me?” She shook herself a little and glared at him. “I will hold you responsible if you have them walk out in terror and leave me alone here.”
It was not graceful, but it was a reasonable statement. If it was even remotely possible that someone had indeed broken in, then she had a right to be afraid.
“I will check the windows and doors myself, Miss Freemarsh,” he promised. “There is no need for any of your servants to be aware that Mrs. Montserrat’s death was anything but natural, unless you choose to tell them.”
“Thank you.” She gulped. “How am I supposed to explain your presence here?”
“Mrs. Montserrat was a woman of great distinction, to whom the country owes a debt,” he replied. “We are taking care of the arrangements for her funeral, and you will not argue with us over this. It will explain my continued presence perfectly.”
She let out her breath with a sigh. “Yes. Yes, that will do. I am obliged. Now what is it you wish to look at? Will it wait until tomorrow?”
“No, it will not. I’m sure your housekeeping staff is excellent. They may unintentionally remove all trace of anyone having broken in, if indeed such a thing happened.”
“I … see. Then I suppose you had better look. Although it is more than possible that they have removed such a thing already.”
Pitt gave a very tiny smile. “Of course.” But if he waited until the following day, it would allow her time to
She obeyed without speaking again. They went to every door and window one by one, any place where anyone could possibly have gained entry. As he had expected, he found nothing that proved, or disproved, that someone might have broken in. He examined the key to the cupboard where the laudanum was kept, then the cupboard itself. It was all exactly as he had been told.
He thanked Nerissa and left.
Outside in the lamplit street, wind-whipped and cold, he hailed the first hansom he could find, and gave the driver Narraway’s address. He climbed in and sat sunk in thought as they bowled along, almost oblivious of where he was.
In spite of Vespasia’s fears, he had not expected the doctor’s findings. Suddenly the world that Serafina had apparently hinted at had become real, and he was not prepared for it. When Vespasia had told him everything, it had sounded very much like the ramblings of an old woman who was losing her grip on life and longed to be thought important and interesting for just a little longer. He had to admit he had assumed that Vespasia was seeing in Serafina a ghost of what might happen to herself one day, and was exercising kindness rather than critical judgment.
Now he needed Narraway’s opinion, something to balance the thoughts that teemed in his own mind. Narraway, of all people, would not be swayed by fancy.
It did not occur to him until he was almost at Narraway’s door that at this time in the early evening he might very well not be at home. He felt a sense of desperation rise inside himself and leaned forward, as if traveling faster would somehow solve the problem. He realized the stupidity of it and leaned back again with a sigh.
The hansom pulled up and he asked the driver to wait. There was no purpose in staying here if Narraway was out. He could be gone all evening. He was free to do as he wished-even take a vacation, if he cared to.
But the manservant told him Narraway was at home. As soon as he had paid the hansom, Pitt went in and was shown to the sparse, elegant sitting room with its book-lined walls. The fire sent warmth into every corner, and the heavy velvet curtains were drawn against the night.
Pitt did not bother with niceties. They knew each other too well, and had long ago dispensed with trivia. Now the balance was more even between them. Though Narraway was the elder, the command was Pitt’s.
“Serafina Montserrat is dead,” Pitt said quietly. “She died some time during the night before last.”
“I know,” Narraway replied gravely. “Vespasia told me. What is there about it that concerns you? Is it not better that she went before her mind lost all its grasp, and fear and confusion had taken over? She was once a great woman. The cruelties of old age are … very harsh.” He waited, dark eyes steady on Pitt’s, knowing that there had to be something else. Pitt would not have come simply to share grief. “Did she say anything dangerous before she died?”
“I don’t know,” Pitt answered. “It seems possible, even more so than I thought. She died of an overdose of laudanum.” He saw Narraway flinch but he did not interrupt. “According to the postmortem, it was many times the medically correct amount,” Pitt continued. “Miss Freemarsh said that the bottle was kept locked in a cupboard in the maid’s pantry, and was higher than Mrs. Montserrat could have reached, even had she had the key. I checked and she is right. I questioned the lady’s maid, Tucker, and she agrees. I searched the house, and while it is not impossible that someone broke in, there is nothing that indicates it.”
Narraway bit his lip, his face troubled. “I assume there is no possibility she could have accidentally been given a large dose? Or that she deliberately took it?”
“No, the doctor has assured me that it couldn’t have been done unknowingly. And she didn’t handle the bottle herself, which rules out deliberately too, unless Tucker helped her.”
“A killing performed out of mercy to hasten what was inevitable, but before Serafina betrayed all that she had valued?” Narraway asked. “Not a pleasant thought, but imaginable, in extreme circumstances?” His lips tightened into a bitter line. “I think I would be grateful if someone were to do that for me.”
Pitt considered it. He tried to picture the frail, elderly maid, after a lifetime of service, doing her desperate mistress the last kindness she could, the final act of loyalty to the past. It made perfect sense, and yet, thinking of Tucker’s face, he could not believe it.
“No. After having spoken to Tucker, I don’t believe that she would do such a thing.”
“Not even to save Serafina from having the same thing done to her by somebody else, perhaps more brutally? Not a quiet going to sleep from which she didn’t waken, but perhaps strangling, or suffocating with a quick, hard pillow over the face?” Narraway asked. “This would have been gentle. If not Tucker, perhaps the niece, Miss Freemarsh? She could have done it as easily.”
“I thought of that,” Pitt replied. “But I don’t think the niece has any understanding of what Serafina accomplished in the past, or any profound loyalty to her. The possibility that someone else coerced Tucker into it is more likely, but I don’t believe that either.”
“Reason? Instinct?”
“Instinct,” Pitt replied. “But they could have gotten to the niece. That’s possible. And I think she’s lying about the circumstances of Mrs. Montserrat’s death, at least to some degree. There are two reasons I can see as to why she might lie. One, a certain amount of fairly natural resentment could blossom out of spending one’s youth as a dependent, a companion and housekeeper, while childbearing years slip away.”
Narraway winced. “You make it sound pretty grim.”
“It is pretty grim. But it’s better than not having a roof over your head,” Pitt pointed out. “Which may well have been her only alternative. I’ll have it looked into, just in case it matters.”
“And the other reason?”
“I think she has a lover.”
Narraway smiled. “So her life is not as grim as you painted it, after all?”
“Depends on who he is, and what he’s after,” Pitt responded drily. The thought flickered through his head that Narraway seemed to know comparatively little about women. It was a surprise to perceive how having a wife, and also children, was such a large advantage in that sense.
Narraway was watching him, his face grave, an intense sadness in his eyes.
“Poor Serafina,” he said softly. “Murdered after all.” He rubbed the heel of his hand across his face. “Damn! If someone killed her, it means she knew things that still matter. She had all sorts of connections in the whole Balkan area: Austria, Hungary, Serbia, Croatia, Macedonia, and of course most of all in northern Italy. She was part of all the nationalist uprisings from ’48 onward. If there’s something brewing now, she might have known who was involved: connections, old debts.”
Pitt did not have to weigh whether he should tell Narraway about the current assassination threat. It was never a possibility in his mind that Narraway would betray anything.
“We have word that there might be an assassination attempt on Duke Alois Habsburg when he visits here in a couple of weeks,” he said very quietly. He did not yet want to tell Narraway what a bloody and violent plan it
