Bedford Square

7

AS SOON AS PITT had left to go and see Sir Guy Stanley, Charlotte picked up the newspaper and read the article again. She did not know if Stanley had been threatened by the blackmailer or not, or what he might have been asked for, and really it was irrelevant. Whatever the truth of the matter was, the other victims would feel the same horror and pity for him, and fear for themselves. Whether it was a fortuitous accident or a deliberate warning to them, the result would be exactly the same, a tightening of the pressure, perhaps this time almost beyond bearing.

She explained her intentions very briefly to Gracie, then went upstairs and changed into the same yellow morning dress she had worn on the first occasion, because it was the one in which she felt most confident, and then set out to walk to Bedford Square.

Her sense of outrage and anxiety carried her all the way to the doorstep of Balantyne’s house, and when the door was opened she explained with the greatest simplicity that she had come to call upon the General, if he was in and would receive her.

However, she was crossing the hall when she encountered Lady Augusta, dressed magnificently in browns and golds. Augusta came down the stairs just as Charlotte reached the foot with its elaborately carved newel.

“Good morning, Mrs. Pitt,” she said icily, her eyes wide, her brows arched. “Over what hitherto unknown disaster have you come to commiserate with us today? Has some catastrophe occurred of which my husband has not yet informed me?”

Charlotte was too angry to be awed by Augusta, or anyone else, and she had been lately in Vespasia’s presence. Something of the older woman’s supreme confidence had rubbed off. She stopped and regarded Augusta with equal chill.

“Good morning, Lady Augusta. So kind of you to be interested. But then as I recall, you were always a person of warmth and most generous judgment of others.” She ignored the flush of anger on Augusta’s face. “The answer to your question rather depends upon whether you are just descending for the first time today, or if you have already been down, perhaps for breakfast?” Again she overrode Augusta’s sharply indrawn breath and obvious irritation. “I am afraid the news is most distressing. There is a highly scurrilous article about Sir Guy Stanley. And of course the usual miserable disclosures about the Tranby Croft affair, although I did not read that.”

“Then how do you know they are miserable?” Augusta snapped.

Charlotte widened her eyes very slightly, as if a mere flicker of surprise had touched her.

“I regard it as miserable that an unfortunate matter of gentlemen’s behavior while playing cards should have passed into public dispute and comment,” she replied. “Was I mistaken in imagining that you would also?”

Augusta’s face was tight. “No, of course you weren’t!” she said through her teeth.

“I’m so glad,” Charlotte murmured, wishing profoundly that Balantyne would appear and rescue the situation.

Augusta was not easily bested. She resumed the attack. “Then since it is not the Tranby Croft affair which brings you here, I must assume it is because you have supposed that Sir Guy Stanley’s misfortune is somehow of concern to us. I do not believe I am acquainted with him.”

“Indeed …” Charlotte said vaguely, as if the remark was completely irrelevant, as indeed it was.

Augusta was now visibly irritated. “No! So why should you imagine that I am sufficiently distressed by his misfortune, deserved or not, that I should require your sympathy, Mrs. Pitt? Particularly at”—she glanced at the long case clock in the hall—“half past nine in the morning!” Her tone of voice conveyed how outlandish it was that anyone at all should call at such an unheard-of hour.

“I am sure,” Charlotte agreed with surprising calm, wishing even more fervently the General would appear. “Had I thought for a moment you were … concerned … I should have sent you my card, and called by at three.”

“Then not only is your journey unnecessary,” Augusta retorted, glancing again at the clock, “but you are somewhat early.”

Charlotte smiled at her dazzlingly, wondering frantically what she could say. Apart from her desire to see Balantyne, she hated to be beaten by a woman she realized she loathed—not for anything she might have said or done to Charlotte, but for her coldness towards her own husband.

“I cannot assume you could be aware of General Balantyne’s regard for Sir Guy and remain so unconcerned,” she said with glittering and spurious charm. “That would be too uncharitable. Indeed, it would be heartless … which no one would think of you.…”

Augusta drew in her breath and let it out again.

There were footsteps along the passageway, and General Balantyne appeared in the hall. He saw Charlotte and started forward.

“Mrs. Pitt! How are you this morning?” His face was haggard with anxiety, fear and distress. The skin around his eyes was shadowy and paper-thin, the lines at his mouth deeper.

She turned to him with immense relief, effectively dismissing Augusta.

“I am quite well,” she answered, meeting his look frankly. “But I found the news appalling. I had not foreseen such a thing, and I don’t yet really know what to make of it. Thomas has gone there, of course, but I will not know what he has learned until this evening, if he will discuss it at all.”

Balantyne looked beyond her to Augusta and saw the expression in his wife’s face. Charlotte did not turn.

Augusta made a slight sound, as if she thought of saying something, and then reconsidered. There was a sharp swish of skirts and a rustle and tap of feet as she walked away.

Charlotte still did not turn.

“It was kind of you to come,” Balantyne said quietly. “I admit I am extraordinarily glad to see you.” He led the way to his study and opened the door for her. Inside was warm and bright, and comfortable with long use. There was no fire lit—the unusually hot summer did not require one—and there was a large, green-glazed vase full of white lilies on the drum table. The flowers perfumed the whole room and seemed to catch the sunlight from the long windows.

He closed the door.

“You read the newspaper?” she said immediately.

“I did. I don’t know Guy Stanley well, but the poor devil must be feeling … beyond description.” He ran his hands over his brow, pushing his hair hard back. “Of course, we don’t even know yet if he is one of us, but I dare not believe he isn’t. It almost seems irrelevant; this has shown just what ruin can come upon us with a whisper, an innuendo. As if we didn’t know … with the Tranby Croft affair. Although I think Gordon-Cumming might well have been guilty.”

Suddenly his face paled, tightening with pain. “God! What am I saying? I know no more of the man than rumor, the gossip that passes in the club, snatches overheard. That’s exactly what is going to happen to all of us.” He walked unsteadily over to one of the large leather chairs and sat down heavily. “What hope have we?”

She sat down opposite him. “It is not quite the same as Mr. Gordon-Cumming,” she said quietly but very firmly. “There is no question that they were playing baccarat. No one denies that. And Mr. Gordon-Cumming’s reputation prior to this is such that there are many who do not find it difficult to believe that he would cheat. Seemingly there have been doubts before. Has anyone ever made so much as a whisper that you could have panicked on the battlefield?”

“No” He lifted his head a little. He smiled very slightly.

“That is some comfort, but there will still be many only too happy to assume the worst. I never heard any question of Stanley’s honor or integrity before, and yet look at the newspapers. I doubt he will be able to sue for libel, it is so subtly worded, and what could he prove? Even if he did, what could he win back that would be a quarter the value of the reputation he has lost? Money answers so very little where love or honor are concerned.”

It was true, and to argue with him would be not only pointless but offensive.

“No value, except punitive,” she agreed. “And I suppose a court case would only give people the opportunity to throw more accusations. And all the charges are so cleverly chosen that one cannot prove they are untrue. He has obviously thought of that.” She leaned forward, the sun catching the corner of her sleeve in vivid gold. “But we must not give up trying. There must be someone still left alive from the ambush in Abyssinia who can remember what happened and whose testimony would be believed. We must just keep searching for them.”

There was no hope in his face. He tried to compose himself to some kind of resolution, but it was automatic, without heart.

“Of course. I have been thinking who else I might approach.” He gave a half smile. “One of the ugliest aspects of all this is that one begins to suspect everyone of being involved. I try hard not to wonder who it is, but when I am awake at night thoughts come into my mind unbidden.” His mouth tightened. “I determine not to entertain them, but the hours go by and I find I have done. I can no longer think of anyone without suspicion. People whose decency and whose friendship I had never questioned before suddenly become strangers whose every motive I look at again. My whole life has changed, because I see it differently. I question everything good … might it really conceal deceit and secret betrayal?” He looked at her with undisguised anguish. “And in thoughts like that I am betraying all that I am myself, all that I want to be, and thought I was.” His voice dropped. “Perhaps that is the worst thing that he is doing to me … showing me something in myself I had not known was there.”

She understood what he meant; she could see it in him too clearly, isolated, frightened, and alone, so vulnerable, all the certainties he had built over the years dissolving in a space of days.

“It is not you,” she said gently, putting out her hand and laying it not on his hand, but on his arm, on the fabric of his coat. “It is just being human. Any of us might be there; the only difference is that most of us don’t know that, and we cannot imagine it when it is outside our experience. Some things no imagining can reach.”

He sat silently for a few moments. He looked up at her once, and there was warmth in his eyes, a tenderness she was not certain how to interpret. Then the instant passed, and he drew in his breath.

“I have other people in mind whom I could ask about the Abyssinian Campaign,” he said in a studiously casual voice. “And I must go to my club for luncheon.” He could not hide the sudden tension about his eyes and lips. “I should greatly prefer not to, but I have obligations I cannot avoid … I won’t. I will not allow this to make me break my promises.”

“Of course,” she agreed, withdrawing her hand and standing up slowly. She would have liked to protect him from it, but there is no defense against failure except to keep trying, to face the enemy, open or secret. She smiled at him a trifle wanly. “Please always count on me to help in any way I am able.”

“I do,” he said softly. “Thank you.” He colored painfully and turned away, walking to the door into the hall and opening it for her.

She went past him and nodded to the waiting footman.

Pitt stood in Vespasia’s pale, calm sitting room staring at the sunlit garden beyond the windows, waiting for her to come downstairs. It was too early in the afternoon for a social call, especially on someone of her age, but his business was urgent, and he had not wished to arrive and find she had gone out to pay calls herself, which could have easily happened if he had left his own visit until a more appropriate hour.

The white lilacs still perfumed the air, and the silence, away from the road, was almost palpable. It was a windless day; there was no rustle of leaves. Once a thrush sang for a moment, and then the sound disappeared again, lost in the heat.

He turned as he heard the door open.

“Good afternoon, Thomas.” Vespasia came in, leaning a little on her cane. She was dressed in ecru and ivory lace with a long rope of pearls catching the light almost to her waist. He found himself smiling in spite of the reason for his visit.

“Good afternoon, Aunt Vespasia,” he replied, savoring the fact that she permitted him to use that title. “I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour, but it is too important to me to risk missing you.”

She brushed the air delicately with one hand, dismissing the idea. “My calls can wait for another day. It was nothing of importance, merely a way to spend the afternoon and fulfill a certain duty. Tomorrow will do as well, or next week, for that matter.” She walked across the carpet and sat down in her favorite chair, facing the garden.

“You are very generous,” he replied.

She looked at him candidly. “Rubbish! I am bored to tears with idle conversation, and you know it, Thomas. If I hear one more silly woman make some remark about Annabelle Watson-Smith’s betrothal, I shall cause my own scandal with my reply. I was going to call upon Mrs. Purves. And how she has an unbroken lamp mantle in her house I cannot imagine. Her laugh would shatter crystal. You know me well enough not to try humoring me.”

“I’m sorry,” he apologized.

“Good. And for heaven’s sake, sit down! I am getting a crick in my neck looking up at you.”

He sat obediently in the chair opposite her.

She regarded him steadily. “I assume you have come about this appalling business of Guy Stanley. Have you ascertained if he is another victim?” She shrugged very slightly, just the lifting of one shoulder. “Even if he is not, and this is simply a coincidental tragedy, the effect upon everyone else will be the same. I can imagine what Dunraithe White will feel. Thomas, this is really very serious.”

“I know it is.” It seemed strange to be speaking of such evil and deliberate pain in this beautiful room with its simplicity and its scent of flowers. “And you do not yet know the full extent of it. I went to see Sir Guy this morning, and it is uglier than I had supposed. He was indeed threatened in exactly the same manner as the others …”

“And he refused,” she finished for him, her face grim. “And this is the terrible revenge, and the warning to everyone else.”

“No … I wish it were.”

Her eyes widened. “I do not understand. Please be frank, Thomas. Whatever the truth is, I am not too fragile to hear it. I have lived a long time and seen more than I think you imagine.”

“I am not being evasive,” he said honestly. “I do wish the answer were as simple as Sir Guy’s having been asked for something and refusing it. He was not asked for anything at all, except a silver-plated flask, as a token, much as I assume Balantyne was asked for the snuffbox. Just something individual and marking the blackmailer’s power. Sir Guy gave him the flask, by messenger. This exposure comes without warning and for no reason other than to make a display of power. It chanced to be Sir Guy who was the victim; it could as easily have been anyone else.”

She looked at him steadily, absorbing what he had said.

“Unless Sir Guy has nothing the blackmailer wants,” he went on, thinking aloud. “And he was chosen in order to expose him and frighten the others.”

“So the poor man never had a chance.” She was pale, and she spoke sitting very upright, her back stiff and her chin high, her hands folded in her lap. She would never betray panic or despair—she had been schooled to greater self-mastery than that—but in the early-afternoon sun there was a rigidity in her that spoke of inner pain. “Nothing he could have said or done would have affected the outcome. I doubt the offense with which he is accused has much to do with him either.”

“He says not,” Pitt agreed. “And I believe him. But it is actually about something else that I have come to you. I know of no way in which you could help me regarding Sir Guy Stanley; in this other matter you may.”

Her silver eyebrows rose. “Other matter?”

“Mrs. Tannifer sent for me this morning. She is deeply concerned, having heard the news—”

“Tannifer?” she interrupted. “Who is she?”

“The wife of the banker, Sigmund Tannifer.” He had temporarily forgotten that she did not know about him.

“Another victim?”

“Yes. She is a woman of courage and individuality, and Tannifer himself did not keep the truth from her.”

The ghost of a smile touched Vespasia’s lips. “I assume Mr. Tannifer’s supposed offense was not of a marital nature?”

“No, financial.” The momentary humor flickered through him also. “The betrayal of trust regarding his clients’ funds. Ugly and certainly ruinous if it were even considered possible it were true, but not personal in the same way. Mrs. Tannifer is wholly behind him.”

“And she is alarmed, very naturally.”

“Yes.” He nodded. “But not simply that. She is determined to fight in every way open to her. She called me because she overheard a conversation on the telephone between her husband and Mr. Leo Cadell, who apparently holds a position of importance in the Foreign Office.” He stopped, seeing a new pain in Vespasia’s face, a very slight tightening of her fingers in her lap. “I came to ask you if you knew Mr. Cadell. I see that you do.”

“I have known him for years,” she answered, so quietly he had to strain to hear her. She saw him lean forward, and cleared her throat. “I have known his wife since she was born. Indeed, I am her godmother. I was at her wedding … twenty-five years ago. I have always liked Leo. Tell me what I can do.”

“I’m sorry. I hoped you might know them, but I wish it were not so well.” He meant it. The ugliness of this seemed to be touching so many places, the pain and the fear spreading, and he still had so little idea even where to look, never mind where to strike back. “Have you any idea as to a connection between Balantyne, Cornwallis, Dunraithe White, Tannifer and Cadell? Anything at all they have in common?”

“No,” she said without waiting to give the matter a thought. “I have already spent too many hours trying to imagine any sphere of influence or power they have in common, or the remotest family connection, and I should be surprised if they were even more than passingly acquainted with one another. I have wondered if there was anyone they could have injured, even unknowingly. But Cornwallis was in the navy; Balantyne, the army. Dunraithe has never been abroad so far as I know, and has always served the law. You say Tannifer is a banker; and Leo is in the Foreign Office. They are not of a generation, so even if they went to the same school, it could not have been at the same time. Brandon Balantyne must be at least fifteen years older than Leo Cadell.” She looked confused and at a loss.

“I have tried everything else,” he conceded. “I have tried financial and business interests, investments, even gambling or sporting pursuits. There doesn’t seem to be anything that ties them all together. If there is, it must be far in the past. I’ve asked Cornwallis. He is the one man I can press for any detail he can recall. He swears he never even heard of any of them, except Balantyne, until a couple of years ago.”

“Then I had better go and call upon Theodosia.” Vespasia rose, accepting Pitt’s hand reluctantly as he stood more rapidly than she and offered it. “I am not yet decrepit, Thomas,” she said a trifle stiffly. “I simply do not shoot to my feet as you do.”

He knew she was not angry with him but with her own limitations, most especially now, when she felt helpless to protect her friends and was growing daily more bitterly aware of how serious was the threat to them.

“Thank you for listening to me,” he said, walking beside her. “Please do not give any undertaking to keep confidences unless you have no other possible way of learning the truth. I need to know all you hear.”

She turned to look at him, her hooded eyes dark silver-gray. “I am as aware as you are of the depth of danger in this case, Thomas, and not only of how deeply it could scar the individual men and women involved but also of the corruption to our society altogether if even one of these men succumbs to whatever it is that is asked of them. Even if it is trivial, and not illegal, the very fact that they can be persuaded to do it at another’s command is the first symptom of a disease which kills. I know these men, my dear. I have known men like them all my life. I understand what they are suffering and what they fear. I understand their sense of shame because they do not know how to fight back. I know what the esteem of their fellows means to them.”

He nodded. No more words were necessary.

Vespasia alighted from her carriage on the pavement outside the house of Leo and Theodosia Cadell. It was a trifle early to call, except for the most formal of visits, which was the last thing she intended, but she had no inclination to wait. Theodosia could leave a message with the footman that she was not at home should anyone else come. She could select any reason she chose. An elderly relative was unwell. That was hardly true—Vespasia was in excellent health—but it would satisfy. She was certainly distressed.

She told her driver to take the carriage around to the mews, out of sight. She would send for him when she was ready to leave. She permitted him to pull the doorbell for her before moving to obey.

She was admitted by the parlormaid and was shown to the large, old withdrawing room with its burgundy curtains and Chinese vases she had always disliked. They were a wedding gift from an aunt whose feelings they had never wished to offend. Theodosia joined her within moments.

“Good afternoon, my dear.” Vespasia surveyed the younger woman carefully. There were thirty-five years between them, but just at the moment that was less than usually apparent. Theodosia also had been remarkably beautiful, perhaps not in the unique way Vespasia had, but sufficient to turn a great many heads—and not a few hearts. Her blue-black hair was touched with silver now, not only at the temples but across the front of the brow. Her dark eyes were magnificent, her high cheekbones just as clear, but there were shadows in her skin and a lack of color that spoke of poor sleep. There was a tightness in her movements and a loss of her usual grace.

“Aunt Vespasia!” No weariness or fear could mar the real pleasure in her greeting. “What a delightful surprise! If I had known you were coming I should have instructed the staff that I am not at home to anyone else. How are you? You look wonderful.”

“I am very well, thank you,” Vespasia answered. “A good dressmaker can achieve a great deal. However, even the best cannot work miracles. A corset can hold together your body and provide the best posture on earth, but there is nothing that can do the same for the face.”

“There is nothing wrong with your face.” Theodosia looked surprised and half amused.

“I hope not, except a certain passage of time,” Vespasia agreed wryly. “But I cannot be so kind to you, my dear, and do so with the remotest honesty. You look worried sick.”

What little color there was blanched from Theodosia’s cheeks. She sat down suddenly in the chair opposite Vespasia, who naturally had not risen.

“Oh, dear. Is it so apparent? I thought I had disguised it rather better than that.”

Vespasia relented. “From most people, I daresay. But I have known you since you were born. Also,” she added, “I have fashioned a few repairs to the appearance myself, well enough to know how they are done.”

“I am afraid I have not been sleeping very well,” Theodosia said, looking at Vespasia, then away again. “Silly, but perhaps I am coming to the time of life when late nights are not as easy to accommodate as they used to be. I hate to admit that.”

“My dear,” Vespasia said very gently, “late nights are usually followed by late mornings, and you are in an excellent position to sleep until noon, if you so wish. If you do not sleep well, it is because you are ill, or something is worrying you too profoundly to allow you to forget it, even in your bed. I rather think it is the latter.”

It was clear in Theodosia’s face that she meant to deny it; it was so plain she might almost have spoken. Then she met Vespasia’s unwavering gaze. Her resistance crumpled, but nevertheless she did not explain.

“May I tell you something about a friend of mine?” Vespasia enquired.

“Of course.” Theodosia relaxed a little. The immediate pressure had been removed from her. She sat back in the chair, preparing to listen, her skirts in an elegant swirl around her, her eyes on Vespasia’s face.

“I shall not tell you a great deal about his history or circumstances,” Vespasia began. “Because for reasons which will become apparent, I prefer to keep you from guessing his name. He might not mind in the slightest your knowing his predicament, but that is not my decision to make.”

Theodosia nodded. “I understand. Tell me only what you wish.”

“He is a military man of distinguished service,” Vespasia began, never taking her eyes from Theodosia’s face. “He has now retired, but his career was long and honorable. He had great courage and qualities of leadership. He was held in high esteem, both by friends and by those who liked him less, for whatever reason.”

Theodosia was attending closely, but with no more than polite interest. It was a great deal easier than being questioned as to her own anxieties. The hands in her lap were loosely folded, the pearl-and-emerald ring catching the light.

“He has had his share of personal grief,” Vespasia continued. “As most of us do. However, lately something quite new has happened, without the slightest warning.”

“I’m sorry,” Theodosia sympathized. It was clear in her wide eyes that she expected some domestic discord, or possibly financial reverse, the sort of misfortune which can afflict most people.

Vespasia’s voice did not alter. “He received a letter, anonymous of course, cut from words in the Times newspaper ….” She saw Theodosia stiffen and her hands lock, but she affected not to have noticed. “It was very plainly and articulately phrased, accusing him of cowardice in the face of the enemy, a great many years previously, during one of our lesser foreign campaigns.”

Theodosia swallowed, her breath rapid, as if she were struggling to gain sufficient air and this warm and pleasant room were actually suffocating her. She started to say something and then changed her mind.

Vespasia hated going on, but if she stopped now she would have served no purpose and helped no one.

“The threat to disclose the details of this incident, entirely false, was quite plain,” she said. “As was the ruin it would bring, not only to my friend but of course to his family. He is quite innocent of the charge, but it is all so long ago, and happened in a foreign land with which we now have little connection, so it will be well-nigh impossible to verify it. It is always harder to prove that something did not happen than that it did.”

Theodosia was very white, her body so stiff beneath her smoky-blue dress that the fabric seemed strained.

“The curious thing,” Vespasia went on in the silence, “is that the writer of the letter did not ask for anything, no money, no favor, nothing at all. He has now written at least twice that I am aware of.”

“That is … terrible,” Theodosia whispered. “What is your friend going to do?”

“There is very little he can do.” Vespasia watched her closely. “I am not sure if he is aware that he is not the only person so victimized.”

Theodosia was startled. “What? I mean … you think there are others?”

“There are four others that I know of. I think there may be five. Don’t you, my dear?”

Theodosia licked her lips. She hesitated for several long, silent minutes. The clock in the hall struck the quarter hour. In the garden, outside the long windows, a bird sang. Somewhere, beyond the wall, children were calling out in a game.

“I promised Leo I would tell no one,” Theodosia said at last, but the anguish in her face made it desperately clear how she longed to share the burden.

Vespasia waited.

Outside the bird was still singing, the same liquid call over and over—a blackbird, high in a tree in the sun.

“I suppose you already know,” Theodosia said at last. “I don’t know why I hesitate, except that the nature of the accusation is … oh, it’s all so stupid, and yet so real … so … almost … not true … but …” She signed. “What am I making excuses for? It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t alter anything.” She looked steadily at Vespasia. “Leo has received two of these letters as well, making the charges but not yet asking for anything, just pointing out how if it became public it would ruin him … ruin us both … and Sir Richard Aston as well.”

Vespasia was puzzled. She could imagine no charge that could possibly include Leo and Theodosia and Aston. Aston was Leo’s superior in the Foreign Office, a man of highly distinguished career and very great influence. His wife was connected to several of the great aristocratic families in the land. He was a charming man, possessed of both wit and intelligence.

Theodosia laughed, but it was a hollow sound, amusement without pleasure.

“I see you had not even thought of it,” she observed. “It was Sir Richard who was responsible for Leo’s promotion.”

“It was entirely merited,” Vespasia replied. “He has amply proved that. But even had it not been, it is a mistake to promote someone beyond their ability, but it is not an offense, and certainly not Leo’s offense, or yours.”

“Your trust in me is making you naive,” Theodosia said with an edge of bitterness. “The suggestion was that Leo paid for his promotion.”

“That’s balderdash,” Vespasia dismissed it, but without conviction or relief. It was so foolish it could be only part of the story. “Aston has all the money he could need, and Leo hasn’t sufficient to pay an amount that would make any difference. And you mentioned that you were involved, or at least you implied you had some part in it greater than simply that his ruin would accomplish yours as well.” Then even as she spoke a glimmering of another idea came to her; it was repellently ugly, because she cared for Theodosia, but not unbelievable of someone for whom she had no regard. Others would believe it.

“I can see it in your face,” Theodosia said gently. “You understand at last. You are right; the letter said that Sir Richard had admired me far more than as a friend, and Leo had sold me to him, as a lover, in return for his promotion, and Sir Richard had accepted.” She winced as she gave it words, and her hands were twisting in her lap. “The only part of it that bears any relation to fact is that I was aware that Sir Richard did … desire me. But he never made any improper suggestion, let alone advance. I was simply … a trifle uncomfortable because of his position regarding my husband.” Her jaw set. “Why should I have to apologize for that? I was beautiful. I could name a score of other women, two score, who were the same.”

“You do not have to explain,” Vespasia pointed out with a flash of humor. “I do understand.”

Theodosia blushed. “I’m sorry. Of course you do, better than I. You must have faced envy and discomfort on that account all your life, the little remarks and suggestions.”

Vespasia lifted her chin a trifle. “It is not quite in the past, my dear. The body may become a little stiff, and tire more easily, the appetites of the flesh become controlled, the hair may fade and the face betray the years and all that one has made of them, but the passion and the need to be loved do not die. Nor, I am afraid, do the jealousies or the fears.”

“Good,” Theodosia said after only a moment. “For all its pain, I think I like the way we are. But what can I do to help Leo?”

“Keep silent,” Vespasia responded immediately. “If you make the slightest attempt to deny it, you will raise thoughts in people’s minds which had never entered them before. Sir Richard will hardly thank you for that, nor will Lady Aston. She is not an easy creature, rather overbearing, and the kindest thing that can be said of her appearance would be to liken her to a well-bred dog, one of those ones that has difficulty breathing. Most unfortunate.”

Theodosia tried to laugh, and failed. “She is actually quite pleasant, you know, and even if it was a dynastic marriage to begin with, I believe he is very fond of her. She has humor and imagination, both of which last longer than beauty.”

“Of course they do,” Vespasia agreed. “And they are a great deal easier and more rewarding to live with. But too few people realize it. And beauty has such an immediate impact. Ask any girl of twenty whether she would rather be beautiful or amusing, and I will be surprised if you find one in a score who will choose humor. And Lucy Aston is undoubtedly one of the nineteen.”

“I know. Is that all I can do, Aunt Vespasia, nothing?”

“It is all I can think of, for the moment,” Vespasia insisted. “But if Leo should receive a letter which asks him to do something under duress, if you have any love for him, or for yourself, do all you can to dissuade him from it. Whatever the cost of scandal precipitated by his making this charge public, it will be small compared with the ruin agreeing to it will bring. It is no guarantee the blackmailer will keep silent—Guy Stanley is witness of that—and you will add the real dishonor of whatever he would have you do. He may damage your reputation, but only you can damage your honor. Don’t let it happen.” She leaned forward a little, looking intently at the younger woman. “Assure him you can withstand anything that is said of you wrongly, and all that may come because of it, but not that he should allow this man to turn him into the kind of creature he is, or to become a tool in his evil.”

“I will,” Theodosia promised. In a quick gesture she reached forward and took Vespasia’s hands in her own, gripping them warmly. “Thank you for coming. I should not have had the courage to come to you, but I feel stronger, and quite certain of what I must do now. I shall be able to help Leo.”

Vespasia nodded. “We shall stand together,” she promised. “There are several of us, and we shall not stop fighting.”

Tellman was meanwhile busy tracking the last few days in the life of Josiah Slingsby. Someone had murdered him, either with deliberate intent or accidentally in a fight which had gone too far. That was one of the few things in this whole affair of which he was certain. Whether it had any connection with the blackmail attempt or not, it must be solved. It was the original case, and must not be lost sight of in whatever else was occupying most of Pitt’s time. Tellman fully expected the trail he was following to cross General Balantyne’s path, and it might be easier to come at it from this angle than from pursuing Balantyne directly, although that, too, would have to be done.

He began by discovering where Slingsby had lived. It was tedious and time-consuming, but not difficult for someone who was used to the mixture of threat, trickery and small bribes necessary to deal with fencers of stolen goods, prostitutes and keepers of “netherskens,” as cheap rooming houses were called, where those who wished to keep well out of the way of the police could rent a space to sleep in for a few pence a night. The owners asked nothing about their patrons and simply took the money. None were friends of the law, and whatever business they were involved in was best not discussed.

Lapsing into the attitude of the beggars and pickpockets lounging around the area, Tellman fell into conversation with a bull-chested man whose “terrier-crop” haircut indicated he had not long been out of prison. In spite of his impressive physique he had a hacking cough and dark circles of exhaustion under his eyes.

From him Tellman learned that Slingsby frequently worked in partnership with a man named Ernest Wallace, infamous for his ability to climb up drainpipes and balance along roof ledges and windowsills, and for his filthy temper.

He spent the rest of the day in Shoreditch, learning all he could about Wallace. Little of it was to his credit. He seemed to inspire both dislike and considerable fear. He was very good at his chosen skill of thieving, and his profits were both high and regular. So far he had escaped the attention of the law, who might well have been aware of him but had not yet proved any charge against him. However, he had quarreled with almost everyone with whom he had had dealings, and two or three of them that Tellman found carried the scars.

In this area it was understood that no one cooperated with the police to the extent of betraying one of their own, even at the cost of life. Tellman was the enemy, and he knew it. But revenge might be sought in more than one direction. He needed to find someone whom Wallace had hurt badly enough that he would be willing to savor Wallace’s downfall and pay the price. A little fear and a little profit might sway the argument.

It took him another day of slipping in and out of gin mills, crowded markets, being bumped and jostled, carrying nothing in his pockets, and even then the linings were ripped by cutpurses so skilled he did not feel their hands or their knives. He ate from a sandwich stall, walked dripping alleys, stepping over refuse, hearing rats’ feet scurrying away, and mixed threats and wheedling, but finally he found the person he sought, not a man but a woman. Wallace had beaten her, and as a result she had miscarried her child. She hated him enough not to care how she took her revenge.

Tellman had to be very careful how he questioned her. He must not prompt her into saying anything intentionally to ruin Wallace, and thereby end up being useless in any trial.

“It’s Slingsby I want,” he insisted.

She stood leaning against the dark brick wall of the street, her face half shaded in the gloom. The sky was hazed over with chimney smoke, and the smell of effluent was heavy in the air.

“Well, find Ernie Wallace an’ yer’ll find Joe,” she answered. “Joe Slingsby’s the only one as’ll work wif’im. Least ’e were. Dunno if ’e still does.” She sniffed. “ ’Ad a fight summink terrible ’baht a week ago—it were, ’cos o’ the big row down at the Goat an’ Compasses. Were the same night. Ernie damn near killed Joe, the bleedin’ swine. In’t seen Joe around ’ere since then. I ’spec ’e went orff.” She sniffed again and passed the back of her hand across her mouth. “I’d a’ come back an’ stuck a shiv in ’is ribs, if I’d a’ bin ’im. Bleedin’ bastard. Would now, if I could get near enough the swine. But ’e’d see me comin’, an’ ’e’s too fly by ’alf ter ’ang around any dark alleys by ’isself.”

“But you’re sure Joe Slingsby was with him that night a week ago?” Tellman tried to keep the excitement out of his voice. He could hear his words falling over each other with eagerness. She could hear it too.

“Din’ I just tell yer?” She stared at him. “Yer deaf, or summink? I dunno w’ere Joe is. I in’t seen ’ide ner ’air of ’im since then, but I know w’ere Ernie Wallace is. ’E’s bin throwin’ money around summink wild, like ’e ’ad it all.”

Tellman swallowed. “You reckon he and Joe Slingsby did a burglary that day and fought over the takings, and Wallace won?”

“ ’Course I do!” she said with contempt. “Wot else? Yer in’t very bright, are yer?”

“May be true.” He must be very careful. He affected doubt, turning away from her. “An’ maybe not.”

She spat on the narrow pavement. “ ’Oo cares!” She took a step back, her voice hard.

“I do!” He reached out and snatched her arm. “I gotter find Ernie Wallace. It’s worth something to me to know for sure what happened.”

“Well, Joe won’t tell yer!” she said derisively. “ ’e got the worse of it, I know fer sure.”

“How do you know?” he insisted.

“ ’Cos I saw it, o’ course! ’ow d’yer think?”

“Did Slingsby say he’d get back at Wallace? Where’d he go after?”

“I dunno. ’e never went anyw’ere.” She pulled her arm away roughly. “ ’e could a’ bin dead, fer all I know.” Suddenly her face changed. “Jeez! Mebbe ’e were dead! Nobody in’t seen ’im since then.”

“In that case,” Tellman said very slowly, looking straight at her, “if it can be proved, then Ernie Wallace murdered him, and he’ll swing for it.”

“Oh, it can be proved ….” She stared back at him, wide-eyed. “I’ll see ter it. I swear ter that, I do. I’ll get it fer yer!”

She was as good as her word. The evidence was all he needed. He took two constables and together they found and arrested Ernest Wallace and charged him with the murder of Josiah Slingsby. But regardless of the subtlety or persistence of questioning, or the threats or promises made to him, Wallace was adamant that he had left the body of Slingsby in the alley where he had fallen, and himself left the scene with all the speed he could muster.

“W’y the bleedin’ ’ell should I a’ took ’im ter bleedin’ Bedford Square?” he demanded with amazement. “Wo’ for? D’yer fink I’m gonna carry a corpse wot I done in ’alfway ’roun’ Lunnon in the middle o’ the night, jus’ so as I can leave ’im on someone else’s bleedin’ doorstep? Wo’ fer?”

The notion of placing Albert Cole’s bill for socks in the pocket of the corpse had him seriously questioning Tellman’s sanity.

“Yer bleedin’ mad, you are!” He snorted, his eyes wide. “Wot the ’ell are yer on abaht—socks?” He guffawed with laughter.

Tellman left the Shoreditch police station deep in thought. Unconsciously, he pushed his hands farther into his pockets, not realizing how he was mimicking Pitt. He believed Wallace, simply because what he said made sense. He had killed Slingsby in a fight which was violent, stupid, born of an un-governed temper and a quarrel over money. There was no forethought in it, no planning either before or after.

So who put the socks receipt in Slingsby’s pocket and where had he got it from? Where was Albert Cole now … alive or dead? And above all, why?

There was only one answer that came to his mind: in order to blackmail General Brandon Balantyne.

The street was shimmering with heat. It rose in waves from the stones, and the sheer brick walls on either side seemed to hem him in. The horses trotting briskly between the shafts of hansoms and drays alike were dark with sweat. The smell of manure was sharp in the air. He preferred it to the stale, clinging odor of drains.

A running patterer stood on the corner with a small group of listeners gathered around him. He was spinning a doggerel poem about the Tranby Croft affair and the Prince of Wales’s affection for Lady Frances Brooke. His version of the tale reflected rather better on Gordon-Cumming than on the heir to the throne or his friends.

Tellman stopped and listened for a minute or two, and gave the man a threepenny bit, then crossed the street and went on his way.

What did the blackmailer want? Money, or some corrupt action? And there had to be more to it than merely Slingsby’s body, even if it were believed to be that of Albert Cole, or Balantyne would never submit. The answer to those questions must lie with Balantyne. He would do as Pitt had told him and investigate the General more thoroughly, but he would be highly discreet about it. And he would tell Gracie nothing. His face burned at the thought, and he was surprised and angry at how guilty it made him feel that he would be keeping it from her, after he had given her his word, at least implicitly, to help.

He pushed his hands deeper into his pockets and strode along the pavement with his shoulders hunched and his lips in a thin line, the smells of rotten wood, soot and effluent catching in the back of his throat.

He began early the following morning by looking again at what he knew of Balantyne’s military record. He needed to know something of the man in order to understand his weaknesses, why he might have created enemies and who they would be. According to what little Tellman had learned by following him since the discovery of the corpse in Bedford Square, he was a cold, precise man whose few pleasures were solitary.

Tellman squared his shoulders and increased his pace along the footpath. He was absolutely certain there was a great deal more to learn, more that was actually relevant to the blackmail and whoever had moved the body of Josiah Slingsby and left it on the General’s doorstep. Perhaps as far as the law was concerned it did not matter a great deal. Tellman had arrested and charged Wallace with the murder. But blackmail was also a crime, whoever the victim was.

He did not want to speak to officers, men of Balantyne’s own background and situation in life, who also had purchased their commissions and would close ranks against enquiry as naturally as against any other enemy attacking the quality of their comfortable, privileged lives. He wanted to speak to ordinary soldiers, who would not be too arrogant to answer him man to man and to praise or criticize with honesty. He could speak to them as equals and press them for detail, opinion, and names.

It took him three hours to find Billy Treadwell, who had until five years before been a private in the Indian army. Now he kept a public house down by the river. He was a thin man with a large beak of a nose and a ready smile with crooked, very white teeth, the middle two of which were chipped.

“General Balantyne?” he said cheerfully, leaning on a barrel in the yard of the Red Bull. “Well, Major Balantyne as ’e were then. ’Course, it’s goin’ back a fair bit, but yeah, I remember ’im. ’Course I do. Wot about it?” It was not said aggressively but with curiosity. Years in India had burned his skin a deep brown, and he seemed not to find this extraordinary heat wave in the least uncomfortable. He narrowed his eyes against the reflection of the sun on the water, but he did not look for shade.

Tellman sat down on the low edge of the brick wall that divided the yard from the small vegetable garden. The sound of the river was a pleasant background just out of sight. But the heat burned his skin, and his feet were on fire.

“You served with him, didn’t you? In India?” he asked.

Treadwell looked at him with his head a little on one side. “You know that, or you wouldn’t be ’ere askin’ me. Wot about it? Why fer d’yer wanna know?”

Tellman had weighed in his mind how to answer this question all the way there on the steamer he had taken up the river. He was still uncertain. He did not want to prejudice the man’s answer.

“That’s hard to say without breaking confidences,” he said slowly. “I think there’s a crime going on, and I think the General might be one of the intended victims. I want to stop it happening.”

“So why don’t you just warn ’im?” Treadwell said reasonably, glancing over his shoulder at a steamer as it passed close to shore, wondering if it might be likely custom.

“It isn’t that simple.” Tellman had prepared himself for that. “We want to catch the criminal as well. Believe me, if the General could help, he would.”

Treadwell turned back to him. “Oh, I believe that!” he said with feeling. “Straight as a die, ’e were. Always knew where you stood with ’im … not like some as I could name.”

“Strict for law and order, was he?” Tellman asked.

“Not special.” He gave his full attention now, business forgotten. “ ’E’d bend the rules if ’e could see the reason. ’e understood that men ’ave got ter believe in a cause if yer asking ’em ter die for it. Just like they gotter believe in a commanding officer if they’re gonna obey ’im w’en they don’t see the reason why ’e gives an order.”

“You don’t question an order?” Tellman said with disbelief.

“No, ’course not,” Treadwell answered disdainfully. “But some yer obeys slow, like, an’ some yer trusts.”

“Which was Balantyne?”

“Trust ’im.” The reply was unhesitating. “ ’e knew ’is job. Never sent men ter do summink as ’e couldn’t do ’isself. Some men leads from the back … not ’im.” He moved over and sat on the barrel top, settling to reminisce, squinting a little in the sun but ignoring its heat. “I ’member once when we was up on the Northwest Frontier …” There was a faraway look in his eyes. “Yer’d ’ave ter see them mountains ter believe ’em, yer would. Great shining white peaks ’anging over us in the sky, they was. Reckon as they was scrapin” oles in the floor of ’eaven.”

He took a deep breath. “Anyway, Major Balantyne was told by the Colonel ter take a couple o’ score of us an’ go up the pass an’ come down be’ind the Pathans. ’e were kind o’ new at the Northwest. Didn’t reckon much ter the Pathans … Major Balantyne tried ter put ’im right. Told ’im they was some o’ the best soldiers in the world. Clever, tough, an’ din’t run away from nuffink on God’s earth.” He shook his head and sighed wearily. “But the Colonel, ’e wouldn’t listen. One o’ them daft bleeders wot won’t be told nuffink.” He looked at Tellman for a moment to make sure that he was following the story.

“And …” Tellman prompted, shifting his feet uncomfortably. He could feel the sweat trickling down his body.

“So the Major stood ter attention,” Treadwell resumed. “ ‘Yes sir,’ ‘No sir,’ an’ took ’is orders. Then as soon as we was well out o’ sight o’ the post, ’e said in a loud voice as ’is compass was broke, an’ gave orders to go about-face, an’ followed ’is plan ter come at the Pathans from two sides at once, an’ instead o’ standin’ our ground, ter keep movin’… just a couple o’ rounds o’ shot, an’ then, while they was still workin’ out which way we was comin’, we was gone again.” He looked at Tellman narrowly.

“Did you win?” Tellman was caught up in spite of himself.

“ ’Course we did,” Treadwell said with a grin. “An’ the Colonel took the credit for it. Was as mad as all ’ell, but couldn’t do nuffink abaht it. Stood an’ listened ter them say wot an ’ell of a clever feller ’e was, an’ thanked them fer it. ’Ad ter, didn’t’e?”

“But it was the Major’s idea!” Tellman protested. “Didn’t he tell them, whoever was in charge?”

Treadwell shook his head. “Yer never bin army, ’ave yer?” There was pity in his tone, and a certain kind of protective-ness, as of the world’s innocents. “Yer don’ show up one o’ yer own, even if ’e looks for it. Loyalty. The Major’d never a’ done that. One o’ the old sort, ’e were. Take wot comes ter ’im an’ never complain. I seen ’im so wore out ’e were near droppin’ ter the ground, but ’e jus’ kep’ goin’. Wouldn’t let the men down, yer see? That’s wot bein’ an officer is abaht, them wot’s any good. Yer always gotta be that bit better’n others, or ’ow could they foller yer?”

There was a bellow of laughter from the open door of the public tearoom.

Tellman frowned. “Did you like him?” he asked.

To Treadwell it was an incomprehensible question.

“Wot d’yer mean … ‘like ’im’? ’e were the Major. Yer don’ ‘like’ officers. Yer either love ’em or ’ate ’em. Yer like’ friends, fellers wot yer marches beside, not them as yer follers.”

Tellman knew the answer before he asked; still, he needed to hear it in words.

“Did you love or hate the Major?”

Treadwell shook his head. “If I din’t see yer face, I’d reckon you was simple! In’t I just bin tellin’ yer, ’e were one o’the best?”

Tellman was confused. He could not disbelieve Treadwell; the light in his eyes was too clear, and the amusement at an outsider’s failure to grasp what was so plain to him.

Tellman thanked him and took his leave. What had happened to Balantyne in the intervening years which had made him the stiff and solitary man he was now? Why was Treadwell’s view of him so … unrecognizable?

The next soldier he found was one William Sturton, another ordinary man, who had risen through long service to the rank of sergeant and was immensely proud of it. He was stiff with rheumatism now, and his white hair and whiskers shone in the dappled shade as he sat on the park bench, eager to talk, remembering the glories of the past with this young man who knew nothing and was so happy to listen.

“ ’Course I remember Colonel Balantyne,” he said with a lift of his chin, after Tellman had introduced himself. “It were ’im as led us w’en we rode inter Lucknow after the Mutiny. Never seen anyfink like it.” His face was set hard as he strove to control the anguish of memory that tore him even now. Tellman could not imagine what lay in his inward vision. He knew poverty, crime and disease; he knew the ravages of cholera in the slums, and freezing corpses of the beggars and the old and the children who lived in the streets. He knew all the agony inflicted by helplessness and indifference. But he had never seen war. Individual murders were one thing; the carnage of mass destruction was beyond his knowledge. He could only guess, and watch the sergeant’s face.

“You went in …” he prompted.

“Yeah.” Sturton was looking beyond him, his eyes misted over. “It was seein’ the women and children that got me. I’m used ter seein’ men cut ter pieces.”

“Colonel Balantyne,” Tellman said, forcing him back to the issue. He did not want to hear the other details. He had read about it, been told in school, enough to know he dreaded it.

A thread of breeze stirred the leaves, making a sound like waves on a shore. Away in the distance a woman laughed.

“Never forget the Colonel’s face.” Sturton was lost in the past. He was in India, not the milder heat of an English summer afternoon. “Looked like death ’isself, ’e did. Thought ’e were gonna fall orff ’is horse. Stumbled w’en ’e got orff. Knees fair wobbled w’en ’e walked over ter the first pile o’ corpses. ’E’d seen plenty o’ death on the battlefield, but this were different.”

In spite of himself, Tellman tried to imagine it, and felt sick. He wondered what Balantyne’s emotions had been, how deep? He looked like such a stiff, cold man now.

“What did he do?” he asked.

Sturton did not look at him. His mind was still in Lucknow thirty-four years before.

“We was all took bad at it,” he said quietly. “The Colonel took charge. ’e was white as death an “is voice were shakin’, but ’e told us all wot ter do, ’ow ter search the buildings ter make sure there weren’t no ambushes. Ter see if there were anyone ’iding, like.” There was fierce pride in his voice, faraway things remembered, and the fact that he had done his duty and survived into these softer times. “Secure the bounds, put a watch in case they returned,” he went on, not looking at Tellman beside him. “ ’e sent the youngest fer that … keep ’em out o’ the way o’ the dead. Some of us was took pretty ’ard by it. Like I said, it were the women, some of ’em wi’ babes even. ’e went ’round ’isself to see if any of ’em was still alive, like. Gawd knows ’ow ’e did it. I couldn’t a’. But then that’s w’y ’e’s a colonel an’ I in’t.”

“He was a colonel because his father bought his commission,” Tellman said, then instantly and without knowing why, wished he hadn’t.

Sturton looked at him with patient contempt. His face was eloquent that he considered Tellman beneath explaining to.

“You dunno nuffink about duty or loyalty or nuffink else, or yer wouldn’t say such a damn stupid thing,” he retorted. “Colonel Balantyne were the sort o’ man we’d a’ followed any place ’e’d a’ gorn, an’ proud ter do it. ’e ’elped us bury the dead, and stood over the graves and said the prayers for ’em. Even on ’ot nights if I shut me eyes I can still ’ear ’is voice sayin’ them words. Never wept, ’course ’e wouldn’t, but it were all there in his face, all that ’orror.” He sighed deeply and remained silent for several moments.

This time Tellman did not venture to interrupt. He was full of strange and troubling emotions. He tried to imagine the General as a younger man, a man with an inner life of emotions, anger, pain, pity, all masked with a mighty effort because it was his duty, and he must lead the men, never let them doubt him or see weakness, for their sakes. It was not the Balantyne he had believed he knew.

“So wot d’yer want ter know about the Colonel for, then?” Sturton burst across his thoughts. “I in’t gonna tell yer nuffink agin ’im. In’t nothing ter tell. If yer think as ’e done suffink wrong, yer daft … even dafter an’ more iggerant than I took yer for, an that’s saying a lot.”

Tellman took the reproach without argument, because he was too confused to justify himself.

“No …” he said slowly. “No, I don’t think so. I’m looking for someone who is trying to hurt him … an enemy.” He saw the look of anger on Sturton’s face. “Possibly from the Abyssinian Campaign, perhaps not.”

“Yer got any idea wot yer doin’?” Sturton said disgustedly. “Wot kind o’enemy?”

“Someone vicious enough to try to attempt blackmail with a false story,” Tellman answered, then was afraid perhaps he had betrayed too much. He felt as if any step he took he was on uncertain ground. Suddenly everything was shifting beneath his feet.

“Then yer’d better find ’im!” Sturton said furiously. “An’ soon! I’ll ’elp yer!” He stiffened as if to move and begin straightaway.

Tellman hesitated. Why not? He could use any expert help he could obtain. “All right,” he accepted. “I need to know anything you find out about the attack on the supply train at Arogee. That’s the event that’s being lied about.”

“Right!” Sturton agreed. “Bow Street, yer said. I’ll be there.”

Tellman spent the next two days discreetly following Balantyne himself. It was not difficult, since Balantyne went out very little and was so deep in thought as never to look to either side of himself, far less behind. Tellman could have been striding step by step with him and probably not have been noticed.

The first time the General went out in a carriage with his wife, a dark, handsome woman Tellman found intimidating. He was very careful not to catch her eye, even by accident. He wondered what had made Balantyne choose her … and then realized that perhaps he had not. Maybe it was an arranged marriage, family links, or money. She was certainly elegant enough as she walked across the pavement past the General, barely looking at him, and accepted the coachman’s hand up into the open carriage.

She arranged her skirts with a single, expert movement and stared straight ahead. She did not turn as Balantyne got in beside her. He spoke to her. She replied, again without looking at him. She told the coachman to proceed before he moved to do so.

Tellman felt vaguely embarrassed for the General, as if he had been somehow rebuffed. It was a curious sensation, and one that took him entirely by surprise.

He followed them to an art exhibition where he was not permitted inside. He waited until they emerged a little over an hour later. Lady Augusta looked bright and hard—and impatient. Balantyne was speaking with a white-haired man, and they seemed deep in conversation. They regarded each other with respect which bordered on affection. Tellman remembered that the General painted in watercolors himself.

Lady Augusta tapped her foot.

Balantyne was some minutes more before he joined her. All the way home she ignored him, and back in Bedford Square she alighted from the carriage and went to the front door without waiting for him or looking back.

On the second occasion he went out alone, pale-faced and very tired. He walked quickly. He gave a threepenny piece to the urchin who swept the crossing over Great Russell Street, and a shilling to the beggar on the corner of Oxford Street.

He walked to the Jessop Club and disappeared inside, but he came out less than an hour later. Tellman followed him back to Bedford Square.

Then Tellman returned to Bow Street and went to Pitt’s old files to read the case of the murders in the Devil’s Acre and the startling tragedy of Christina Balantyne. It left him with a feeling of horror so intense the helplessness to affect it knotted inside his stomach, the anger at the pain he could not reach, the willful destruction and the loss.

He ate a brief supper without any pleasure in it, his imagination in the dark alleys of the Devil’s Acre, the blood on the cobbles, but every now and then worse scenes intruded into his imagination: frightened little girls, children no older than Pitt’s Jemima, screaming … unheard, except by other little girls, cowering and just as helpless.

He wondered about Christina Balantyne and the General. Perhaps in his place he might have chosen solitary pursuits as well. Please God he would never be in such a place to know!

* * *

It was with a very different feeling that he followed Balantyne the next morning, when to Tellman’s amazement he met Charlotte Pitt on the steps of the British Museum.

Tellman felt like an intruder, a voyeur, as he saw the joy in Balantyne’s face when he caught sight of her. There was an acute vulnerability in him, as if he cared intensely and dared not acknowledge it even to himself, far less to her.

And watching her quick concern, the direct way she met his gaze, her complete candor, Tellman was suddenly aware that she had no idea of the nature or the depth of the General’s feelings. She was frightened for him. It was clear in her face. Even had Tellman not known that from Gracie, he could have guessed it watching her now.

They turned to go inside, and without even considering any other possibility, he followed them in. Then, as Charlotte glanced at a woman almost on her heels, he realized with a sudden chill, a feeling of almost nakedness, that if she saw him she would recognize him instantly.

He dropped to one knee and bent his head as if to tie his bootlace, causing the man behind him to trip and only regain his balance with difficulty, and some ill temper. The whole incident drew far more attention to him than if he had simply followed at a more discreet distance. He was furious with himself.

From now on he must remain at the far side of any room and observe them by reflection in any of the glass cases that housed certain of the exhibits. Balantyne disregarded him, he was interested only in Charlotte, but she would recognize Tellman in profile, perhaps even entirely from the back.

For some time he contrived to stay always behind a garrulous woman in black bombazine and watch as Charlotte and Balantyne moved from room to room, speaking together, pretending to look at the exhibits but seeing nothing. She knew of the blackmail, of the murder, and was determined to fight to help him. Tellman had seen her like this before, perhaps never caring quite so passionately, but he knew her capacity to become involved.

Every now and then as they moved to stand in front of an other case, he was obliged to pretend to be absorbed in whatever was closest to him. In this place a man alone would be conspicuous if he were not seen to be looking at something.

He found himself next to what was listed on the little plate as a carving from a palace in Assyria, seven centuries before Christ. There was an artist’s impression of how the whole building would have appeared. He was amazed at the size of it. It must have been magnificent. He could not pronounce the name of the king who had ruled it. It was surprisingly interesting. One day he would come back here and look at it again, when he had time to read more. He could even bring Gracie.

Now he must follow after Charlotte and Balantyne. He had nearly missed them.

He was beginning to understand why this case mattered to Charlotte. Balantyne was none of the things Tellman had thought of him. Which meant he had been mistaken, full of misjudgments. If he could be so wrong in his assumptions about Balantyne, what about all the other arrogant, overprivileged people he had disliked and dismissed?

What about all his preconceptions?

What kind of an ignorant and prejudiced man did that make him? One Gracie would not want. One who was angry with himself, and confused.

He turned and walked away from the exhibition, out of the museum and down the steps into the sun. He had a great deal of thinking to do, and his mind was in chaos; his emotions even more so.