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Authors: Anne Perry
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finding out will give me something worthwhile to do. I shall be in touch with you as soon as I learn anything beyond what you already know.”
“Thank you, Victor. I am grateful to you.”
He smiled. “I can do nothing tonight. Have some more wine and let us finish the pâté.”
T HE FOLLOWING MORNING NARRAWAY began to search for any reference he could find to Serafina Montserrat. In the past he would have had access to Special Branch files. Or—even more simply—he could have gone to his predecessor and asked him for whatever information he could recall. But now he had no authority, no position from which to ask anything, and—perhaps more important—no ability to demand that whatever he said be kept private.
He could have gone to Pitt, but Pitt had enough to be concerned with in his new command. Moreover, he certainly would know nothing himself; he was far too young. He had been a child at the time of Serafina’s activities.
Narraway began at his club on the Strand, approaching one of the oldest members quite casually. He learned nothing at all. A second inquiry gained him exactly the same result.
By midafternoon he had exhausted the obvious avenues, which were certainly few enough. He did not want to raise interest or suspicion, so he had kept his questions very general. He simply asked about the times and places that concerned Serafina, but mentioned no individual people. The answers had been interesting: memories of a yearthat had contained a brief hope for freedom, a hope that remained elusive, even now. Vespasia’s name had come up briefly, but not Serafina’s. If indeed she had known anything of danger or embarrassment to anyone, she had kept her own counsel quite remarkably.
By late afternoon it was growing colder, and he was beginning to believe that Serafina’s imagination was a great deal more colorful than the reality had been. Walking briskly across Russell Square under the bare, dripping trees, he accepted that he would have to go to a more direct source and ask his questions openly.
He smiled at his own inadequacy. He should have more sympathy with Serafina Montserrat, especially if she had been as dynamic as Vespasia had said. To lose power, he thought, is like watching yourself fade away, pieces of you slipping out of your control and vanishing so that you grow ever smaller and more helpless, until there is nothing left of you except a tiny heart that knows its own existence, but can do little to affect anything else.
He should have more pity for the old, treat them with the same dignity he would have given someone more powerful than he. He made the resolution then and there to do so, hoping he would always be able to keep it.
He came out in Woburn Place and hailed a passing hansom. Giving the driver his home address, he climbed in with some relief.
T HE NEXT DAY HE telephoned Lord Tregarron at the Foreign Office, an acquaintance from his days at Special Branch. He arranged to call upon him that evening. Tregarron’s father had been dead some years now, but he had been an expert on the Austro-Hungarian Empire. He had spoken both German and Hungarian, the predominant two of the twelve different languages spoken among the mass of peoples and nationalities that had been loosely joined in the empire.
Narraway spent most of the day reading in the library of the British Museum, reminding himself of the history of the Austro-Hungarian Empire in the last fifty to sixty years, the empire that claimed to be the descendant of the Holy Roman Empire of medieval Europe, heir of the might and influence of Rome itself. He read about the variousrebellions of each of its constituent parts, their passion to gain more autonomy.
Serafina was Italian. Venice and Trieste were swallowed up by Austria, losing their ancient culture and their ties to their own people. Venice had regained its freedom, but Trieste and its surrounds had not yet done so.
But he found little mention of Serafina’s name, and even
“Thank you, Victor. I am grateful to you.”
He smiled. “I can do nothing tonight. Have some more wine and let us finish the pâté.”
T HE FOLLOWING MORNING NARRAWAY began to search for any reference he could find to Serafina Montserrat. In the past he would have had access to Special Branch files. Or—even more simply—he could have gone to his predecessor and asked him for whatever information he could recall. But now he had no authority, no position from which to ask anything, and—perhaps more important—no ability to demand that whatever he said be kept private.
He could have gone to Pitt, but Pitt had enough to be concerned with in his new command. Moreover, he certainly would know nothing himself; he was far too young. He had been a child at the time of Serafina’s activities.
Narraway began at his club on the Strand, approaching one of the oldest members quite casually. He learned nothing at all. A second inquiry gained him exactly the same result.
By midafternoon he had exhausted the obvious avenues, which were certainly few enough. He did not want to raise interest or suspicion, so he had kept his questions very general. He simply asked about the times and places that concerned Serafina, but mentioned no individual people. The answers had been interesting: memories of a yearthat had contained a brief hope for freedom, a hope that remained elusive, even now. Vespasia’s name had come up briefly, but not Serafina’s. If indeed she had known anything of danger or embarrassment to anyone, she had kept her own counsel quite remarkably.
By late afternoon it was growing colder, and he was beginning to believe that Serafina’s imagination was a great deal more colorful than the reality had been. Walking briskly across Russell Square under the bare, dripping trees, he accepted that he would have to go to a more direct source and ask his questions openly.
He smiled at his own inadequacy. He should have more sympathy with Serafina Montserrat, especially if she had been as dynamic as Vespasia had said. To lose power, he thought, is like watching yourself fade away, pieces of you slipping out of your control and vanishing so that you grow ever smaller and more helpless, until there is nothing left of you except a tiny heart that knows its own existence, but can do little to affect anything else.
He should have more pity for the old, treat them with the same dignity he would have given someone more powerful than he. He made the resolution then and there to do so, hoping he would always be able to keep it.
He came out in Woburn Place and hailed a passing hansom. Giving the driver his home address, he climbed in with some relief.
T HE NEXT DAY HE telephoned Lord Tregarron at the Foreign Office, an acquaintance from his days at Special Branch. He arranged to call upon him that evening. Tregarron’s father had been dead some years now, but he had been an expert on the Austro-Hungarian Empire. He had spoken both German and Hungarian, the predominant two of the twelve different languages spoken among the mass of peoples and nationalities that had been loosely joined in the empire.
Narraway spent most of the day reading in the library of the British Museum, reminding himself of the history of the Austro-Hungarian Empire in the last fifty to sixty years, the empire that claimed to be the descendant of the Holy Roman Empire of medieval Europe, heir of the might and influence of Rome itself. He read about the variousrebellions of each of its constituent parts, their passion to gain more autonomy.
Serafina was Italian. Venice and Trieste were swallowed up by Austria, losing their ancient culture and their ties to their own people. Venice had regained its freedom, but Trieste and its surrounds had not yet done so.
But he found little mention of Serafina’s name, and even
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