Dorchester Terrace

by Anne Perry

  “Ask him in, and don’t be long with the brandy,” Pitt told him.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Blantyre came in a moment later. He looked like a man stumbling blindly through a nightmare.

  Pitt stood to greet him. It was impossible to know what to say. Pitt remembered Charlotte’s grief when he had told her about Adriana; she had been stunned, as if his words had made no sense to her. Then as understanding filled her, followed by horror at the torment she imagined Adriana must’ve been feeling, she had wept in Pitt’s arms for what seemed like a long time. Even when they had finally gone to bed, she had cried in the dark. When he touched her, her face had been wet with tears.

  She and Adriana had been friends for only a few weeks. What Blantyre must be feeling was a devastation imaginable only to those who had experienced it.

  Blantyre eased himself into the chair like an old man with brittle bones. Stoker came in almost on his heels with the brandy, and Blantyre accepted it. He held the glass in both hands as if to warm the bowl and send the aroma up, but his fingers were bloodless and shaking.

  “Stoker said you had some news,” Pitt prompted him after a few moments of silence.

  Blantyre looked up. “Staum is no longer alone in Dover,” he said quietly. “There is another man called Reibnitz there. Elegant, ineffectual-looking fellow, very tidy, humorless. He looks like an accountant, and you half expect his fingers to be stained with ink. Until he speaks; then he sounds like a gentleman, and you take him for some third son from a decent family, the sort in England who would go into the Church, for the lack of something better to do.”

  “Reibnitz,” Pitt repeated.

  Blantyre’s face tightened. “Johann Reibnitz, so ordinary as to be almost invisible. Average height, slender build, light brown hair, gray eyes, pale complexion. Could be any one of a million men in Austria or any of the rest of Europe. Speaks English without an accent.”

  “Nothing to distinguish him?” Pitt asked with growing alarm.

  “Nothing at all. No moles, no scars, no limp or twitch or stutter. As I said, an invisible man.” There was no expression in Blantyre’s eyes; he spoke mechanically.

  “So Staum might be a decoy, as we feared?” Pitt said.

  “I think so. He would be, if I were planning it.”

  “How do you know this?”

  The ghost of a smile crossed Blantyre’s face but vanished so completely Pitt wasn’t sure he had actually seen it. “I still have contacts in Vienna. Reibnitz has killed several times before. They know, but they cannot prove it.”

  It was Pitt’s turn to smile. “And you expect me to believe that a lack of proof prevents them from removing him? Is Vienna so … squeamish?”

  Blantyre sighed. “Of course not. You are quite right. They use him also, as it suits them. He was one of their own originally. They believe that he has gone rogue.” He looked at Pitt with sudden intensity, as if something alive had stirred within him again. “Would you order one of your own shot, simply because you believed he had become unreliable? Would you not want him tried, given a chance to defend himself? How could you be sure the evidence was good? Should he not face his accuser? And would you detail one of your men to do it? Or would you feel that as head of the service, it was your burden to bear?”

  Pitt was startled. It was a question he had avoided asking himself since the O’Neil affair. It was one thing to defend yourself in the heat of the moment; it was very different to order an execution, a judicial murder, in cold blood.

  Blantyre sipped his brandy. “You are a detective, a brilliant one.” There was sincerity in his voice, even admiration. “You uncover truths most men would never find. You make certain. You weigh evidence, you refine your understanding until you have as much of the whole picture as anyone ever will. You have intense emotions. You empathize with pain; injustice outrages you. But you hardly ever lose your self-control.” He made a slight gesture with his strong, graceful hands. “You think before you act. These are the qualities that make you a great leader in the service of your country. Perhaps one day you will even be better than Victor Narraway, because you know people better.”

  Pitt stared at him, embarrassed. He understood that there was a “but” coming and he did not want to hear it.

  Blantyre twisted his mouth in a grimace. “But could you execute one of your men, without trial?”

  “I don’t know,” Pitt admitted. It was difficult to say. The expression on Blantyre’s face gave him no indication as to whether he respected Pitt’s answer, or despised it.

  “I know you don’t.” Blantyre relaxed at last. “Perhaps your counterpart in Vienna hasn’t decided yet either. Or perhaps Reibnitz is a double agent, working for the head of the Austrian Secret Service, and betraying his other masters to them, as the occasion arises.”

  “Well, if he attempts to murder Duke Alois, perhaps we can relieve them of the decision,” Pitt said grimly. “Is there anything more you can tell me about Reibnitz? Where he has been seen? Habits, dress, any way we can recognize him? Anything known of his likes and dislikes? Any associates?”

  “Of course. I have written down everything known.” Blantyre pulled a folded piece of paper from his inside pocket and handed it to Pitt. “The name of my informant is there separately. I would be obliged if you would note it somewhere absolutely safe, and show it to no one else, except possibly Stoker. I know you trust him.”

  Pitt took it. “Thank you,” he said sincerely. “Duke Alois will owe you his life, and we will all owe you for saving us from a national embarrassment, which could have cost us very dearly indeed.”

  Blantyre finished his brandy. “Thank you.” He put the glass down on the desk and stood up. He hesitated a moment as if to say something more, then changed his mind and walked unsteadily to the door.

  As soon as he was gone, Pitt sent for Stoker and told him all that Blantyre had said, including the name of the informant regarding Reibnitz. It took them the rest of that day to follow it up, but every fact that Blantyre had offered was verifiable, and proved to be true.

  Leaving Stoker and the others under his command to check and double check all the arrangements from the moment the ferry landed in Dover, Pitt went to see Narraway.

  It was the middle of the afternoon with rain sweeping in from the west. Pitt was soaked, and put his hat, gloves, and scarf on the leather-padded brass railing in front of the fire.

  Narraway put more coal and wood on the embers and settled in his chair, gazing at Pitt.

  “You are certain about Reibnitz?” he asked gravely.

  “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 pr
otests 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.”

  PITT 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 sil
ence 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!”