Bedford Square

6

TELLMAN NEEDED to know more about Albert Cole, most particularly his comings and goings in the last few days of his life. So far every additional fact had only added to the confusion. He must go back to the beginning and start again. The best place for that was Cole’s lodgings in Theobald’s Road.

The house was shabby, more so in the clear morning sunlight than it had seemed the first time he had been there. But it was clean, and there were neat rag rugs on the board floors and the landlady was busy with pail and scrubbing brush. Her faded blond hair was tied up in a cloth cap to keep it off her face, and her red-knuckled hands were covered in suds.

“Good morning, Mrs. Hampson,” he said pleasantly. “Sorry to bother you again when you’re busy.” He glanced at the half-scrubbed floor of the passage. The smell of lye and vinegar reminded him of the rooms where he had grown up, of his mother kneeling just like this with a brush in her hand, her sleeves rolled high. He could have been a small boy again with bare knees and holes in his boots.

Mrs. Hampson stood up stiffly, smoothing her apron. “S’you again, is it? I dunno any more ’bout your Mr. Cole now than I did w’en yer first come. ’e were a quiet, decent sort o’ man. Always got a civil word. I dunno w’y anybody’d wanter go an’ kill ’im for.”

“Can you think back to the last few days of his life, Mrs. Hampson?” he asked patiently. “What time of the morning did he get up? Did he have breakfast? When did he go out? When did he come back? Did he have anybody call on him here?”

“Nob’dy I ever seen,” she answered, shaking her head. “Don’t encourage callers. In’t room, an’ yer never knows wot they’ll get up ter. Anyway, decent man, ’e were. If ’e ever did anythink like … natural … ’e din’t do it ’ere.”

Tellman did not think Cole’s death had had anything to do with women. He did not bother to pursue that path.

“When did he come and go during the last few days of his life, Mrs. Hampson?”

She thought for a moment. “Well, the last day I saw ’im, which were the Tuesday, like, ’e went out abaht seven in the mornin’. Catch them as would buy laces on their way ter work. Can’t afford ter miss ’em.” She pursed her lips. “Next lot’d be later, more nine or ten, so ’e said ter me. The lawyers start later, bein’ gents, like. An’ o’ course there’s casuals all the time.”

“And the day before? Can you remember?”

“Some.” She ignored the brush in her hand, still dripping water onto the floor. “Can’t remember partic’lar, but I’d a’ remembered if it a’ bin different. Same every day. Gruel fer breakfast, an’ a piece o’ bread. Look, mister, I got work ter do. If yer wants more’n this, yer’ll ’ave ter come inside an’ let me get on.” She knelt and wiped up the drips and then the last few inches of soap and water and he picked up the pail to carry it for her, their palms meeting on the wooden spool of the handle.

She was so startled she nearly dropped it, but she said nothing.

In the kitchen she left the pail in the corner and began to mix white brick dust into a paste with linseed oil to scour the tabletops. She mixed some more with water to polish the knife blades and the large brass-handled poker by the stove.

Tellman sat in the corner out of her way. He watched her work. He asked her everything he could think of about Albert Cole. An hour later she had finished cleaning the kitchen, and he followed her as she took the besom brush made of coarse twigs to sweep the landing floor and give the mats a hefty beating and return them. By the time Tellman left he had a fairly good idea of Cole’s domestic life, ordinary, decent, and comfortably monotonous. As far as she knew, he spent every night alone in his bed, presumably asleep.

Tellman’s next stop was the corner of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, to ask passersby and local tradesmen if they remembered seeing Cole in his usual spot. It was hard to disentangle memory of one day from that of another.

The flower seller diagonally across leading to New Square was a little more help.

“ ’e weren’t there Sunday, ’cos folks don’t buy on Sunday any’ow. Most of ’em in’t ’ere,” she said, scratching her head and pushing her bonnet a trifle crooked. “ ’e were ’ere Monday, ’cos I seen ’im. ’Ad a word wif ’im. ’e said summink abaht gettin’ a bit o’ money soon. I laughed at ’im, ’cos I thought as ’e were ‘avin’ me on, like. But ’e said as ’e were serious. ’e wouldn’t say as ’ow ’e were gonner get it. An’ I never see’d ’im again.”

“That would be Tuesday,” he corrected.

“No, Monday,” she assured him. “I always know me days, ’cos o’ wot’s ’appenin’ in the Fields. Beanpole, ’e’s the patterer, ’e tells us everythink. It were Monday. Tuesday ’e weren’t ’ere. An’ then on Thursday mornin’ the police found ’is corpse in Bedford Square. Poor soul. ’e were or’right, ’e were.”

“So where was he on Tuesday?” Tellman asked, puzzled.

“Dunno. I took it as ’e were sick or summink.”

Tellman learned nothing more in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, nor with close questioning at the Bull and Gate either.

In the afternoon he returned again to the mortuary. He loathed the place. On a warm day like this the smells seemed to be heavier, more claustrophobic, sticking in the back of his throat. It was a strange mixture of sharp and sour. But on a cold day the damp seemed to run from the walls and the chill of it ate into his bones, as if the whole place were like some scrubbed and artificial sort of public grave, only waiting to be closed over. He always half expected to find himself locked in.

“Nobody new for you,” the attendant said with surprise.

“I want to see Albert Cole again.” Tellman forced himself to say the words. It was the last thing on earth he really wanted, but where Cole had been on the day before he was killed could be the only clue as to what had happened to him. “Please.”

“ ’Course,” the attendant agreed. “We got ’im in the ice ’ouse, all tucked up safe. Be with you in a trice.”

Tellman’s footsteps echoed as he followed obediently to the small, bitterly cold room where corpses were kept when the police still needed to be able to examine them in connection with crime.

Tellman felt his stomach clench, but he lifted back the sheet with an almost steady hand. The body was naked, and he felt intrusive. He knew so much and so little about this man when he had been alive. His skin was very pale over his torso and upper legs, but there was an ingrained grayness of dirt as well, and the stale odor was not entirely due to carbolic and dead flesh.

“What are you looking for?” the attendant asked helpfully.

Tellman was not sure. “Wounds, for a start,” he answered. “He was a soldier in the 33rd. He saw a lot of action. He was invalided out. Shot in the leg.”

“No, ’e weren’t,” the attendant said with certainty. “Might a’ broke a bone or two. Couldn’t tell that without cutting ’im open. But shot goes through the skin, leaves a scar. There’s a knife scar on ’is arm, an’ another on ’is chest, down the side of ’is ribs. In’t nuthink on ’is legs, but look for yerself.”

“It was on his military record,” Tellman argued. “I saw it. He was wounded very badly.”

“Look for yerself!” the attendant repeated.

Tellman did so. The legs of the corpse were cold, the flesh slack when he touched it. But there were no scars, no marks where a bullet or musket ball had smashed in. This man had certainly not been shot, in the legs or anywhere else.

The attendant was watching him curiously.

“Wrong records?” he asked, twisting up his face. “Or wrong corpse?”

“I don’t know,” Tellman replied. He bit his lip. “I suppose any records could be wrong, but it doesn’t seem likely. But if this isn’t Albert Cole, who is it? And why did he have Albert Cole’s socks receipt on him? Why would anybody steal a receipt for three pairs of socks?”

“Beats me.” The attendant shrugged. “ ’ow are yer gonner find out OO this poor devil is, then? Could be anyone.”

Tellman thought furiously. “Well, it’s someone who spends a lot of time out on the streets, in boots that don’t fit very well. Look at the calluses on his feet. And he’s dirty, but he’s not a manual worker. His hands are too soft, but his nails are broken, and they were before he fought off his attacker because the dirt is in them. He’s thin … and he looks a lot like Albert Cole … enough that the lawyer who passed Cole regularly and bought bootlaces from him thought it was him.”

“Lawyer?” The attendant shrugged. “Don’ suppose ’e looked at ’is face much. More like looked at the laces an’jus’ passed a word or two.”

Tellman thought that was very probably true.

“So where yer gonner start lookin’, then?” The attendant was eager, almost proprietorial about the matter.

“With people who said Albert Cole was a thief,” Tellman replied with sudden decision. “Beginning with the pawnbroker. Maybe it was this man who took the stolen things to him.”

“Good thinking,” the attendant said respectfully. “Drop in when yer passin’ by. ’Ave a cup o’ tea and tell me wot ’appens.”

“Thank you,” Tellman answered with no intention whatever of coming back if he were not driven by inescapable duty. He would write a letter!

The pawnbroker was anything but pleased to see him. His face registered his disgust when Tellman was barely through the door.

“I told yer! I get nothin’ ’ere as is stolen, far as I know. Get orff me back and leave me alone!”

Tellman stood exactly where he was. He stared at the man, seeing his anger and discomfort with pleasure.

“You said Albert Cole came in here and sold you gold rings and other bits and pieces he found in the sewers.”

“That’s right. An’ so ’e did.” The pawnbroker squared his chin.

“No, you said it was the man whose picture I showed you,” Tellman corrected. “Thinnish sort of man, fair hair going bald a bit at the front, hatchet face, break in one eyebrow …”

“An’ you said it were a geezer called Albert Cole wot was a soldier and got ’isself killed in Bedford Square,” the pawnbroker agreed. “So wot of it? I din’t kill ’im an’ dunno ’oo did.”

“Right! I told you it was Albert Cole.” Tellman hated having to admit it. “Well, it seems it wasn’t. Army records. So now I’d like to know who it was. And I’m sure you would like to be of assistance in identifying the poor devil, since you can earn the favor of the police without dropping anyone else in it. Think again … anything you can tell me about this man who claimed he was a tosher. Perhaps he really was, and not a bootlace peddler at all?”

The pawnbroker’s face twisted with contempt. “Well if ’e were a tosher ’e didn’t find much as I ever saw. Some o’ them toshers down west does real well. I’d a’ never believed rich folks was so careless with their gold an’ stuff.”

“So tell me everything you know about him,” Tellman insisted, letting his eyes wander around the shelves speculatively. “That’s a nice clock. Handsome for the kind of person who needs to pawn their things.”

The pawnbroker bristled. “We get some very classy people in ’ere. And bad times can ’it anyone. ’It you one day, mebbe, then yer’ll not look down on folks so easy.”

“Well, if they do, I won’t have a clock like that to hock,” Tellman replied. “I’d better go to the police station and make sure the owner isn’t suddenly in a position to redeem it. Like perhaps it’s on a list of missing property. Now, this man who came and sold you jewelry, what do you remember about him—everything!”

The pawnbroker leaned forward over his counter. “Look, I’ll tell yer everything I know, then will you get ant an’ leave me alone? ’e came in ’ere once an’ some woman came in. Lottie Menken; she lives up the corner about fifty yards. She come ter ’ock ’er teapot, does it reg’lar, poor cow. She knows ’im. Called ’im Joe, or summink like that. Go an’ find ’er. She’ll tell yer Oo’eis.”

“Thank you,” Tellman said gratefully. “If you’re lucky, you won’t see me again.”

The pawnbroker breathed out a prayer, or it might have been a blasphemy.

It took Tellman nearly an hour to find Lottie Menken. She was a short woman, so immensely stout that she moved with a kind of rolling gait. Her black, ringletted hair sat on her head in uncombed profusion, rather like a hat.

“Yeah?” she said when Tellman addressed her. She was busy in her scullery making soap, which she did for a living. There were tubs of animal fats and oils to mix with soda for hard soap, but far more in quantity to mix with potash to make soft soap, which was more economical to use. He saw on shelves above her, which she presumably used the kitchen stools to reach, jars of powder blue and stone blue for the final rinse which would help remove the coarse yellowish color given by starch or natural in linen of a lower quality.

He knew better than to interrupt her work. He leant against one of the benches, casually, as if he belonged in this neighborhood, as indeed he had once in one just like it.

“I believe you know a thinnish sort of fair-haired bloke called Joe who sells things to Abbott’s pawnshop now and again. That right?”

“What if I do?” she asked without looking up. Measurements must be right or the resultant soap would be no good. “Dunno ’im much, just ter see, or pass a word.”

“What’s his full name?”

“Josiah Slingsby. Why?” Still without looking up, she asked him, “ ’Oo are yer, an’ w’y d’yer care? I in’t gettin’ mixed up in any o’ Slingsby’s business, so yer can take yerself orff outa ’ere. Go on—get aht!” Her face closed in anger, and perhaps it was also fear.

“I think he may be dead,” he said without moving.

For the first time she stopped working, her hands still, the liquid almost up to her rolled sleeves. “Joe Slingsby dead? Wot makes yer say that?”

“I think he was the body found in Bedford Square, not Albert Cole.”

This time she actually turned to look at him. There was an expression in her face which Tellman thought was hope.

“Perhaps you would come and take a look at him?” he asked. “See if it is. You’d know.” He understood the cost of wasting time for her. “It would be a service to the police which naturally you would be paid for … say, a shilling?”

She looked interested, but not yet certain.

“Cold work, identifying corpses,” he added. “We’d need a good hot dinner afterwards, and a glass of porter.”

“Yeah, I suppose we would at that.” She nodded, setting her ringlets turning. “Well then, we’d best be about it. W’ere is this corpse that’s mebbe Joe Slingsby?”

The following day Tellman went straight to see Pitt at Bow Street, to catch him before he should go out and to inform him that the body was definitely not that of Albert Cole but of Josiah Slingsby, petty thief and brawler.

Pitt looked nonplussed.

“Slingsby? How do you know?”

Tellman stood in front of the desk as Pitt stared up at him over the scattered papers on its surface.

“Identified by someone who knew him,” he replied. “I don’t think she was mistaken or lying. She described the gap in his eyebrow and she knew about the knife wound in his chest. Remembered when it happened a couple of years ago. It certainly isn’t Albert Cole; military records make that plain, because of the shot. Cole was invalided out of the army with his leg wound. The corpse had none. Sorry, sir.” He did not elaborate. Pitt deserved an apology, but not a long story, and certainly not an excuse.

Pitt leaned back in his chair and pushed his hands into his pockets. “I suppose the barrister who identified him did his best. I daresay he wasn’t used to corpses. Most people aren’t. And we rather assumed it was Cole because of the socks. Which brings us to the interesting question of why he had Albert Cole’s receipt in his pocket. Or was it his own?”

“Don’t think so. He didn’t live anywhere near Red Lion Square; lived miles away, in Shoreditch. I checked yesterday afternoon. Nobody around Holborn had ever seen or heard of him—not on the streets, not in the pub. Far as I can see, he never met Albert Cole or had anything to do with him. The more I think of it, the less sense it makes. Slingsby was a thief, but why would anybody steal a receipt for socks? They’re only worth a few pence. Nobody keeps that sort of thing more than a day or two, if that.”

Pitt chewed his lip. “So what was Slingsby doing in Bedford Square? Thieving?”

Tellman pulled the other chair over and sat down. “Probably. But the funny thing is, nobody’s seen Cole either. He’s disappeared as well. His things were left in his room and his rent is paid up, but nobody’s seen him on his patch or in the Bull and Gate. But he was there on Monday, when Slingsby was in his usual haunts as well. We are definitely dealing with two different men who only happen to look alike.”

“And Slingsby was found dead with Cole’s receipt in his pocket,” Pitt added. “Did he take it from Cole for some reason we haven’t thought of? Or did someone else, some third party we don’t know about, take it from Cole and give it to Slingsby? And if so, why?”

“Maybe there’s some stupid little reason we haven’t thought of,” Tellman said without meaning it. He was just casting around hopefully. “Maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with why Slingsby was killed.”

“And why he had General Balantyne’s snuffbox in his pocket,” Pitt added. “General Balantyne was being blackmailed ….”

Tellman was startled. His opinion of Balantyne was poor, as it was of all privileged men like him, but it was a contempt for those who took from society more than they put in and who assumed an authority they had not earned. It was something most people accepted, and it was certainly not a crime.

“What did he do?” he asked, tilting his chair back a little.

A quick flare of anger crossed Pitt’s face, and suddenly a gulf opened up between them. All the old hostilities and barriers were there again, just as when Pitt had first been given command of Bow Street. They were both of humble origin. Pitt was no more than a gamekeeper’s son, but he had aspirations to something more. He spoke like a gentleman and tried to behave as if he were one. Tellman was faithful to his roots and his class. He would fight the enemy, not join them.

“He did nothing,” Pitt said icily, and perhaps rashly. “But he cannot easily prove it, and the accusation would ruin him. It refers to an incident in the Abyssinian Campaign, in which, as you proved, Albert Cole was also involved. Whether Josiah Slingsby had anything to do with the blackmail is what we have yet to learn.”

“The snuffbox!” Tellman said with satisfaction. “Payment?” And the moment the words were out he regretted them. Automatically, he straightened up in his chair.

Pitt’s face was a picture of scorn. “For a pinchbeck snuffbox? Hardly worth the effort, is it? Josiah Slingsby might murder for a few guineas, but Balantyne wouldn’t.”

Tellman felt himself clench with anger, for his own stupidity. He knew it showed in his face, much as he tried to conceal it.

“The snuffbox might not be all of it,” he said sharply. “Might only be one payment. We don’t know what else he may have given him. Maybe that was the last of many, and the General just lost his temper? Perhaps he realized he was never going to be rid of him and would just be bled dry and then maybe ruined anyway?”

“And Cole’s socks?” Pitt asked.

“Makes sense.” Tellman leaned forward, eagerly now, putting one hand on the desk. “Cole and Slingsby were in it together. Cole was the one who told him, maybe he knew how he would use the information, maybe not. Maybe Slingsby killed Cole over the proceeds?”

“Except that it’s Slingsby who’s dead,” Pitt pointed out.

“All right, then Cole killed him,” Tellman argued.

“Which leaves Balantyne innocent,” Pitt said with a tight smile.

Tellman refrained from swearing only with difficulty. “That’s one thing that would be possible,” he conceded. “Don’t know enough to say yet.”

“No, we don’t,” Pitt agreed. “So you’d better find out all you can about it. See if you can discover any connection between Slingsby and Balantyne, and if Balantyne had paid out anything apart from the snuffbox, or done anything that could have been forced on him by Slingsby.”

“Yes sir.” Tellman stood up, but casually, not to attention.

“And Tellman …”

“Yes?”

“This time you’d better report direct to me, here, not at home ….”

Tellman felt the heat burn up his face, but there was nothing he could say that would not only make it worse. He refused to stoop to giving explanations that might be taken for excuses. He stood stiff and unanswering.

“I don’t want anyone else to know you are enquiring into his life,” Pitt emphasized. “Or following him. Is that clear? And ’anyone’ includes Gracie and Mrs. Pitt.”

“Yes sir. Is that all?”

“It’s enough,” Pitt replied. “At least for the present.”

The following morning’s newspapers were filled with two scandals. One was the continuing saga of the Tranby Croft affair, growing increasingly ugly with every new revelation. It now appeared that, after the initial accusation of cheating at baccarat, Gordon-Cumming had been persuaded to sign a letter promising never to refer to the matter with another soul.

Then two days after Christmas, Gordon-Cumming had received an anonymous letter from Paris mentioning the Tranby Croft affair and advising him never to touch cards if he should come to France, because there was much talk about the subject.

Naturally, he was horrified. The pledge of secrecy had very obviously been broken.

Nor had that been the end of it. Shortly after that, news had come of the story from another source, the Prince of Wales’s latest mistress, Lady Frances Brooke, an inveterate gossip nicknamed “Babbling Brooke.”

Gordon-Cumming wrote to his commanding officer. Colonel Stracey, sending in his papers and asking leave to retire from the army on half pay.

A week later General Williams and Lord Coventry, the two friends and advisers of the Prince, visited Sir Redvers Butler at the War Office and formally told him all about the events at Tranby Croft that weekend, then requested a full enquiry by the military authorities at the earliest possible moment.

Gordon-Cumming appealed to Butler to delay such an enquiry in order not to prejudice his own pending civil action for slander.

The Prince of Wales wound himself into a state of all but nervous exhaustion over the prospect of having to testify, but to no effect. The other witnesses, the Wilsons, the Lycett Greens and Levett, all refused to withdraw their charges of cheating.

Now the case was being heard before the Lord Chief Justice, Lord Coleridge, and a special jury. In the glorious sunshine of a hot, early July, the courtroom was packed, and the public hung on every word.

Pitt was interested in the case only for its reflection on the fragility of reputation, and how easily a man, any man, could be ruined by a suggestion, let alone a fact.

Lower down the page, another scandal caught his eye. It was a story printed beneath a photograph of Sir Guy Stanley, M.P., speaking with a very strikingly dressed woman named in the caption as Mrs. Robert Shaughnessy They had been caught in a moment’s close conversation. Mr. Shaughnessy was a young man with radical political ambitions, contrary to government policy. He had lately succeeded in a brilliant move towards his aims, greatly assisted by what looked like inside information. In the picture, he had his back turned to his wife and Sir Guy and was looking away.

The story below suggested that Sir Guy, a favored candidate for a ministerial position, had been far more intimate with Mrs. Shaughnessy than was consistent with morality or honor, and threaded through the ambiguous phrases was the implication that he had let slip government business in return for her favors. There was also a difference of some thirty years in their ages, which made it uglier and lent it a sordid and pathetic air.

If Sir Guy Stanley had been hoping for preferment, he would not now receive it. A blow like this to a man’s reputation, whether the suggestion was founded or not, would make him an impossible choice for the post in the government for which his name had been put forward.

Pitt sat at the breakfast table holding the newspaper in his hand, his toast and marmalade forgotten, his tea growing cold.

“What is it?” Charlotte asked anxiously.

“I’m not sure,” he said slowly. He read out the article about Guy Stanley, then lowered the paper and met her eyes. “Is it coincidence, or is this the first threat carried out as a warning to the others?” He wondered what could have precipitated it.

“Even if it isn’t,” she pointed out, “it will serve the same purpose.” She was pale faced as she put her cup down in its saucer. “As if the Tranby Croft business were not enough without this. It will reinforce the blackmailer’s message, whether this was his doing or not. Do you know anything about Guy Stanley?”

“No more than I’ve read here.”

“And this Mrs. Shaughnessy?”

“Nothing at all.” He took a deep breath and pushed away his plate. “I think I must go and see Sir Guy. I need to know if he had a letter. More than that, I need to know what he was asked to do … and had the courage to refuse.”

Charlotte remained silent. She sat with her body tense, her shoulders pulling at the rose-colored cotton of her dress, but there was nothing more to say.

He touched her lightly on the cheek as he passed, and went out to collect his boots and his hat.

The newspaper had given Guy Stanley’s address, and Pitt alighted from the hansom half a block away and walked briskly in the warm morning air up to the house and rang the doorbell.

It was answered by a footman who informed him that Sir Guy was not in and would not be receiving callers. He was about to close the door again, leaving Pitt on the step. Pitt produced his card and held it out.

“I am afraid it is police business about which I need to see your master and it cannot wait,” he said firmly.

The footman looked highly dubious, but it was not within the bounds of his authority to refuse the police, in spite of the orders he had been given to admit no one.

He left Pitt on the step while he went to enquire, carrying the card on his silver tray.

The slight wind was already welcome in the rising heat of this unusual July. By midday it would be sweltering. It was an uncomfortable wait, reminding Pitt sharply of his social status. A gentleman would have been asked in, even if left in the morning room.

The footman returned with a look of slight surprise and conducted Pitt into a large study, where he had only a moment to wait before the door opened and Sir Guy Stanley came in. He was a tall, thin man only barely recognizable from the newspaper photograph, which must have been taken at least two or three years previously. His white hair was markedly thinner now, and his side-whiskers shorter and neater. He walked carefully, as if uncertain of his balance, and he banged his elbow against the oak-paneled door as he closed it. His face was almost bloodless.

Pitt’s heart sank. Stanley did not look like a man who had faced the enemy down, at whatever the cost, but like someone who had received a fearful and unexpected blow. He was still reeling with the shock and barely in command of himself.

“Good morning, Mr ….” He glanced at the card in his hand. “Mr. Pitt. I am afraid this is not a fortunate morning for me, but if you tell me in what way I may be of assistance, I shall do what I can.” He indicated the overstuffed chairs, leather buttoned into complex patterns. “Please sit down.” He almost fell into the closest of them himself, as if not certain he could remain on his feet any longer.

Pitt sat opposite him. “There is no pleasant or diplomatic way of putting this, sir, so I shall avoid wasting your time and simply tell you the situation. However, I shall omit the names of the people concerned in consideration of their reputations, as I will yours, should you be able to assist me.”

There was no understanding in Stanley’s face, only polite resignation. He was listening only because he had promised to.

“Four prominent men of my acquaintance are being blackmailed—” Pitt began. He stopped abruptly, seeing the sudden blaze of interest in Stanley’s face, the rush of blood up his thin cheeks and the clenching of his hands on the wood-and-leather arms of the chair.

Pitt smiled bleakly. “I believe each to be innocent of the charge leveled against him by the writer of the letters, but unfortunately, in every case it is almost impossible to prove it. They are also, in every case, the offenses of which each would be most profoundly ashamed, and therefore peculiarly vulnerable to pressure.”

“I see ….” Stanley curled and uncurled his fingers on the arm of the chair.

“No money was asked for,” Pitt continued. “In fact, so far nothing at all has been named, or given, except one small token of faith … or if you like, submission.”

Stanley’s hands knotted more tightly.

“I see. And what is it you think I may be able to help you with, Mr. Pitt? I have no idea who it is or how to battle against such a thing.” He smiled with bitter self-mockery. “Surely today I am the last man in England to offer advice on the safeguarding of one’s honor or reputation.”

Pitt had already decided to be honest.

“Before I came here, Sir Guy, I had wondered if perhaps you were also a victim of this man, and when he had named his price for silence, you had told him to go to the devil.”

“You thought better of me than I had warranted,” Stanley said very quietly, the color bright on his thin cheeks. “I am afraid I did not tell him to go to the devil, in spite of profoundly wishing him there.” He looked at Pitt very steadily. “He only asked one very small thing of me, a silver-plated brandy flask, as a token of good faith. Or perhaps ‘surrender’ would be more accurate.”

“You gave it to him?” Pitt asked, dreading the answer.

“Yes,” Stanley replied. “His threat was couched in roundabout terms, but it was perfectly plain. As you no doubt observed in this morning’s newspapers, he has carried it out.” He shook his head a little, a gesture of confusion, not of denial. “He gave me no warning, no further threat, and he did not ask for anything.” He smiled very faintly. “I like to think I would not have given it him, but now I shall never know. I am not sure whether I really wish I had tested myself … or not. I have my illusions still … but no certainty. Is that better, do you think?”

He stood up and walked towards the window facing the garden, not the street. “In my better moments I shall believe I would have damned him, and gone down with my own honor intact, no matter what the world thought. In my worse ones, when I am tired or alone, I shall be convinced my nerve would have failed, and I should have surrendered.”

Pitt was disappointed. He was startled by how much he had been trusting that Stanley had actually been asked for something specific, even use of his influence, and had precipitated this act by his refusal. It would have been an indication of what to expect regarding the others. It might even have narrowed the field to who the blackmailer might be.

Stanley saw his face and read the emotion correctly, but misjudged the reason for it. The hurt was in his eyes, and the shame.

Pitt shrugged very slightly. “A pity. I’m sorry to have intruded at such a time. I came because I hoped he had tipped his hand far enough to ask you for some abuse of influence or power, and then we would know what he wanted. You see, the other victims are men in many different fields of achievement, and I can see no common link between them.”

“I’m sorry,” Stanley said sincerely. “I wish I could be of help. Naturally, I have racked my mind as to who it could be. Í have gone over every personal enemy or rival, anyone I might have slighted or insulted, anyone whose career I have affected adversely, whether intentionally or not, but I can think of no one who would stoop to such a thing.”

“Not Shaughnessy himself?” Pitt asked with little hope.

Stanley smiled. “I disagree profoundly with everything Shaughnessy believes in and is trying to bring about, with a great deal more chance of success lately, but he is open about it, a man to meet you face-to-face and fight his cause, not resort to blackmail or secrecy.”

He gave a very slight shrug, a weary little lift of one shoulder. “Apart from which, if you consider recent political history, such an effort on his part would hardly be necessary. He already has all I could have given. Ruining me will taint his own cause, not help it. And he is not a fool.” His lips tightened. “And although this picture”—he gestured to the newspaper lying on the desk—“paints me as gullible and treacherous, it also paints his wife as a whore, not a thing any man wants in the eyes of the public, whatever the truth in private may be. And although I do not know Mrs. Shaughnessy nearly as well as the comments imply, I have observed her on many occasions, and I have seen no cause to doubt her virtue.”

“Yes … of course,” Pitt was forced to agree. Shaughnessy had no motive, whether he had the means and the opportunity or not. “Do you still have the letter?”

Distaste curled Stanley’s thin lips. “No. I burnt it, in case anyone should chance to see it. But I can describe it to you. It was cut from the Times, in some cases individual letters, sometimes whole words, and pasted onto a sheet of plain white paper. It was posted in central London”

“Can you recall what it said?”

“I see by your face that that is what you expected,” Stanley observed. “I assume the others were the same?”

“Yes.”

Stanley let out his breath in a sigh. “I see. Yes, I think I can, not perhaps word for word, but the intent. It stated that I had given Mrs. Shaughnessy government information helpful to her husband in return for her physical favors, and should such a thing become known I would be ruined, and most certainly fail to receive the ministerial appointment I had hoped for. It asked that as a pledge of my understanding I should give to the writer a token gift; a small silver-plated flask would serve very well. Instructions were included as to how I should parcel it up and give it to a messenger on a bicycle who would call for it.”

Pitt sat forward a little. “How did he know that you possessed such a thing?”

“I have no idea. I admit, his knowledge unnerved me considerably.” Stanley shivered very slightly. “I felt … as if he were observing me all the time … unseen … but always there. I suspected everyone ….” His voice tailed off, defeated, full of pain.

“And did you give him the flask?” Pitt asked in the silence that followed.

“Exactly as instructed,” Stanley replied. “In order to give myself time to think. It was asked for immediately, to be collected that day.”

“I see,” Pitt replied. “It fits the pattern of the others. Thank you for your candor, Sir Guy. I wish I could offer any way of mitigating this circumstance, but I know of none. However, I shall do everything within my power to find this man and bring some kind of justice on him.” He meant it with a vehemence that startled him. There was a rage inside him that was almost choking, as real as for any murder or violence of the flesh.

“Some kind of justice?” Stanley questioned.

“The extortion of a silver-plated flask is not a very great crime,” Pitt pointed out bitterly. “And if you can prove that he has libeled you, then you may sue for damages, but that is your decision rather than mine. It is a course most men hesitate to pursue, simply because to take the issue to court brings it far more publicity than to say nothing. Poor Gordon-Cumming and the Tranby Croft affair is surely the most eloquent proof of that that one could ask.” He stood up, instinctively holding out his hand.

“I am well aware of it, Mr. Pitt,” Stanley said ruefully, taking Pitt’s hand and grasping it. “And all the proof in the world would not undo the damage in the public’s eyes. That is the nature of scandal. Its tarnish hardly ever wears oft: I suppose it will be some satisfaction if you catch the devil. But I daresay he is a man whose own reputation would be little hurt by the exposure of his acts.”

“There I disagree with you,” Pitt said with sudden satisfaction. “I think he is a man whose intimate knowledge of his victims indicates he may well be of a similar social standing. I travel in hope.”

Stanley looked at him very directly. “If I can be of any assistance whatever, Mr. Pitt, please call on me at any time. I am now a far more dangerous enemy than I was yesterday, because I have nothing left to lose.”

Pitt took his leave and went out into the hot sun. The air was completely still, and the pungent odor of horse droppings came sharply to his nose. A carriage passed by, loud on the stones, the brass on the harness winking in the light, ladies with parasols up to shade their faces, footmen in livery sweating.

Pitt was not more than fifty yards along the street when he saw Lyndon Remus coming towards him, his expression alight with recognition.

Pitt felt himself tense with dislike, which was unjust, and he knew it. Remus had not written the article exposing Sir Guy Stanley. But he was there ready to make capital of it.

“Good morning, Superintendent!” he said eagerly. “Been visiting Stanley, I see. Are you investigating the allegations against him?”

“Whether Sir Guy’s relationship with Mrs. Shaughnessy was proper or improper is none of my business, Mr. Remus,” Pitt said coldly. “And I don’t see that it is any of yours.”

“Oh, come now, Mr. Pitt!” Remus’s fair eyebrows shot up. “If a Member of Parliament is selling government information in exchange for a lady’s favors, that is the business of every man in the kingdom.”

“I have no evidence that he has done so.” Pitt stood still on the hot pavement, facing him. “I have merely read the implication, made by innuendo in a newspaper. But if it should be, it is still not my concern. There are appropriate people to enquire into it, and I am not one of them, nor are you.”

“I ask in the public interest, Mr. Pitt,” Remus persisted, standing directly in front of him. “Surely you don’t say that the ordinary citizen has no right to be concerned in the honesty and morality of the men whom he elects to govern him?”

Pitt knew he had to be careful. Remus would remember what he said, and perhaps even quote it.

“Of course not,” he answered, measuring his words. “But there are proper ways of enquiring, and libel is a moral offense, even where it is occasionally not a civil one. I went to see Sir Guy Stanley on a completely different issue where I thought he might be able to give me some assistance from his experience. He did, but I am not able to discuss it with you because it would jeopardize a current investigation.”

“The murder in Bedford Square?” Remus concluded swiftly. “Is Sir Guy involved in that?”

“Do you not understand me, Mr. Remus?” Pitt snapped. “I told you that it is a matter I cannot discuss, and I gave you the reasons. Surely you don’t wish to hinder me, do you?”

“Well … no, of course not. But we have a right to know—”

“You have a right to ask,” Pitt corrected him. “You have asked, and I have answered you. Now, would you please step out of my way. I must return to Bow Street.”

Reluctantly, Remus did so.

In his room in the police station, Pitt considered Remus again. Was it worth having anyone enquire a little more closely about him? He was almost certainly simply doing his job with rather more relish than Pitt found pleasant. But investigation of corruption and abuse of office or privilege was a legitimate part of his duties, just as it was of Pitt’s own. Society required such men, even if on occasion they trespassed into people’s private lives in a way which was intrusive, painful and unjustified. The alternative was the beginning of tyranny and the loss of the right of society to understand itself and have any curb upon those who ruled it.

Still, the privilege of the press could also be abused. Membership in its ranks did not confer immunity from police enquiry. He could have someone see if Lyndon Remus had any connection with Albert Cole, Josiah Slingsby, or any of the men who were being blackmailed.

But before he could attend to that he was met with a message that Parthenope Tannifer wished to see him the very first moment it was possible, and would he please call upon her at her home.

He had expected it, not from Parthenope Tannifer, but from her husband, and possibly from Dunraithe White also, although since White had told Vespasia he had no intention of fighting the blackmailer, no matter what he should demand, perhaps he would not wish to draw police attention to himself.

Pitt also thought of how Balantyne would feel when he saw the morning newspapers. He must be ill with anxiety, and helpless even to know which way to turn to defend himself. He could not prove the original charge was untrue. He could not prove he had not killed the man on his doorstep, Cole or Slingsby. The fact that it was Slingsby did not clear Balantyne of suspicion; Slingsby could have been a messenger of the blackmailer.

Most of all as Pitt went down the stairs again and out into the hot, dusty street, he thought of Cornwallis, and the misery which he must feel this morning as he realized that the threats were fully intended and the blackmailer had no hesitation in carrying them out. He had the will and the means. He had demonstrated it now beyond doubt or hope.

Pitt was received in the Tannifer house immediately and was shown to Parthenope’s boudoir, that peculiarly feminine sitting room where ladies read, embroidered, or gossiped pleasantly together with very rare intrusion from men.

This particular room was unlike others he had been in. The colors were very simple and cool, with none of the usual oriental affectations that had become so fashionable over the last decade. It was most individual, catering entirely to the taste of its owner, making no concessions to what was expected. The curtains were plain, cool green, no flowers. Similarly, the green glazed vase on the small table had no blooms; its own shape was sufficient ornament. The furniture was simple, old, very English.

“Thank you for coming so rapidly, Mr. Pitt,” Parthenope said as soon as the maid had closed the door. She was dressed in dusky blue-gray with a white fichu at the throat, and it became her well enough, in spite of being rather severe. Something softer would have disguised her angular proportions. She looked extremely distressed and made no attempt to hide it. The morning newspaper was lying on the table beside her chair. Her embroidery was in a heap next to it, the needle stuck into the linen. Silks in shades of brown and taupe and cream spilled all around it where she had presumably left it last. Scissors and a silver thimble were on the carpet, as if dropped in haste.

“Have you seen it?” she demanded, pointing her finger at the newspaper. She stood in the center of the room, too angry to sit.

“Good morning, Mrs. Tannifer. If you are referring to the article about Sir Guy Stanley, yes, I have read it, and I have spoken to Sir Guy himself—”

“Have you?” she cut across him. “How is he?” Her eyes were bright, her face full of concern and pity, for a moment the fear overridden.

“Do you know him?” He was interested.

“No.” She shook her head quickly. “But I can imagine what pain he is enduring at the moment.”

“You assume he is innocent of the implications in the article,” Pitt said with some surprise. It was a kinder judgment than many people would be making.

She smiled briefly, like a flash of sunlight, there and gone. “I suppose that is because I know my husband is innocent. Am I mistaken?” That was a demand, almost a challenge.

“Not so far as I know,” he replied. “Sir Guy is a victim of the same letter writer as Mr. Tannifer, and therefore I believe him when he says the charge is unfounded.”

Her voice dropped a little. “But he had the courage to defy him … as the Duke of Wellington said, ‘Publish and be damned!’ How I admire him!” Her voice rang with sincerity, and there was a faint flush in her cheeks. “What a terrible price to pay. I cannot imagine he will now obtain the post in the government that he desired. His only comfort will be his own courage, and perhaps the respect of those friends who know him well enough to dismiss the accusation.” She took a deep breath and straightened her slender shoulders. There was a warmth in her tone that lent an extraordinary beauty to her voice. “I hope we shall face the future as well. I shall write to him this morning and tell him of my regard for him. It may be of some small comfort. It is all I can do.”

He did not know how to answer her. He did not want to lie, and perhaps he could not afford to if he were to learn anything from her; but neither was he prepared to lay open Stanley’s confidences, and his own personal doubts.

“You hesitate, Mr. Pitt,” she observed, watching him closely. “There is something you do not wish to tell me. It is worse than I feared?”

“No, Mrs. Tannifer, I was merely considering how to phrase what I say so I do not betray confidences. Even though Sir Guy Stanley and Mr. Tannifer are in the same situation, I would not discuss one with the other to their embarrassment.”

“Of course!” she agreed quickly. “That is admirable. But have you learned anything more about who this devil may be? Surely all information must be helpful? I … I called you today not just because I am at my wit’s end to know what to do, how even to begin to fight this battle, but because I have information to give you myself. Please sit down.” She indicated the soft, plain chair opposite her own.

Pitt did as he was bid as soon as she had seated herself. Suddenly there was a lift of hope.

“Yes, Mrs. Tannifer? What have you learned?”

She leaned forward a little, leaving her skirts disarranged as they had crumpled in the chair. “We have received a second letter, in much the same terms as the first, but rather more direct, using words like cheat and embezzler….” Her cheeks colored with embarrassment and anger. “It is so unjust! Sigmund has never profited a ha’penny except by his own skill and judgment. He is the most honorable man I have ever known. My own father was a soldier, the colonel of a regiment. I know much of honor and loyalty, and the complete trust one must have in everything, and how it must be earned.” She lowered her gaze. “I’m sorry. That is not what you want to know. We are already assuming all the accusations are unjust. This one was cut from the Times as well, and glued onto a sheet of ordinary paper. It came by the first post. It was put in a box in the City, just like before. Only the wording was different.” She looked up at him.

“But did he ask for anything, Mrs. Tannifer?”

“No.” She shook her head. Her thin hands were clenched in her lap, her eyes grave and troubled. “He seems to be some kind of monster who merely wishes to inflict pain and terror upon people for no gain to himself beyond the pleasure it affords him.” She looked at him with desperate earnestness. “But I believe I know who may be another victim, Mr. Pitt. I have hesitated whether to tell you or not, and the fact that I do so may not please my husband. But I am distracted to know how to face this matter and avoid just the kind of ruin he has cost poor Sir Guy Stanley.”

Pitt leaned forward. “Tell me what you know, Mrs. Tannifer. It may help, and I doubt very strongly that it can hurt any more than will be inevitable, regardless of what we do.”

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She was obviously embarrassed by what she had done, and yet the determination in her to fight, to defend her husband, did not waver in the slightest.

“I had been in the study with my husband, discussing the matter. He is far more troubled by it than I believe he allowed you to see. It is much more than financial ruin or the loss of career; it is the knowledge that ordinary people, friends, those whom one admires and whose opinions mean so much, will believe you to be dishonorable … that is what hurts beyond any reparation. Perhaps when all is said and done, a quiet conscience is the greatest possession, but a good name in the eyes of others is second.”

He did not argue. He knew how dear to himself he held the belief in others that he was honest, and perhaps even more, that he was generous, that he never deliberately caused pain.

“What did you hear, Mrs. Tannifer?”

“I had just left, but I did not quite close the door. I was in the hallway when I heard my husband pick up the telephone. We have one; it is an excellent instrument. He placed a call to Mr. Leo Cadell, of the Foreign Office. At first I was about to continue on my way to the kitchen—I was intending to speak to the cook—but I heard his voice change. Suddenly he became very grave, and there was both sympathy and fear in his tone.”

She regarded Pitt intently. “I know my husband very well. We have always been extremely close, and keep nothing from each other. I knew straightaway that Mr. Cadell had told him something grave and confidential. I concluded from what I could hear of my husband’s part of the conversation that Mr. Cadell had asked about raising money, a large amount, at very short notice. He is a man of considerable means, but it does not necessarily follow that a large sum can be realized with ease. Good financial advice is imperative if one is not to lose a great deal.” She took a breath. “Sigmund tried to be of every assistance to him, but I know from what he said that he guessed it was to pay some suddenly incurred debt, the size of which was not yet known, but it could not be avoided or delayed in any way.”

“It does sound as if it could be blackmail,” Pitt agreed. “But if that is the case, he is the first one to be asked for anything specific. No one else has been asked for money at all.”

“I am not certain that is what it was,” she conceded. “But I heard the tone of Sigmund’s voice, and I saw his face afterwards.” She shook her head quickly. “He would not discuss it with me, of course, because whatever Mr. Cadell told him was in confidence, but it was not an ordinary matter of luxuries. Sigmund was deeply troubled, and when we spoke, he referred to the blackmail letter again and asked me how deeply I would mind if we were to find ourselves in greatly reduced circumstances. Would I be prepared to leave London and live somewhere quite different, even in another country, if it should come to that.” Her voice was strong, full of confidence. “I said that of course I would. As long as we kept our honor and went together, I should live anywhere and do anything that necessity drove us to.” She lifted her chin and looked very directly into Pitt’s eyes. “I should rather be ruined by libel like poor Sir Guy Stanley than pay a halfpenny to this monster and feed his evil.”

“Thank you for your frankness, Mrs. Tannifer.” Pitt meant intensely what he said. She was a remarkable woman possessed of a courage and loyalty he admired, and at the same time in her there was passion, and a fierce knowledge and ability to feel pain. Her compassion for Stanley was not born purely of imagination.

He rose to his feet to take his leave.

“Will it help?” she demanded, standing also. “Will you be able to learn anything further?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I shall certainly go to see Mr. Cadell. He may be able to tell me more about what he has been asked for, and possibly what he is threatened regarding. All information should narrow the possibilities as to who could have known enough to write the letter. In each case the victim is accused of the sort of offense likely to hurt him the most deeply. That speaks of a certain knowledge, Mrs. Tannifer. If you should learn anything more, please call me immediately.”

“Of course. Godspeed, Mr. Pitt.” She stood in the center of her uniquely peaceful room, a slender, rather angular figure of burning emotion. “Find the devil who does this … for us all!”