thought, and saw a flash of fury in Tregarron’s face; it was gone again so rapidly that he was not certain if it had been real, or his imagination.
“The thought amuses you?” Tregarron asked. “You surprise me. Would it have amused your mother too?”
That was a sharp wound, a territory Narraway did not wish to explore. “Of course not,” he said quietly, his voice tighter than he had meant it to be. “It is so far from the truth of what I was inquiring into that it had an oblique humor. No one’s reputation in that area is in jeopardy, so far as I am aware.”
“So what area is it to do with, then?” Tregarron asked, his face now all but expressionless.
Narraway chose his words carefully, thinking of what exactly Vespasia had said. “It is to do with political freedom, old plots and current ones regarding Croatia throwing off the Austrian yoke. And possibly northern Italy.”
“Perhaps you don’t understand me,” Tregarron said, now allowing a faint smile onto his face. “Serafina Montserrat must be in her mid-seventies, at least. According to what I have heard, she was reckless and something of a troublemaker. She created an unfortunate reputation for herself, although some of the stories about her are probably apocryphal. If even half of them are true, she was a highly colorful character, and a passionate Italian nationalist. She would have been quite capable of planning an assassination, and she had the steel in her nature to carry it out. However, so far as I know, she never succeeded in actually doing so.”
He crossed his legs, easing back in his chair a little, his eyes never leaving Narraway’s face.
“The only event anything like that,” he continued, “I heard as a story. I’m not sure what truth there is in it.”
Narraway watched him intently.
Tregarron assumed the air of a raconteur. “A group of dissidents plotted to assassinate one of the leading Austrian dukes who was particularly vehement in his grip on the local government in northern Italy. It would be fair to say that he was oppressive, and at times unjust. The emperor Franz Josef has always been excessively military, but he used to be less dictatorial than he is now. Nevertheless, this dissident group planned the assassination of some duke-I forget his name-and very nearly succeeded. The plot was clearly thought out and very simple in essence. No clever tricks to go wrong, nothing left to chance.”
“But it didn’t succeed?” Narraway questioned him.
“Because they were betrayed by one of their own,” Tregarron answered. “They fled. It seems Montserrat was among those who fought the hardest to save them, but she couldn’t. She was wounded in the struggle that followed, and the ringleader was taken, summarily tried, and executed.”
It was the kind of bitter tale that Narraway had heard often enough, especially when he had been in Ireland. He thought of Kate O’Neil, and of the actions he had thought responsible for his own loss of office. And then, in spite of himself, he thought of Charlotte Pitt, of love, loyalty, and wounds that would ache eternally.
Was this what it was about, a retreat into ancient sorrows, coming back to haunt one in old age? Was Serafina going back in her mind to that time, or another like it? Could she have been the one who betrayed the would-be assassin, and now feared some final revenge? Or justice?
Tregarron interrupted his thoughts.
“What can this have to do with anything today, Narraway? I can’t help you if I don’t know what on earth you’re really looking for. Or why.”
“From what you say, I rather think it has nothing to do with anything today,” Narraway lied. “As you point out, she must be in her seventies, at least. That is, if she is still alive at all, of course.” He rose to his feet, smiling very slightly. “Thank you for your time, and your candor.”
But that was far from what Narraway thought as he rode home in a hansom through the wet streets, glancing every now and then at the cobblestones gleaming in the reflected lamplight.
Tregarron had lied to him, if not in words, then in intent. There was something Tregarron feared, but Narraway was not sure if it was an old danger resurfacing, some past error that would jeopardize Tregarron’s present reputation or relationships, or if it was some totally new issue of which Narraway was unaware. But then, if it concerned the Austrian Empire, even had he still been in Special Branch, he might not have been informed. Regular diplomatic affairs had nothing to do with Special Branch.
If Serafina believed she had made lasting enemies, then it was certainly possible that she was right. The idea of such a once-magnificent woman lying old and broken, fearing for her life, deeply and painfully aware that she could no longer protect herself, hurt him with a disturbing depth.
Was he becoming soft, no longer able to judge an act impartially? Yes, he did love Charlotte. It was time to admit that to himself. In fact, after Ireland, it would be absurd to deny it. He had always despised self-delusion in others, and he had come very close to practicing it himself. That she would never care for him as more than a friend was something he had to accept. If he did so with grace, then he could keep her friendship at least.
Had that devastating vulnerability changed him?
Yes, perhaps it had. For one thing, it had given him a tenderness toward Vespasia he had not felt before: a greater understanding of her as a woman, not merely her formidable courage and intelligence. She too could be hurt in ways she would never have allowed him to see, had he not also newly experienced personal pain, surprise, and self-doubt.
It was a frightening change, but not entirely a loss.
He was determined to learn a great deal more than the very general picture he had of Austro-Hungarian affairs, particularly in reference to the dictatorial emperor Franz Josef, whose only son, Crown Prince Rudolf, had died so tragically at Mayerling.
The old man’s heir was now his nephew, Archduke Franz Ferdinand, a man of whom Franz Josef did not approve. For one thing, Ferdinand had chosen to love a woman inappropriate to become the wife of the heir to the empire. The poor creature was merely some countess or the other. That made Ferdinand, in the old man’s opinion, of unsound judgment, and lacking in the dedication to duty necessary to succeed him. But he had no choice. The laws of heredity could not be argued with, or the legitimacy of the entire monarchy would be destroyed.
Should Narraway tell Vespasia the little he had learned? Perhaps so. It would be a courtesy to Serafina. Then she would know that at least one person believed her. Next time he saw Vespasia he would do so. It would be a good reason to see her again.
And should he speak to Pitt?
Not unless anything he learned about present-day Austrian affairs indicated that there could be an assassination attempt on some visiting royalty. Pitt had more than enough to do without chasing the current danger of that, if any existed, as well as all the usual Special Branch fears of anarchist bombings, and the constant rebellions in Ireland. There were Russian dissidents in London, fleeing from the ever-increasing oppression and grinding poverty at home. Additionally, there were British-grown socialists who believed that the only way to improve life for the poor was to commit outrages against the Establishment.
Pitt did not need to hear rumors about a betrayal that happened thirty years ago and a thousand miles away. Narraway had done the job himself long enough to know the importance of leaving alone what did not matter. Telling Vespasia would be sufficient.
5
It was the last day of February, bright, gusty, and cold. Stoker came into Pitt’s office looking grim.
Pitt waited for him to speak.
“More bits of information keep coming in that look like they’re about this assassination attempt.” He was ill at ease, his shoulders stiff. “We’re fairly certain as to the identity of the man asking about train signals near Dover, and we have at least a possible identification of one of the men asking about how points are changed.”
“Who are they?” Pitt asked.
“The man who asked about the signals was Bilinsk, we think. The French are pretty sure about it. They’ve been following him for a while, in connection with an assassination in Paris. He was seen at least once with Lansing-”
