“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.” Vespasia 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
