Bedford Square

10

VESPASIA WENT immediately to Theodosia, taking her lady’s maid with her, and such necessities as she would require to remain overnight, or longer. She had no intention of allowing Theodosia to remain alone in the grief, confusion and despair which must follow upon such an appalling loss. In her long life she had encountered suicide before. It was in many ways the hardest of all to endure, and the loneliness and the guilt which invariably followed all but doubled the pain.

There was nothing to do that first afternoon and evening but to survive them, to be there and allow Theodosia to begin to realize that Leo was truly dead. Of course, tomorrow morning would be worse. Sleep, however little of it, would bring respite, then with waking there would be a few moments before memory returned. That would be like hearing it all over again, only without the numbing mercy of shock.

They sat up and talked in Theodosia’s boudoir. She seemed to need to speak of Leo, most particularly of the kind of man he had been when they first met. With a rising tone of desperation she recalled dozens of good things he had done, brave or kind or wise, acts of honesty where less would have passed uncriticized, even unnoticed, but he had silently done his best.

Vespasia listened, and indeed she could remember a great many of them herself. It was only too easy to recall all that was likable in him, all she had admired over the years.

A little before midnight Theodosia suddenly found she was able to weep, and the release of tears exhausted her. After that Vespasia’s maid brewed her a sleeping draft and she went to bed. Vespasia took a draft herself and retired fifteen minutes later.

The morning was even worse than she had expected, then she was angry with herself for not having foreseen it. She met Woods in the hallway as she was crossing to the breakfast room. He looked pale and red-eyed.

“Good morning, your ladyship,” he said hoarsely, and cleared his throat. “How is Mrs. Cadell?”

“Asleep,” Vespasia answered. “I shall not disturb her. Will you be good enough to bring me the newspapers.”

“The newspapers, your ladyship?” His eyebrows rose.

“Yes, please.”

He stood unmoving. “Did you mean the whole newspaper, your ladyship?”

“Of course, the whole newspaper, Woods. Am I not making myself plain?” It would have been pleasanter to have them burnt. It was her first instinct, but she needed to know what they said. There were truths that could not be avoided. “I shall be in the breakfast room. I shall have tea and toast. No more will be necessary.”

“Yes, your ladyship,” Woods said hastily. “I’ll … I’ll have them ironed ….”

“Don’t bother.” She realized that with the master dead the usual duties in this respect had been abandoned. “I’ll look at them as they are.” And without waiting for argument, she passed him and went to the breakfast room.

He brought them on a tray, smoothed but unironed, and she took them from him. They were uniformly dreadful. One of them summed up everything that was worst in all three and added a great deal of speculation that was both cruel and destructive. It was written by Lyndon Remus. He had done his own investigation into the corpse found in Bedford Square and its possible connection with General Balantyne. He must have followed Pitt because he also was aware of his visits to Dunraithe White, Tannifer and Sir Guy Stanley.

In his article on Cadell’s suicide he suggested a conspiracy that Pitt had discovered and that he had been on the brink of arresting Cadell.

Superintendent Thomas Pitt refused to comment, but Bow Street police station did not deny that Mr. Cadell was being investigated in connection with a very serious matter involving extortion and murder, and figures in the establishment, both financial and military, as well as in the government.

Since Mr. Cadell, who shot himself to death in his study yesterday morning, held a high position in the Foreign Office, one cannot but wonder if the conspiracy concerned the interests of Great Britain abroad, and even treason may have been narrowly averted by swift action from the police.

It is to be hoped that if there are other guilty parties they will not now be protected from answering for their crimes, whether carried out or simply intended. Lesser men have been exposed for lesser offences, and paid the cost.

He continued for several paragraphs in a similar vein, and by the time Vespasia came to the end of it she was so angry she could hardly hold the paper still enough to read it. She set it down on the table. Lyndon Remus might have begun as a sincere journalist intending to expose corruption, but he had allowed ambition to warp his judgment. The chance of his own fame and the power that the pen afforded had prompted him to make unfounded assumptions. All of them had a marked lack of compassion for the results of his speculation upon the bereaved, who might have been innocent but for whom proof of that would come too late to undo the pain or the ostracism that went hand in hand with suspicion.

“I have read them,” she said to Woods when he returned to see if she was ready to have the table cleared. “You may burn them now. There is no need for Mrs. Cadell to see them.”

“Yes, your ladyship,” he said quickly. His opinion was clear in his face, and his hands, when he took the papers, shook a little.

“How are the staff?” Vespasia asked him.

“We are managing, your ladyship,” he replied. “I regret to say there are persons outside in the street attempting to ask questions … for the newspapers. They are … most … ill mannered. They are intrusive and have no respect for … death.”

“Have you locked the areaway doors?” she asked. “We can do without deliveries today.”

“I … I hadn’t,” he admitted. “With your permission I shall do so.”

“You have it. And no one is to answer the front door unless they have first ascertained who is outside and sought either my permission or Mrs. Cadell’s. Is that clear?”

“Yes, indeed. Cook asked me to enquire what you would like for luncheon, Lady Vespasia. I assume you will be remaining?” He looked a little desperate.

“Most certainly,” she answered him. “I think whatever Cook cares to prepare will be excellent. May I suggest something very light. An egg custard would be a suitable pudding, or a fruit fool.”

“Yes, thank you, your ladyship.”

Vespasia went to the withdrawing room; somehow the formality of it seemed appropriate to the mood.

Theodosia came down a little after ten. She looked exhausted and wretched, dressed entirely in black, but her head was high and she wore an expression of resolution.

“There is a great deal I need to do,” she said even before Vespasia had the opportunity to ask her how she was, although it would have been a pointless question. She would probably never in her life suffer more than she was doing this morning. “And you are the only one I can ask to help me,” she finished.

“Leo must have had a man of affairs,” Vespasia replied, regarding Theodosia gravely. “There is very little you’re required to do yourself. Even that, I can do for you, if you wish.”

Theodosia’s eyebrows rose. “I am not referring to that sort of thing, Aunt Vespasia. I am quite sure Mr. Astell can do all of that. Although I should welcome your advice as to what you think would be suitable.” She frowned very slightly, concentrating. “I am quite certain Leo did not take his own life. No one could drive him to that, no matter what he thought or feared. I am even more certain he was not behind the blackmail.”

She stood with her back to the room, her face towards the garden but blind to its flowers and dappled light. “I do not delude myself I know everything about him,” she said slowly. “One never does … nor should one. It would be intrusive, and more dangerous than that, it would be boring. But I really do believe I knew Leo too well for him to have deceived me either to his elation when the plan seemed to have been succeeding or his despair when he would have felt such imminent failure as to have driven him to this.”

Vespasia was uncertain what to say. She had often imagined she knew people better than events had proved. But Theodosia had spoken of emotions, not morality, and that was a matter of observation. It was less easy to dismiss.

“There is no need to humor me,” Theodosia said quietly, still facing the window. “I realize how I sound. What woman could admit to such a thing of her husband without struggling against it? But I intend to do a great deal more than wring my hands in protest.”

“It will not be easy,” Vespasia pointed out tentatively. “I am afraid you must be prepared for a great deal of opposition ….”

“Of course.” Theodosia did not move. “If Leo did not do this, then someone else did. They are hardly going to welcome my disturbing what they wish to appear a very tidy end to the affair.” She turned at last. “Will you help me, Aunt Vespasia?”

She looked at Theodosia’s haggard face, her stiff shoulders and the desperation in her eyes. It might be hopeless. It might bring more grief upon them than there was already. But how could she refuse? It would not prevent Theodosia; it would only leave her more isolated to do it.

“Are you sure you wish to?” she asked gently. “What we discover may not all be what you would like, my dear. Sometimes one is better knowing less of the truth, rather than more. And you will assuredly make enemies.”

“Of course.” Theodosia remained standing. “Do you imagine it will be much worse for me than it will be anyway when this becomes known? Mr. Gordon-Cumming will not be the only person who will find it unbearable to remain in London or the Home Counties. The blackmailer has taken so much from me he has left me very little still to lose now. I do not need you to promise me fairy-tale endings, Aunt Vespasia. I know there are none. I only wish you to lend me your intelligence and your support. As I daresay you know, I shall persist whether you give it me or not, but I shall have much less chance of success.”

Vespasia smiled dryly; a small, sad gesture. “Put like that, you leave me little choice, unless I wish you to believe I preferred you to fail. Nothing would please me better than to discover Leo was innocent, both of the blackmail and of taking his life. We must consider carefully how to proceed, and of course where to begin.”

Theodosia moved back across the room and sat down heavily, looking suddenly a trifle lost.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “But who else could I turn to? And who better?” For all her determination, she actually had very little idea what she could do.

“Are you sure you are willing to face whatever we may discover?” Vespasia asked for a last time. “It may not be what you wish.”

“No.” The word was flat and certain. There was no happiness in it, but there was conviction. “But it will not be what they are saying at the moment. Where do we begin?”

“With logic … and a hot cup of tea,” Vespasia said decisively.

Theodosia gave a ghost of a smile and walked over to the embroidered bell rope. When the maid came she ordered hot tea.

“Now for the logic,” she requested when they were alone again.

Vespasia settled herself to begin. “Whoever the blackmailer is, he is personally acquainted with all of his victims, because he is aware of their past experiences sufficiently well to know to what charge they would be most vulnerable and where in their careers he can make it most reasonably believable.”

“Quite,” Theodosia agreed. “You say he. Does it have to be a man? Could it not be a woman? It is naive to suppose a woman incapable of such intelligence or such cruelty.”

“Of course it is,” Vespasia answered. “But I think that might be to suppose that the placing of the corpse on Brandon Balantyne’s doorstep was unconnected, which seems to me unlikely. I find it difficult to imagine circumstances where a woman who had the acquaintance of the victims would also be aware of the death of Slingsby and have the means to move his body. Although I suppose it is not impossible.”

“I had forgotten about that,” Theodosia admitted. “We shall consider men first. I know something about most of Leo’s life, where he was born, grew up, went to school and to university and then into the diplomatic service. I have already racked my mind to think of any enemies who could be responsible for this.” She frowned. “Anyone who succeeds is bound to arouse envy, if nothing else. And it is regrettable, but many of those who succeed far less will explain it to themselves by blaming others.”

The maid arrived with fresh tea on a tray, and set it down on the low table between Vespasia and Theodosia. She offered to pour, but Theodosia declined, preferring to do it herself.

When they were alone again, Vespasia replied, “I do not believe this is a matter of personal vengeance, unless we can find some affair in which all the victims were involved. Did Leo even know them all?”

Theodosia looked at her with a thin shred of humor. “I don’t know. You have been far too discreet to tell me who they are.”

“Oh!” Vespasia had forgotten that. There seemed little point in worrying about indiscretion; clearing Leo’s name and finding the true blackmailer, if it was not he, were more important. “General Balantyne, John Cornwallis, Sigmund Tannifer, Guy Stanley and Dunraithe White.”

Theodosia looked startled. “I did not know that,” she said quietly. “They are different generations and quite different kinds of men. I know Parthenope Tannifer. She has called several times. A most interesting woman. And is not Dunraithe White a judge?”

“Yes. And John Cornwallis is assistant commissioner of police,” Vespasia added. “One wonders if some subversion of the law is intended. Except how could that involve Brandon Balantyne?”

“There must be some connection,” Theodosia said fiercely. “It is up to us to find it. It cannot be professional. It cannot be from school or university.”

“Then it must be social,” Vespasia deduced, sipping her tea. The hot liquid was peculiarly refreshing, even though the room was warm and bright in the summer morning sun. The whole house was unusually silent, the servants on tiptoe. Someone had thought to put straw in the street outside to muffle the hooves of passing horses. Vespasia had a sudden thought. “Or financial! Could Leo have invested in some scheme or other, and those other people also?”

“And there is something wrong in it?” Theodosia seized the idea eagerly. “Yes! Why not? That would make some sense of it.” She rose to her feet. “There will be notes of it in his study. We shall look.”

Vespasia went with her, the tea abandoned.

They spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon there, stopping for a brief luncheon only because Vespasia insisted for Theodosia’s sake, and Theodosia obeyed for hers. They searched for records of all Leo Cadell’s investments of any nature whatever, and discovered that he had been, on the whole, extremely prudent. There had been one rather rash backing of an adventure in the Caribbean which had lost him a modest amount, but all the rest were either adequate or extremely good. There was startlingly little invested overseas in anything speculative, and he had been scrupulous to avoid anything with even the semblance of profiting from his knowledge gained as a member of the diplomatic service.

Vespasia became increasingly saddened reading the dry facts of investment and return over the years. They demonstrated the financial life of a man who made good provision for his family but was extraordinarily careful, erring on the side of loss, never to make a penny from his professional advantage. It reflected the man she knew, nothing like the person Lyndon Remus wrote of in the newspapers, or the police presumed from the manner of his death. Funny that a series of figures should convey so much.

“There’s nothing here,” Theodosia said desperately a little after half past three. She was sitting at the desk with papers strewn all around her. She looked wretched and exhausted. “He gave to certain charities, but that’s about all I can think of that he could have had in common with the other people you mention, and then it wasn’t much. I mean, not the sort of money anyone would blackmail over.”

“What charities?”

Vespasia asked simply for something to say, to not allow the silence to make it seem she had given up.

Theodosia was surprised. “Specifically? An orphanage that was governed by several members of the Jessop Club. I knew he still went on attending that committee most of the time even when he was exceptionally busy. He mentioned that General Balantyne was on it also.” And without saying anything further she took a bundle of letters out of the desk drawer and began to read through them.

Vespasia went to one of the other drawers and found some more.

For half an hour she saw nothing that seemed of any relevance at all. It was unpleasant reading through another person’s letters which had been intended as private. There was nothing Leo would have had cause to be embarrassed or ashamed of, not even anything especially personal; it was simply intrusive for a third person to read them. She had a terribly oppressive sense of his death. Going through his belongings made its reality almost tangible.

She read one letter through, although it was more of a memorandum, and then she nearly missed the relevance. It was on the letterhead, printed below that of the Jessop Club. The handwritten part was addressed to Leo Cadell and concerned the patronage of a fund-raising art exhibition. A notable society lady was to attend. It had been held over six months before, and was of no importance. Leo had presumably kept it only because he had written an address on it, some collector of Chinese ginger jars living in Paris. It was the names of the committee that caught Vespasia’s eye: Brandon Balantyne; Guy Stanley, M.R; Lawrence Bairstow; Dunraithe White; John Cornwallis; James Cameron; Sigmund Tannifer and Leo Cadell.

She looked up. Theodosia was still reading, a growing pile of discarded papers strewn around her.

“Do you know Lawrence Bairstow?” Vespasia asked. “Or James Cameron?”

“I knew Mary Ann Bairstow,” Theodosia replied, looking up. “Why? What have you found?”

“Could Lawrence Bairstow be another victim?”

There was sudden disappointment in Theodosia’s face.

“No. The poor man is senile. He is a great deal older than she is. I am afraid he would be incapable of exerting any influence at all, for good or ill. And I believe his personal affairs are looked after by the family solicitors.” She could not keep the weariness of pain out of her voice.

“And James Cameron?” Vespasia pressed, not sure why, or if there was any purpose in it; it was simply unbearable to give up.

“The only James Cameron I knew of went to live abroad several months ago,” Theodosia answered. “He has poor health, and he moved to a drier, warmer climate. India, I think, but I’m not sure. Why? Why are you asking? What is that?”

“I think, just possibly, we may have discovered what they have in common,” Vespasia said slowly. “Although I cannot see, for the life of me, what conceivable profit there could be in it.”

Theodosia shot to her feet and snatched the paper from her. She read it, then looked up, puzzled. “They are all on this committee within the Jessop Club. But it’s for an orphanage. That is what the money is for. Could that be it … misappropriation of funds?” The expression in her eyes hovered between hope and despair. “It hardly seems worth it. How much could it be?”

“A great deal of disgrace, if it were discovered,” Vespasia answered gravely, trying to keep the emotion calm in her voice. “To steal from an orphanage is particularly despicable.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.” Theodosia’s hands were trembling. She gripped them together to control the movements. She so fervently wanted this new information to mean something she dared not hope too much, and yet she was so close to surrendering to grief she could not let go either. “That … that could be it … couldn’t it?”

Vespasia did not have the heart to deny it, even though she felt it could not be true. Perhaps to give Theodosia some shred of light now was more important than a probable truth. She must survive.

“It could,” she agreed. “Let us see if there is any other reference to it here, then I shall take it to Thomas and see what he makes of it.”

“You mean Superintendent Pitt?” The hope fled from Theodosia’s face. “He is sure Leo was guilty.”

“He will listen if I tell him about this.” Vespasia filled her voice with an absolute conviction she did not feel.

“Will he?” Theodosia clutched at it.

“Most certainly. Now, let us see what else we can find.”

In another two hours of meticulous reading of every piece of paper in the desk and in the drawers of the cabinet they found only one other thing which seemed to have any bearing. It was a letter dated some two weeks earlier.

My dear Cadell,

Perhaps I am being over zealous, but I am concerned about the amount of money going to the orphanage at Kew. I have re-read the accounts and it seems to me to require some more detailed evaluation. I have raised the matter in committee once, but was overruled.

Of course it is possible I am out of touch with the cost of things, but I would value your opinion. I hope we may discuss the subject at a time suitable to you.

I remain,

your most obedient servant,

Brandon Balantyne

Theodosia was so encouraged by it that Vespasia could not bring herself to point out how trivial the matter almost certainly was.

“You’ll take it to Superintendent Pitt?” Theodosia urged.

“Of course.”

“Immediately?”

“I shall call on him before I return home,” Vespasia promised. “Now, my dear, I am far more concerned about you. Will you be all right alone tonight? I can return if you wish me to. It is not an inconvenience in the slightest. I can send for a change of linen without any trouble at all.”

Theodosia hesitated. “No … I shall have to learn … to become used to it … I think …” She tailed off.

Vespasia made the decision for her. “I shall return when I have seen Thomas. I do not know how long it shall be, as I may not find him immediately. Please do not wait supper for me. I shall be perfectly happy with whatever Cook can make for me then.”

“Of course,” Theodosia agreed, her face filled with gratitude. “I … thank you!”

In the event, Vespasia did find Pitt in his office in Bow Street. As far as anyone could tell, the case was closed, and he was now obliged to deal with a great many other matters that had arisen while he was wholly occupied with the Bedford Square murder and the blackmail. He was delighted to see her and welcomed her with enthusiasm.

She regarded his piled desk critically.

“I can see that I am interrupting you,” she said with very gentle sarcasm. “Perhaps I should wait, and call upon you at home?”

“Please!” He readjusted the chair he was holding for her. “There could be nothing more urgent than seeing you.”

“It looks extremely urgent,” she observed with a dry smile, sitting carefully in the chair. “But perhaps also rather arduous. I shall not keep you for very long.”

“Never mind.” He smiled back at her, his eyes alight for the first time in weeks. He returned to his own seat. “I shall have to make do with what time you can spare. What is it?”

She sighed, her humor vanishing. “Almost certainly nothing. But in going through Leo Cadell’s papers I have discovered one thing which all the blackmail victims had in common and which was a cause of concern to at least one among them … the one who was most viciously accused, by implication.”

“Balantyne?” He looked surprised. “What is it?”

She took the letter and the memorandum on the Jessop Club paper from her reticule and passed them both over to him.

He read them carefully and then looked up. “An orphanage? What about those other two people, Bairstow and Cameron? Are they victims as well?”

“I have no reason to suppose so; in fact, every reason to believe they are not, and could not be,” she replied. “Bairstow is senile, according to Theodosia, and Cameron has left England to live abroad. That leaves of the committee members only those we know.” She watched his face closely. She saw the lift of interest and the slight change in his expression. “Will you do me the favor of investigating it, Thomas, for Theodosia’s sake? I appreciate that it is extremely unlikely to be anything other than what it seems, a worthy cause assisted by a group of gentlemen who happen to belong to the same club. But I am extremely fond of Theodosia, and I, too, find it difficult and painful to believe that Leo was guilty of blackmail and of suicide. I am compelled to explore any possibility that it is not so, however remote.”

She hated asking favors, and she saw the understanding of that in his face.

“Of course,” he agreed. “I shall go out to Kew tomorrow and require to see their books, and send men to check on Bairstow and Cameron. Cornwallis will give me all the excuse I need.”

“Thank you, Thomas. I am most grateful.” She rose to leave. It had been an exhausting two days, and now suddenly the grief overtook her and she found it difficult to muster the strength to face returning to Theodosia and staying awake long into the night to offer her what comfort and companionship she could. She could not lessen Theodosia’s pain, only share it. But she could hardly love her and do less.

The next day was beautiful. The heat wave continued, bright and hot, but there was a clarity to the air and every now and then a breeze. People were out in the streets and parks, and on the river were scores of little boats, pleasure steamers, ferries, barges and every other kind of vessel that could take to the water. The sounds of singing, barrel organs and penny-whistles drifted on the air. Children shouted to one another, and every so often there was a burst of laughter.

Pitt took the boat up the river to Kew. It seemed not only the pleasantest way to travel but also probably the fastest.

As he stood on the deck between a fat woman in a striped blouse and a man with a red face, he wondered if he should really be doing this at all. It was an escape from the paperwork that had piled up while he was occupied with the blackmail case, and he did not want to refuse Vespasia. She had looked unusually tired. Grief had taken none of her spirit or her determination, but there was an acceptance of defeat in her which was the profoundest change he could have imagined. It troubled him enough to justify this trip up the river with the sun and the breeze on his face as the steamer made its way up past Battersea and turned south towards Wandsworth. There was another complete S bend before Kew. He would enjoy it.

He found himself smiling as he watched the rowing boats plying back and forth, narrowly avoiding getting in everyone’s way. Little boys in sailor suits stood up precariously and anxious women held them by the britches. Little girls with ribboned straw hats waved excitedly. Fathers bent their backs to the oars with proprietorial satisfaction.

On the shore people picnicked on stretches of grass. He thought idly that a few of them were going to be burned by this evening. At the water’s edge they did not realize how strong the sun was.

He was wasting his time going to an orphanage. Even if there had been petty pilfering, and Balantyne had suspected it, it was not the same degree of crime as the sort of blackmail they had been dealing with. It could only be a few hundred pounds at the very most, and that would have to have been over years or it would have been noticed long before now.

Why had Balantyne questioned it instead of requiring an audit of the books? He had written to Cadell about his concerns. Cadell would hardly be blackmailing him with something as extreme as a murdered man on the doorstep in order to stop him from pursuing such a request.

But that did raise a genuine question to which Pitt had seen no satisfactory answer … who had moved the body of Josiah Slingsby from Shoreditch to Bedford Square? Who had put Albert Cole’s receipt for socks in Slingsby’s pocket? How had he had it in the first place?

For that matter, where was Albert Cole now? If he was alive, where had he gone and why? And if he was dead, why had Slingsby’s body been left on Balantyne’s step and not Cole’s body? Had he coincidentally died of natural causes?

That seemed to be stretching unlikelihood too far.

And it did not answer the questions about Slingsby’s body and how Cadell had even heard of it, let alone how he’d moved it to Bedford Square.

Did any of it matter now, except that it was a puzzle?

A pleasure steamer went by, its passengers shouting and waving, its wake setting the ferry rocking. The sun was dazzlingly bright on the water.

Was he being self-indulgent, expecting every case to have a complete solution, wanting to understand exactly what had happened? Or was he being diligent, making sure of the truth?

What he was really doing was taking a trip up the river instead of sitting in Bow Street doing his paperwork, and trying to help Vespasia a little … although she would have to accept in the end that Leo Cadell was the blackmailer. He had confessed it … in a letter exactly like all the others. Possibly he had gained his knowledge of the lives of the other victims through knowing them in the Jessop Club. One could learn a great deal about people from casual conversation, expanded by a little questioning as if from interest or admiration. The rest he could have gleaned from public records; army and navy details he could easily have asked for on the pretext of having some need to know in his position at the Foreign Office.

But the question remained, how did he know Slingsby at all, let alone remark his resemblance to Cole?

Pitt put it out of his mind for a while and enjoyed the river and the brilliance of the day. All around him people were having fun.

The orphanage at Kew Green was a large, rambling old house with a garden walled around and overhung with trees. It looked spacious enough to house fifty or sixty children, at the very least, and the appropriate number of staff to look after them.

He walked up to the front door, noticing the clean scrubbed step, and pulled the bell. It was answered within minutes by a girl of about seventeen. She was wearing a dark blue cotton dress, starched apron and cap.

“Yes sir?” she said helpfully.

Pitt explained who he was and asked if he might speak to whoever was in charge. He conveyed in his manner that refusal was not to be tolerated.

She conducted him to a very pleasant room facing the front entrance and invited him to sit in one of the threadbare but surprisingly comfortable seats while she went for Mr. Horsfall.

When he arrived, closing the door behind him with a snap, he was taller even than Pitt, very rotund around the middle, and with a genial face, as if he smiled often and easily.

“Yes sir,” he said agreeably. “What can we do for you? Dolly said something about the police. I hope none of our charges have been creating a nuisance? We do the best we can to see they are well behaved, and if I say so myself, I think we more than succeed, most times. But children will be children.”

“I have no reason to doubt it,” Pitt replied honestly. “I am from Bow Street, not Kew.” He ignored the surprise in Horsfall’s face. “And it is regarding financial matters I have come. The recent suicide of one of the committee of beneficiaries who donate a large amount to your establishment had raised some questions as to possible irregularities.”

Horsfall looked suitably saddened. “Oh, dear. How painful. Well, sir, of course you may examine our books, with pleasure. But I do assure you, if there has been anything amiss, it has not been after any funds have reached us. We are very careful.” He nodded. “We have to be. We mustn’t lose sight of the fact that we are dealing with other people’s money. If they cannot trust us, then there will be no more.” He looked at Pitt with wide eyes.

What he said was transparently true, and Pitt felt foolish for wasting both Horsfall’s time and his own. But he could hardly say so now.

“Thank you,” he replied. “It is merely to complete the matter. I would be negligent to overlook it.”

“Of course. Of course.” Horsfall nodded again, hooking his thumbs in his waistcoat. “Shall I bring them to you here, or would you prefer to come through to my office, where you can sit at a desk?”

“That would be very courteous of you,” Pitt accepted. He was aware that there was always the possibility of two sets of books, but he acknowledged to himself that he had never really expected anything from his visit beyond being able to tell Vespasia he had tried.

He spent the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon, apart from a brief respite for luncheon at the local public house, going over endless receipts both for money and for goods, food, fuel, clothes, wages, and found everything in the most meticulous order. Had Horsfall not explained his need for exactness, he might have found the perfection suspicious. But there was not a farthing unaccounted for, and he did not doubt for a moment that if he went equally carefully through the Jessop Club’s donations, he would find a faultless match.

He was barely aware of the children who must fill the building. As Horsfall had said, they were remarkably well behaved. He did see two little girls, walking hand in hand, aged about five and six, respectively, and suddenly one of them began to run, pulling the other along. They were followed a moment later by a girl of ten or so, carrying a boy not more than two. Other movements caught the corner of his vision, and he heard voices.

He closed the books, thanked Horsfall and apologized for troubling him, then took his leave of the orphanage, feeling a trifle foolish. There seemed no reason whatever why Balantyne—or Cadell, for that matter—should have been concerned. Perhaps it was a matter of raising funds, rather than their use, which had worried him.

He could ask Balantyne, but it hardly seemed worth it.

The question of how Cadell had known of Slingsby’s death, and how he had moved the body, seemed far more important. And where was Albert Cole? If he was dead, they should know if it had been a result of natural causes, and if not, then what had happened to him? He would put Tellman onto that as soon as he returned to Bow Street … tomorrow. Tonight he would write to Vespasia and tell her that the orphanage books were immaculate.

Charlotte was grieved by the news of Leo Cadell’s death, largely for Aunt Vespasia, but her imagination extended to how his widow must feel. However, she was relieved of an immense weight of anxiety, even of fear, regarding both General Balantyne and Cornwallis. She liked Cornwallis profoundly, and she knew also how deep was Pitt’s affection for him.

She knew Balantyne must have read of Cadell’s death in the newspapers. He could hardly have missed it. It was sprawled across the front page, along with Lyndon Remus’s speculations as to what sort of long and tragic story might be behind Cadell’s fall from brilliant diplomat to blackmailer, extortionist and, ultimately, suicide.

Half of her mind could understand the necessity for freedom to question and investigate the lives of all public figures. Without such liberty, secrecy begot oppression and ended in tyranny. But with freedom came responsibility, and the immense power of the written word could so easily be abused. There was a sense in which Lyndon Remus was doing exactly the same thing as Cadell had attempted. The fact that Cadell and his family were now the victims did not leave her with any sense of satisfaction or poetic justice, just an awareness of the vulnerability of reputation and the thought of how Theodosia Cadell must feel.

An errand boy delivered a note from General Balantyne, and she gave him the answer that she would be happy to meet him, again in the Royal Botanical Gardens, at three o’clock in the afternoon.

The day was less oppressively hot, and a considerable crowd was taking the air for one sort of pleasure or another. She marveled at how many people seemed to have no other call upon their time and were free from the necessity of any form of work. Before she had met Pitt such a thought would never have crossed her mind. Young ladies of her social class then had far too much time and too little to fill it that gave anything but the most momentary satisfaction. Then she seemed always to have been looking forward to tomorrow for something that might happen.

She saw Balantyne as soon as she was through the gates. He was standing alone, facing the parade of soldiers in uniform, couples arm in arm, girls with parasols accompanied by their mothers, parasols swinging dangerously as they glanced at the young men and pretended they weren’t. He appeared to be watching them, but the stillness of his head betrayed that his thoughts were elsewhere.

Charlotte walked over to him and was almost beside him before he noticed her.

“Mrs. Pitt!” He looked at her gravely, searching her eyes. “How are you?” He paid not the slightest regard to her appearance; he was concerned entirely with her feelings.

“I am quite well,” she answered, equally concerned for him. Looking at his face, she could see little of the relief she would have expected, considering that the threat of ruin that had dogged him for weeks was now lifted. “And you?”

He smiled very slightly. “I had expected to feel better,” he admitted. “Perhaps I am still bemused. I liked Cadell.” He offered her his arm. “Isn’t that ridiculous? But I cannot rid myself of the emotion in a single day, in spite of knowing now what he was really planning. I suppose I am not the judge of men’s characters that I thought I was.” He gave a very slight, rueful shrug.

“I’m sorry,” she said simply. “I don’t think Great-Aunt Vespasia has ever been so fearfully mistaken either. Mrs. Cadell is her goddaughter, you know.”

“I didn’t.” He walked in silence a few yards. “Poor woman. I can imagine the devastation she must be feeling now, the confusion and loss.”

Charlotte thought of Christina. Perhaps he was remembering her when he spoke. Time might have blunted the edge of his own pain, but nothing could remove it. Looking sideways at him now, she would not intrude, it would be inexcusable, but she imagined him thinking of Theodosia Cadell with a pity that could only spring from his own knowledge. His mouth was tugged tight at the corners, the muscles in his neck tense.

“We are all relieved of our fears,” he said after a little while, moving between the banks of roses heavy with perfume in the sun. “We need no longer dread the delivery of mail. We can encounter our friends in the street and meet their eyes without wondering what they are thinking, what double meaning may lie behind the simplest remark. I feel guilty for the people I doubted. I hope to heaven they will never know it. Oddly, in all my suspicions, I never thought of Cadell.”

She wanted to answer with something intelligent, but she could think of nothing.

He did not seem to be waiting for her to say anything, merely glad of her companionship and grateful for the presence of someone to whom he could speak his thoughts as they came to him.

“It is terrible that our relief, the end of our ordeal, has to be the beginning of someone else’s,” he went on. “How will Mrs. Cadell endure this? The knowledge will destroy everything of the past as well as the future. Does she have children, do you know?”

“No … I don’t. I think Aunt Vespasia said something about daughters; I’m not sure. I wasn’t really listening. How shatteringly life can change from one day to another.” She looked at the people passing by them, all seeming so carefree, as if there were nothing on their minds more serious than whether their gowns were fashionable or not, whether a young man had smiled at them, or the girl behind them. And yet underneath, their hearts could be breaking too. Every one of them must succeed in some way, or fail, and the price of that was heavy, perhaps poverty, perhaps loneliness. She had been as young, and as desperate in her own way, once.

“What I don’t understand,” Balantyne went on, frowning, “is why Cadell put the body of Slingsby on my doorstep with Albert Cole’s receipt on him and the snuffbox in his pocket. What was he trying to do? Have me arrested for his murder?” He turned and looked at her, his eyes full of confusion. “Did he hate me so much? Why? I liked him ….”

“I don’t know,” she confessed. “What is more difficult to understand for me is how he got the body. Slingsby was killed in Shoreditch.”

He sighed. “I suppose we shall never know. The man must have had a life quite separate from anything we guessed. I have never found myself so mistaken in anyone.” He gave a very slight laugh. “When I was worried about the orphanage in Kew, he was the one I wrote to.”

“What worried you?” she asked, not that it mattered; it was simply something to continue the conversation.

“The money,” he replied, smiling at her ruefully. “It all seems terribly trivial now. It wasn’t even a large amount.”

“Missing?” she asked.

“No … quite the contrary. I thought we were not giving enough … enough to meet the demands, that is. Perhaps I am a trifle naive as to how one may manage if one is skilled in housekeeping. I daresay they have a good kitchen garden. I have forgotten what children eat. I seem to recall rice pudding, plum duff and bread and jam. I suppose there must have been a great deal else.”

They walked a little farther in silence. Five minutes later they had completed the circle and were back at the gates again. He stopped.

“I …” He cleared his throat. “I … I am deeply grateful for your friendship.” He coughed, removing his arm from hers. “I value it a great deal more than you know—or than it is remotely suitable that I should tell you.” He stopped abruptly, knowing he had already said too much.

She saw the passion of gentleness in his eyes, and understood all that he could never say and she should not have allowed to happen.

She closed her eyes, not to meet his.

“I acted on impulse,” she said almost under her breath. “Sometimes … in fact, quite often … I have more feeling than sense. I apologize for it. But I never believed you were guilty and I cared so much to prove it.” She made herself smile, still with her eyes lowered. “I am very glad that that at least has been proved. I wish we could have solved all the other things too, but they will have to remain as they are.” For an instant she looked at him, then after a moment turned and walked away back towards the gates and outside, knowing that he watched her until was she out of sight, but she could not look back. She must not.