Anne Perry - Dorchester Terrace

“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 Freemarsh. 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.”