, sir. All piano.”

  Pitt masked his surprise. “Yes, you’re right,” he agreed. “It must have been good.”

  Stoker smiled, then excused himself and went out.

  Pitt bent to study the rest of Blantyre’s notes. He added to them a large sheaf of papers he had borrowed from the Special Branch files, and began to study the history of the last ten years, quickly moving forward to the present, and the character and politics of Duke Alois Habsburg.

  Two hours later, his eyes stung and his head ached. He had read a mass of facts, opinions, and fears. The Austrian Empire was geographically enormous and a single entity, as far as land was concerned. It was nothing like the British Empire, which was composed of countries, islands, and—in the cases of India, Australia, and Canada—parts of other continents, half the earth away from each other. Austria was one large mass loosely held together by a dual monarchy: one in Austria, one in Hungary. It included the best part of a dozen other countries and territories, each with its own history, language, and culture, and frequently, its own religions as well.

  It had always been an empire of unease. Its history was marked with plots, protests, uprisings, suppressions, the occasional assassination attempt, and of course plenty of individual executions.

  Franz Josef had been emperor for nearly fifty years. In some ways he ruled with a light hand, allowing a considerable degree of individuality to remain, but in others ways he was rigid, conservative, and autocratic. The very nature of the ramshackle empire meant that it was only a matter of time before it fell apart. The question was, which of all the many divisive elements was going to be the catalyst?

  Socialism and its reforms had raised their voices in Vienna. Pitt was startled to learn that the dead crown prince, Rudolf, the heir to the throne who had died at Mayerling, had believed in its principles so passionately that he had expressed his intent to declare the Austrian Empire a republic and to rule as its president upon his succession to the throne.

  Pitt sat motionless with the papers in his hands and tried to imagine what old Franz Josef had thought of that. And what now of the new heir, Archduke Franz Ferdinand?

  Blantyre had written a long note about him. Apparently, for all his radical differences with the old emperor, Ferdinand had no sympathies of the socialist nature. He abhorred socialism and its reforms just as heartily as did his uncle.

  Blantyre’s conclusions were the only ones likely, given the evidence. There was a plot to assassinate Duke Alois Habsburg when he was on British soil, presumably in London, since there had been anonymous inquiries about arrangements at the Savoy Hotel and Kensington Palace.

  If it happened, it would be a tragedy, and an appalling embarrassment for Britain. And it would be a disaster for Special Branch.

  THE NEXT MORNING PITT went again to see Lord Tregarron. He must make the Foreign Office minister aware of the threat, at the very least, and possibly see if he could have the trip altered in time, place, or even route of travel, at the last minute. And Duke Alois himself must also be made aware of the danger.

  As before, he was met first by Jack, who was again very smartly dressed in a black coat and striped trousers. He looked just as uncomfortable as he had previously, when he came into the room where Pitt had been asked to wait. He closed the door behind him and took a deep breath.

  “Good morning, Thomas. How are you?”

  It was an obvious attempt at civility in a situation he alread
y foresaw as being awkward.

  Pitt had anticipated resistance, until Jack made Tregarron aware of the seriousness of the threat. He was determined to keep his temper, not only for Charlotte’s sake—she had told him of her encounter with Emily at Hyde Park—but also because the moment he lost control of himself, he would lose control of the situation.

  “Well, thank you,” he replied. “But concerned.” He tried to keep his expression neutral. “I took the various pieces of evidence I have to Evan Blantyre, as he is the best expert I know on the Austro-Hungarian Empire. I asked him to evaluate the likelihood of it being linked to serious trouble in Britain within the next couple of months.” He saw Jack’s face darken.

  “Apparently Duke Alois Habsburg is visiting one of our royal family in a few weeks’ time. He plans to travel from Vienna to Paris, then to Calais, by ferry to Dover, and lastly by train to London—”

  “The obvious route,” Jack interrupted.

  “I am aware of that,” Pitt replied. “The exact timetable might be less obvious, but people are making inquiries about it, even so far as the Savoy Hotel, where it is known he will stay, and Kensington Palace, where a party will be given.”

  A flash of anxiety crossed Jack’s face. “Really? Is it Austrian officials making sure the route is well planned and safe?”

  “No, the people who are checking are known agitators and anarchists,” Pitt replied. “One or two of them are implicated in bombings in Paris.”

  “Arrest them,” Jack told him.

  “For what? Checking railway timetables?”

  “Exactly. Aren’t you being a bit alarmist? Alois is a very minor figure, you know.” Jack gestured with his hands, as if appealing to reason. “Or maybe you don’t? If somebody planned an assassination, Alois wouldn’t be worth their time, or the risk.”

  “Are you certain?” Pitt asked very seriously.

  “Yes,” Jack responded immediately. However, his tone of irritation made Pitt wonder if he really was certain, or if he had actually not given the matter any thought until that moment. Either way, he would defend his superior’s opinion instinctively, and ascertain the details later. That was what a loyal second-in-command did.

  Pitt shook his head. “I think there is quite a lot about the Austrian royal family and its difficulties that we do not know. For example, did you expect the suicide at Mayerling?”

  Jack was angry, caught off-guard by Pitt’s question. “No, of course not. No one did,” he said with considerable annoyance.

  “But with hindsight, we can see that perhaps we should have,” Pitt pointed out. “It was a tragedy waiting to happen.”

  “How do you know that?” Jack demanded, coming farther into the room.

  Pitt smiled. “It’s my job to know a certain number of things. Unfortunately, I didn’t piece together then what I now realize were signs, and I doubt Narraway did either. Or if he did, then no one listened to him.”

  Jack winced and his eyes became harder. “I’ll go and ask his lordship, but honestly, I think you are scaremongering, Thomas, and I believe he will think so too. There is no earthly reason to assassinate Alois Habsburg. He’s harmless, a lightweight junior member of the Austrian royal family, of which there are hordes, just as there are of ours.” Without adding anything more, he turned and went out of the room, leaving Pitt to wait again.

  This time it was no more than five minutes before he came back into the room looking tense, as if he now wanted to say far more than he dared.

  “Lord Tregarron will see you, but he can only spare a few minutes.” He held the door open for Pitt to go through. “He has a meeting with our ambassador to Poland in a very short while.”

  “Thank you,” Pitt accepted, going out and following Jack down a wide, elegant corridor. About thirty feet along, Jack stopped and tapped quietly on a large, arched door.

  Tregarron greeted them stiffly but with the necessary courtesy, then looked only at Pitt as Jack retired to the back of the room, making himself all but invisible.

  “Radley informs me that Evan Blantyre seems to believe there is some assassination attempt planned against Duke Alois Habsburg when he visits London next month.” He spoke quickly, giving Pitt no chance to interrupt him. “I imagine you have to take notice of these things, but in my opinion, someone is trying to distract you from your more urgent business. Duke Alois is, as Radley has told you, a charming, somewhat feckless young man of no importance whatsoever. It would be completely senseless for anyone to waste their time harming him, let alone to set up an elaborate plot to do it in a foreign country.”

  He shook his head with annoyance. “It is out of the question that we should admit to the Austrian government that we cannot look after him or guarantee his safety in the capital city of our own empire. I imagine they would find it impossible to believe we were so incompetent, and so would see it as a rebuff. If you think Special Branch cannot deal with it, I will ask the Home Secretary to take care of the matter. He has the ordinary police at his beck and call.” He smiled bleakly. “Perhaps you should ask Narraway’s advice. I’m sure he would make himself available to you.”

  Pitt was so angry he could think of no words he dared say. His hands were shaking. He could feel the color burn into his skin. He knew Jack was looking down at the floor, too embarrassed to meet his eyes.

  “Good day, Mr. Pitt,” Tregarron said bluntly.

  “Good day, sir,” Pitt replied, and swung on his heel to go out. He passed Jack without even glancing at him, nor was he aware of the rain in his face as he stepped into the street.

  WALKING INTO HIS own house that evening was like walking into a warm embrace, even before Charlotte met him at the kitchen door. She took a long, careful look at his face, and guided him away from the kitchen’s savory cooking smells and into the front parlor. The fire was burning and the gaslamps were lit but turned low. This enveloping comfort was new since his promotion, and the ability to afford so much coal.

  “What is it?” she asked as soon as she had closed the door.

  “What’s wrong with sitting in the kitchen?” he countered, avoiding answering her.

  “Thomas! Minnie Maude is not Gracie, but she’s far from unobservant. You are the master of the house. She watches you to see if all is well, if the day is good or bad, what she might do to please you. This is her home now, and it matters to her very much.”

  Pitt breathed out slowly, letting some of the anger ease from him. He realized with self-conscious displeasure how little he had appreciated the effect his mood had on others. He had been born in the servant class; he should have known better. Without any warning, he was whisked back to his childhood and saw his mother in the kitchen of the big house and remembered the look on her face, the sudden anxiety that would descend when Sir Arthur Desmond had been in one of his rare dark moods, or when word had come down that he was not feeling well.

  “I saw Lord Tregarron today,” he told Charlotte. “First Jack, of course, who suggested, obliquely, that I am fussing over nothing. Then Tregarron implied that if I can’t manage my job, I should ask for Narraway’s help.” He could not keep the bitterness out of his voice.

  She considered it for a moment before replying. “That is extremely rude,” she said at length. “I wonder what is bothering them, that they should descend to such ill manners.”

  “Are you asking in a sideways fashion if I was rude first?” he said with a tight smile. He knew every word he spoke was driving a further wedge between her and Emily, and yet he could not stop himself. He felt horribly vulnerable. “I wasn’t. I told Jack my information came from Blantyre. He’s as good a source as there could be.”

  “Perhaps that is the problem,” she said thoughtfully. “Are you sure you are right, Thomas?”

  “No,” he admitted. “I’m just sure of the price if I am right and we do nothing.”

  VESPASIA RETURNED TO CALL again on Serafina Montserrat a week after her first visit. It was a bright, fresh day, but surprisingly cold. She was pleas
ed to come inside the house, even though it had an air of emptiness about it. Pale flowers were arranged carefully in a vase on the hall table, but without flair, as if whoever had done it was afraid to be criticized for individuality. All the pictures were straight, the surfaces dust free, but it looked in some way as if the mistress of the establishment was not at home. There were no small articles of daily use visible: no gloves or scarves, no outdoor boots on the rack below the coat stand, no silver- or ebony-topped cane.

  She was waiting in the cool, green morning room where the footman had left her when Nerissa came in. She closed the door so softly behind herself that Vespasia was startled to see her there.

  “Good morning, Lady Vespasia. It is so kind of you to call again,” Nerissa began. Her unremarkable face was marred at the moment by tiredness and lack of color. Her plain, dark dress did nothing to help, in spite of a pale fichu at the neck.

  Vespasia felt something vaguely patronizing in the younger woman’s tone, as if visiting an old lady was a thing one did out of charity rather than friendship.

  “It is not kind at all, Miss Freemarsh,” she said coolly. “Mrs. Montserrat and I are more than acquaintances. We have memories in common of times of marvelous hopes and dangers, and too few people with whom to share them, and others to recall of friends we will never see again.”

  Nerissa smiled. “I’m sure you do,” she replied. “But I’m afraid you will find Aunt Serafina somewhat less lucid than even a week ago. She is failing very quickly.” She gave a brief, apologetic smile. “Her memory has become even more disjointed, and she has longer lapses into complete fantasy. She cannot now appreciate the difference between what she has read or been told and what has really happened in her own experience. You will have to be patient with her. I hope you understand?”