Anne Perry - Dorchester Terrace

Pitt told him the core of what he had gathered from Stoker’s reports, and added the further information he had received since then. As he spoke he watched Blantyre’s expression grow darker and more troubled.

“Yes, I see,” Blantyre said as soon as Pitt had stopped speaking. He sat pensively, with his strong hands held so the fingertips touched. “If there were substance to it, it would be appalling. But how seriously have you considered that it is a wretched string of coincidences making a few unconnected inquiries look sinister, when in fact they are not at all? Or else-and this seems more likely to me-someone deliberately concocting this stuff to take your attention away from something else that is serious, and far more relevant?” Blantyre raised his eyebrows.

Pitt nodded and smiled bleakly. “I considered that as well. That it could all be a bluff.” He thought for a moment. “Or perhaps a double bluff?”

Blantyre let out a sigh. “Of course you are right. I really don’t think there is any likelihood of an assassination here at the moment, but I will look into it, ask a few discreet questions, at least about the possibility.”

“Thank you.” Pitt rose to his feet. “I can’t afford to ignore it.”

Blantyre smiled and stood also. He held out his hand and Pitt took it, returning the firm grip before he turned to go.

Pitt left the office feeling relieved, if only because Blantyre had taken him seriously. He had treated him as he would have treated Narraway.

Pitt smiled to himself as he went down the steps and out into the street and the heavy traffic.

Two days later, Pitt was sitting alone in his office. It was close to the end of February, and the daylight faded all too quickly. Within the next quarter-hour he would have to stand up and turn on the gaslight.

There was a knock on the door, and Stoker put his head around it.

“Mr. Evan Blantyre here to see you, sir,” he said, his tone a mixture of surprise and respect. “Says it’s pretty urgent.”

Pitt was surprised too. He had accepted that Blantyre, for all his courtesy, had still mostly seemed to think that the whole possibility of a threat to any visiting Austrian dignitary was largely a misreading of the information.

“Show him in,” he said immediately, rising to his feet.

A moment later Blantyre came in, closing the door behind him. He shook Pitt’s hand briefly, and started to speak even before both of them were seated.

“I owe you an apology, Pitt,” he said gravely, hitching his trousers a little at the knees to preserve their shape as he crossed his legs. “I admit, I didn’t take this theory of yours very seriously. I thought you were jumping at shadows a bit. Understandable, after some of the recent tragedies.”

Pitt presumed he was referring to the Gower case and Narraway’s dismissal. He said nothing. It was ridiculous to have hoped that some of that wretched betrayal would have remained secret, but it still hurt him that so many people seemed to know of it. He waited for Blantyre to continue.

Blantyre’s face was very solemn. “I looked into the information you gave me,” he went on. “At first it seemed to be very superficial, a series of odd but basically harmless questions, unconnected to each other. But then I examined them a little more deeply, one at a time, beginning with the tracing of the most likely route from Dover to London, which of course is by train.”

Pitt watched Blantyre’s face, and the intensity in it alarmed him. He waited without interrupting.

“It seemed to mean very little.” Blantyre gave a slight shrug. “Hundreds of people must make such a journey. Inquiries would be natural enough, even several days in advance of travel. Then I looked at the signals you mentioned, and the places where such trains would pass a junction on the track. You are perfectly right, of course. Freight trains also travel there regularly, and a series of accidents-signals green when they should be red; points changed and a freight train diverted onto the wrong track-could create a disaster with enormous proportions. You would have far more than just one man dead.”

He drew his breath in slowly, then let it out again.

“But I thought I had better see if the route tied in with any known person of importance. It did, rather more than I supposed. It turns out that you are right. One of the minor Austrian dukes is coming. He is of no importance himself, but he’s still a member of the imperial family, and grandnephew of our queen, or something of the sort. He is making a private visit to a grandson of the queen’s. It is not a government matter at all. But his coming, and the time that the inquiries concern coincide precisely with the plans made for him to travel from Vienna to Paris, then to Calais, and across the Channel. From Dover he goes by train to London. He’ll be staying at the Savoy.”

“Not the palace?” Pitt asked in surprise.

“It seems he wants to do a little entertaining himself,” Blantyre said with a tight little smile. “But you see my point. When I made a few inquiries of certain friends in Europe, they also investigated, and found that questions had been asked about the entire route. It seems he will be bringing only a few servants: a secretary, a valet, that sort of thing.”

He hesitated only a moment. “I’m sorry, Pitt. Your instincts were correct. This is something you have to take seriously.”

Pitt was cold, in spite of the embers burning in the grate only a few feet from him. Until now he had been allowing himself to think that he was probably imagining the danger, as Tregarron and even Blantyre had said, but Blantyre’s news changed everything.

“Here.” Blantyre held out a small bundle of papers. They looked to be hastily scribbled notes, perhaps half a dozen sheets in all. “You will need to follow up on it, of course, so I have given you the names of the people I spoke to, the facts and references I checked. I cannot oblige you to keep them secret, but I would ask that you tell as few people as possible, and only those you are certain you can trust absolutely, not only their honesty but also their discretion. Usually, I would not have committed anything to paper, but I fear this is far too serious to bother with the usual protocol. This is, potentially at least, a monstrous crime, which would kill not only a member of the Austrian royal family, but also God knows how many innocent Britons, if we don’t prevent it.” He held the notes out for Pitt to take.

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?”