Still, she looked like a tigress, only temporarily made friendly by warmth and good food.”
The smile of memory left his face. “The second was in a forest. She came on horseback, slim as a whip, and lithe. She dismounted easily and walked with such grace, wearing trousers, of course, and carrying a pistol. What is it you need to know? If you are looking for whoever murdered her, it could have been any of a hundred people, for any of a hundred reasons.”
“Now, in 1896?” Pitt said skeptically.
Ffitch bit his lip. “Point taken, sir. No, not now. But some of those old victories and losses still matter, at least to those who were involved. It sounds as if you’re looking for something that came to light only recently, but from some old story?”
“Looks like it,” Pitt replied.
Ffitch pursed his lips. “So something she remembered, and let slip in her confusion of mind, affects someone alive today so deeply that the betrayal of it still matters.” He nodded slowly. “Interesting. There were some bad things. Some treason against England in Vienna, but I never knew who was involved. I tried very hard to find out because it was important. Quite a lot of information went from the British Embassy to the Austrians, and it embarrassed us severely. Not being able to stop it was one of my worst failures.” He could not hide the distress in his face.
Pitt hated embarrassing him, but he pressed the matter further. “Was it ever widely known within Special Branch?”
Ffitch looked at him bleakly. “No, not when I retired. If they had learned, I like to think someone would have told me. Perhaps I delude myself as to either my own importance or the regard they had for me.”
“I doubt that,” Pitt replied, hoping it was true. “I think at least Victor Narraway would have spoken of it, because if he had known, he would not have agreed that it was good for me to come out here and trouble you now.”
“Ah … yes, Victor Narraway. Always thought he would do well. Clever man. Ruthless, in his own way. Wondered why he left. Would have thought he had many good years in him yet. But I don’t imagine you’ll tell me.” His eyes narrowed. He looked at Pitt closely, quite openly assessing his ability, and almost certainly also his nerve.
Pitt waited, taking another piece of cake.
Ffitch sighed at last. “Serafina might have known,” he said thoughtfully. “Perhaps that was what she was afraid of.” He shook his head, the firelight flushing his cheeks. “In her prime she could keep a secret better than the grave. What a damn shame.”
“Adriana Blantyre,” Pitt said softly.
Ffitch blinked. “Blantyre? Evan Blantyre was young then, but clever, very clever. Always at the edge of things, never in the middle-at least that’s how it looked from the outside.”
“What things?” Pitt asked.
Ffitch looked surprised. “Plots to gain greater freedom from the Austrian yoke, what else? Italian plots, Croatian plots, even the odd Hungarian plot, although most Hungarians were willing enough to pay lip service to Vienna, and carry on with whatever they wanted to do in Budapest.”
“Not Serafina?”
“Certainly not. You want to know about the ones that went badly wrong? Of course you do. They all went wrong somehow. Most simply failed, fizzled out, or succeeded for a few months. One or two ended really badly, men shot before they could succeed, tricked or trapped one way or another. Probably the best organized, the bravest of the fighters, was Lazar Dragovic. Fine man. Handsome, funny, a dreamer with intelligence and courage.”
“But he failed …” The conclusion was obvious.
Ffitch’s eyes were sad.
“He was betrayed. Never knew by whom. But yes, he failed. The rest of the people involved escaped, but Dragovic was summarily executed. They beat him right there on the spot, trying to get the names of the others, but he died without telling them anything. They put the gun to his head and shot him, kneeling on the ground.” Even so long after, the misery of it pinched Ffitch’s face.
“Might Serafina have known who betrayed him?” Pitt asked quietly.
“Yes. I suppose so. But I’ve no idea why she wouldn’t have done something about it-shot whoever it was herself. I would have. She cared for Dragovic, perhaps more than for any of her other lovers. If she knew and did nothing, she must have had a devil of a good reason.”
“What sort of reason?” Pitt asked.
Ffitch considered for a few moments. “Hard to think of one. Perhaps it would’ve affected the lives of others, possibly several others? A better revenge? But Serafina wasn’t one to wait; she would’ve taken whatever chance she could get at the time.” He turned and looked into the flames of the fire. “I did hear a story-I don’t know if it’s true-that Dragovic’s eight-year-old daughter was there and saw her father executed. They say Serafina had to choose between going after the man who was behind Dragovic’s betrayal, or saving the child. She did what she knew Dragovic would have wanted, which was of course saving the child.” He turned from the flames and looked at Pitt, eyes filled with sudden understanding. “The child’s name was Adriana-Adriana Dragovic.”
The room was so quiet Pitt heard the coals settle in the grate.
“What did she look like?” he asked.
“No idea, but she had delicate health. I don’t even know if she lived.”
Pitt was already certain in his mind as to the answer. “She did,” he said quietly.
Ffitch stared at him. “Adriana Blantyre?”
“I believe so, but I will find out.”
Ffitch nodded, and reached to pour them both a third cup of tea.
Pitt looked through all the old records he could find dating back thirty years to the story of Lazar Dragovic, his attempted uprising, his betrayal, and his death. There was very little, but it removed any doubt that Adriana Dragovic was his daughter, and that she had later married Evan Blantyre.
There was also little room for doubt that it was Serafina Montserrat who had taken the child Adriana from the scene of the execution, and looked after her until she could be left with her grandparents.
What was conspicuously missing was any statement indicating who had betrayed Dragovic to the Austrians, resulting in the failure of the uprising and Dragovic’s own torture and murder.
Had Adriana found out who it was, after all these years? Or had she listened to Serafina’s ramblings and imagined that she had learned the truth?
What damage had been done to her when she had seen her father killed? What trust had been warped forever? Pitt had spent his professional life tearing the surface from secrets so well hidden that no one else had imagined them. He had found scorching pain concealed by facades of a dozen sorts: duty, obedience, faith, sacrifice. He had seen rage so silent that it had been completely overlooked, until the dam burst and everyone in its path was destroyed.
All sorts of emotions can mask themselves as something else, until they grow too unbearable. That could be as true of Adriana Blantyre as of anyone.
Pitt was too late getting home that evening to visit Blantyre, but he did so the following morning. He could not afford to allow any more time to slip through his fingers.
He arrived at Blantyre’s house early, in case Evan had intended to go anywhere other than to his office.
“Another development?” Blantyre said with surprise when Pitt was shown into his study. He was busy answering correspondence; notepaper and envelopes were stacked on the corner of the desk, the cap was off the inkwell, an elegant thing in the shape of a sleeping lion, and there was a pen in his hand.
“I apologize for disturbing you,” Pitt began.
“I assume it must be necessary.” Blantyre put his pen down and recapped the ink. “Something has happened? More word of Duke Alois? Please sit, and tell me.”
He indicated a comfortable, leather-padded captain’s chair.
Pitt obeyed.
“It is the death of Serafina Montserrat that concerns me today,” he answered. “I don’t know whether it’s
