Dorchester Terrace

by Anne Perry

  “I have to ask you about visitors, Miss Freemarsh,” he began. “Since the laudanum was given directly to your aunt and had an almost immediate effect, it must have been given by someone who came to the house that evening.” He looked down and saw that Nerissa’s hands were gripping each other so tightly that the knuckles were white. “Who could that have been, Miss Freemarsh?”

  Nerissa opened her mouth, gulped air, and said nothing. He could see that her mind was frantically racing as she searched for the right words; if she denied that anyone came, then the only conclusion to be drawn was that it was someone already in the house: either herself, or one of the servants. He knew from the servants themselves that after dinner had been eaten and cleared away, they had taken their own meal and retired for the day. Unless at least two of them were in collusion with each other, their time was accounted for.

  Nerissa had been alone. He imagined the long, solitary evenings, one after the other, every week, every month, stretching ahead into every year, waiting for a lover who could come only rarely. If he had called, then Nerissa herself would have let him in, possibly at a prearranged time. It might well have been their intent that the servants would be gone, so as not to know of it.

  “Mrs. Blantyre came,” Nerissa said softly. “Aunt Serafina was fond of her, and she enjoyed her visits. But I can’t …” She left the rest unsaid.

  “And she was alone with Mrs. Montserrat?”

  “Yes. I had some domestic business to deal with … a slight problem with the menu for the following day. I’m … so sorry.”

  Narraway could scarcely believe it. If Tucker was not mistaken, and either Blantyre or Tregarron was Nerissa’s lover, was it even conceivable that Adriana Blantyre knew this?

  How could any man prefer Nerissa Freemarsh—plain, humorless, desperate Nerissa—over the beautiful, elegant Adriana? Perhaps Blantyre was weary of Adriana’s delicate health, which might deny him the marital privileges he wished, and felt that that was a good enough reason to stray. But why on earth with a plain, respectable woman like Nerissa? Perhaps because she loved him, and love was what he craved? And perhaps because no one would imagine it? What could be safer?

  How had Adriana learned of it? Had it been through some careless word from Serafina? Could Adriana really be jealous to the degree that she would murder an old woman in her bed? Why? So Blantyre would have no more excuse to come to Dorchester Terrace? That was absurd.

  But Adriana was Croatian; and Serafina had lived and worked in Vienna, northern Italy, and the Balkans, including Croatia. He must look more closely into their pasts before he leaped to any conclusions.

  “Thank you, Miss Freemarsh,” he said quietly. “I am grateful for your candor. I don’t suppose you could offer any reason Mrs. Blantyre should wish your aunt any harm?”

  Nerissa lowered her eyes. “I know very little, except what Aunt Serafina said, and she was rambling a lot of the time. I am really not sure what was real and what was just her confused imagination. She was very … muddled.”

  “What did she say, Miss Freemarsh? If you can remember any of it, it may help explain what has happened, especially if she also mentioned it in someone else’s hearing.”

  Nerissa’s eyes opened wide. “Mrs. Blantyre’s, you mean? Do you think so?”

  “Well, we don’t know who else she may have spoken to.” He was trying to suggest a further person, someone Nerissa could blame more easily. He did not know what he was looking for, but he could not assume it was Adriana, whatever the reason, until he had exhausted all other possibilities, and learned who Serafina herself had feared.

  Nerissa sat silent for so long that Narraway was beginning to think she was not going to speak. When she finally did, it was steadily and reluctantly.

  “She mentioned many names, especially from thirty or forty years ago. Most of them were Austrian, I think, or Croatian. Some Italian. I’m afraid I don’t recall them all. It is difficult when they are not in your own language. She said Tregarron, but it made no sense, because Lord Tregarron could not have been more than a child at the time she seemed to believe it was. It was all very muddled.”

  “I understand. Who else?” he prompted.

  Again she considered for several moments, digging into memories that were clearly painful.

  Narraway felt guilty, but he had to see if there were any connections, however oblique, to the proposed assassination of Alois. And even if Adriana had left Croatia as a young woman, family ties might still exist that could be relevant.

  “Miss Freemarsh?”

  She looked up at him. “She … she spoke of Mrs. Blantyre’s family, the name Dragovic. I don’t know what she said; it was difficult to catch it all. But Mrs. Blantyre was … distressed to hear it. Perhaps it awoke old tragedies for her. I can’t say. Naturally I did not speak of it to her. I asked Aunt Serafina later, but she appeared to have forgotten it. I’m sorry, but that’s all I can tell you about it.”

  “I see. Thank you very much.” He rose to his feet and allowed her to lead the way back to the hall. He left her standing on the exquisite floor of the house that was now hers, looking dwarfed, crushed by the beauty of it.

  “SEE WHAT YOU THINK of that, Radley,” Lord Tregarron said, handing Jack a sheaf of papers. They were in Tregarron’s office and had been working on a delicate matter concerning a British business initiative in Germany.

  “Yes, sir.” Jack accepted the papers with a sense of acute satisfaction. He knew that Tregarron meant him to read them immediately. Such documents were never allowed to be taken from the building. He left the room and went to his own, smaller office. Sitting in the armchair in front of the fire, he began to read.

  It was interesting. He was continually learning more about Europe in general, and the delicate balance between one nation and another, most particularly the old, ramshackle, and crumbling power of the Austrian Empire and the new, rising Germany with its extraordinary energy. Germany’s culture was as old as the land itself; it had produced some of the world’s great thinkers, and brilliant composers of music to enrich the human spirit. But as a political entity, it was in its infancy. All the strengths and weaknesses of youth were very evident in its behavior.

  The same could be said in many ways of Italy, on Austria’s southern border. The country had been unified only in language and heritage, but politically it remained the patchwork of warring city-states that it had been since the fall of the Roman Empire.

  The more he read of all of it, the more fascinated he became. He was more than halfway through the pages when he came to a passage he did not fully understand. He read the passage again, made a note, and then continued until he came to the end. He went back and reread the page that had troubled him. Then he picked up the whole and took it back to Tregarron’s office. He knocked on the door.

  It was answered immediately and he went in.

  “Ah, what do you think?” Tregarron asked. He was smiling, leaning back a little in his chair, his powerful face relaxed, eyes expectant. Then he saw Jack’s expression and he frowned. “A problem?” he asked without any anxiety, but rather with a look of very slight amusement.

  “Yes, sir.” Jack felt foolish, but the matter troubled him too much not to raise it. “On page fourteen the phrasing of the second paragraph suggests that the Austrians are not aware of the Germans’ agreement with Hauser, and we know that they are. The Austrians would profit from this quite unfairly.”

  Tregarron frowned and held out his hand.

  Jack passed him the papers.

  Tregarron read the entire page, then read it again. Finally he looked up at Jack, his heavy brows drawn together. “You are quite right. We need to rephrase that. In fact, I think it would be better if we omitted that paragraph altogether.”

  “That would still mislead Berlin, sir,” Jack said unhappily. “I don’t know how Vienna knows about the agreement, but it’s quite clear from the dispatch we had yesterday that they do. Shouldn’t that be stated here?”

 
“Whatever Austrian intelligence has learned, it is not our concern to inform Berlin of it,” Tregarron replied. His eyes hardened. “But you are perfectly correct to bring that to my attention. The reference must be taken out. Good work, Radley.” He smiled, showing strong, white teeth. “You have saved us from what could have been a very considerable embarrassment. Thank you.”

  LATER THAT EVENING, as Jack escorted Emily to a dinner party she very much wished to attend, he found his thoughts returning to Tregarron’s explanation of the discrepancy in the document. It seemed an uncharacteristic error to have made; Tregarron was not a careless man. Far from it: He was meticulous in detail. How had he not seen the anomaly himself?

  Emily was across the table from him dressed in pink, an unusual color for her. She had always said it was too obvious, better suited to someone darker. But this gown, with its huge sleeves emphasizing her slender shoulders and neck, and the white lace inserts in the low bodice, was extraordinarily flattering. She was enjoying herself this evening, but he could tell by the carefully controlled pitch of her voice, and the slight stiffness in the way she held her head, that she was still troubled by her quarrel with Charlotte, though she was determined not to give in until she received a more specific form of apology. His attempts to persuade her to answer Charlotte’s letter had only made matters worse. She had called him an appeaser in a tone of total contempt. Her anger was with Charlotte, not him, but he knew very well not to interfere again, at least not yet.

  The chatter swirled around him. He joined in politely. His charm had always been effortless, and he could give only half his attention and still seem as though he was thoroughly engaged.

  Tregarron was not at this particular function, but someone mentioned his name. Jack saw the respect on Emily’s face, and she spoke warmly of Lady Tregarron. Jack’s mind returned again to the papers. How had Vienna known about Germany’s agreement? If it was through their own intelligence service, as Tregarron had said, that meant they must have an agent operating within the British Foreign Office. And if that was true, it should have caused far greater alarm than it had in Tregarron.

  Surely that must mean there was some other explanation, then? He did not know what it was, though, so he put it to the back of his mind and turned to the woman next to him, devoting his attention to her.

  They did not call their carriage to take them home until well after midnight.

  Emily stifled a yawn with elegance. “I enjoyed that so much,” she said with a tired smile, leaning her head against his shoulder.

  He put an arm around her. “I’m glad.”

  She turned toward him, although in the dimness of the carriage, with the shadow and light from streetlamps moving across their faces through the windows, she could not see him clearly.

  “What were you worrying about? And don’t tell me you weren’t worrying; I know when you are giving someone your whole mind and when you are not.”

  He had never lied to her, but discretion was an entirely different thing.

  “Political papers I saw today,” he said, perfectly truthfully.

  “You can manage the problem, whatever it is,” she responded without hesitation. “Tomorrow it will be clear enough. I’ve long thought nothing much is ever well solved when you are tired.”

  “You are quite right,” he agreed, and leaned his head back. But he did not forget it. He had already made up his mind that tomorrow he would call upon Vespasia.

  “GOOD MORNING, JACK,” she said without concealing her surprise when he was standing in her morning room just after breakfast. “There must be some matter of concern, to bring you so early.” She studied him more closely. He had always been an unusually handsome man; now he looked restless, hiding unease with less than his usual skill.

  “May I speak to you in complete confidence, Lady Vespasia?” he asked.

  “Oh, dear.” She sat down and gestured for him to do the same. “This sounds very grave. Of course you may. What is it that concerns you?”

  In as few words as possible, he told her about the agreement with Berlin, omitting the substance of it except for the one matter that concerned Vienna. Then he explained the sentence that troubled him, and watched for her reply, never taking his eyes from hers.

  “I am afraid,” she said at length, “that if you are correct, then someone in the Foreign Office is giving sensitive information to Vienna that should be kept from it. I suppose you have read this particular document very carefully and you cannot be mistaken?”

  “I asked Lord Tregarron if there had been an error,” he replied. “He said that he would attend to it, and thanked me for my diligence.”

  “But that does not satisfy you, or you would not be here telling me,” she pointed out.

  He looked profoundly unhappy. “No,” he said almost under his breath.

  “Have you mentioned this to Emily?”

  He looked startled. “No, of course not!”

  “Or Thomas?”

  “No … I …”

  “Then please do not. If you speak to Thomas, he is now in a position where he will have no choice but to act. I shall deal with it.”

  “How? I don’t expect you to do anything except advise me. I suppose I was hoping you would say that I am starting at shadows, and to forget the matter.”

  She smiled. “My dear Jack, you know perfectly well that you are not starting at shadows. At the very least, there has been a mistake of the utmost carelessness.”

  “And at worst?” he asked softly.

  She sighed. “At worst, there is treason. Keep your own counsel. Behave as if you consider the matter closed.”

  “And what will you do?”

  “I shall speak to Victor Narraway.”

  “Thank you.”

  NARRAWAY LISTENED TO VESPASIA with increasing concern. When she had finished she had no doubt that he regarded the matter with even more gravity than she had.

  “I see,” he said when she fell silent. “Please don’t speak of it to anyone at this point, especially Pitt. We must not take his attention from Duke Alois at the moment. We have only a little more than a week before he lands in Dover.”

  “Is he really only a trivial person, Victor?” she asked.

  “If he’s more, I haven’t been able to find out. At the moment it seems likely he is a victim of convenience. It is the crime that matters.”

  “I see. And Serafina’s death?”

  “Another matter that is not yet concluded.”

  “Then I had better leave you to pursue whichever issue you consider most urgent. I apologize for bringing you further concerns.” There was the faintest gleam of humor in her eyes. He understood it perfectly, just as he knew she understood him.

  “Not at all,” he murmured, rising to bid her farewell. In other circumstances he would have asked her to stay, but he was already turning over in his mind how he would pursue this new investigation: which favor he would call in, which debts he might collect, upon whom to apply a certain type of pressure.

  At the door she hesitated.

  “Yes,” he said to her unasked question. “I shall tell you.”

  “Thank you, Victor. Good evening.”

  NARRAWAY LAY AWAKE a great deal of the night, turning over and over in his mind what Vespasia had told him, and how it might fit in with Serafina’s death. He reviewed all the people he had known, in any context, who might be of help. Who could he even ask regarding such a subject as the betraying of confidential information regarding German interests? Was it a deliberate sabotaging of an Anglo-German agreement?

  Why? Was it an intended deviousness, something the Foreign Office, specifically Tregarron, had not thought that Jack Radley should know? He was new to his position, perhaps a trifle idealistic, so perhaps not yet to be trusted with less-than-honest dealings?

  If that was Tregarron’s judgment, then it was correct. Jack had been troubled, and he had not been able to turn a blind eye.

  Narraway decided that the first thing he should do was
find out more about Tregarron. The Foreign Office was certainly not above deceit, as long as it was certain it could claim innocence afterward, if it became known.

  Where should he begin so that his inquiries would never be learned of by Tregarron himself? The answer came to him with extraordinary clarity. Tregarron had gone to Dorchester Terrace, probably to see Serafina, perhaps to see Nerissa Freemarsh. Had Serafina still been alive, and fully possessed of her wits and her memory, she would have been the ideal person to ask. But surely a great deal of anything she knew, the excellent and loyal Tucker might also know.

  He debated whether to take her some gift as an appreciation of her time, and decided that doing so would be clumsy. Perhaps afterward he would. To begin with, simple respect would be the subtlest and most important compliment.

  When he arrived at Dorchester Terrace at midmorning the following day, fortune played into his hands. Nerissa was out; Special Branch, thanks to Pitt, was paying for the funeral, but it had left it to Nerissa to deal with the actual arrangements, which had been somewhat delayed because of the necessity for an autopsy.

  “I came to see Miss Tucker,” Narraway informed the footman. “It is extremely urgent, or I would not disturb you at such a time.”

  The footman let him in and fifteen minutes later Narraway was again sitting before the fire in Mrs. Whiteside’s room. Tucker was perched on the chair opposite him, a tray of tea and thinly sliced bread and butter between them.

  “I am sorry to intrude on you again, Miss Tucker, but the matter cannot wait,” he said gravely.

  She had poured the tea but it was too hot to drink yet. It sat gently wafting a fragrant steam into the air.

  “How can I help you, Lord Narraway? I have told you all I know.”