Blantyre shook his head. “None at all. I know there are all kinds of rumors flying around, but the truth is far beyond that which is known to the public. But I believe that some griefs should remain the property of those who are the victims. That is about the only decency we can offer them. I am quite certain that his death and that of Marie Vetsera were by their own hands, and there were no others involved. Who has blame for the patterns of their lives is not an issue for us.”
Pitt seemed about to say something, then changed his mind, and instead made some remark about one of the many beautiful paintings on the wall.
Adriana’s face lit with pleasure immediately. “The Croatian coast,” she said eagerly. “That’s where I was born.” She went on to describe it, her words full of nostalgia.
Charlotte noted Blantyre’s face. There was a lingering sadness in his eyes as he listened to his wife remembering her childhood, the changing seasons, the sounds and the touch of the past.
Adriana said nothing more of Vienna, as if it were part of another world.
After dinner Charlotte and Adriana returned to the withdrawing room for tea and delicate, prettily decorated sweets.
“Your country sounds very beautiful,” Charlotte said with interest.
“It’s unique,” she said, smiling. “At least it was. I haven’t been back for several years now.”
“Surely you can go back, at least to visit?” Charlotte asked.
Suddenly Adriana was very still. The delicate color of her skin became even lighter, almost as if it were translucent.
“I don’t think I would like to. Evan is very protective of my feelings. He keeps telling me that it would bring back old pain that is best left to heal, and perhaps he is right.”
Charlotte waited, believing an explanation would come. Even if it did not, it would be clumsy to ask.
“I’m sorry, I am making no sense. My father died a long time ago, and my mother some time before that. His death is something I still find hard to think about. Others loved him and grieved also, but not as I did.” For some minutes she had difficulty keeping her emotions under control. She looked at Charlotte with startling trust, as if there was clearly a friendship between them, but she did not say anything more.
Charlotte thought of her own elder sister’s death: the grief, the fear, the disillusionment that had followed it. It was during that series of murders that she had first met Pitt. She had grown up during that time, had learned to look more honestly at the people she loved. She had tried to accept failure, her own and theirs, and learn not to blame them because they fell short of her idealistic and rather immature perceptions of them.
She had no idea how Adriana’s father had died, but clearly it had been part of some complicated situation that had caused her much pain, if, even now, she would not speak of it.
Charlotte looked around the withdrawing room and chose a lovely, very ornate piece of carving in wood to admire and ask about.
The tension was broken, and Adriana responded with a flush of gratitude, giving an account of its history.
In the dining room, the butler brought in port and cigars; at Blantyre’s request he left them alone. Then the serious conversation began. Blantyre offered no preamble.
“I have looked more closely at the situation, Pitt. I have been obliged to change my mind. I admit, I thought you were being a little hasty and had jumped to conclusions. I was mistaken. I now believe that you are right to consider the danger serious, possibly even as catastrophic as it looks.”
Pitt was stunned.
Blantyre leaned forward. “Of course, the indications are slight: an inquiry about timetables, which seems natural enough; a desire to know how the signals work, in more detail than the average person knows, or wishes to; a technical description of how the points work. They do not indicate to the Foreign Office that there is anything amiss.” He gave a rueful, self-deprecating smile. “To me, knowing the names of the men concerned, it indicates that they plan something large and complicated enough to require the use of men who have killed before, and are willing to cause any number of civilian casualties in order to succeed.”
“Why Duke Alois?” Pitt asked him. “Does he actually have far more political significance than we realize?”
Blantyre’s face was very grave.
“I am unaware that he has any significance at all, but there may be a number of things that have changed since my last accurate bulletin. But even if he does not, this is a far bigger issue than the death of any one man, whoever he is.” He spread his hands on the white cloth. They were lean and strong.
“The Austro-Hungarian Empire is pivotal to the future of Europe. I don’t believe the government of Britain fully realizes that. Perhaps no other government does either. Look at the map, Pitt. The empire is enormous. It lies in the heart of Europe between the rising industrial strengths of the Protestant countries in the west, especially Germany, newly united and growing in power every year, and the old, fractured east, which includes all the quarrelsome Balkan states, and Greece, Macedonia, and of course, Turkey-‘the sick man of Europe.’ ”
Pitt did not interrupt. The brandy sat forgotten, the cigars unlit.
“And to the south is Italy,” Blantyre went on. “Like Germany, it is newly united, but still with that open wound in the north, an Austrian-occupied territory containing some of its most valuable cities. And then there are Serbia, Croatia, Montenegro, and the other Adriatic countries, where the real powder keg lies. Small as they are, if they explode, they could eventually take the whole of Europe with them.”
His hands tightened a little. “And to the north lies the vast, restless bear of Russia: Slavic in its loyalties, Orthodox in its faith. It’s ruled by a tsar in Moscow who hasn’t the faintest idea what really lies in his own people’s hearts, never mind anywhere else.”
Pitt felt cold. He began to understand where Blantyre was going with this train of thought.
“And Austria lies in the heart of it.” Blantyre moved his hand very slightly, as if it lay on a map, not the white linen tablecloth. “The empire has twelve different languages, and a multitude of faiths-Catholic, Orthodox, Muslim, and Jewish. Although admittedly the anti-Semitism is ugly, and rising, still the general tolerance is there. The culture is old and deeply sophisticated, and the government is long practiced at holding the reins of power strongly enough to govern, but lightly enough to give individual countries their breathing space.”
He looked at Pitt, judging his reaction.
“Teutonic Germany is impatient, chomping at the bit of its own power. Bismarck said, ‘chaining the trim, seaworthy frigate of Prussia to the ancient, worm-eaten galleon of Austria.’ We have not taken enough notice of that. The Germans are dangerous and growing increasingly restless. Their young lions are waiting to take down the old. But even that is only peripheral to the real danger. Austria is the heart where all the different interests meet, safely. Remove it, and there is no neutral core. Teutons and Slavs are face-to-face. Protestant, Catholic, Muslim, and Jew have no forum in which to speak familiarly. There is no longer a single culture where all take part.”
Pitt could see the indisputable logic in what Blantyre was saying.
“But why kill a minor member of the Austrian royal family, and here in England? What purpose does that serve?” he asked.
Blantyre smiled, his face tight, eyes bleak. “It doesn’t matter who it is; the victim is incidental. Assassinate him at home and the authorities might be able to cover it up, make it seem like some horrible accident. Do it in England, where they have no control, in the territory of one of the best secret services in Europe, and it cannot be hidden. And no doubt when you catch whoever is responsible, they will unmistakably prove to be Croatian. Austria will have no choice whatsoever except to try him and execute him, then to find all his allies and do the same-do you see?”
Pitt began to see, and the vision was appalling.
Blantyre nodded slowly. “It is in your face. Of course you see. Austria would then be at war with Croatia. Croatia is Slavic. It will appeal to its mighty Russian cousins, who will weigh in on its side, even if not invited to. Then Germany will come in on the side of German-speaking, German-cultural Austria, and before you can stop the landslide, you will have war, the likes of which we have never seen before.”
“No sane man would …” Pitt began, and trailed off.
“No sane man,” Blantyre repeated softly. “How many sane nationalist revolutionaries do you know? How many dynamiters and assassins who see only a few days ahead of them, instead of looking to the future, to six
