Pitt went to one of the sources that Narraway had mentioned. He took the train on the Great Eastern Line to just beyond Hackney Wick. From there he walked three-quarters of a mile through sporadic sunshine to Plover Road. It overlooked Hackney Marsh, which was flat as a table, and crossed by narrow, winding waterways.
There he found the man whose name Narraway had given him, an Italian who had fought with the Croatian nationalists when Dragovic was one of their leaders. He was well into his eighties now, but still sharp-witted, in spite of failing physical health. When Pitt had identified himself and proved to the man’s satisfaction that he knew Victor Narraway, they sat down together in a small room with a window overlooking the marsh.
Beyond the glass, flights of birds raced across the wide sky, chasing sunlight and shadows, and wind combed the grasses in ever-changing patterns.
“Yes, of course I remember Serafina Montserrat,” the old man said with a smile. He had lost most of his hair, but he still had beautiful teeth. “What man could forget her?”
“What about Lazar Dragovic?” Pitt asked.
The old man’s face filled with sadness. “Killed,” he said briefly. “The Austrians shot him.”
“Executed,” Pitt put in.
“Murdered,” the old man corrected him.
“Wasn’t he planning to assassinate someone?”
The old man’s seamed face twisted with contempt. “A butcher of the people, put there to rule. He had no damned business being set on the throne there. Foreigner. Barely even spoke their language. And he was brutal. Killing
“Was Dragovic betrayed by one of his own?” Pitt asked.
“Yes.” The old man’s eyes burned with the memory. “Of course he was. Never would have been caught otherwise.”
“Do you know who?”
“What does it matter now?” There was weariness and a sudden overwhelming defeat in his voice. He stared out the window. “They’re all dead.”
“Are they?” Pitt asked. “Are you sure?”
“Must be. It was a long time ago. People like that are passionate, vivid. They live with courage and hope, but they burn out.”
“Serafina died only a few weeks ago,” Pitt told him.
He smiled. “Ah … Serafina. God rest her.”
“She was murdered,” Pitt said, feeling brutal to deliver such news.
“Is that why you came?” That was an accusation. “English policeman, with a murder to solve?”
“There have been three deaths counting Lazar Dragovic. And, more urgently, there is the threat of more death to come,” Pitt corrected him. “Who betrayed Lazar Dragovic?”
“Who else is dead? You said three deaths, but Serafin and Lazar makes two.”
“Adriana Dragovic.”
Tears filled the old man’s eyes and slipped down his withered cheeks. “She was a lovely child,” he whispered.
Pitt thought of Adriana, picturing her vividly in his mind: beautiful, delicate, and yet perhaps far stronger than Blantyre had imagined. Or was she? Had she killed Serafina, after all these years? Or not? Why did he still question it? He had all the evidence.
The old man blinked. “When did it happen? When?”
“A few days ago.”
“How? Was she ill? She was fragile as a child. Lung diseases, I think. But …” He sighed. “I thought she was better. It’s so easy to wish. But you said only a few days ago? Was it her lungs still?”
“No. She killed herself. But I don’t know why, not for certain.”
The old man blinked again. “What can I tell you all this time later that can help? It was all long ago. Dragovic is dead; so are those who fought with him. And now you say Serafina and Adriana are dead too. What could I know that matters anymore?”
“Who betrayed Dragovic,” Pitt answered.
“Do you think if I knew, that person would still be alive? I would’ve killed him long ago!” The old man’s voice shook with anger. His face was crumpled, his eyes wet.
“Did Serafina know?” Pitt persisted.
Seconds ticked by and the silence in the room remained unbroken. More cloud shadows chased one another over the marsh. There would be rain before sunset.
Pitt waited.
“I’m not sure,” the old man said at last. “I didn’t think so, at first. Later I began to wonder.”
“Weren’t she and Dragovic lovers?”
“Yes. That’s why I was sure at first that she didn’t know. She’d have taken her revenge if she had, I thought. She grieved for him, inside. Few people saw it, but it was there. I’m not sure it ever really healed.”
“You are certain of that?”
“Of course I am. I knew Serafina.” Now there was anger in the old man’s voice, a challenge.
Pitt wondered how well he had known her. Had he been her lover too? Might Dragovic’s betrayal have been nothing political at all, but an old-fashioned triangle of love and jealousy?
“Did you know her well?” he asked.
The old man smiled, showing the beautiful teeth again. “Yes, very well. And before you ask, yes, we were lovers, before Dragovic. But you dishonor me if you think I would betray the cause out of personal jealousy. The cause came first, always.”
“For everyone?”
“Yes! For everyone!” Anger flared in his eyes, against Pitt, because he was young and knew nothing about their passion and their loss.
“Then, logically, whoever betrayed Dragovic was secretly on the side of a different cause.” Pitt stated the only conclusion.
The old man nodded slowly. “Yes, that must be so.”
“But if Serafina knew, why wouldn’t she expose that person?”
“She would have. She cannot have known. I was wrong.”
“When did you think she might have learned?”
“Oh … ten, maybe fifteen years later.”
“How would she have found out, so long after?”
“I’ve thought about that too, and I don’t know.”
“Are you certain it was not Serafina herself?” Pitt loathed asking, but it was unavoidable.
“Serafina?” The old man was shocked, and angry again, sitting more upright in his chair. “Never!”
“Then perhaps it was someone she loved.” It was the most obvious conclusion.
“No. Men came and went. There was no one she would have forgiven for betraying Dragovic.” His voice was filled with cutting contempt. Pitt could imagine the young man he must have been, slightly built but wiry, handsome, filled with passion.
“Are you certain?” he probed.
“Yes. The only person she loved that much was Dragovic’s child, Adriana.”
Adriana had been only eight when her father was killed. Could she have let something slip by accident, something that ended up killing her father? Was that terrible realization what Blantyre had been trying to protect her from? If Serafina had told her in one of her ramblings, little wonder that Adriana had gone home and killed herself.
Except the timing made no sense. If she had found out such a thing, surely she would’ve been wild with distress on the day Serafina told her, driven to take her life then, not several days and social engagements later. And why would she kill Serafina for that?
The old man was studying his face. “What is it?” he asked anxiously. “Do you know something?”
“No, I don’t,” Pitt replied. “What I was thinking makes no sense. But Serafina knew. That’s why she was killed, to prevent her from telling anyone else.”
