Narraway listened to Vespasia with increasing concern. When she had finished she had no doubt that he regarded the matter with even more gravity than she had.
“I see,” he said when she fell silent. “Please don’t speak of it to anyone at this point, especially Pitt. We must not take his attention from Duke Alois at the moment. We have only a little more than a week before he lands in Dover.”
“Is he really only a trivial person, Victor?” she asked.
“If he’s more, I haven’t been able to find out. At the moment it seems likely he is a victim of convenience. It is the crime that matters.”
“I see. And Serafina’s death?”
“Another matter that is not yet concluded.”
“Then I had better leave you to pursue whichever issue you consider most urgent. I apologize for bringing you further concerns.” There was the faintest gleam of humor in her eyes. He understood it perfectly, just as he knew she understood him.
“Not at all,” he murmured, rising to bid her farewell. In other circumstances he would have asked her to stay, but he was already turning over in his mind how he would pursue this new investigation: which favor he would call in, which debts he might collect, upon whom to apply a certain type of pressure.
At the door she hesitated.
“Yes,” he said to her unasked question. “I shall tell you.”
“Thank you, Victor. Good evening.”
Narraway lay awake a great deal of the night, turning over and over in his mind what Vespasia had told him, and how it might fit in with Serafina’s death. He reviewed all the people he had known, in any context, who might be of help. Who could he even ask regarding such a subject as the betraying of confidential information regarding German interests? Was it a deliberate sabotaging of an Anglo-German agreement?
Why? Was it an intended deviousness, something the Foreign Office, specifically Tregarron, had not thought that Jack Radley should know? He was new to his position, perhaps a trifle idealistic, so perhaps not yet to be trusted with less-than-honest dealings?
If that was Tregarron’s judgment, then it was correct. Jack had been troubled, and he had not been able to turn a blind eye.
Narraway decided that the first thing he should do was find out more about Tregarron. The Foreign Office was certainly not above deceit, as long as it was certain it could claim innocence afterward, if it became known.
Where should he begin so that his inquiries would never be learned of by Tregarron himself? The answer came to him with extraordinary clarity. Tregarron had gone to Dorchester Terrace, probably to see Serafina, perhaps to see Nerissa Freemarsh. Had Serafina still been alive, and fully possessed of her wits and her memory, she would have been the ideal person to ask. But surely a great deal of anything she knew, the excellent and loyal Tucker might also know.
He debated whether to take her some gift as an appreciation of her time, and decided that doing so would be clumsy. Perhaps afterward he would. To begin with, simple respect would be the subtlest and most important compliment.
When he arrived at Dorchester Terrace at midmorning the following day, fortune played into his hands. Nerissa was out; Special Branch, thanks to Pitt, was paying for the funeral, but it had left it to Nerissa to deal with the actual arrangements, which had been somewhat delayed because of the necessity for an autopsy.
“I came to see Miss Tucker,” Narraway informed the footman. “It is extremely urgent, or I would not disturb you at such a time.”
The footman let him in and fifteen minutes later Narraway was again sitting before the fire in Mrs. Whiteside’s room. Tucker was perched on the chair opposite him, a tray of tea and thinly sliced bread and butter between them.
“I am sorry to intrude on you again, Miss Tucker, but the matter cannot wait,” he said gravely.
She had poured the tea but it was too hot to drink yet. It sat gently wafting a fragrant steam into the air.
“How can I help you, Lord Narraway? I have told you all I know.”
“This is a completely different matter. At least I believe it is. I would have asked Mrs. Montserrat, were she here to answer me. But as I was turning the matter over and over in my mind, I realized that a great deal of what she knew, you might also know.”
She looked startled, then very distinctly pleased.
He smiled, only faintly. He did not wish her to think him self-satisfied.
“What is it you think I might know?” she inquired, picking up her cup and testing to see if it was cool enough to sip. It was not, and she took instead a slice of bread and butter.
He took one also, then began. “This is of the utmost confidence. I must ask you to speak of it to no one at all, absolutely no one.”
“I shall not,” she promised.
“I shall ask you as I would have asked Mrs. Montserrat. What can you tell me of Lord Tregarron? It is imperative to Britain’s good name, to our honesty in dealing with other countries, most particularly Germany and Austria, that I know the truth.”
She sat very upright in her chair. A tired, proud old woman, at the end of a lifetime of service, was now being asked by a man-a lord-to help her country.
“The present Lord Tregarron, my lord, or his father?” she inquired.
Narraway stiffened, drew in his breath, and then let it out slowly. “Both, I think. But please begin with his father. You were acquainted with him?”
She smiled very slightly, as if at his innocence. “Mrs. Montserrat knew him intimately, my lord, at least for a while. He was married, you understand. Lady Tregarron was a nice woman, very respectable, at times a trifle …” She searched for the right word. “… Tedious.”
“Oh, dear.” Without realizing it, he had exactly mimicked Vespasia’s tone of voice. “I see.” He did see. A vision of endless polite, even affectionate, boredom sketched before him. “Was it love?”
She made a slight move with her lips. “Oh, no, just a romance, a straying to pick flowers that belonged to someone else. Vienna has a certain magic. One is away from home. People forget that it is just as real, just as good, or bad!”
“And did Mrs. Montserrat and Lord Tregarron part with ill feeling, or not?” he asked.
“Enmity, not at all. But ill feeling?” She sipped her tea. “I think Lord Tregarron was very afraid that Lady Tregarron might find out, and that would have troubled him greatly. He loved her. She was his safety, not just the mother of his children-they had one son and several daughters-but also she was socially very well connected. She was a good woman, just unimaginative, and-heaven help her-rather humorless.”
“Who else knew of the affair?”
“I don’t know. People are sometimes more observant than one would wish.”
“I see. And the present Lord Tregarron?”
“I know less of him. He thought well of his father, but even better of his mother. He is devoted to her.”
“But he wasn’t devoted to his father?” he asked.
“There was some estrangement between them,” she answered.
“Did Mrs. Montserrat know why?”
Tucker hesitated.
“Please, Miss Tucker. It may be of some importance,” he pleaded.
“I believe he learned of his father’s affair with Mrs. Montserrat, even though by that time it had been over for many years,” she said reluctantly.
“Thank you, I am very grateful to you.” He picked up his tea. It was at last cool enough to sip.
She frowned. “Is it of use?”
“I’m not sure. I’m not sure at all.” But an idea, vague and ill-defined as yet, was beginning to form in his mind.
