Dorchester Terrace Page 11

  She went down the stairs and asked the maid in the hallway to send for Nerissa so she might express her good wishes and take her leave.

  Nerissa appeared within moments, her face shadowed with anxiety.

  “Thank you for coming, Lady Vespasia,” she said a little stiffly. “I’m sorry you had to see Aunt Serafina so … so unlike the person she used to be. It is distressing for all of us. You will know now that I was not being alarmist when I said she is sinking rapidly.”

  “No, of course not,” Vespasia agreed. “I’m afraid she is considerably worse, even in the few days since I last saw her. I think it might be wise, in view of her … imagination, if you were to restrict her visitors rather more. I suggested to her that it might be a good idea to see only those who are young enough to know little or nothing of the affairs with which she used to be concerned. She was pleased with the suggestion. It will ease her fears. And of course, as you say, it would be very sad if people were to remember her as she is now, rather than as she used to be. I would much prefer not to have it so, were I in her position.”

  She was uncertain exactly how to phrase Serafina’s request regarding Adriana.

  “You might gently turn aside Mrs. Blantyre, if she calls again,” she began, and saw the puzzlement in Nerissa’s face. “She is of Croatian birth, which seems to awaken particular memories and ideas in your aunt,” she continued. “You do not need to give explanations.”

  Nerissa bit her lip. “I can’t ask Mrs. Blantyre to call less often, or to leave earlier. She is an old friend. It would be … very discourteous. I couldn’t explain it without causing offense and saying more than I know Aunt Serafina wishes. But of course I shall do my best to discourage anyone from staying very long. Tucker is already helping greatly with that. She very seldom leaves my aunt alone. Thank you for your understanding, and your help.” It was final. She was not going to accept any advice.

  “If there is anything further, please call me.” Vespasia had no choice but to leave the matter.

  “I will,” Nerissa promised.

  Vespasia walked down the steps to her carriage with her feeling of unease in no way lifted. Serafina had seemed so sure that she did not want to see Adriana again, but for whose sake? There had been a tenderness in her when she spoke the younger woman’s name that was deeper than anything Vespasia had ever seen in her before. And Adriana, in turn, had seemed to care more than casually, more than a mere act of kindness would require. Was it simply because they were fellow exiles, with a love of country, or something else?

  Vespasia was in her carriage and more than halfway home when she suddenly changed her mind and rapped her cane against the ceiling to draw the coachman’s attention. He stopped and she asked him to take her instead to the home of Victor Narraway.

  As she had expected, when she arrived Narraway was not in, but she left him a note asking him to call her at his most immediate opportunity. The matter was of some urgency, and she required his advice, and probably his assistance.

  NARRAWAY CAME HOME IN the late afternoon, tired from the boredom of having sat most of the day in the House of Lords listening to tedious and exhaustively repetitive arguments. Vespasia’s note gave him a rush of excitement, as if at last something of interest might happen. Never in his life had Vespasia disappointed him. He put through a telephone call to her, even before taking off his coat. Her invitation was simple, and he accepted without hesitation.

  He found himself sitting forward a little in his seat in the hansom as he watched the familiar streets go by. His imagination raced as to what it might be that concerned her to this degree; there had been a haste in her handwriting, as though she were consumed by a deep anxiety, and the tone of her voice on the telephone had confirmed it. Vespasia did not exaggerate, nor was she easily alarmed. His mind went back over other tragedies and dangers they had been concerned about together, most of them involving Pitt. Some had come very close to ending in defeat; all had held the possibility of disaster.

  As soon as he reached her house he sprang out of the cab and hurried up the steps. The door opened before he had time to pull the bell. The maid welcomed him in, took his coat, and showed him to Vespasia’s peaceful sitting room, its windows and French doors offering views of the garden.

  “Thank you for coming so promptly,” she said, rising to her feet. It was an unusual practice for her. He noticed that she did not quite have her customary composure. There was something almost indefinably different in her manner. She was as exquisitely dressed as always, in a blue-gray gown with deep décolletage, pearls at her ears and throat, and her hair coiled in a silver crown on her head.

  “I presume you have not eaten? May I offer you supper?” she asked.

  “After you have told me what it is that troubles you. Clearly it is urgent,” he replied.

  She gestured for him to be seated, and resumed her own place beside the fire.

  “I visited Serafina Montserrat again today,” she told him. “I found her considerably worse; her mind has deteriorated a great deal—I think.” She hesitated. “Victor, I really do not know at all quite how much she is losing her wits. When I first arrived she seemed lucid, but her eyes were filled with fear. Before I had the opportunity to speak with her for more than a few moments, Adriana Blantyre called.”

  “Evan Blantyre’s wife?” He was startled. Blantyre was a man of considerable substance and reputation. “Courtesy, or friendship?” he asked quietly.

  “Friendship,” she answered without hesitation.

  He watched the deepening anxiety in Vespasia’s eyes, and noted the presence of another emotion he could not read. “Perhaps you had better tell me the heart of it,” he said quietly. “What is it you fear?”

  Vespasia spoke slowly. “As soon as Adriana came into the room, Serafina seemed to begin rambling, as if she had no idea what year it was. Adriana was very patient with her, very gentle, but it was disturbing.”

  “What year does she imagine she is in?” Narraway was beginning to feel the same intense pity he knew Vespasia was feeling, even though, as far as he was aware, he had never met Serafina Montserrat.

  “I don’t know,” Vespasia replied. “Possibly the fifties, or early sixties, not very long after the revolutions of ’48.”

  “And who does she believe Adriana to be?” he asked, puzzled. “She cannot be more than forty, at the very outside. I would have thought less.”

  “That’s what makes so little sense,” Vespasia answered. “Serafina took her for a Croatian patriot, which is not completely divorced from the truth. But she was rambling. Her eyes were far away, her hands clenched on the sheets. And then when Adriana left, I remained behind for a few moments, and suddenly Serafina was completely herself again, and the fear returned.” She took a deep breath. “Victor, she is afraid that someone may kill her in order to prevent her from revealing the truths she knows. She spoke of betrayals, old grudges, and deaths that cannot be forgotten, but as if they were all current, and there was more violence to come. She mentioned Mayerling.”

  “Mayerling?” He was incredulous. “But Serafina was living here in London at the time, wasn’t she?” he asked. “And she must have been well into her seventies and surely not privy to the inside circles of the Austrian court anymore. Vespasia, are you sure she isn’t … romanticizing?”

  “No, I’m not sure!” Her face was full of grief. “But her fear is real, that I have absolutely no doubt of. She is terrified. Is it possible that there is something for her to fear?” Her voice dropped. “Something apart from loneliness, old age, and madness?”

  He felt the pain strike him; to his shame, not for Serafina Montserrat, but for Vespasia, and for himself. Then the instant after, it became pity.

  “Probably not,” he said quietly. “But I promise that tomorrow I shall begin to look into it. I had better do it discreetly; otherwise, if by any wild chance this is true, I shall have given whoever she fears more to fear from her.”

  “Yes, please be careful.” Vesp
asia hesitated. “I am sorry if I am asking you to waste your time. She seemed so sure, and then the next moment completely lost, as though she were alone in a strange place, searching for anything familiar.”

  Narraway brushed it aside. He did not want her to feel obliged to him. He told her the truth, startled at how simple it was for him to confess to her.

  “I’m glad of something to do that is a challenge to my mind rather than my patience,” he told her. “Even if it should prove that Mrs. Montserrat has nothing to fear, as I hope it will.”

  Vespasia smiled, and there was amusement in it as well as gratitude. “Thank you, Victor. I am grateful that you will do it so quickly. Now that that is decided, would you like some supper?”

  He accepted with pleasure. It would be very much more enjoyable to share the evening with her than to eat alone. Before the O’Neil business, before going to Ireland with Charlotte on that desperate mission, he would have considered dining at home a peaceful end to the day, and the idea of company would have been something of an intrusion. Solitude, a good book, the silence of the house—all would have been comfortable. Now there was an emptiness there, a deep loneliness he was incapable of dismissing. No doubt it would pass, but for the moment, Vespasia’s quiet sitting room held a peace that eased his mind.

  NARRAWAY GAVE VESPASIA’S REQUEST a great deal of thought as he sat quietly in his own chair by the hearth, after midnight, still not ready to go to bed. Was he afraid of sleep, of nightmares, of waking in the dark in confusion, for an instant not knowing where he was? Or perhaps for longer than just an instant? Would that time come? Would he be alone, pitied, no one remembering who he used to be?

  Physical changes were part of the tests of life, and they included loss of the senses and perception. It was not pathetic to lose some of one’s awareness of the present and slip back to happier times.

  He could recall his own youth with sharper detail than he had expected: his early years in Special Branch, long before he was head of it; when he was only learning, newer than Pitt ever was, because he had not had the decades of police experience. He had had authority, and traveled to some of the most exciting cities in Europe and beyond. He smiled now at the memories. They seemed happy and exciting, looking back, even though he knew he had at times been lonely then. And there had been failures, some of them quite harsh.

  Now he thought of Paris only for its grace, the old quarters steeped in the history of revolution. In his youth he had been able to stand in the Cordeliers with his eyes closed and imagine that if he opened them he would see the ghosts of Robespierre, the giant Danton, and the raving Marat, hear the rattle of tumbrels over the stones, and smell the fear. The passion haunted the air.

  He had been gullible then, believed people he should not have believed, one beautiful woman in particular, Mireille. That had been a mistake that had nearly cost him his life. He had felt a starry-eyed pity for her that had bordered on love. He had never been so stupid again.

  Thinking of that brought back sharp recollections of what Herbert, his commander at the time, had said to him. And with his memory of Herbert, he knew who he should seek for answers to Vespasia’s questions.

  HE WAS AT THE railway station by half past seven the following morning, and caught the train southward into the bleak, rolling countryside of Kent before eight o’clock. At Bexley he alighted into a hard, driving wind and walked along the main platform to look for a carriage.

  By nine o’clock he was knocking on the door of an old cottage just off the high street. Bare, twisted limbs of wisteria covered most of the front walls, but he imagined that in the summer they would be covered with soft, pale, lilac flowers. He could smell rain in the wind, and the bitter, clean aroma of woodsmoke drifting from the chimney.

  The door was opened by a middle-aged woman wearing an apron over her dark skirt. She looked startled to see him.

  “Mornin’, sir.” She seemed uncertain what to say next.

  “Good morning.” Narraway saved her the trouble of finding the words. “Is this the home of Geoffrey Herbert?”

  “Yes, sir, it is. Mr. Herbert is just eating his breakfast. May I tell him who is calling?” She did not add that it was an uncivil hour to visit, especially unannounced, but it was in her eyes.

  “Victor Narraway,” he replied. “He will remember me.”

  “Mr. Victor Narraway,” she repeated. “Well, if you would come in out of the cold, sir, and take a seat in the sitting room, I’ll tell him you’re here.” She grudgingly pulled the door open wider.

  He stepped inside. “Actually … it’s Lord Narraway.” He was not used to the title himself, but this was an occasion when the respect it might command would be of service.

  She looked startled. “Oh! Well … I’ll tell him, I’m sure. Would you like a cup o’ tea, sir, I mean, Your Lordship?”

  Narraway smiled in spite of himself. “That would be most appreciated,” he accepted.

  The sitting room was architecturally typical of a cottage: low-ceilinged; deep window ledges; large, open fireplace with heavy chimney breast. But there the ordinariness ended. One entire wall was lined with bookshelves; the carpets were Oriental with rich jewel-colored designs; and there were Arabic brass bowls on several of the surfaces. It all brought back sharp memories of Herbert, a man of vast knowledge and eclectic tastes.

  Herbert himself came into the room twenty minutes later, when Narraway had finished his tea and was beginning to get restless. He had not seen Herbert in fifteen years and he was startled by the change in him. He remembered him as upright, a little gaunt, with receding white hair. Now he was bent forward over two sticks and moved with some difficulty. His clothes hung on him, and his hands were blue-veined. His hair had receded no further, but it was thin. The pink of his scalp was visible through it.

  “Lord Narraway, eh?” he said with a faint smile. His voice was cracked, but his eyes were bright, and he maneuvered himself to the chair without stumbling or reaching to feel his way. He sat down carefully, propping the two sticks against the wall. “It must be important to bring you all the way down here. Dawson told me you are not in the Branch anymore. That true?”

  “Yes. Kicking up my heels in the House of Lords,” Narraway replied. He heard the edge of bitterness in his tone and instantly regretted it. He hoped Herbert did not take it for self-pity. He wondered what to add to take the sting from it.

  Herbert was watching him closely. “Well, if you’re not in the Branch, what the devil are you doing?” he asked. “You aren’t here looking up old friends; you don’t have any. You were always a solitary creature. Just as well. Head of the Branch can’t afford to be dependent on anyone. You were the best we had. Hate to admit it, but I’d be a liar not to.”

  Narraway felt a surge of pleasure, which embarrassed him. Herbert was a man whose good opinion was worth a great deal and had never been easily won.

  “So what do you want?” Herbert went on, before Narraway could find any gracious way of acknowledging the compliment. “No need to explain yourself. I wouldn’t believe you anyway. If you could afford to tell me, it would hardly be worth the bother.”

  “Austria-Hungary,” Narraway replied.

  Herbert’s sparse eyebrows shot up. “Good God! You’re not still raking over Mayerling and Rudolf’s death, are you? Thought you had more sense. Poor bastard shot the girl, then shot himself. He was always a melancholy creature, other than the occasional attack of good cheer on social occasions. Give him wine, laughter, and a pretty face, and he was fine, until the music stopped. Just like his mother. He was always a disaster waiting to happen. Could have told you that years ago.”

  “No,” Narraway said succinctly. “It’s not about Rudolf at all, so far as I know.”

  “Then what? You said Austria-Hungary.”

  “Going back thirty years, or more maybe, to uprisings, planned or actual,” Narraway said.

  “Plenty of them.” Herbert nodded. “Autocratic old sod, Franz Josef. Relaxed his hold a bit rec
ently, I’m told, but back then he ruled with a rod of iron. He and Rudolf never saw eye to eye. Chalk and cheese. What about it?” He frowned, leaning forward a little and peering at Narraway. “Why do you care? Why now?”

  “Thought you weren’t going to ask me,” Narraway said pointedly.

  Herbert grunted. “Of course there were uprisings. You know that as well as any of us. Stop beating around the bush and tell me what it is you’re really asking.”

  “A major revolt, drawing in other countries as well. Possibly a Hungarian uprising?”

  A look of contempt flickered across Herbert’s gaunt face. “You can do better than that, Narraway. You know as well as I do—or you ought to—that the Hungarians are content to be a safe, second-rate power, ruled by Vienna while having a very comfortable life, if not quite cock of the walk. If they rose up against the Austrians they’d lose a great deal, and gain nothing. They are quite clever enough to know that.”

  “The Croatians?” Narraway suggested.

  “Different kettle of fish altogether,” Herbert agreed. “Erratic, unstable. Always plots and counterplots, but nothing has ever come of them, at least not yet. That’s not what all this is about, is it? Foreign Office thinks there’s going to be another Croatian problem of some sort, do they?”

  “Not so far as I know,” Narraway said truthfully.

  “Blantyre’s your chap,” Herbert observed. “Evan Blantyre. Knows the Croatians as well as anyone. Lived there for a while. Wife’s Croatian. Beautiful woman, but unstable, so I hear. Delicate health, always sick as a child. Not surprising, family caught up in rebellions and things.”

  Narraway leaned back in his chair. “I’ll ask him, if things look like they’re heading that way. What about the Italians? They still haven’t got some of their northern cities back. Trieste and that region, for example.”