9
Pitt felt uncomfortable sitting in the big carved chair behind the desk that used to be Narraway’s and looking at Narraway himself sitting opposite, as a visitor. It was only months since their positions had been reversed.
Narraway was smartly dressed, as always: slim and elegant, his dark suit perfectly cut, his thick hair immaculate. But he was worried. The lines in his face were deeply etched, his expression without even the shadow of a smile.
It was just a few days until Duke Alois would arrive at Dover.
“I’ve just come from Dorchester Terrace,” Narraway said without hesitation. “It’s not impossible that Serafina’s murder was domestic, but it’s extremely unlikely.”
“Who was it?” Pitt was saddened by the events at Dorchester Terrace, but not yet concerned. The infinitely deeper question of Duke Alois’s possible assassination engaged all his attention.
“It seems most likely that it was Adriana Blantyre,” Narraway replied. His voice was low, his face pinched with regret.
“Adriana Blantyre?” Pitt repeated, as if saying it aloud would make Narraway correct him, explain that she was not really who he had meant.
“I’m sorry,” Narraway said gravely. “I know that you have had great help from her husband, and that you like Adriana herself, but I can see no reasonable alternative.”
“There has to be,” Pitt protested. “Why in God’s name would Adriana Blantyre murder Mrs. Montserrat? How well did they even know each other? It makes no sense!”
Narraway sighed. “Pitt, you’re thinking with your emotions. Use your brain. There are a dozen ways in which it might make sense. The most obvious connection is Blantyre himself. He is an expert on the Austrian Empire, against whose dominion in Italy Serafina spent most of her life fighting. They would have had a hundred acquaintances in common, friends and enemies. There could have been a score of causes on which they were on opposite sides.”
“Causes that still matter now?” Pitt asked with an edge of disbelief. Adriana was at least a generation younger than Serafina. True, she was loyal to the country of her birth. He had seen her face light up at the mere mention of it. But she had been in England now for more than ten years, and Pitt had never seen her show more than a passing interest in politics, nothing to suggest that she had ever been actively involved in them before or was now.
“Did Nerissa suggest it? Perhaps she is trying to move suspicion away from herself to the only other person she could think of,” he said.
“Possibly,” Narraway conceded. “But Adriana was there at Dorchester Terrace the night Serafina died, and she was alone with her. Tucker confirmed that. We will probably never know what Serafina said that was the catalyst, but she was rambling, raking up all sorts of old memories, in bits and pieces that made little sense. We need to know a great deal more about Adriana Blantyre’s past, and what Serafina might have inadvertently given away about it. I’m sorry.
“I can’t do it,” Narraway went on, a slight edge to his voice, a self-lacerating humor. “You’ll need to look at Special Branch records, such as we have, of old Austrian and Croatian plots, things Serafina might have been involved in, or known about. There isn’t very much, and I can tell you where it’s filed.”
Pitt was pleased not to see regret in Narraway’s eyes, or anything to suggest a sense of feeling excluded or isolated.
“I’ll look,” he said quietly. “Are we sure no one else could have been in the house?”
“Not according to Tucker. But Blantyre himself and Tregarron were both there that week.”
Pitt stiffened. “Tregarron? Whatever for?”
“To see Serafina. They would hardly have gone to see Nerissa, except as courtesy demanded. At least on the surface.”
“The surface?” Pitt raised his eyebrows.
“There is still the question of Nerissa’s lover,” Narraway said drily.
“So Tregarron knew Serafina?” Pitt picked up the original thread. “Or else he went because of the questions I asked him about Duke Alois.”
“Presumably.”
“Thank you.”
Narraway smiled and rose to his feet. “Don’t sidestep any part of this matter, Pitt,” he warned. “You need to have the truth, whatever you decide to do about it.”
Pitt read all the files about the Austrian oppression and revolts of the last forty years. They were exactly where Narraway had said they would be. He learned very little of use, except where to find a certain elderly gentleman named Peter Ffitch, who had once served in Special Branch, and had an encyclopedic memory. He had retired twenty years earlier and was a widower now, living quietly in a small village in Oxfordshire.
Pitt caught the next train and was in Banbury just after lunchtime. He then took a small branch line further into the country, and after a stiff walk through the rain, arrived at Ffitch’s steeply thatched house on a cobbled road off the main street.
The door was answered by a dark-haired woman of uncertain years, a white apron tied over a plain brown skirt and blouse. She looked at him with suspicion.
Pitt introduced himself, with proof of his identity, and told her that it was extremely important that he speak with Mr. Ffitch. After some persuasion she admitted him.
Ffitch must have been in his eighties, with the mild features of a child and quite a lot of white hair. Only when Pitt looked more closely into his eyes did he see the startling intelligence there, and a spark of humor, even pleasure, at the prospect of being questioned.
At Ffitch’s request the woman, mollified by his assurances, brought them tea and a generous portion of cake, and then left them alone.
“Well,” Ffitch said with satisfaction. “It must be important to bring the new head of Special Branch all the way out here. Murder or high treason, at the least. How can I help?” He rubbed his hands together. They were surprisingly strong hands, not touched by age or rheumatism. He reached forward and put several more pieces of coal on the fire, as if settling in for the full afternoon. “What can I tell you?”
Pitt allowed himself to enjoy the cake and tea. The cake was rich and full of fruit, and the tea was hot. He realized momentarily how long the train journey had seemed, and how chilly the carriage had been. He decided to tell Ffitch the truth, at least as far as Serafina was concerned.
“Oh, dear,” Ffitch said when Pitt was finished. His seemingly bland face was filled with grief, altering it completely. “What a sad way for such a marvelous woman to end. But perhaps whoever killed her did not do her such a great disservice.”
“Perhaps not,” Pitt agreed. “But I still need to know who it was, and why.”
“For justice?” Ffitch said curiously.
“Because I need to know the players in this particular drama, and what their ultimate goal is,” Pitt corrected him. “There is very much on the table currently, to win or lose.”
“Well, well.” Ffitch smiled, his body relaxing. “I am often reminded that not even the past is safe. Strange business we are in. More than most people, our old ghosts keep haunting us.” He frowned. “But you speak of present danger. Have some more tea, and tell me what I can do.”
“Thank you,” Pitt accepted. He glanced around the room. Ffitch may have lived in many countries, but the room was English to the bone. There were Hogarth cartoon prints on the walls, and leather-bound books on the five shelves on the far wall. From what Pitt could see they were mostly history and some of the great works of literature and commentary. He saw the light flicker on the gold lettering of Gibbon’s
Ffitch poured the tea and passed Pitt back his cup.
“Serafina,” Ffitch said thoughtfully. “I knew a lot about her, but I only ever met her a few times.” He smiled. “The first was at a ball in Berlin. I remember it very well. She was dressed in gold, very soft, like an evening sky.
