“That doesn’t explain why Adriana killed herself,” the old man said. “Unless she killed Serafina to silence her, and then couldn’t take the guilt of it. But what reason could she have had to do that?”
“To protect her husband.” Pitt had spoken the words before he realized the full impact of what he was saying.
“Her husband?” The old man was aghast. “Evan Blantyre?”
Pitt looked at him, studying the fragile skin, the deep lines, the strength in the bones. In its own way, it was a beautiful face. “Yes-Evan Blantyre.”
The old man crossed himself. “Yes … God forgive us all, that would make sense. That would be why Serafina never told. She didn’t know it until later, when Blantyre returned and courted Adriana. He must have let something slip, and Serafina put it together.”
“And she let Adriana marry him?” Pitt asked incredulously.
“How was she going to stop it? They were in love, passionately and completely. Adriana was beautiful, but she had nothing: no money, no status. She was the orphan daughter of a traitor to the empire, an executed criminal. And Serafina probably had no proof, only her own inner certainty.” He shrugged his thin shoulders. “Not that proof would have made a difference. Blantyre would have been regarded as a hero by the Viennese emperor. No, she would have kept her silence and let Adriana be happy. She was delicate, needing someone to look after her, to help her regain her health. In poverty, she would have been left to die young and alone. Serafina never had a child of her own. Adriana was the only thing left of the man she loved.”
Pitt tried to imagine it: Serafina watching the marriage of Adriana to the man who had betrayed them both. And perhaps that was it: the depth of real love, more powerful than the need for revenge, and deeper, infinitely more selfless than any kind of hate or hunger for justice. He felt a pain in his chest and a tightness in his throat; tears glistened in the old man’s eyes.
The first drops of rain spattered against the windows.
If Blantyre had betrayed Lazar Dragovic, and Serafina knew it, then she might well have let something slip to Adriana. And if Adriana had confronted Blantyre with it, what would he have done?
Serafina was terrified that she would say something that sooner or later would lead to the truth. That made perfect sense. But Blantyre must have also feared that it would happen, so he killed her to prevent it. Then when Adriana knew Serafina had been murdered-and realized she was about to be blamed for it by Pitt-she had killed herself in despair!
Or Blantyre thought that Adriana would put together all the different things Serafina had said and deduce the truth, so with terrible, agonizing regret, he had killed her, to protect himself.
Everything suddenly crystalized in Pitt’s mind: the detail with which Blantyre had explained to Pitt and Charlotte the crucial place of the Austrian Empire in European politics, the passion he had shown while discussing the subject. Was he right? Was the empire’s survival necessary to the continued peace of Europe?
Perhaps it was.
It did not excuse the murder of Serafina Montserrat. Even less did it excuse the murder of Adriana.
Pitt rose to his feet. “Thank you, sir,” he said gravely. “You have saved the good name of two women who were murdered and defamed. I will do all I can to see that that injustice is corrected, but I may not be able to do it quickly. Believe me, I will not forget or abandon it.”
The old man nodded slowly. “Good,” he said with conviction. “Good.”
On the train home, Pitt stared out the window, even though it was streaked with rain and there was little he could see. He ignored the other two men sitting in the carriage reading newspapers.
If Blantyre had been with Serafina long enough to hear that she knew the truth, then he must’ve spent quite a lot of time with her. How often had he visited her? Why had neither Adriana nor Nerissa mentioned it?
The answer to the first was simple: Adriana might not have known.
The answer to the second was more complicated. Nerissa could not escape knowing, unless Blantyre had visited when she was out of the house, possibly in the afternoons. The more probable answer was that she did know, and had chosen not to tell Pitt. Had that been to protect herself, because she had allowed him to see Serafina without anyone else in the room? Or-more likely-to protect him from suspicion, perhaps because he had asked her to? Or-most likely of all-because he was her lover?
Except what, in heaven’s name, would the brilliant, charming Evan Blantyre see in a woman like Nerissa Freemarsh? But then, who knew what anyone saw in another person? The outer appearance was trivial, if one understood the mind or the heart. Perhaps she was generous, easy to please, uncritical. Maybe she listened to him with genuine interest, laughed at his jokes, never contradicted him or compared him with others. It could be as simple as that she loved him unconditionally, and asked nothing in return, except a little time, a little kindness, or the semblance of it. Perhaps it was in defiance of the beautiful, and maybe demanding, Adriana?
The rain beat harder on the carriage window now, and it was growing dark outside. The rattle of the train was rhythmic, soothing.
The most likely explanation of all was that Blantyre had visited Dorchester Terrace once with Adriana, realized how dangerously Serafina was rambling, and secured for himself an ostensible reason for returning again and again so he could figure out just how great the danger might be.
Then a new thought occurred to Pitt: Blantyre could’ve learned from Serafina’s disintegrating mind any other secret she might know about anyone or anything else. He might now have stored in his own mind all the secrets Serafina was so afraid she would let slip: names of men and women who had participated in indiscretions of all sorts, over half of Europe, for the last forty years.
Most of them were probably trivial: affairs, illegitimate children, romantic betrayals as opposed to political ones; possibly thefts or embezzlements, purchases of office, blackmails or coercions. The list was almost endless.
What would Blantyre do with them? That was a troubling thought, but it might have to wait until after Duke Alois had safely completed his visit.
But then, had Blantyre gained his knowledge about the assassination plot from Serafina? It did not seem possible. Serafina had been ill and confined to her bed for half a year. It was far longer than that since she had been involved in any affairs of state in England or Austria.
Was it even conceivable that Duke Alois was connected with someone else from that time? That seemed fanciful in the extreme. Pitt was skeptical of coincidences. Ordinary police work had taught him that, even before Special Branch. But on the other hand, it was equally foolish to imagine that everything was connected, or to see cause and effect where there was none.
He sat back and let the rhythm and movement of the train lull him into near sleep. It was still at least half an hour before he would reach the station in London, and then as long again before he was home.
Pitt found Charlotte waiting for him, with the kettle on the burner and the fire still burning in the parlor. He stood by the scrubbed table as she made tea and cut him a sandwich of cold beef and pickles. He glanced at the basket beside the stove and saw the little dog, Uffie, half asleep, her nose twitching as she smelled the meat.
He smiled, took a tiny piece from where Charlotte had sliced it, and offered it to the dog. She snapped it up immediately.
“Thomas, I’ve already fed her!” Charlotte smiled.
He picked up the tray and carried it through to the parlor. He had not realized how hungry he was, or how cold. He set it down and watched while she poured tea for both of them. The room was warm and silent except for the slight crackling of the flames in the hearth, and, now and then, the sound of wind and rain on the windowpanes beyond the closed curtains. He glanced at the familiar pictures on the walls: the Dutch water scene he was so used to, with its soft colors, blues and grays, calm as a still morning. On the other wall was a drawing of cows grazing. There was something very beautiful about cows, a kind of certainty that always pleased him. Perhaps that was based on some memory from childhood.
Charlotte was watching him, waiting.
How much could he tell her? He could fail to see something important, something she might catch. Especially if it was based on something Adriana had told her that she had not previously understood the relevance of.
On the other hand, there were the promises of secrecy he had made regarding his office in Special Branch. If he could not be trusted to keep them, he was no use to anyone, and no protection to Charlotte herself. He must
