Dorchester Terrace tp-27 Page 6

  He smiled at his own inadequacy. He should have more sympathy with Serafina Montserrat, especially if she had been as dynamic as Vespasia had said. To lose power, he thought, is like watching yourself fade away, pieces of you slipping out of your control and vanishing so that you grow ever smaller and more helpless, until there is nothing left of you except a tiny heart that knows its own existence, but can do little to affect anything else.

  He should have more pity for the old, treat them with the same dignity he would have given someone more powerful than he. He made the resolution then and there to do so, hoping he would always be able to keep it.

  He came out in Woburn Place and hailed a passing hansom. Giving the driver his home address, he climbed in with some relief.

  The next day he telephoned Lord Tregarron at the Foreign Office, an acquaintance from his days at Special Branch. He arranged to call upon him that evening. Tregarron’s father had been dead some years now, but he had been an expert on the Austro-Hungarian Empire. He had spoken both German and Hungarian, the predominant two of the twelve different languages spoken among the mass of peoples and nationalities that had been loosely joined in the empire.

  Narraway spent most of the day reading in the library of the British Museum, reminding himself of the history of the Austro-Hungarian Empire in the last fifty to sixty years, the empire that claimed to be the descendant of the Holy Roman Empire of medieval Europe, heir of the might and influence of Rome itself. He read about the various rebellions of each of its constituent parts, their passion to gain more autonomy.

  Serafina was Italian. Venice and Trieste were swallowed up by Austria, losing their ancient culture and their ties to their own people. Venice had regained its freedom, but Trieste and its surrounds had not yet done so.

  But he found little mention of Serafina’s name, and even when he did it was oblique. Was she in fact making up her knowledge of dangerous secrets, as Vespasia half feared, to color in retrospect a life that was rapidly slipping away from her?

  It was after dinner when Narraway reached Tregarron’s house in Gloucester Place. He stepped out of his hansom into the first scattering of freezing rain. The footman showed him immediately into the oak-paneled study, where rows of bookcases were filled with leather-bound volumes, and pictures of Cornish seascapes hung in the panels free for such decoration. Tregarron himself came in a moment later.

  “Evening, Narraway,” he said cheerfully. “Can I offer you something? Brandy? A decent cigar? It’s a miserable night. It must be a matter of some importance, to bring you away from your own fireside at this hour.” He waved toward a large leather chair, indicating that Narraway should be seated.

  “No, thank you.” Narraway declined the offer, but sat down comfortably. “I don’t want to keep you longer than I need to. It is gracious of you to spare me the time.”

  “Old habits,” Tregarron said drily, sitting in the companion chair opposite him and leaning back, crossing his legs. “How can I help you now? You said something about the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Pretty good shambles, especially after that awful business in Mayerling.” He pulled his face into an expression of regret and a certain unmistakable degree of disgust. “Emperor’s only son, heir to the throne, commits suicide with his mistress in a hunting lodge. If that’s what it was, of course.” He let his words hang in the air. “Maybe it was just the best interpretation they could put on it, under the circumstances.”

  “I think it’s rubbish,” Narraway said briefly. “Unless he was insane. No royal prince takes his own life because he can’t marry his mistress. His wife might have been any kind of a bore, or a harridan-even then, you just live separately. It’s been done by more kings than I’ve had good dinners. The old emperor himself has a mistress, in spite of having married for love.”

  Tregarron smiled widely, showing strong teeth. “My father spent years in Vienna. He said Franz Josef was supposed to marry the empress’s elder sister, but he fell madly in love with Sisi on sight and wouldn’t have anyone else.”

  “Yes. And your father probably would’ve been the man to know,” Narraway agreed. “But that makes it even more unlikely that Rudolf would have taken his own life. Simply because he couldn’t possibly make her empress, when the time comes? I don’t believe it.”

  “Was it the Mayerling business you wanted to speak to me about?” Tregarron asked curiously. “How does that concern our government, or Special Branch, for that matter?”

  “No, it has nothing to do with Mayerling, or Rudolf,” Narraway said quickly. “It goes back much further than that, possibly thirty years or more, forty, even fifty.”

  “Good heavens!” Tregarron looked startled, and amused. “How old do you think I am?”

  Narraway smiled. “I was actually thinking of your father. You said he spent years in Vienna …”

  There was a brief tap on the door and, without waiting for a reply, Lady Tregarron came in. She was in her mid-forties but still extremely attractive in a quiet, comfortable way. Her features were unremarkable, her coloring quite ordinary, but she carried with her a kind of serenity. It was impossible to imagine her troubled by any sort of ill temper.

  “Good evening, Lord Narraway,” she said with a smile. “How pleasant to see you. May we offer you something? Perhaps a fresh cup of tea? I assume you have dined already, but if not, I’m sure Cook could find you a good sandwich, at the very least.”

  “A cup of tea would be excellent,” Narraway accepted. “It’s a miserable night.”

  “Are you sure that’s all?” she asked with concern.

  “I don’t want to disturb you for long. In fact, I can come to the point rather more quickly than I have been doing.” He turned to Tregarron. “Have you heard of a woman named Serafina Montserrat? Perhaps in some connection with Austrian affairs?”

  There was a slight flicker across Tregarron’s face, but it was impossible to read. “Montserrat?” he repeated. “No, I don’t think so. It’s the kind of name one would remember. Italian? Or Spanish, perhaps?”

  “Italian,” Narraway answered. “From the north, Austrian-occupied territory.”

  Tregarron shook his head. “I’m sorry, I have no idea.”

  Lady Tregarron looked from one to the other of them, then excused herself to ask the maid to bring tea.

  Narraway knew Tregarron was lying. The expression in his eyes, the repetition of the name to give himself a moment to consider before denying, gave him away. But there was no point in asking again, because he had already chosen his position. He could not go back on it now without admitting he had lied. And what explanation could there be for that? If Narraway had asked him with Lady Tregarron not present, would the answer have been different?

  Was Tregarron’s denial due to a desire to remain uninvolved in something? Surely anything Serafina knew was too old to affect anyone now, and certainly couldn’t affect any current government concern. But could it affect someone’s reputation? Or a friend?

  Or was it simply that since Narraway was no longer in Special Branch at all, let alone head of it, Tregarron did not trust him, but did not want to say so? That thought was peculiarly painful, which was ridiculous. It had been months now since his dismissal. He should be over it. He should have found some new passion to consume his energy. There were years of spare time stretching ahead of him.

  He forced his voice to sound light, free from emotional strain.

  “I don’t suppose it matters,” he said lightly. “It was an inquiry for a friend. Something to do with informing those who might wish to contact her before it’s too late. Apparently Mrs. Montserrat is getting very frail.”

  Tregarron did not move at all. “Do I take it from your remark that Mrs. Montserrat is dying?” he asked.

  Narraway shrugged. “That was what I gathered. I think she is of very advanced years.”

  Tregarron blinked. “Really? I suppose it was all a very long time ago. One forgets how the years pass.” He smiled ruefully, but the expression stopped far sh
ort of his eyes.

  Narraway hesitated. Should he let Tregarron see that he had observed the slip, or might he learn more if he let it pass? He decided on the latter.

  “Yes,” he agreed with a sigh. “We were all a lot younger, with dreams and energy that I, at least, no longer possess.”

  Tregarron appeared to relax, easing further into his chair. “Indeed. Matters are always more complicated than the young suppose them to be. Perhaps that’s just as well. If they grasped all the reasons why things won’t happen, or can’t be made to work, nothing would ever be tried. It’s certainly a hell of a mess now. We don’t need firebrands of any sort, especially in Austria. They have got little enough grip on their crumbling empire as it is, without harebrained idealists running amok.”

  He shifted a little and recrossed his legs before continuing. “The emperor’s son died in one of the ugliest scandals of the century, and God knows, there have been other bad ones. We’ve had the odd few ourselves. Now his nephew, the only heir left, is wanting to marry a woman the old emperor considers beneath the position that will be thrust upon her. The Hungarian situation is bad, and growing worse. Most of Europe recognizes that the poor devils are second-class citizens in their own land. Italy and the Balkans are increasingly restless. And I’m afraid all of that is to say nothing of the chaos in Russia, and the very considerable rising power of Germany, which, united, is now tasting its own strength.”

  He bit his lip and stared gravely at Narraway. “We have more than enough to worry about. Let the past lie in whatever peace it can.”

  “It wasn’t important,” Narraway lied. “A passing kindness I might have been able to do.” He smiled apologetically. “I’m a trifle bored with listening to their lordships in the House. Perhaps I should find myself a country pursuit, except I am not a countryman, apart from the odd weekend.”

  “Perhaps you should remain in London and listen more closely to their lordships. I’m sure you could find something to argue about, concentrate their minds now and then on a useful issue.” Tregarron frowned slightly. “I … I hate to ask this, but are you confident in this fellow Pitt that they’ve put in your place in Special Branch? I know he was a good policeman, but this is not quite the same thing, is it? He’ll need judgment, a keenness of perception that police experience won’t have taught him. He might be brilliant at solving mysteries and be able to unravel criminal activity and tell you exactly who’s involved, but can he see the larger picture, the political ramifications? Has he actually mastered anything beyond the art of solving crime? Does he understand anything deeper than that?”

  Narraway knew exactly what Tregarron meant, but he affected a slight confusion to give himself time to think.

  Tregarron leaned forward, filling the silence in an abrupt way, as if worried that he had offended Narraway. “I know he’s a good chap, and probably as honest as the day is long, and after that disaster with Gower, we’ll destroy ourselves without honesty. But for God’s sake, Narraway, we need a little sophistication as well! We require a man who can see ten jumps ahead, who can outwit the best against us, not just put a hand on the shoulder of the actual perpetrator of a crime, the fanatic with a stick of dynamite in his pocket.”

  “I think one of Pitt’s greatest assets will be that men who think they are clever will always underestimate him,” Narraway replied.

  Tregarron’s eyebrows shot up and a faint humor lit his face. “Should I consider myself suitably rebuked?” he inquired.

  Narraway smiled, this time with genuine amusement. “Not unless you wish to,” he said smoothly. “I have every confidence in Pitt, and you may also.”

  But as he went outside into the rain half an hour later, he was less certain than he had led Tregarron to suppose. Was Pitt’s own innate honesty going to blind him to the degree of deviousness in others?

  Pitt had been born a servant, and had spent his boyhood with respect for the master of the estate, Sir Arthur Desmond, a man of unyielding honor and considerable kindness. Might Pitt, at some level below his awareness, expect others of wealth and position to be similar?

  How would he cope with the disillusion when he discovered that it was very often not the case?

  Then Narraway remembered the affair at Buckingham Palace, and thought that very possibly his anxieties were unnecessary. He lengthened his stride toward Baker Street, where he would assuredly find a hansom to take him home.

  3

  Pitt’s office was warm and comfortable. The fire burned well, and every time it sank down, he put more coal on it. Outside the rain beat against the windows, sharp with the occasional hail. Gray clouds chased across the sky, gathering and then shredding apart as the wind tore through them. Down in the street passing vehicles sent sprays of water up from the gutters, drenching careless pedestrians walking too close to the curb.

  Pitt looked at the pile of papers on his desk. They were the same routine reports that greeted him every day, but if he did not read them, he might miss one thread that was different, an omission or cross-reference that indicates a change, a connection not made before. There were patterns that anything less than the minutest care would not disclose, and those patterns might be the only warning of a betrayal or an attack to come.

  He was disturbed in the rhythm of his reading by a sharp rap on the door. He turned the page down reluctantly.

  “Come,” he answered.

  The door opened and Stoker came in, closing it silently behind him. His face was difficult to read, as usual. Pitt had learned to interpret his agitation or excitement by studying the way he moved, the ease or stiffness in his body, and the angle of his shoulders. Now he judged Stoker to be alert and a trifle apprehensive.

  “What is it?” he asked, gesturing toward the chair opposite his desk.

  Stoker sat obediently. “Maybe nothing,” he replied.

  “If it was nothing, you wouldn’t be here,” Pitt pointed out. He trusted Stoker’s instincts. He was the only one who had believed in Narraway when Narraway had been accused of treason in the O’Neil case. Everyone else had believed only what the evidence seemed to show them. Stoker had had the courage to risk not only his career but also his life to work secretly with Pitt against those who had corrupted and usurped the power. It was Stoker who had saved Pitt’s life in the desperate struggle at the end.

  Stoker’s mastery of small observations was acute. He heard the evasions that skirted around a lie, saw the smile that indicated nervousness, the tiny signs of vanity in a conspicuous watch chain, a folded silk handkerchief a shade too bright, the overly casual manner that concealed a far better acquaintance than that admitted to.

  “What is it?” Pitt insisted.

  Stoker frowned. “Down Dover way. There have been a few questions about railway signals and points.”

  “Railway points?” Pitt was puzzled. “You mean where the tracks join, or branch? What specifically is being asked? Are you sure it’s not just routine maintenance?”

  Stoker’s face was grim. “Yes. It’s a stranger, asking about how the signals work, where they’re controlled from, can it be done by hand, that sort of thing. Thought it might just be some fellow wanting to explain it to his son, at first. But there have been questions about timetables, the freight trains and passenger trains from Dover to London, and branch lines as well, as if someone wanted to figure out where they cross.”

  Pitt thought for a moment or two. Some of the possibilities were ugly. “And you’re sure it’s the same man asking?”

  “That’s a bit hard to tell. Extremely ordinary-looking, except he had very pale, clear eyes. The man who asked about the freight trains had on spectacles. Couldn’t see his eyes.”

  “And the man who asked about the signals and points?” Pitt asked, a tiny knot of anxiety beginning to tighten in his stomach.

  “Different hair, as much as you could see under his hat. Doesn’t mean anything. Anybody can put a wig on.”

  “What’s being moved in and out of Dover on the lines he asked
about?” Pitt pressed.

  “I looked into that. Heavy industrial stuff, mostly. Some coal. Fish. Nothing worth stealing, not with a rail crash anyway.”

  Pitt thought for a moment. “And you said he asked about passenger trains as well?”

  “From Dover to London. Think it’s some passenger they could be after?” Stoker asked.

  “It’s a lot of trouble to go through for one passenger,” Pitt replied. “It sounds more like some kind of anarchist thinking to create a major disaster, just to show us that he can.”

  “What for?” Stoker was frowning, puzzled. “Couldn’t even pretend there’s any idealism or political motive in that.”

  “That’s what worries me,” Pitt admitted. “It doesn’t make sense. We haven’t understood it yet. But you’re right, there’s something planned, even if this is just a distraction, something to keep us occupied so we miss the real thing. But we can’t ignore it. And if, as you say, someone is prepared to cause a train crash just to kill one person, then it has to be someone of overwhelming importance.”

  Stoker moved his thin, strong hands in a very slight gesture of helplessness. “Whatever they are planning, it would have to be soon. They wouldn’t want to risk a change in the timetables wrecking their plan.”

  Pitt took a deep breath, and suddenly the room felt colder, even though the fire was still burning and the windows were still closed.

  “So who could it be?” he asked. “Who’s coming from Dover to London in the next couple of months? Who would anarchists want to kill?”

  “Nobody that matters, far as I can tell.” Stoker shook his head. “Some Russian count is coming to stay for a private visit. Might be visiting some of our royal family at the same time, I suppose. One or two politicians, but no one important: a Frenchman and an American. Can’t see why any of them would be worth killing, especially here. Probably far easier to do it at home, if you wanted to. Oh, one minor Austrian duke, Duke Alois, but he doesn’t hold any office, and he’d be easy enough to kill in Vienna. And whoever did it could escape there. Whole of Europe to go to. We’re an island: A foreigner would stick out like a sore thumb, unless he hid in one of the immigrant communities in London. But why bother? It makes no sense.”