Bedford Square

9

PITT HAD BEEN late home the previous evening, but even so he had wanted to tell Charlotte what he had learned and the troubling thoughts he could not still in his mind. She had been more than willing to listen, not only in concern for his feelings but because she wished intensely to know for herself. They had sat talking long after midnight, unable to let go of the anxiety and the need to share it with each other.

This morning she was more than ever concerned for General Balantyne. It seemed he was targeted by the blackmailer in a more personal and specific way than any of the other victims. Pitt had very carefully refrained from saying that had the murder of Josiah Slingsby been blamed upon him, he would have been effectively removed from complying with the blackmailer’s demands, either for money or for the exercise of influence. Nevertheless, she had understood it perfectly clearly. Therefore it followed that what he wanted might not be anything Balantyne could give but rather his destruction, not an act but the inability to act. And either ruin or death would serve the same end. Pitt had skirted around it, being so careful, trying not to hurt her, but the thought was inevitable once the train of ideas was begun.

It was a brilliantly sunny day, but fortunately a little cooler. At last there was a breath of breeze to break the suffocation of the heat wave. It was too pleasant to be inside if one did not have to. She had agreed to meet Balantyne in the British Museum as before, but was delighted when a boy on a bicycle brought a note to the door asking if she would find it acceptable to meet at the gate of the Royal Botanical Gardens in Regents Park instead.

She wrote a hasty answer that she would be happy to.

Accordingly, at eleven o’clock, dressed in deep pink and wearing one of Vespasia’s most extravagant hats, she was standing in the sun just inside the gates, watching the passers-by. It was an occupation which in small amounts she found most interesting. She imagined who they were and what sort of homes and lives they had left this morning, why they might have come here, whom to meet.

There were the obvious lovers, strolling arm in arm, whispering to each other and laughing, seeing no one else. There were those less open, pretending they were merely friends and had met by chance, being elaborately inconsequential. Several young girls in pastel dresses passed by, giggling, huddled close together, swinging their petticoats, eyeing the young men and trying to look as if they weren’t. Their muslin skirts drifted in the slightest breeze, their hair gleamed, the blood warm in their cheeks.

Two young soldiers paraded by in uniform, dashing and elegant. Charlotte could not help thinking that probably in ordinary browns and grays they would have looked like any other clerks or apprentices. The bravado made all the difference. She smiled as she watched them. They had a kind of brash innocence. Had Balantyne once been like that, thirty years ago?

It was impossible to imagine him so young, so callow and unaware.

An elderly lady came past dressed in lavender. Perhaps she was in half-mourning, or maybe she merely liked the color. She walked slowly, her entire attention upon the flowers, profuse and dazzling in their beauty.

Although Charlotte was waiting for Balantyne, she did not see him until he was at her elbow.

“Good morning,” he said, startling her. “They are beautiful, aren’t they?”

She realized he was speaking about the roses.

“Oh, yes. Marvelous.” She was suddenly completely uninterested in them. In the bright sunlight the weariness showed in his face, the network of fine lines about his eyes and mouth, the shadows from too little sleep.

“How are you?” he continued, looking at her as if the answer mattered to him greatly.

“Let us walk,” she suggested, reaching to take his arm.

He offered it unhesitatingly.

“I am very well,” she answered as they passed between the flower beds, just another two people among the many. “But the situation is hardly better; in fact, I am afraid it is worse.” She felt his arm tighten under her hand. “There have been very curious developments which have not been in the newspapers. It is proved beyond doubt that the body was not that of Albert Cole at all, but a petty thief from Shoreditch called Josiah Slingsby.”

He stopped and swung around to stare at her. “But that makes no sense!” he protested. “Did he steal the snuffbox? From whom? He cannot have been the blackmailer … I received another letter this morning!”

She had known more would come, and yet she still felt a shock as if someone had struck her. He had touched them again, closely, personally, had reminded them of his reality, his power to act, to hurt them.

“What did he say?” She found the words awkward, her lips dry.

“The same,” he answered, beginning to walk again. In the shelter they had lost the breeze, and the perfume of the roses was heavy, dizzying in the sun.

“Did he still not ask for anything?” she pressed. She wished he would. Waiting for the blow to fall was almost worse than facing it when it did. But then, that was presumably a large part of the plan, the weakening, the fear, the wearing down before the attack.

“No.” He faced straight ahead, avoiding looking at her. “There is still no request for money or anything else. I have lost count of the hours I have lain awake trying to imagine what he could wish of me. I have thought of every area in which I could act, or have influence, of every person I know whose behavior I could affect, for good or ill, and I can think of nothing.”

She hated the thought, but it must be faced if it were to be fought against.

“Is there anyone in whose path of promotion or gain you are standing?”

“Militarily?” He laughed with a sharp, desperate sound. “Hardly. I am retired. I have no title or wealth that should pass to anyone but Brandy, and he could not be behind this. You know that as well as I.”

“Any other position, social or financial?” she pressed. “Any elected office?”

He smiled. “I am president of an explorers’ club which meets once a quarter and tells each other stories, greatly embellished by imagination and wishful thinking, entirely for entertainment. We are all of us over fifty, and many over sixty. We live in the glory and the color of our past exploits. We remember Africa when it truly was a dark continent, full of mystery and adventure. We traveled for love of the unknown, long before anyone thought of it in connection with investment and the extension of empire.”

“But you have knowledge of it, real knowledge, from having been there?” she pressed.

“Of course, but I cannot think it is of any use to present-day explorers and financiers.” He frowned. “Do you think this has anything to do with Africa?”

“Thomas does … at least he holds it as a possibility. Great-Aunt Vespasia believes it is a very powerful conspiracy, and great profit for someone lies at the root of it.”

They were passing other flower beds now which were brilliant with color and perfume. The drone of bees was audible above the swish of skirts and a faint murmur of conversation.

“That seems likely,” he answered.

“Any other offices?” she asked.

“I was president of a society promoting young artists, but my term finished last year.” His voice emphasized the triviality of it. “Other than that, newly being a member of a group within the Jessop Club that raises finances for an orphanage. I cannot imagine anyone desiring to take my place in that. It is hardly exclusive anyway. I believe anyone who wished to join it would be welcomed.”

“It doesn’t sound like the sort of thing one would commit blackmail to achieve,” she agreed.

They walked in silence for a hundred yards or so, across the pathway which circled the gardens and out into the main part of Regents Park. The sun was growing hotter and the breeze had dropped. Somewhere in the distance a band was playing.

“I don’t think the fact that the body is that of Slingsby, and not Cole, has made any difference to the police’s believing I could have been responsible for his death,” he said at length. “I suppose he could have been running errands for the blackmailer as easily as anyone else. You say he was a thief?”

“Yes … from Shoreditch, nowhere near Bedford Square,” she said quickly “He was killed in Shoreditch, by his accomplice. Thomas knows it had nothing to do with you at all.”

“Then why is his sergeant still making enquiries about me?”

“To learn what the blackmailer wants,” she said with conviction. “It must be some influence you have, some power or information. What have you in common with the other victims?”

He smiled bleakly, a flash of hard humor. “Since I don’t know who they are, I cannot even guess.”

“Oh …” She was taken aback. “Yes … of course. They are a banker, a diplomat, Sir Guy Stanley of course you know …” She saw the wince of pity in his face but went on. “A judge …” Should she mention Cornwallis or not? Pitt might prefer she did not, but the situation was too serious for secrets that were largely a matter of saving embarrassment. “And an assistant commissioner of police.”

He looked at her. “Cornwallis,” he said softly. “I don’t expect you to answer that … of course. I’m sorry. He’s a very decent man.”

“You know him well?”

“No, very slightly. Simply members of the same club … two clubs, actually. Always thought him a good fellow, very straightforward.” Again he lapsed into silence for several yards. “I knew Guy Stanley too. Not well, but I liked him.”

“You are speaking of him in the past.…”

His face tightened. “So I am. I’m sorry. That is inexcusable. I’ve been thinking about him a lot since that news broke. Poor devil.” He shivered a little and hunched his shoulders, knotting the muscles as if he were cold in spite of the sun. “I called on him. Wanted to tell him … I don’t know … perhaps only what you came to me to say, that I still regarded him as my friend. I don’t think him guilty of that charge, but I have no idea if he believed me.”

A dog scampered across their path carrying a stick in its mouth.

He stared straight ahead. “Perhaps I should have had the courage to tell him I was a victim of the same blackmail, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell even him what it accused me of. I do not admire myself for that. I wish now that I had. Then he might have known I believed him. But I suppose if I were honest, I was afraid he would not believe me.” He swung around to face her again. “That is the thing; I am not sure of anybody anymore. I mistrust where I would never have thought of it even a month ago. People offer me decency, friendship, kindness, and I look at them and doubt. I try to see motives behind which are ugliness and duplicity, double meanings to remarks that are made in innocence. I am tainting even the good that I have.”

She squeezed his arm more tightly, standing close to him in the bright light. The feathers of her hat fluttered in the breeze, almost close enough to him to touch his cheek.

“You must keep not only your head but also your heart,” she said gently. “You know it is not true. You must think better of us than to imagine we are so easily misled or so quick to be cruel.” She made herself smile. “You have only one enemy that we know of, and even he does not actually believe it is true. He knows better.”

The wind caught a loose strand of her hair and blew it across her brow.

“Thank you,” he said very quietly; it was little more than a breath. Then he put out his hand and pushed the hair back where it had come from, under the brim of Vespasia’s hat. In that one gesture he had committed himself, and he knew it. In this isolated moment in the sun it did not matter. Tomorrow perhaps it would, but today could not be taken from the memory.

She felt a moment of sweetness, and pain, and a realization that she was guilty of a wild kind of carelessness that she had never intended, and could similarly never be undone.

A little way off a woman with a blue parasol laughed. Two little boys chased each other, tumbling in the grass and getting happily dirty.

She must start to walk again, say something natural.

“As I mentioned, Aunt Vespasia thinks it may have something to do with Africa,” she remarked. “The situation there is so volatile, with fortunes to be made and lost.”

“She is right,” he agreed, also beginning to move forward, his mind returned to the matter in hand. “That would explain the various men he has apparently chosen.”

“The Cape-to-Cairo railway?” she suggested.

They discussed African politics for some time: Cecil Rhodes and the expansion northwards, the possibilities of vast quantities of gold to be discovered, land, diamonds, the conflicting interests of other European countries, most particularly Germany.

But by noon when they parted they were no closer to knowing what any such political adventurers could demand of Balantyne, or anything he knew which could stand in any man’s way to the fortunes to be exploited in Africa or anywhere else.

While Charlotte was in the Royal Botanical Gardens talking to Balantyne, Pitt returned to see Sigmund Tannifer, at his request. He found him in a grave mood, and this time Parthenope was not present.

“I have discussed this with my wife,” Tannifer said as soon as the formalities had been met and he and Pitt were sitting facing each other in his handsome, rather ornate study. “We have given a great deal of thought to who may be involved, and even more as to what they may demand of me, when they finally reach that stage.” He also appeared haggard and as if his nerves were stretched almost to the breaking point. His left hand constantly fidgeted, and Pitt noticed that the crystal decanter on the chiffonier behind him was less than a quarter full of brandy. He would not have blamed any man in these circumstances for seeking a little extra comfort.

“And you have some conclusion?” he asked aloud.

Tannifer bit his lip. “Not really conclusions, Superintendent, more speculation I would like to put before you.” He gave a half smile. “Perhaps I am looking for excuses to speak with you, obtain some reassurance. I fear it is rather like pulling the dressing off a wound to see if it is healing … or not.” He shrugged his heavy shoulders. It was an oddly defeated gesture. “It doesn’t help in the slightest, neither the wound itself nor one’s ease of mind, and yet the compulsion is irresistible.”

Pitt understood perfectly. “And what are your thoughts, Mr. Tannifer?”

Tannifer looked slightly self-conscious. “I am not trying to usurp your office, Superintendent. I am sure you know far more about it than I do, but I was considering all the areas in which I might have some ability to act and which could be misused to someone else’s advantage.” His fingers drummed silently on the arm of his chair. “It always comes back to finance of some sort.” He stopped, regarding Pitt gravely.

Pitt nodded, indicating that he understood, but he did not interrupt.

Tannifer could not hide his nervousness.

“The first thing that came to my mind was to wonder what we may have in common. Of course, I do not know the identities of the other victims, beyond what I may deduce with a little common sense. Poor Guy Stanley is obvious, although since in his case the threat has been carried out …” His fingers increased in their rhythm of drumming on the chair arm. “And I can assume Brandon Balantyne …” He waited to see if Pitt would confirm it or if he could read it from his expression. His lips tightened. Apparently, he could. “And as I believe my wife mentioned—she told me she had spoken with you—I am certain in my own mind that Leo Cadell is also threatened in the same way. He believes he will be asked for money. At least that is the impression he has given me. But I have never thought that was at the root of the blackmailer’s aim.”

Pitt nodded.

“You agree?” Tannifer said quickly, his voice gaining strength. “I am sure we are right. I have been making certain very discreet enquiries into their affairs, and thinking back upon my own responsibilities. It is within my powers to grant very large loans for investment in certain areas, most particularly land and the development of mining for precious metals such as gold.”

Pitt found himself sitting a trifle more upright in spite of his intention to not betray any of his own feelings.

If Tannifer noticed he did not show it. He sat slumped in his own chair, his face heavy with concentration.

“It would be corrupt of me to agree to such loans without proper security,” he said thoughtfully. “But not beyond my actual power. In seeking to learn which areas might be involved, so as to decide who might be concerned, I looked into Leo Cadell’s recent travels, and what I could discover, with discreet enquiry, of his interests.” He was watching Pitt with intense concentration. “In all cases, Superintendent, they centered in Africa. The possibility is barely realized of the enormous treasure lying in the areas Cecil Rhodes is developing. A man who could involve himself now could, in the next twenty years, amass a king’s ransom and perhaps build himself an empire.”

It was what Vespasia and Theloneus Quade had feared. Now Tannifer was saying virtually the same thing.

Tannifer was watching Pitt acutely, his eyes unblinking, his shoulders hunched.

“I see you follow me perfectly.” He took a deep breath. “I was speaking with Cadell, and he let slip a remark which leads me to believe that Mr. Justice Dunraithe White might be another victim.…”

Pitt was startled. How could Cadell have known that? Was it observation of White’s erratic behavior, or the emotional strain under which he labored, almost to the verge of illness? Perhaps it was not so difficult to detect a fellow victim, being acutely aware of one’s own suffering?

“I cannot comment,” Pitt said quietly. “But you may assume that at least one judge is involved. Does that make your deductions any plainer?”

“I am not sure. I see it very murkily, I admit.” Tannifer smiled grimly. “Perhaps I am wasting your time, but I find it almost impossible to sit and wait until the blow falls, and do nothing to try to ward against it.” He seemed embarrassed, uncertain how to continue, and yet obviously there was something further he wanted to say.

“Be frank, Mr. Tannifer,” Pitt urged. “If you are correct, then this conspiracy is wide and deep, and the effects, if it succeeds, will be far greater than the ruin of a few good men and their families.”

Tannifer looked down. “I know. It is only some feelings for the privacy of others which hold me, and perhaps at this stage such delicacy is misplaced.” He looked up quickly. “Cadell indicated to me that there was some incident in the naval career of Assistant Commissioner Cornwallis which could be open to misinterpretation, and therefore to the same kind of pressure as is being exerted upon me.” He was watching Pitt with acute concern. “I am deeply afraid that the blackmailer may attempt to have this whole enquiry dropped in order to protect himself. Perhaps Cornwallis could not further his African ambitions, but he might be persuaded to manacle you ….” He let out his breath in a heavy sigh. “This is hideous! Everywhere we turn we are faced with blind alleys and new threats.”

Pitt made some sign of assent, but his mind was racing on the remark Tannifer had made about Cadell without realizing its importance. The incident in Cornwallis’s naval career was not questionable; only the blackmailer had seen it as such. Tannifer would not know that, but Pitt did. He must not betray his understanding.

“It is a profound danger,” Pitt said, and he had no need to invest his expression of face and voice with any false anxiety. The fear was very real. His regard for Cornwallis made it the more painful, because he could foresee it happening. It was the next, obvious step for the blackmailer, and he now knew Cornwallis would suffer, perhaps already was suffering. If it happened, would he even tell Pitt?

He hated himself for allowing the thought to enter his mind, but it was there like a knife, pricking him at every turn, and surprising in its painfulness.

“But you will not permit it to … prevent you?” Tannifer said huskily. “You will …” He let the rest of the sentence fall away.

Pitt did not answer. What would he do if Cornwallis were threatened in such a way, and if he asked Pitt to protect him? He had not doubted Cornwallis’s innocence. Would he allow him to be ruined, shamed, publicly driven from all he valued? He could not honestly make such promises.

Tannifer looked away. “It is not so easy, is it?” he said softly. “We like to think we would have the courage to tell him to go to the devil … but embarrassment, loneliness and humiliation are real.” He looked back at Pitt levelly. “To speak of ruin is one thing, to face it is another. I thank you at least for your honesty.”

“We had considered the possibility of the extortion of agreement to large funds for expedition into Africa, north from the Cape into Mashonaland and Matabeleland,” Pitt said thoughtfully. “Or an investment in a Cape-to-Cairo railroad …”

Tannifer sat up sharply. “Brilliant!” He clenched his fists on the arms of his chair. “I commend you, Superintendent. Your perception is more finely attuned than I had given you credit for, I admit. I am most encouraged … perhaps foolishly so, but I shall cling onto it.” He rose to his feet and held out his hand.

Pitt took it, and was startled by the strength of Tannifer’s grip. He left feeling as if at last he had taken a step for ward, even if it was towards an unknown and certainly harsh conclusion.

He had no alternative but to go again to see Leo Cadell. He was unable to do this at the Foreign Office, where Cadell was fully engaged for the afternoon, but he called at his home and was waiting for him when he arrived. It was not an interview he was looking forward to, and Cadell’s weary face made it more difficult.

He rose to his feet from the sofa where he had been sitting.

“Good evening, Mr. Cadell. I am sorry to trouble you at the end of the day, but I am afraid there are matters I need to discuss with you, and you were not available earlier.”

Cadell sat down. He did it as if his body ached, and it was apparent he was using all his reserves of inner strength to maintain an air of courtesy.

“What is it you wish to discuss, Mr. Pitt?”

“I have been giving a great deal of thought to what unjust pressures might be brought to bear upon you, particularly with regard to your position in the Foreign Office,” Pitt began. It was difficult to maintain the anger he had felt when he was in Tannifer’s house. He had to remind himself of the pain the man opposite him might be inflicting on others, of the ruin that the blackmailer had unquestionably already unleashed on Guy Stanley without giving him any chance to fend it off, even dishonorably. It was not impossible that the blackmailer might disguise himself as one of the victims. What better way to ensure that he knew the direction of the investigation or its success? Who knew what lay behind Cadell’s anxious face and the polite, patient smile? He was a diplomat. He had made his career successfully masking his emotions.

He was watching Pitt now, waiting for him to make his point.

“You have considerable interest and responsibility in African affairs,” Pitt continued. “Particularly in the exploration of such areas as Mashonaland and Matabeleland.”

“I am concerned with relations with other European powers who have interests in the area,” Cadell corrected slightly. “Germany, in particular, is also concerned in East Africa. The situation is far more sensitive than perhaps you are aware. The potential for making vast amounts of money is immense. Most of the population of South Africa is not British but Boer, and their feeling towards Britain is not kindly—nor, I fear, in any way to be relied upon.” He watched Pitt’s face as he spoke, trying to gauge his understanding. “Mr. Rhodes is a law unto himself. Dearly as we would wish it, we have little control over him.”

Pitt was unwilling to allow Cadell to know too much of his thoughts. Perhaps the knowledge Tannifer had given him was his only advantage. However smooth a face a blackmailer wore, he was a ruthless man without scruples as to whom he hurt, or how deeply. It would seem he enjoyed the taste of his own power. The ruin of Guy Stanley would suggest as much.

He looked steadily at Cadell. “If you were to be asked by the blackmailer, Mr. Cadell, what would be within your ability to do to serve his ends, were he interested in African expansion, a private fortune in that country, or perhaps domination of a Cape-to-Cairo railroad?”

Cadell was startled. “Good God! Is that what you think he wants?”

Was it the idea which shocked him or Pitt’s perception of it?

“Would it be possible?” Pitt insisted.

“I … I don’t know.” Cadell looked acutely uncomfortable. “I suppose there is … information I might pass to certain people … information as to Her Majesty’s government’s intentions which would benefit—could benefit—such a person.”

“How about a military adventurer?” Pitt went on. “Someone intending to raise a private army, for example.”

Cadell was white-faced. He sat forward in his chair. “This is far more serious than I had imagined. I … I supposed it would be a matter of money. Perhaps I was naive. Believe me, if anyone should approach me with any such suggestion I should report it immediately to Sir Richard Aston, whether I knew who it was or not. The consequences would have to follow as they may. I would not betray my country, Mr. Pitt.”

Pitt wanted to believe him, but what else would he say, whatever he would actually do? Pitt could not rid his mind of the knowledge that this man sitting so innocently opposite him had told Tannifer of Cornwallis’s vulnerability, a thing he could not know other than from the blackmailer. In truth, it did not exist. That was the only thing all the men unarguably had in common; the blackmailer knew them well enough to be familiar with what could be manufactured from their pasts to destroy all their usual courage and resolve, reduce them to nerve-racked, self-doubting men living in a waking nightmare, suspicious of even those closest to them.

“Do you know Assistant Commissioner Cornwallis?” Pitt asked abruptly.

“What?” Cadell was taken by surprise. “No … well … slightly. Belong to the same clubs. See him occasionally. Why? Or should I not ask?”

Did he say that because he knew? Or was it the intelligent guess any man might make in the circumstances? He must think of a noncommittal answer. And he should not betray Tannifer’s confidence. If Cadell was the blackmailer he was cruel enough to exact a vicious revenge.

“He is in charge of the case … ultimately,” he said aloud. “He mentioned the possibility of a political motive.”

“I cannot help you,” Cadell replied wearily. “Believe me, Mr. Pitt, if I knew anything at all which could be of use, and I were free to discuss it with you, I would. I presume I do not have to explain to you that a great deal of the information I have about Africa concerns the government’s plans regarding Mr. Rhodes and the British South Africa Company, and is confidential. So also are all matters to do with the settlement of Mashonaland and Matabeleland, or our relations with other European powers who have interests in the continent of Africa. It would be an act of treason for me to speak of them to you except in the broadest way, which would be of no use to you.”

Pitt realized that there was no purpose in pressing him further, and after thanking Cadell, he took his leave.

Vespasia was walking slowly across her lawn, thinking that it was time it was mown again, when she saw Pitt standing in the open French windows of her sitting room. She was startled to find her breath catching in her throat and her heart racing, fearing what news he might have brought. She walked rapidly towards him, barely leaning on her stick.

“Good evening, Thomas,” she said as soon as he joined her on the grass. She refused to betray her anxiety. “I am afraid the best of the tulips are over. They are beginning to look dreadfully blowsy.”

He smiled in the evening sun, glancing at the heavy roses in full bloom, and the cascade of wisteria, and a few huge, gaudy tulips past their best.

“It looks perfect to me.”

She regarded him up and down. She remembered that he liked gardening, when he had the opportunity. “I agree, but perhaps the purist would not.”

He offered her his arm and she took it as they walked slowly back across the grass to the terrace and up the steps.

“I am afraid I have very unpleasant news, Aunt Vespasia,” he said when they were inside and she was seated.

“I can see it in your face, my dear,” she replied. “You had better tell me what it is.”

“Tannifer sent for me today. He also seems to be of the opinion that the blackmailer’s ultimate goal may be to influence African affairs to his own advantage.”

“That is not news, Thomas,” she said a trifle sharply. She had not realized how tense she was. She heard the edge in her own voice. “We had assumed as much,” she continued. “Did he offer any evidence?”

He must have caught her emotion. He came directly to the point. “He mentioned Cadell’s name in two regards, one intentionally, concerning his professional interest in African affairs.”

His face was filled with distress, and it touched her with in creasing fear. She found herself swallowing with an effort, but she did not interrupt.

“The other was accidental, at least as to meaning,” he continued quietly. “He was concerned that Cornwallis might also be a victim, and that thought was prompted by Cadell’s having referred to an incident in Cornwallis’s career which was open to misinterpretation and therefore made him vulnerable.”

For a moment she did not understand. Her concern was for Pitt.

“But Cornwallis said that he saved the man,” she argued. “Does that now make you reconsider his innocence?”

“No.” He shook his head minutely. “It makes me wonder how Cadell knew of it and why he should even consider Cornwallis as a victim.”

Then she understood. A great weight of coldness settled inside her. She dared not think of the tragedy that might lie ahead. She had known Theodosia and cared for her since her birth; she had watched her grow up as she had her own children.

“Leo Cadell is a victim also,” she said, and knew the remark was pointless even as she made it. The blackmailer could easily pose as a victim. It would serve his purpose in many ways.

Pitt did not argue with her. He knew it was unnecessary.

“I realize that does not exclude him,” she said very deliberately. “But I have known Leo for a great many years. I have watched his pattern of behavior. And don’t tell me people can change with pressure or temptation. I know that, Thomas.” She was talking too quickly, too vehemently, and she could hear it in her voice, and yet it seemed to be beyond her control. Her thoughts were far ahead, and already inescapable. “He has his weaknesses, of course. He is an ambitious man and a good judge of other men’s characters, but he is fiercely patriotic, in a conventional way.” She felt a thin shudder of horror. “He is not a greedy man, nor an adventurous one.”

Pitt was listening to her, his face grave. The sunlight through the French windows lengthened across the carpet, apricot gold. The black-and-white dog had gone back to sleep as it lay in the warmth.

“I do not believe Leo has the cruelty, or the ingenuity, to have conceived a scheme like this,” she said with conviction. “But that he should use Theodosia’s beauty to win advancement is not impossible. He would deny doing it, even to himself.” She hated what she was saying; it was repugnant in every way. It felt like a betrayal to admit such a thing, even to Pitt, but it was true. It had crossed even her mind to wonder if the accusation could hold some truth. That in itself was the most powerful illustration of the blackmailer’s brilliance. Even she had entertained the idea … how much more easily would others believe it? She was ashamed of herself for her disloyalty, not only to Leo, but even more to Theodosia. And yet the thought had come, and the doubt.

Pitt was still talking.

“I called on him,” he said gravely, watching her face. “He seems to consider he may be asked for money. Mrs. Tannifer overheard a conversation about raising a large, unspecified amount.”

“But the blackmailer has not asked for money,” she responded. “That makes no sense.” But even as she said it the thought darkened in her mind. She refused to accept it. It was disloyal … untrue. She was doing exactly what the blackmailer wanted … she had yielded her independence, her belief. “It’s rubbish!” she said too loudly.

He did not argue. They discussed it a little longer and then he took his leave. But even when he had gone, she could not rid her mind of the thought and the unhappiness which oppressed her, and she spent a long and surprisingly lonely evening.

While Pitt was talking to Vespasia, Charlotte was sitting in her kitchen pouring tea for Tellman, who had called expecting to find Pitt at home. To judge from the expression on his face, he was both disconcerted and pleased to find that Pitt was unexpectedly late and the only people home to hear his report were Charlotte and Gracie.

He sipped the tea appreciatively and rested his feet. He would probably have liked to take his boots off, as Pitt himself would have done, but that was far too much of a liberty.

“Well?” Gracie said, watching him from where she stood at the sink. “Yer must ’ave come fer summink, ’ceptin’ ter sit down.”

“I came to see Mr. Pitt,” he replied, avoiding meeting her eyes.

Gracie kept her patience with difficulty. Charlotte could see the temper in her face and watched her thin chest rise and fall as she took a deep breath.

Archie, the marmalade-and-white cat, stalked across the floor, found just the right place in front of the stove and sat down.

“That means yer don’t trust us ter pass it on ter ’im?” Gracie said quietly.

Tellman seemed almost to have forgotten Charlotte. The idea that Gracie thought he did not trust her was obviously acutely uncomfortable to him. His struggle within himself was palpable.

Gracie did not help him at all. She waited, her arms folded, regarding him, her small face full of impatience.

“It’s nothing to do with trust,” he said at last. “It’s police business, that’s all.”

Gracie thought about that for a moment or two.

“I s’pose you’re ’ungry too?” she said.

That took him by surprise. He looked up quickly. He had been expecting an argument or a flash of temper.

“Well, are yer?” she demanded. “Cat got yer tongue?” Her tone became sarcastic. “That in’t a p’lice secret, is it?”

“Of course I’m hungry!” he said, coloring dull pink. “I’ve been walking around the streets all day.”

“Follerin’ poor General Balantyne, ’ave yer?” she said, also ignoring Charlotte. “Well, that must a’ bin ’ard work. W’ere’d ’ego, then?”

“I didn’t follow him today,” he replied. “Nothing to follow him for.”

“So ’e din’t do nuffin’, then?” she concluded. “Never thought as ’e did.” She sniffed.

Tellman was silent. If anything, his discomfort seemed to have increased. Watching him, Charlotte was aware that his mind was going through a kind of turmoil quite unfamiliar to him. His ideas had been challenged and found severely wanting. He had been forced to change his opinions about someone, presumably General Balantyne, and so perhaps a great many other people he had previously grouped together as a class and now had been obliged to see as individuals. To have one’s prejudices overthrown is always painful, at least at first, even if one can eventually accommodate them, and it becomes liberating in some distant future.

She felt sorry for him, but that would be the last thing he would want. She still remembered now and then how when she had first met Pitt he had shown her another world, full of individual people with loves and dreams, fears, loneliness and pain, perhaps different in cause but essentially the same as her own. Before that she had barely noticed some of the ordinary men and women in the streets; they had been a class to her rather than people just as unique as she was, with lives as full of incident and feeling as her own. The realization of how blind she had been was painful. She had despised her own narrowness, and it was not easy to acknowledge it even now.

She could see the confusion in Tellman’s face, his bent head, his bony hands lying on the table beside the mug of tea Gracie had given him.

Angus, the black cat, came in through the back door and sauntered across to sit so close to Archie that he was obliged to move. Angus began to wash himself.

Gracie cleared her throat. “Well, if yer like I can get yer a kipper an’ some bread an’ butter?” she offered, barely glancing at Charlotte to gain her permission. She was about detecting business, and that did not really require any additional sanction.

Tellman hesitated, but his desire to accept was far plainer than he could possibly have realized.

Gracie gave up, shrugging her shoulders. She treated him as she would seven-year-old Daniel; she took the decision out of his hands. She snatched the skillet from the rack and put it on the hob, poured water from the kettle into it, then went for the kipper.

“Yer ’avin’ it poached,” she said over her shoulder. “I in’t messin’ around wif fryin’. Anyway, tenderer poached.” And she disappeared into the larder to fetch it.

Tellman glanced up to Charlotte anxiously.

“You are very welcome, Mr. Tellman,” she said warmly. “I’m glad you have discovered General Balantyne is not involved in the death of Josiah Slingsby, and I am grateful to hear it.”

He bit his lip. He was still confused inside himself.

“He seems to be a good man, Mrs. Pitt, a good soldier. I spoke to quite a few men who served with him. They have a lot of … respect for him … more than that … a kind of … loyalty … affection.” The surprise and reluctance was still in his voice.

Charlotte found herself smiling, partly with sheer relief. She had not thought differently, but it was important to have Tellman say so. She was also amused to see his expression.

Gracie came back with a large kipper and, ignoring both of them, placed it in the simmering pan with satisfaction. Both cats immediately sat up, noses quivering, startled, and went eagerly towards the stove. Then Gracie went to the wooden breadbox and took out a loaf. Cutting them first from the end, she buttered several thin slices and laid them on a plate. She refilled the kettle and set it on the hob, working busily, as if she were alone in the room.

Still smiling to herself, Charlotte decided to leave them. Tellman could work through his awkwardness the best he was able. He gave her a quick, rather desperate look as she went to the door, but she pretended to have no idea of the emotion in the room, and excused herself to have a game of charades with Jemima and Daniel, leaving Gracie to finish the kipper.

Pitt was later than usual in to Bow Street the following morning; in fact, he had only just arrived when there was a sharp bang on his office door. Before he could answer, it opened to admit a breathless sergeant, his face filled with consternation.

“Sir … Mr. Cadell has been found shot!” He swallowed hard, catching his breath. “Looks like suicide. He left a note”

Pitt was stunned. Even as he sat motionless with the sense of shock sinking into him like ice, his brain told him that he should have expected it. The signs had been there; he had simply refused to recognize them because of the pain it would cause Vespasia. He thought of her now, and of Theodosia Cadell. For her this would be almost unbearable, except that one had to bear it because there was no alternative.

Was he to blame? Had his visit to Cadell yesterday evening precipitated this? Would Vespasia hold him responsible for it?

No, of course not. It would be unjust. If Cadell were guilty, then it was his own doing.

“Sir!” The sergeant shifted from one foot to the other, his eyes wide and anxious.

“Yes.” Pitt stood up. “Yes. I’m coming. Is Tellman in?”

“Yes sir. Shall I get ’im?”

“Send him to the door. I’ll get a hansom.” He went straight past the sergeant, not even thinking to pick up his hat from the stand, only snatching his jacket off its hook.

Downstairs he met Tellman, coming from the back of the station, his face grave and pale. He did not say anything, and together they went out onto the pavement and walked in the sun smartly along to Drury Lane. Pitt stepped into the road waving his arms, startling a shire horse pulling a wagon full of furniture. He shouted at a hansom coming around the corner from Great Queen Street and started running towards it, holding up all the traffic and being very thoroughly sworn at.

He scrambled in, calling out instructions to the driver, and slid across the seat to make room for Tellman. Of course, it was pointless—a few minutes here or there in reaching Cadell’s house could make no difference now—but the urgency of action released some of the anger and misery inside him.

Two or three times as they rode, Tellman made as if to speak, then, seeing Pitt’s face, changed his mind.

When they arrived Pitt paid the driver and strode across the pavement to the front door. There was a constable posted outside, his face stiff, his body at attention.

“Mornin’, sir,” he said quietly. “Sergeant Barstone’s inside. He’s expecting you.”

“Thank you.” Pitt brushed past him, opened the door and went in. It was absurdly like yesterday evening. The elaborate long case clock in the hall still ticked loudly, the hand moving from second to second with a little jerk each time. The brass edge of the umbrella stand still gleamed, but now from the sunlight streaming under the closed withdrawing room door. The bowl of roses had not shed any petals, or the maid had picked them up already.

All the doors were closed. He had not thought to ask where Cadell’s body was, and he had let himself in. There was no one else in the hall. He went back to the door again and rang the bell, then returned to wait.

“Do you want me to speak with the servants?” Tellman asked. “Don’t know what we could find. This looks like the end of it. Not really what I expected.”

“I suppose you might as well,” Pitt agreed. “Somebody might tell us some small thing which will explain how it all happened. Yes … yes, of course.” He straightened up. He was being careless. “We don’t know it was suicide yet. We are assuming.”

“Yes sir.” Tellman went willingly. Pitt knew why. He hated having to face the families of the dead. Corpses did not trouble him the same way—they were beyond their pain—but the living, the shocked, bewildered, grieving, were different. He felt helpless and intrusive, even though he could have justified his role to anyone. Pitt understood exactly; he felt the same.

The butler appeared from the green baize door into the servants’ quarters. He looked startled and angry to see Pitt already in the hall. In the distress of the morning he had apparently forgotten who Pitt was.

“Good morning, Woods,” Pitt said gravely. “I’m sorry for Mr. Cadell’s death. Is Mr. Barstone in the withdrawing room?”

Woods recollected himself. “Yes sir.” He swallowed, moving his neck as if his collar were too tight. “The … the study is locked, sir. I assume you will be needing to go in?”

“Is that where Mr. Cadell is?”

“Yes sir … I …”

Pitt waited.

Woods searched for words. He was obviously troubled by profound emotions.

“I don’t believe it, sir!” he said gruffly. “I’ve been with Mr. Cadell for nearly twenty years, and I don’t believe he’d take his own life. It has to be something else, some other answer.”

Pitt did not argue. Denial was the natural response to something so ugly, and from this man’s point of view, so utterly inexplicable. How could it make any sense to him?

“Of course we’ll investigate every possibility,” he said quietly. “Would you let me into the study; Sergeant Tellman has gone to speak with the rest of the staff. Who found Mr. Cadell this morning?”

“Polly, sir. She’s the downstairs maid. Went in to dust and make sure the room was clean and tidy. I’m afraid you can’t speak to her yet, sir. She’s taken it terribly hard. Awful thing for a young girl to find.” He blinked several times. “She’s usually very sensible, good worker, no trouble, but she just fainted clear away. She’s in the housekeeper’s sitting room, and you’ll just have to give her time. Can’t help that, sir.”

“Of course. Perhaps you can tell me most of what I need to know to begin with.”

“If I can, sir,” Woods conceded, perhaps helped in the immediate moment by the fact that he was able to be engaged in doing something. He fished in his pocket and produced a small brass key. He stood with it in his hand, waiting.

“What time was that?” Pitt asked him.

“Just after nine, sir.”

“Was that the usual time for Polly to go into the study?”

“Yes sir. Things sort of fall into a routine. Best way. Then nothing gets forgotten.”

“So everyone would know that Polly would go into the study at that time?”

“Yes sir.” Woods looked deeply troubled. It was easy to understand, and his thoughts were plain in his face. Cadell himself would have to have been aware of the almost certainty that a young maid would be the one to find him.

“And the door was unlocked ….” Pitt stated the obvious, but with surprise. People who intended killing themselves very often ascertained that they would have privacy.

“Yes sir.”

“Did anyone hear the shot? It must have made a considerable noise.”

“No sir, not that we realized, if you know what I mean?” Woods looked embarrassed, as if he had been at fault; if they had heard it they might have prevented the tragedy. It was irrational, but grief and incomprehension had numbed his faculties. “You must understand, sir, most of the staff were busy about their duties that hour of the day. The kitchen was full of comings and goings. There were tradesmen’s boys in the yard with deliveries and the like, wagons and carts and things clattering up and down the road, and with the windows open to air the house, there was a certain amount of noise anyway. I expect we heard it but never realized what it was.”

“Did Mr. Cadell have breakfast this morning?”

“No sir, just a cup of tea.”

“Wasn’t that unusual?”

“No sir, not lately. I’m afraid Mr. Cadell was not himself as far as his health was concerned.” He blinked again, stirring to govern his emotions. “He seemed very preoccupied, if you understand me. I daresay there is some foreign business that gives cause for concern. It is an extremely responsible …” He tailed off, suddenly remembering again that his master was dead. His eyes filled with tears and he turned away, embarrassed to lose such control of himself in front of a stranger.

Pitt was used to distress. He had been in situations like this countless times. He affected not to have noticed.

“Where did Mr. Cadell take his tea?”

It was a moment before Woods replied. “I believe Didcott the valet took it up to his dressing room, sir,” he said at last.

“And then he went down to the study?”

“I believe so. Didcott would know.”

“We’ll ask him. Thank you. Now I’ll go to the study, if you will let me in.”

“Yes sir, of course.” And with slightly shaky steps, Woods led the way across the hall and down a fairly long passage to an oak door which he opened with the key. He remained outside while Pitt went in.

Leo Cadell was slumped forward over the desk, his hands on top of it a trifle awkwardly, his head on one side. Blood from a wound to his right temple spilled out over the wooden surface of the writing top. A dueling pistol lay touching his right hand, two inches from a quill pen, the ink dried. There was also a cushion on the floor near the chair. Pitt bent and picked it up, putting it to his nose and sniffing. The smells of gunpowder and charring were plain. That explained why nobody had heard the sharp report of the shot.

It did not explain why Cadell had not locked the door from the inside, so people would know there was something wrong, and it would not be a young maid, or even his wife, who would be the first to find him.

But then a man capable of the kind of blackmail which had been practiced was hardly likely at this point to consider the feelings of a maid or of anyone else. How easy it is to be totally and disastrously mistaken in one’s judgment of people. Pitt still found it hard to accept, and Vespasia possibly never would. Apparently, even as wise and shrewd as she was, she could be utterly wrong.

He looked at the papers on the top of the desk. Half a dozen in a neat pile were letters and minutes from the Foreign Office; one, alone, to the left of the pile, was composed of pieces clipped from newspapers … probably the Times again, and pasted onto plain white paper. He read it.

I know the police are close behind me now. I cannot succeed, and I will not wait for them to arrest me. I could not face that.

This is a quick, clean end, and I shall not be aware of what happens after I am gone, except that the case is ended. It is all over.

Leo Cadell

It was terse; no regrets, no apologies. Perhaps there was another letter somewhere to Theodosia. Pitt could not believe she had known his guilt.

He looked closely at it again. It appeared exactly the same as the others he had seen. The spacing was a trifle different, less precise, but then in the circumstances that was unsurprising.

There were scissors along with a paper knife, a stick of sealing wax, a small ball of string and two pencils in a holder on the desk. He could not see any glue or paste. Perhaps it had been used up and the container thrown away.

Where was the newspaper from which the words and letters had been cut? It was not on the desk or on the floor. He looked in the wastepaper basket. It was there, folded neatly. He took it out. Yesterday’s copy of the Times. It was easy to see where the pieces had been cut.

He let it fall again. There seemed little more to say. Cadell was right; as far as the police were concerned, the case was complete. For the victims, most of all for Theodosia, it never would be.

The sharp morning sunlight fell through the clear glass of the French doors into the garden. The maid had been too distraught to think of closing the curtains. There was no one in sight. He moved across and did it now, closing the latch on the door and then drawing the heavy velvet across.

He went out and locked the hall door behind him. He must speak with Theodosia. Speaking to the family of the victim, and the ultimate arrest of someone, the shock and anguish of their family, were the two worst times in any investigation. In this one they were bound together in one occasion, and the grief in one person.

She was sitting in the withdrawing room, gray-faced, her body stiff, her hands clenched together in her lap so hard her knuckles shone where the skin was stretched tight. She stared at him wordlessly out of eyes almost black. She was alone, no maid or footman with her.

He came in quietly and sat down opposite her. Not only had she lost her husband, a man Vespasia said she truly loved, and her future was gone, but—immeasurably more painful—her past was destroyed as well. The whole precious image of her world and all it had meant was shattered. The foundation upon which she had built her beliefs was gone. Everything about her husband that truly mattered, that formed the structure of her relationships, even of her understanding of herself and her own judgments, was proved a lie. She had been misled, deceived in everything. What was left?

How often do we perceive the world and those we love not as they are but only as we want them to be?

He wished he could offer her any comfort at all, but there was none.

“Would you like me to call Vespasia for you?” he asked her.

“What? Oh.” She remained silent for a few moments, struggling within herself. Then she seemed to reach some inner conviction. “No … thank you. Not yet. She will find this very difficult. She was—” Her voice cracked. “She was fond of Leo. She thought well of him. Please wait until I am more composed. Until I have a better idea of what happened so that I can tell her.”

“Would you like me to tell her?” he offered. “I can go to her home. Otherwise she will read it in the newspapers.”

The very last vestige of blood drained from her face, and for a moment he was afraid she was going to collapse. She struggled for breath.

Instinctively, ignoring conventions, he moved forward to kneel on the floor beside her, holding her hands where they were knotted iron hard on her lap. He put his other arm around her. “Slowly!” he commanded. “Breathe slowly. Don’t gasp.”

She obeyed, but even so it was several minutes before she regained physical control of herself.

“I am sorry,” she apologized. “I beg your pardon. I had barely thought of the newspapers.”

“I’ll call on Vespasia as I leave here,” he said decisively. “I am sure she will wish to be with you. It will be easier for her to face this if she is not alone.”

She looked at him, and there was a warmth of gratitude momentarily in her eyes. She did not question his decision. Perhaps she was glad to have any step taken for her, anything that relieved a bit of the weight she must bear alone from now on.

“Thank you,” she accepted.

There was nothing else to ask her. He rose to his feet. She could summon the maid if she wished. She might prefer just at the moment to be alone, perhaps to weep, although that would probably come later.

He was at the door when she spoke.

“Mr. Pitt … my husband did not kill himself … he was murdered. I don’t know how, or by whom, except that I have to presume it was the blackmailer. If you stop now, he will get away with it.” The last sentence was said with sudden, choking anger, and her eyes blazed a challenge to him, on the brink of blame.

He did not know what to say. There were no grounds for her charge except loyalty, pain and despair.

“I won’t take anything for granted, Mrs. Cadell,” he promised. “I shall look for proof of every detail before I accept it.”

He and Tellman questioned all the household staff, but there had been no break-in; no strangers had been seen. The delivery boys at the back door had not gone through the wooden gate in the wall to the garden; indeed, they had been too busy flirting with the scullery maid and the lady’s maid, respectively, to leave the step at all. They had barely succeeded in doing the duty they were employed for.

No one had come through the house, and the only person to go through the garden door was the gardener’s boy delivering ties and doing a little work on the old white climbing rose which was in bloom and in need of holding up.

No one knew anything about the gun. Cadell must have had it for some time. There were a pair of pistols in a case locked into the corner cupboard in the study, but this was not one of them. Theodosia said she had never seen it before, but admitted that she hated guns and would not recognize one from another.

The staff were not permitted to touch them or have anything to do with them, so they could offer no information at all. It seemed that where Cadell had obtained it or how long he had owned it would remain a mystery, like much else to do with his whole blackmail scheme.

Pitt called at Vespasia’s house before returning to Bow Street. She, too, was shocked by the news of Leo Cadell’s death, and found it almost impossible to believe that he was responsible for the blackmail, but she did not deny it as Theodosia had done. She thanked Pitt for coming to tell her personally rather than allowing her to read of it in the newspapers, then she called for her carriage and her lady’s maid, and prepared to go and offer whatever comfort she could to her goddaughter.

Pitt decided then to tell Cornwallis. He also should not learn it from the evening editions of the newspapers.

“Cadell?” he said in amazement. He was standing in the middle of his office as if he had been pacing the floor. His face was haggard. He had neither eaten nor slept well in weeks. There was a very slight nervous tic in his left temple. “I … I presume you must be sure?”

“Can you think of another explanation?” Pitt asked unhappily.

Cornwallis hesitated. He looked profoundly miserable, but even as they spoke, some of the agonized tension had eased out of his body, and his shoulders were lowering into a more natural position. Whatever the surprise or the understanding of grief, his own ordeal was over, and even if he despised himself for it, he could not help but be aware of that.

“No …” he said at last. “No. From what you say, that must be the answer. What a damned tragedy. I’m sorry. I could have wished it were … someone I didn’t know. I suppose that’s idiotic. It had to be someone I knew …. It had to be someone we all knew. Well done, Pitt … and …” He wanted to thank Pitt for his loyalty, it was there in his eyes, but he did not know how to word it.

“I’ll go back to Bow Street,” Pitt said briefly, “and tidy up the details.”

“Yes.” Cornwallis nodded. “Yes. Of course.”