Anne Perry - Dorchester Terrace

“Serafina Montserrat knew who betrayed Lazar Dragovic,” he said without preamble.

Vespasia inclined her head very slightly. “I thought she might. She was seldom fooled, and she loved him enough to not rest easily until she knew. Her fear makes perfect sense now; if she had not told Adriana already, then it was because she did not wish her to know. She was probably worried that she would ultimately let it slip.”

“You are right,” he agreed.

The maid returned with fresh tea, a second cup, and more toast. She left without speaking and closed the door behind her.

“Which must mean it was Evan Blantyre,” Vespasia concluded. “If it was anyone else, Serafina would not have gone to such lengths to bury the truth.”

“Did she care about him?” he asked.

Vespasia raised her eyebrows in exasperation. “Don’t be absurd, Thomas! She must have found out after Adriana was committed to marrying him. That would have made it impossible for her to do anything! She would have stifled her own feelings and kept silent for Adriana’s sake.”

“In the end it served neither of them,” Pitt said unhappily. “Poor Serafina. She paid a very high price for nothing.”

“Not for nothing,” she corrected him simply. “Adriana had many happy years. She grew to be a strong, beautiful woman, and I think she always knew that Serafina loved her like a mother.”

“And Blantyre?” he asked bitterly.

“Perhaps, in his own way, he also loved her. But not as he cared for his ideals and his beliefs in Austria.”

“I’ll prove it, one way or another,” he said grimly, as if he were making an oath.

“I daresay you will.” She poured a cup of tea for him and passed it over.

“Thank you.” He took it and then a piece of toast, buttering it absentmindedly.

“That is hardly your most urgent concern,” she observed. He looked up at her.

“My dear, if Evan Blantyre spent long enough at Dorchester Terrace to realize that Serafina knew he was the one who betrayed Lazar Dragovic, then he must have listened to a great deal that she said. What else was there, do you suppose? Most of it may be irrelevant now, but what about that which is not? Who does it concern?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “That same thought occurred to me. I could find out all the places where Blantyre has served, but it wouldn’t tell me much, except the extent of the possibilities, and I can already guess that.”

She spread more butter on her piece of toast.

“All kinds of people have served in the embassies of Europe at some time or another, especially that of Vienna,” Vespasia said.

She passed him the marmalade. “And apart from government positions, most of the aristocracy travels for pleasure, to hunt, to drink beer, to exchange ideas-philosophy, sciences. To climb mountains in the Tyrol, or to sail on the lakes. To visit Venice and the Adriatic, especially the coast of Croatia with its islands. And always we go to the glory and the ruin of Rome, and imagine ourselves heirs to the days of its empire. Some of us go to Naples to gaze at Vesuvius and imagine the eruption that burned Pompeii. We see the sunlight on the water and dream for a little while that it always shines.”

“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.”

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.