Anne Perry - Dorchester Terrace

Was it even conceivable that Duke Alois was connected with someone else from that time? That seemed fanciful in the extreme. Pitt was skeptical of coincidences. Ordinary police work had taught him that, even before Special Branch. But on the other hand, it was equally foolish to imagine that everything was connected, or to see cause and effect where there was none.

He sat back and let the rhythm and movement of the train lull him into near sleep. It was still at least half an hour before he would reach the station in London, and then as long again before he was home.

Pitt found Charlotte waiting for him, with the kettle on the burner and the fire still burning in the parlor. He stood by the scrubbed table as she made tea and cut him a sandwich of cold beef and pickles. He glanced at the basket beside the stove and saw the little dog, Uffie, half asleep, her nose twitching as she smelled the meat.

He smiled, took a tiny piece from where Charlotte had sliced it, and offered it to the dog. She snapped it up immediately.

“Thomas, I’ve already fed her!” Charlotte smiled.

He picked up the tray and carried it through to the parlor. He had not realized how hungry he was, or how cold. He set it down and watched while she poured tea for both of them. The room was warm and silent except for the slight crackling of the flames in the hearth, and, now and then, the sound of wind and rain on the windowpanes beyond the closed curtains. He glanced at the familiar pictures on the walls: the Dutch water scene he was so used to, with its soft colors, blues and grays, calm as a still morning. On the other wall was a drawing of cows grazing. There was something very beautiful about cows, a kind of certainty that always pleased him. Perhaps that was based on some memory from childhood.

Charlotte was watching him, waiting.

How much could he tell her? He could fail to see something important, something she might catch. Especially if it was based on something Adriana had told her that she had not previously understood the relevance of.

On the other hand, there were the promises of secrecy he had made regarding his office in Special Branch. If he could not be trusted to keep them, he was no use to anyone, and no protection to Charlotte herself. He must choose his words carefully.

“You don’t believe that Adriana killed Serafina, do you.” He made it more of a statement than a question.

“No,” she said instantly. “I know you think Serafina was responsible for Lazar Dragovic’s death, but even if she was-and I don’t know that you’re right-Adriana wouldn’t have murdered her. It would be stupid, apart from anything else. Serafina was dying anyway, and in some distress. If you hate someone deeply, you want them to suffer, not to be let off lightly.”

“Revenge is usually stupid,” he said quietly. “For an instant it feels wonderful, then the fury dies away and you’re left empty, and wondering why it didn’t make you feel any better, what it was you were expecting that didn’t happen.”

She stared at him. “When did you ever take revenge on anyone?”

“I’ve wanted to,” he replied, with a sense of shame. “Some people I’ve arrested, some people for whom I didn’t have enough proof that they were guilty, or simply couldn’t catch them at the crime. Even recently, people I just had to arrest calmly, but whom I would like to have beaten with my fists. The only thing stopping me was the fact that I wasn’t alone with them; I don’t know whether I would have, if I’d been certain of getting away with it.”

She looked at him with amazement, and a degree of curiosity. “You’ve never told me that before.”

“I’m not proud of it.”

“Do you tell me only the things you’re proud of?” she challenged.

“No, of course not.” He smiled ruefully, softening the moment. “I would probably have told you if I’d actually done it.”

“Because I’d find out?”

“No, because it was a weakness I hadn’t overcome.”

She gave a little laugh, but there was no edge to it, no criticism. “What about Adriana? If she didn’t kill Serafina, who did? And why did she then kill herself?” Her voice dropped. “Or didn’t she?”

Pitt avoided her question. “You spent quite a lot of time with her. Do you think you learned to know her at all? I want your true opinion of her. A great deal may depend on it, even people’s lives.”

“Whose?” she came back instantly. “Blantyre’s?”

“Among others. But I wasn’t principally referring to him. It has to do with other people, most of whom you don’t even know.” He made a slight, rueful gesture. “And my job as well.”

The last vestige of amusement vanished from Charlotte’s face. Her eyes were steady and serious. “I don’t think she was fragile at all. She had been hurt terribly, seeing her father beaten and then executed. But many people see very bad things. It’s painful. One never forgets them, but they don’t make you deranged. Nightmares, maybe? I’ve had a few. Sometimes if I sleep really badly, or I’m worried or frightened, I remember the dead people I’ve seen.”

She did not move her gaze from his, but he saw the sudden return of memory in her eyes. “One of the worst was the skeleton of the woman on the swing, with the tiny bones of the baby inside her. I still see that sometimes, and it makes me want to weep and weep until I have no strength left. But I don’t.”

Pitt started to reach across to touch her, then changed his mind. This was not the moment. “Adriana?” he said again.

“She wasn’t hysterical,” she said with conviction. “And I don’t believe she would ever have killed herself. Who killed her, Thomas? Why? Wouldn’t it have been the same person who betrayed her father? Did Serafina know who that was? She would have. That was why she was killed too. That’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“I imagine so.” Should he tell her? Did she have to know, for her own safety? Or would knowing endanger her? And even if he did not tell her, Blantyre might assume he had.

“It was him, wasn’t it?” Her voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Him?”

“Blantyre!” she said sharply. “He was the only one who could have betrayed Dragovic, killed Serafina, and killed Adriana.” She made it sound so simple. “Thomas, I don’t care what secrets he knows, or what kind of office he holds, you can’t let him get away with that! It’s … monstrous!”

“You want revenge?” he asked.

“Maybe! Yes. I want revenge for Adriana. And for Serafina. She deserved better than to die like that! But call it justice, if you like. It is-and you’ll feel better.”

“Justice can mean many different things to different people,” Pitt pointed out.

“Then call it an act of necessity. You can’t have someone like that in a high office in the government. Such a man could do anything!”

“Oh, indeed. And probably will. Some of it we will praise him for, and some we will be glad enough not to know about.”

Charlotte said nothing. He looked across at her and could not read what she was thinking.

First thing in the morning, Pitt went to see Vespasia. It was far too early to call, but he disregarded courtesy and told the maid that it was urgent. Vespasia’s maid had become used to him, his polished boots and crooked ties, and above all, the fact that Vespasia was always willing to receive him.

He found her in the yellow breakfast room, sitting at the cherry-wood table with tea, toast, and marmalade. The maid set another place for Pitt and went to fetch fresh tea and more toast.

“Good morning, Thomas,” Vespasia said gravely. “Please sit down. You give me a crick in my neck staring up at you.”

He smiled bleakly and accepted the invitation. He loved this room. It always seemed as if the sun were shining inside it.