Anne Perry - Dorchester Terrace

“From Dover to London. Think it’s some passenger they could be after?” Stoker asked.

“It’s a lot of trouble to go through for one passenger,” Pitt replied. “It sounds more like some kind of anarchist thinking to create a major disaster, just to show us that he can.”

“What for?” Stoker was frowning, puzzled. “Couldn’t even pretend there’s any idealism or political motive in that.”

“That’s what worries me,” Pitt admitted. “It doesn’t make sense. We haven’t understood it yet. But you’re right, there’s something planned, even if this is just a distraction, something to keep us occupied so we miss the real thing. But we can’t ignore it. And if, as you say, someone is prepared to cause a train crash just to kill one person, then it has to be someone of overwhelming importance.”

Stoker moved his thin, strong hands in a very slight gesture of helplessness. “Whatever they are planning, it would have to be soon. They wouldn’t want to risk a change in the timetables wrecking their plan.”

Pitt took a deep breath, and suddenly the room felt colder, even though the fire was still burning and the windows were still closed.

“So who could it be?” he asked. “Who’s coming from Dover to London in the next couple of months? Who would anarchists want to kill?”

“Nobody that matters, far as I can tell.” Stoker shook his head. “Some Russian count is coming to stay for a private visit. Might be visiting some of our royal family at the same time, I suppose. One or two politicians, but no one important: a Frenchman and an American. Can’t see why any of them would be worth killing, especially here. Probably far easier to do it at home, if you wanted to. Oh, one minor Austrian duke, Duke Alois, but he doesn’t hold any office, and he’d be easy enough to kill in Vienna. And whoever did it could escape there. Whole of Europe to go to. We’re an island: A foreigner would stick out like a sore thumb, unless he hid in one of the immigrant communities in London. But why bother? It makes no sense.”

“Then this is to divert us from something else,” Pitt answered. “Something more important.”

Stoker nodded, his jaw tight. “More important than a foreign count or duke being assassinated right here in London, under our noses?”

“Well, if it’s a diversion, that’s the point,” Pitt said grimly. “They can’t hold our attention unless they do something drastic. Keep looking. And tell me what you find.”

Stoker rose to his feet. “Yes, sir. Maybe it’s a dry run to see if we pick it up?”

“I thought of that,” Pitt agreed. “Learn everything you can. But discreetly.”

When Stoker was gone, Pitt sat back in his chair and considered. Many cases in the past had begun as a whisper, a rumor that seemed trivial at first, a fact that didn’t quite fit, an alliance that was outside the usual pattern. Narraway had years of experience in seeing the anomaly that was the first indication of a new plot, or an attack on a new target.

Until his arrival at Special Branch, Pitt had been used to being called in only after a crime had been committed. He then worked backward to unravel it, the history, the motives, and the proof of guilt that would stand up at trial. It was a new discipline for him to be faced with an event before it occurred, and to be responsible for preventing it.

Did those who had appointed him in Narraway’s place really have any understanding of exactly the skills involved in this process? Had they misjudged Pitt’s abilities because they had seen Narraway’s successes, and had known that Pitt had contributed to most of the later ones? Could they be so naive?

He had a gnawing fear in the pit of his stomach that they could be.

His own judgment had sometimes been desperately flawed. He had been taken in completely during the whole O’Neil affair; he had been just as duped as the rest of them, until close to the end. And he had believed Narraway innocent out of personal loyalty, which had nothing to do with reason, logic, or ability.

He thought of Narraway’s Irish past, the tragedies and compromises, the things Narraway had done that Pitt would not have. Narraway was subtler, more experienced, and infinitely more devious than Pitt, a loose cannon, whereas Pitt was predictable. And yet even Narraway had come within an inch of being ruined, despite all his skill and experience.

Was Special Branch itself on trial now? Was that the crux of it? Was this all part of a larger plan to ultimately proclaim it a failure and get rid of Special Branch altogether? Pitt knew that even within the government, not everyone wanted them to succeed.

Pitt made it his first priority to learn whatever he could regarding possible assassination targets. If the intended victim was indeed someone visiting a member of the royal family, then the minister in the Foreign Office responsible for Central and Eastern Europe would be a good person to begin his inquiries with. Accordingly, he was at Lord Tregarron’s office a little after half-past two. If there was anything in the rumor, then foiling the plot was a matter of urgency. An assassination on British soil would be one of the most acute embarrassments imaginable, whoever the victim was.

He was still a trifle self-conscious announcing himself as Commander Pitt of Special Branch, but he managed to hide it. He was received with courtesy by a smart young man, who was presumably a secretary of some sort, and who invited him to wait in a very comfortable room.

The armchairs were of brown leather, and there were newspapers and quarterly magazines on the table before a briskly burning fire. He was even offered whisky, which he declined. The secretary made no move toward the tantalus on the sideboard when he offered, as if he had expected Pitt to refuse.

“Right, sir,” he said smoothly. “We’ll not keep you longer than we have to.”

Ten minutes later it was not the secretary who returned, nor Lord Tregarron himself, but Jack Radley. He came in and closed the door behind him. He was dressed in a black coat and striped trousers. He looked extraordinarily elegant, and slightly uncomfortable.

“Good afternoon, Thomas,” he said with a half-smile. “I assume this must be important for you to have come here in person. May I tell Lord Tregarron what it concerns?”

Pitt was a trifle taken aback. He had not expected to have to explain his errand to anyone else, but he had not called on Tregarron before. Perhaps he should have foreseen it.

“I urgently need some information on visitors any of the royal family may be expecting from overseas within the next month or so,” he replied a little stiffly.

Jack’s eyes widened, curious but unconcerned. “Anyone in particular?”

“I don’t know. That is what I have come to ask. It might be either official or private.”

“Is there some concern for Her Majesty?” Now Jack looked more anxious. “Special Branch doesn’t usually bother Lord Tregarron with this sort of thing.”

“Not so far as I know,” Pitt replied a little coolly. He had heard Jack’s implied criticism that he was wasting their time. “My information suggests that the danger may be to the visitor, but it could be extremely unpleasant either way. I need to speak to Lord Tregarron as soon as possible.”

Jack nodded. “I’ll inform him.” He turned and left, closing the door behind him with a click.

Pitt waited, pacing back and forth across the deep red Turkish carpet, until Jack returned several minutes later, alone. Pitt started toward the door, but instead of opening it for them both to leave, Jack closed it again.

“This seems rather general,” Jack said unhappily. His finger was still on the handle, his body blocking the way out. “What is it that makes you believe there is some threat? You made it sound as if it could come from almost any quarter. Who do you suspect, and of what, precisely? If I could take that information to Lord Tregarron, he might be able to help you.”