by Anne Perry
“What does that have to do with Austria’s survival as an empire?” he asked.
“Very little,” she replied. “But a great deal to do with indiscretions, with secrets that people might still wish to keep, even forty years later.”
The crisp toast and sharp marmalade lost their taste. Pitt could have been eating cardboard.
“You mean Serafina was in those places and would have known all sorts of things?”
“She was very observant. It was part of her skill.”
“So there were likely many Austrians she could’ve blackmailed,” he concluded.
“Certainly. Britishers as well. She was neither spiteful nor irresponsible,” Vespasia said gently, “but she understood the weaknesses of people. And now Blantyre may know a great many things from Serafina’s confused mind, and he may well have no moral boundaries in his crusade to preserve the power of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and all that he believes depends upon it.”
Pitt leaned forward slowly, his hands pressed hard against his face.
“It is time for some very difficult decisions, my dear,” Vespasia said after a moment or two. “When you have made sure that Duke Alois is safe, you are going to have to deal with Evan Blantyre. You have the heart of a policeman, but you must have the brain of the head of Special Branch. Don’t forget that, Thomas. Too many people are relying on you.”
12
Pitt sat in the housekeeper’s room at Dorchester Terrace waiting for Nerissa Freemarsh to come. He had expected her to deliberately keep him waiting, and he was not disappointed. It gave him time to think very carefully about what he intended to say, how much of the truth to tell her, and how much pressure to exert. He had felt a certain compassion toward her when they had first met. At one time or another during his career in the police he had seen many single young women who were dependent upon a relative who made full use of them as unpaid servants. Occasionally, a parent had intentionally kept one daughter home for precisely that purpose.
It was wretched for anyone being such a dependent, an onlooker at life but never a participant. Nerissa had been one of those with very little choice. She did not have the charm or the daring to have set out on her own. She could not create adventure for herself, as Serafina had done; perhaps Serafina had secretly despised her for that. If so, Nerissa would’ve realized it, even if she could not have put a name to it or explained why.
Was Nerissa flattered that another woman’s husband had made advances to her, professed a kind of love? Or had she genuinely cared for him, probably far more than he had for her? Was Pitt insulting her in assuming that Blantyre’s interest was solely in Serafina, and that Nerissa was merely the excuse to visit? He felt a certain anger for a man who could use a woman’s obvious vulnerability in such a way.
The door opened, without a knock, and Nerissa came in, closing it behind her. She stood facing him as he rose to his feet. Today she had a jet-and-crystal brooch at her throat and matching earrings giving light to her face. They were beautiful. Pitt wondered briefly if they had been Serafina’s.
“Good morning, Miss Freemarsh,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry to disturb you again, but several new facts have come to light, and I need to ask you some further questions.”
She seemed calmer today. There was no sign of anxiety in her face as she heard this news.
“Indeed? I am aware of Mrs. Blantyre’s suicide,” she answered coolly, facing him with her hands folded in front of her. “A tragedy, and yet it appears to have been inevitable. I gather that she held my aunt responsible for her father’s death, or at least for his being caught by the Austrians and executed for insurrection. I was aware that she was …” She looked for the right word, cutting but not overtly cruel. “… fragile. I was not aware that it was so very serious. I’m sorry. I know that suicide is a sin, but in the circumstances, perhaps it is better that she should have taken her own life, rather than face arrest and trial, and the shame of all that.” Her face tightened. “And they might have locked her away in an asylum, or even hanged her, I suppose. Yes, I … I have to respect her for her choice. Poor creature.”
Pitt looked at her, a well of pity, disgust, and revulsion building up inside him. Did she know that it was Blantyre who had betrayed Lazar Dragovic, killed Serafina, and then Adriana too? Was she a party to it, or ignorant of everything, guilty of nothing but falling in love with another woman’s husband? He did not know.
“Please sit down, Miss Freemarsh. I’m afraid the situation is not as simple as that.”
She sat obediently, hands folded in her lap, and he returned to the housekeeper’s chair.
“You’re not going to make the case public, are you?” she asked in dismay. “Surely that is not in the government’s interest? It is simply the tragedy of a woman who suffered as a child, and did not recover from it.” Her scowled. “You would drag her husband through a mire of shame and embarrassment he does not deserve, and to what purpose? Please do not say that it is justice. That is complete nonsense, and would be the utmost hypocrisy on your part. My aunt caused the death of Mrs. Blantyre’s father, politically justified or not. Mrs. Blantyre’s mind was unhinged as a child because of it. I believe she was actually there and witnessed the whole appalling thing. She never knew who betrayed him, until Aunt Serafina’s own mind began to wander, and somehow in her ramblings she gave herself away. In a hysteria of revenge, Mrs. Blantyre killed her, and then, realizing what she had done, took her own life. Justice has already been more than served.”
He looked at her and wondered how much of that she truly believed, and how much she had convinced herself of.
“Are you sure?” he asked, as if he was seeking proof himself.
“Quite sure,” she replied. “And if you consider it, you will see that it makes perfect sense.” There was no doubt visible in her, no unease. He could see no sign of real pity either. She could not, or did not, wish to imagine herself in Adriana’s place.
“When did your aunt tell you about Lazar Dragovic’s death?” he asked, affecting only mild interest. “And when did you realize that Dragovic was Adriana’s father?”
Nerissa looked startled. “I beg your pardon?”
She was playing for time, trying to understand what he was looking for, and how to answer him.
“You know about Dragovic, and that Adriana witnessed his death herself, as an eight-year-old child,” he explained. “Someone told you. It is not recorded in any written history, obviously, or Adriana would have known it all the time. Only those present knew the truth.”
Nerissa swallowed. He could see her throat convulse.
“Oh. Yes, I see.” Her hands were knotted in her lap now, her knuckles white.
“So when did your aunt tell you this?” he persisted. “And why? She cannot have wished you to tell anyone, least of all Adriana Blantyre.”
“I … I can’t recall.” She took a deep breath. “I must have pieced it together from her ramblings. She was very incoherent at times. Lady Vespasia would tell you that. Bits and pieces, jumbled, not knowing who was with her.”
“And you realized from all those ‘bits and pieces’ that Adriana Blantyre was actually Lazar Dragovic’s daughter, that Serafina had betrayed him to the Austrians, that she and Adriana had witnessed his execution, and that it had turned Adriana’s mind, although she did not know who was behind the betrayal.” He kept the disbelief from his tone, but barely. “And then Adriana later pieced together the truth, also from Mrs. Montserrat’s ramblings, and lost her mind so completely that she murdered her, using the laudanum whose whereabouts she happened to know. But you did not think to mention this to anyone when Mrs. Montserrat was killed. You are a brilliant, complex, and quite extraordinary woman, Miss Freemarsh.” Now he did not even attempt to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.
What little color was in her face was draining away, leaving her almost gray.
“I don’t … I don’t know what you mean,” she stammered.
“Yes, you do, Miss Fr
eemarsh. You know a great deal about Mrs. Blantyre and her past, which you did not learn from her, because she did not know it herself. Her whole motive for killing Mrs. Montserrat would’ve been that she had just discovered this apparent betrayal. And Mrs. Montserrat was quite unaware that she had revealed it, or she would have taken precautions to protect herself, would’ve at least told Miss Tucker. Mrs. Blantyre also could not have told anyone, because that would’ve immediately made her suspect in Mrs. Montserrat’s death. So again, how did you know all of this?”
“I …” She gulped again, as if starving for air. “I told you. I … learned it from Aunt Serafina’s rambling, the same way Mrs. Blantyre learned. Why is it difficult for you to understand that?”
“Because you would have me believe that she acted on it, and yet you did not mention any of this to me, even after we discovered that Mrs. Montserrat was murdered.”
Nerissa was rigid now, her muscles locked so tight her shoulders strained against the fabric of her dress. She started to speak, and then stopped, staring at him defiantly.
“So. If I am to understand it, you assume that Mrs. Blantyre learned the truth from your aunt’s disjointed ramblings, and was certain enough of what she pieced together to kill Mrs. Montserrat, without making any attempt to check the truth of it with anyone?” he asked patiently.
Nerissa’s eyebrows rose. “Check the truth of it? With whom?” she demanded. “Where would she find anyone who could do that? Are you saying she should have taken a trip to Croatia and started searching for survivors of the rebels and insurgents of thirty years ago? That’s absurd!” She gave a little snarl of laughter. “And even if she succeeded, Aunt Serafina could have been dead by the time she returned,” she added.
“Exactly,” he agreed. “No satisfaction in killing someone who is dying anyway. In fact, there’s really very little purpose in that, don’t you think?”
Her eyes were like pinpoints. “Then why are we having this ridiculous conversation?”
“Croatia was your suggestion, Miss Freemarsh. I was not thinking of her going there, or anywhere else. I was thinking of her simply going home.”
Now she was sarcastic. “I beg your pardon?”
“I was supposing she would have asked her husband,” he explained. “After all, he was involved with the insurgents at that time. He was one of them. Or pretending to be. I think, actually, he was always loyal to Austrian unity and dominance in all the regions of its empire.”
She said nothing.
“If it had been me, I would simply have gone home and asked him. Isn’t that what you would’ve done?” he pressed.
She stared at him in angry silence, as if his question did not merit an answer.
“Unless, of course, Serafina did let something slip.” He went on relentlessly now. “But it was not that she was the betrayer. And why would she be? She was always an insurgent, a fighter for freedom-if not for Croatia, then for that part of northern Italy that was under Austrian rule.”
“What are you saying?” Nerissa’s voice was hoarse.
“That the betrayer was not Serafina. It was Evan Blantyre himself. That is what Adriana discovered.”
She was struggling now, to find a way to deny the truth. “That makes no sense!” she said sharply. “How dare you say such a thing? If Aunt Serafina knew that, or even believed it, why didn’t she say so long ago? Why did she ever let Adriana Dragovic marry him?”
“I wondered that myself,” Pitt admitted. “Then I realized that Adriana was beautiful, but poor, the orphan daughter of a man who had been executed by the Austrians. She was in ill health. She might very likely not bear children. What were her opportunities? She had met Evan Blantyre; he was in love with her and could offer her a very good life. Serafina probably had no proof against him. He had acted according to his own loyalties to Austria, because he believed passionately that the empire acted for the good of Europe-a conviction he still holds. Serafina loved Adriana enough to let her be safe, and happy. Accidentally revealing the truth and giving her a burden she could not live with was the thing she was most afraid of, when she knew that her control was slipping away and that she might forget where she was, or to whom she was speaking.”
Nerissa breathed out slowly. “Then it seems she was right to fear it, since that was exactly what happened.”
“Really?” he said with a disbelief she could not miss. “And when it did, Adriana killed her, then waited several days before going home and killing herself? Why, for God’s sake?”
Nerissa started to shake her head.
Pitt leaned forward a little, his voice urgent now. “It was her husband who betrayed her father, not Serafina. So surely if Adriana was going to kill anyone, it would have been him? Except she didn’t know, Miss Freemarsh. Serafina kept her secrets and died with them, before she could tell anyone else-except perhaps Mr. Blantyre. He spent time with her, didn’t he? He came here telling you it was to see you, as your lover, but he sat with her, so it would look respectable. Only it was really the other way around; he came to see Serafina, not you, to find out how far her mind had disintegrated, and what of the past she might betray to Adriana.”
“No!” she cried out. “No! That’s horrible!” She made a swift movement with her hand, as if to sweep the suggestion away.
“Yes, it is,” he agreed. “But we are speaking of a man who believes in the value of the Austrian Empire above all else. He betrayed his friend Lazar Dragovic, to his torture and death. He married Dragovic’s daughter, perhaps from guilt, perhaps because she was beautiful and vulnerable. Maybe he felt safer, knowing where she was. And it would give him standing in the community of those who still seek to throw off the Austrian yoke. Heaven knows, the whole Balkan Peninsula is teeming with them.”
“That’s …” she began, but could not finish the sentence.
“Logical,” he said. “Yes, it is. And you are just one more of his victims, both emotionally and morally.”
She stiffened but the tears were sliding down her face. “I have done nothing …” She stopped again.
“I am prepared to accept that you did not know beforehand that Blantyre would kill Serafina, and perhaps not immediately after,” he said more gently. “You may have willfully refused to think about Adriana’s death, or to work out for yourself what the truth had to be. At the moment I can see no purpose in charging you as an accessory. But if you do not cooperate now, that will change.”
“Co … cooperate? How?” She started to deny her complicity, even her knowledge, but the words died on her tongue. She had known-or at least guessed-but refused to allow the thoughts to complete themselves in her mind. She knew that Pitt could see as much in her eyes.
“Tell me who was in the house the day Serafina Montserrat was killed, and the day before as well.”
“The … day before?” Her hands twisted around each other in her lap.
“Yes. And please don’t make any mistakes or omissions. If you do, and we discover them afterward, it will point very powerfully to guilt on your part-and probably to whoever you are attempting to protect.”
She was trembling now.
“You have no choice, Miss Freemarsh, if you wish to save yourself. And I will, naturally, be speaking to at least some of the staff again.”
It was several seconds before she spoke.
He waited for her in silence.
“Mr. Blantyre was here the day Aunt Serafina died,” she said at last. “He came often. I don’t remember all the days. Two or three times a week. He spent some time with me … and some with her.”
“And he was definitely here the day she died?” he persisted.
“Yes.”
“Did he see her alone, before Mrs. Blantyre was here?”
“Yes.” Her voice was barely audible.
“What reason did he give?” he pressed her.
“What you said. For the … sake of appearance.”
“Anyone else?” He was not even certain why he asked, except that he sense
d a reluctance in her. “I would prefer to have it from you rather than from the staff. Allow yourself that dignity, Miss Freemarsh. You have little enough left. And by the way, I would not let your staff go, if I were you. Employed here, they have an interest in maintaining some discretion. If they leave, it will make a great many people wonder why, and they will most certainly talk, no matter what threats you make. You are not in a good position to do anything other than maintain silence yourself. If you are not prosecuted for anything, you will be in a comfortable financial situation, and free to conduct yourself as you please.”
Her eyes widened a little.
“Who else was here?” he pressed.
“Lord Tregarron.” It was little more than a whisper.
“Why?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Why was Lord Tregarron here? To see you, or to see Mrs. Montserrat? I assume it was both, or you would not have been so reluctant to say so.”
She cleared her throat. “Yes.”
“Why did he wish to see Mrs. Montserrat? Were they friends?”
She hesitated.
He did not ask again.
“No,” she said at last, speaking in gasps as if it caused her an almost physical pain. “His calling on her was … an excuse. I’m not certain if he was interested in me-he pretended to be-or in Aunt Serafina and her recollections.”
“He spent time talking to her?”
“Not … much. I …” She breathed in and out several times, struggling to control her emotions. “I had the feeling that he did not like her, but that he wished to hide it. But not merely from good manners, or to spare my feelings because she was my aunt.”
“Thank you,” he said sincerely. “Did he express any interest in Mr. or Mrs. Blantyre?”
“Not … more than I would expect …” She trailed off again.
“I understand. Thank you, Miss Freemarsh. I think that is all, at least for the time being. I would like to speak to Miss Tucker now.”