A flash of anxiety crossed Jack’s face. “Really? Is it Austrian officials making sure the route is well planned and safe?”
“No, the people who are checking are known agitators and anarchists,” Pitt replied. “One or two of them are implicated in bombings in Paris.”
“Arrest them,” Jack told him.
“For what? Checking railway timetables?”
“Exactly. Aren’t you being a bit alarmist? Alois is a very minor figure, you know.” Jack gestured with his hands, as if appealing to reason. “Or maybe you don’t? If somebody planned an assassination, Alois wouldn’t be worth their time, or the risk.”
“Are you certain?” Pitt asked very seriously.
“Yes,” Jack responded immediately. However, his tone of irritation made Pitt wonder if he really was certain, or if he had actually not given the matter any thought until that moment. Either way, he would defend his superior’s opinion instinctively, and ascertain the details later. That was what a loyal second-in-command did.
Pitt shook his head. “I think there is quite a lot about the Austrian royal family and its difficulties that we do not know. For example, did you expect the suicide at Mayerling?”
Jack was angry, caught off-guard by Pitt’s question. “No, of course not. No one did,” he said with considerable annoyance.
“But with hindsight, we can see that perhaps we should have,” Pitt pointed out. “It was a tragedy waiting to happen.”
“How do you know that?” Jack demanded, coming farther into the room.
Pitt smiled. “It’s my job to know a certain number of things. Unfortunately, I didn’t piece together then what I now realize were signs, and I doubt Narraway did either. Or if he did, then no one listened to him.”
Jack winced and his eyes became harder. “I’ll go and ask his lordship, but honestly, I think you are scaremongering, Thomas, and I believe he will think so too. There is no earthly reason to assassinate Alois Habsburg. He’s harmless, a lightweight junior member of the Austrian royal family, of which there are hordes, just as there are of ours.” Without adding anything more, he turned and went out of the room, leaving Pitt to wait again.
This time it was no more than five minutes before he came back into the room looking tense, as if he now wanted to say far more than he dared.
“Lord Tregarron will see you, but he can only spare a few minutes.” He held the door open for Pitt to go through. “He has a meeting with our ambassador to Poland in a very short while.”
“Thank you,” Pitt accepted, going out and following Jack down a wide, elegant corridor. About thirty feet along, Jack stopped and tapped quietly on a large, arched door.
Tregarron greeted them stiffly but with the necessary courtesy, then looked only at Pitt as Jack retired to the back of the room, making himself all but invisible.
“Radley informs me that Evan Blantyre seems to believe there is some assassination attempt planned against Duke Alois Habsburg when he visits London next month.” He spoke quickly, giving Pitt no chance to interrupt him. “I imagine you have to take notice of these things, but in my opinion, someone is trying to distract you from your more urgent business. Duke Alois is, as Radley has told you, a charming, somewhat feckless young man of no importance whatsoever. It would be completely senseless for anyone to waste their time harming him, let alone to set up an elaborate plot to do it in a foreign country.”
He shook his head with annoyance. “It is out of the question that we should admit to the Austrian government that we cannot look after him or guarantee his safety in the capital city of our own empire. I imagine they would find it impossible to believe we were so incompetent, and so would see it as a rebuff. If you think Special Branch cannot deal with it, I will ask the Home Secretary to take care of the matter. He has the ordinary police at his beck and call.” He smiled bleakly. “Perhaps you should ask Narraway’s advice. I’m sure he would make himself available to you.”
Pitt was so angry he could think of no words he dared say. His hands were shaking. He could feel the color burn into his skin. He knew Jack was looking down at the floor, too embarrassed to meet his eyes.
“Good day, Mr. Pitt,” Tregarron said bluntly.
“Good day, sir,” Pitt replied, and swung on his heel to go out. He passed Jack without even glancing at him, nor was he aware of the rain in his face as he stepped into the street.
Walking into his own house that evening was like walking into a warm embrace, even before Charlotte met him at the kitchen door. She took a long, careful look at his face, and guided him away from the kitchen’s savory cooking smells and into the front parlor. The fire was burning and the gaslamps were lit but turned low. This enveloping comfort was new since his promotion, and the ability to afford so much coal.
“What is it?” she asked as soon as she had closed the door.
“What’s wrong with sitting in the kitchen?” he countered, avoiding answering her.
“Thomas! Minnie Maude is not Gracie, but she’s far from unobservant. You are the master of the house. She watches you to see if all is well, if the day is good or bad, what she might do to please you. This is her home now, and it matters to her very much.”
Pitt breathed out slowly, letting some of the anger ease from him. He realized with self-conscious displeasure how little he had appreciated the effect his mood had on others. He had been born in the servant class; he should have known better. Without any warning, he was whisked back to his childhood and saw his mother in the kitchen of the big house and remembered the look on her face, the sudden anxiety that would descend when Sir Arthur Desmond had been in one of his rare dark moods, or when word had come down that he was not feeling well.
“I saw Lord Tregarron today,” he told Charlotte. “First Jack, of course, who suggested, obliquely, that I am fussing over nothing. Then Tregarron implied that if I can’t manage my job, I should ask for Narraway’s help.” He could not keep the bitterness out of his voice.
She considered it for a moment before replying. “That is extremely rude,” she said at length. “I wonder what is bothering them, that they should descend to such ill manners.”
“Are you asking in a sideways fashion if I was rude first?” he said with a tight smile. He knew every word he spoke was driving a further wedge between her and Emily, and yet he could not stop himself. He felt horribly vulnerable. “I wasn’t. I told Jack my information came from Blantyre. He’s as good a source as there could be.”
“Perhaps that is the problem,” she said thoughtfully. “Are you sure you are right, Thomas?”
“No,” he admitted. “I’m just sure of the price if I am right and we do nothing.”
4
Vespasia returned to call again on Serafina Montserrat a week after her first visit. It was a bright, fresh day, but surprisingly cold. She was pleased to come inside the house, even though it had an air of emptiness about it. Pale flowers were arranged carefully in a vase on the hall table, but without flair, as if whoever had done it was afraid to be criticized for individuality. All the pictures were straight, the surfaces dust free, but it looked in some way as if the mistress of the establishment was not at home. There were no small articles of daily use visible: no gloves or scarves, no outdoor boots on the rack below the coat stand, no silver- or ebony-topped cane.
She was waiting in the cool, green morning room where the footman had left her when Nerissa came in. She closed the door so softly behind herself that Vespasia was startled to see her there.
“Good morning, Lady Vespasia. It is so kind of you to call again,” Nerissa began. Her unremarkable face was marred at the moment by tiredness and lack of color. Her plain, dark dress did nothing to help, in spite of a pale fichu at the neck.
Vespasia felt something vaguely patronizing in the younger woman’s tone, as if visiting an old lady was a thing one did out of charity rather than friendship.
“It is not kind at all, Miss Freemarsh,” she said coolly. “Mrs. Montserrat and I are more than acquaintances. We have memories in common of times of marvelous hopes and dangers, and too few people with whom to share them, and others to recall of friends we will never see again.”
Nerissa smiled. “I’m sure you do,” she replied. “But I’m afraid you will find Aunt Serafina somewhat less lucid
