Bedford Square

11

PITT ARRIVED HOME late after seeing Vespasia on the way back from Kew. He felt deeply sorry for her. Nothing he had been able to tell her was anything but crushing to the last shred of hope.

Now he sat in front of the empty fireplace in his parlor. The doors to the garden were closed after having been open nearly all day. It was still light, but there was a coolness in the air that could be felt if one were sitting still. The sweet smell of the neighbor’s new-cut grass lingered in the room, reminding him it was time he attended to his own lawn, not to mention the weeding.

Charlotte was sitting opposite him, her sewing discarded. He could see from the rough shape of it that it was a dress for Jemima. There seemed so much material he recalled with a jolt how rapidly she had grown. She was not a little girl anymore, and she most decidedly had opinions of her own. That had come forcibly to his attention a few times lately. It made him think with sharp pity of Christina Balantyne, and brought an awareness of how time can change people and one can be too preoccupied to notice it. Girls grow up and become women.

“Was there nothing at the orphanage?” Charlotte asked, interrupting his thoughts.

He was pleased to be able to share his findings with her. It did not make it any better; it simply hurt less.

“No. Everything was in exceptionally good order. I went through the books in detail. Every penny was accounted for. Not only that, but it was all clean and obviously well cared for, and the half dozen or so children I actually saw seemed happy and in good health, well clothed and clean also.”

“But General Balantyne was worried about it.” She frowned slightly. “He told me that himself.” She looked at him very steadily, and he knew she was waiting to be asked when she had seen him again.

He found himself smiling in spite of the gloom that he felt. She was very transparent.

“Well, it looks as if he need not have been,” he answered. “I wish all institutions were as well run.”

“He didn’t think they were misappropriating funds,” she explained. “He thought they weren’t using enough.” She took a deep breath. “But he did admit that perhaps he didn’t know very much about budgeting. I daresay he hasn’t much idea what you can do with things like potatoes and oatmeal and rice pudding, and of course bread.”

“I assume he doesn’t know much about army catering, then?” he observed.

“I didn’t ask,” she admitted. “I think honestly he was more troubled by his misjudgment of Leo Cadell. He truly liked him … and trusted him.”

“I know,” Pitt said quietly. “It has wounded Aunt Vespasia profoundly as well. I think …”

“Yes?” She was quick to respond, her face earnest.

“You might visit her a little more often … for a while. At least offer to … somehow make it tactful.”

She smiled a little ruefully. “It is not easy to be tactful with Aunt Vespasia. She can read my thoughts almost before I have them.”

“Then perhaps you had better not try. Simply offer.”

“Thomas …” she said tentatively.

“Yes?”

“What did he want? I mean, what was Cadell going to ask them all for? Was it just money, or something to do with Africa, as you thought?”

“I don’t know. His note said very little. What puzzles me far more is how he knew about Slingsby at all, that he resembled Cole, let alone that he was dead.”

“You don’t know?” She was startled.

“No. I can see why he wanted Slingsby’s body to be taken for Albert Cole’s … to increase the pressure on Balantyne … but why not use the real Albert Cole? He would be far more likely to have met him. He worked in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, where Cadell could easily have been. Any of the victims could have, and Dunraithe White assuredly has.”

“Well, what happened to Albert Cole?” she asked, her face puckered. “Where is he?”

“I have no idea.”

“Why didn’t he come forward when his death was reported in the newspapers?” she pressed.

“I don’t suppose he reads the newspapers,” he answered with a smile. “He may not read at all.”

“Oh. I never thought of that.” She showed a moment’s consternation at her own blindness, then hurried on. “Even so, other people do. And he isn’t anywhere in his usual places, is he? He’s gone from his lodgings and from the corner where he sold bootlaces, and from the public house where he drank. You told me that.”

His brief moment of humor vanished. “I am afraid he may also be dead. Perhaps he died of some cause that didn’t suit their purpose.”

“Such as what?” she demanded.

“Illness of some sort or, for example, drowning. We could hardly blame General Balantyne for a drowned body that turned up on his doorstep.”

In spite of herself she laughed. It was absurd, grotesque. But the moment was soon gone.

“Poor man,” she said, more to herself than to him. “But that doesn’t answer how Cadell knew about Slingsby and just happened to be in Shoreditch at the time. What on earth would he be doing in Shoreditch at all?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not sure whether I need to know. I want to, but does it matter now?”

“Yes.” There was no hesitation in her at all. “This doesn’t make any sense. You need to know at the very least what happened to Albert Cole. Just because nobody misses him doesn’t mean he doesn’t matter.”

He did not argue. Perhaps it was the excuse he had been wanting.

Pitt went to see Cornwallis in the morning. He looked a different man. The shadows of tiredness were still in his face, but the haunted air had gone from his eyes and he stood upright, his shoulders square again, and he met Pitt’s gaze almost eagerly.

In the first moment after coming into the room, Pitt realized just how heavy had been the weight upon Cornwallis, how very sharp the fear. Now that it was gone, every aspect of his life had changed again. Courage and belief in himself had returned.

Pitt almost let it rest. Whatever had happened to Albert Cole, it could not be undone. Did they really need to know? Cadell was guilty, by his own admission. It filled all the facts. He was in a position to have gained all the information about the other victims. He knew them all from the Jessop Club.

“Good morning, Pitt,” Cornwallis said cheerfully. “Excellent job. I’m most extremely grateful.” His expression darkened. “Although I’m damned sorry it turned out to be Cadell. I liked him. At least … I liked what I believed him to be. It is hard to discover that someone is not remotely what you supposed. It shakes your confidence in your own judgment. I used to think I knew a man’s character.” He frowned. “It was part of my job.”

“Everyone was mistaken in him,” Pitt replied, standing a little rigidly.

Cornwallis relaxed. “I am afraid so. Still, it’s over now.” He raised his eyebrows. “Have you something else on your mind?”

This was the moment to make his decision. There were too many questions. He thought of Vespasia.

“No … I’m afraid it is still the same case. I’m not satisfied yet ….”

Cornwallis looked startled, and dismay flashed in his eyes. “What? You can’t have any doubt that Cadell was guilty. For heaven’s sake, he confessed and shot himself. You can’t imagine he was doing it to protect someone else.” He spread his hands jerkily. “Who? If he wasn’t guilty, then he was as much a victim as the rest of us. Are you suggesting there was a conspiracy?”

“No!” Pitt was beginning to feel foolish. “Nothing like that. I just want to understand how he did it—”

“I’ve been thinking about it,” Cornwallis interrupted, jamming his hands into his pockets and walking back towards his desk. “It seems fairly clear now we know who it was. He knew us all reasonably well—at least at the Jessop, if nowhere else.” He sat down and leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs. He looked up at Pitt earnestly. “I can remember dining with him. I don’t know now what we talked about, but different places we’d been. I could easily have mentioned which ships I’d served on. From there he could have looked up my naval record. As a member of the Foreign Office he wouldn’t need much of an excuse.” He smiled bleakly.

Pitt sat down as well, ready to argue when the time came.

“Similarly, he could have looked up Balantyne’s career,” Cornwallis went on. “It’s amazing how comfortable one can get over a good dinner at the club.” He smiled a little. “You reminisce, and with a fellow you like, who is a good listener, maybe tells a bit about himself as well, you find yourself talking into the small hours. No one disturbs you or tells you it’s time to leave. He could have learned all manner of things about any of us.” He looked at Pitt with a sudden bleakness. “If you think it’s worth going to the Jessop and asking the stewards if they remember Cadell sitting up late with anyone, do so. But it would prove nothing either way. They could have forgotten, or it could have been somewhere else. Most of us belong to more than one club.”

“I hadn’t doubted where he got the information,” Pitt replied. “A little conversation, some enquiries and then some imaginative guesses would be quite sufficient.”

“The snuffbox?” Cornwallis said quickly. “He may have visited Balantyne’s home, but even if he hadn’t, I can remember Balantyne having it at the club, because I’ve seen it myself, when I think back. Not closely. I wasn’t paying attention. It’s the sort of thing you see but don’t see. I daresay Guy Stanley used his flask the same way. Some people prefer their own particular whiskey or brandy. I have half a memory that he liked a single malt.”

“Yes, that’s all simple enough,” Pitt agreed again. “It wasn’t that I was thinking about.” How much should he say? Were Vespasia’s doubts anything more than the loyalty of a friend? “How did he know about Slingsby’s death in Shoreditch, and how did he get the body back to Bedford Square? More than that, how did he know Slingsby resembled Cole, and so would be any use to him? How did he get Cole’s receipt, and where is the real Cole?”

“I’ve no idea why he was in Shoreditch,” Cornwallis replied with a frown. “The man seems to have had a life we knew nothing about. Perhaps he gambled?” His face creased with distaste, and there was an edge of exasperation in his voice. “He could have had a liking for bare-knuckle fighting or any of a dozen other things. Some men do. A darker side to the character. You must know that even better than I do. Perhaps he was there when Slingsby was killed, and saw his chance.”

“To pass him off as Cole and leave him on Balantyne’s doorstep?” Pitt asked. “Why? Why take the risk of carrying him halfway through London in the middle of the night? And what happened to the real Albert Cole? Where is he?”

“Obviously, Cadell was a man who liked taking risks,” Cornwallis said a little sharply. “It would seem his respectable life as a diplomat, married to one woman all his adulthood and always behaving with the utmost correctness, oppressed some part of his nature. I’ve known it to happen before.” Unconsciously, his hand on the desk clenched and there was an increased edge to his voice. “For heaven’s sake, Pitt, plenty of men behave like fools. Women too, for all I know.” He leaned forward. “Why do we gamble, drive carriages too fast, ride dangerous horses, fall in love with all the wrong women? Why do we even try to do something pointless and dangerous, climb mountains or pit ourselves against nature to test our strength? Nine times out of ten there’s nothing at the end of it except the knowledge that we succeeded. That’s all we want.”

“And you think Cadell was that sort of person?” Pitt could not keep the doubt from his face.

“I hadn’t thought so, no,” Cornwallis answered. “But I was obviously mistaken. I hadn’t thought he was a man to blackmail his friends for the sheer pleasure of exercising power over them and watching them suffer,” he added bitterly. “I can’t begin to understand why anyone should take delight in such a thing. I can only suppose he was in desperate need of money he’d lost gambling, and he intended to ask us all for everything we could afford when he was ready, when he was sure we would pay.”

Pitt chewed his lip. “And where is Albert Cole?”

Cornwallis stood up abruptly and walked over to the window. He stared out of it with his back to Pitt.

“I’ve no idea. It’s probably a coincidence; he went away or died. It had nothing to do with Cadell.”

“And the receipt?” Pitt could not give up, not only for Vespasia but because reason demanded better answers than he had.

Cornwallis remained staring at the street. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Perhaps it was a mistake. The man in the shop was in error. Does it matter now?”

Pitt looked at Cornwallis’s broad, straight shoulders. “Balantyne went to Cadell about the orphanage funds. He was worried they were insufficient.”

Cornwallis turned around, puzzled. “Why do you mention that? What has it to do with … anything?”

“It probably hasn’t,” Pitt confessed. “I went out to the orphanage. The books are perfect.”

“Why?”

“Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould still finds it very difficult to believe Cadell was guilty—”

“Of course she does!” Cornwallis came back across the room, frowning with annoyance. “His widow is her goddaughter. It is difficult for anyone to believe someone they cared for could have been guilty of a wretched, vicious crime. I don’t find it easy myself. I liked the man.” He took a deep breath. “But the longer she resists it, the harder it will be to accept, and the more painful.”

Pitt spoke more from emotion than reason.

“If you think Aunt Vespasia is simply being an old lady who is refusing to accept an unpalatable truth, you know very little of her and underestimate her profoundly. She knew Leo Cadell since before his marriage, and she is a woman of considerable wisdom and experience. She has seen more of the world than either you or I, particularly of men like the ones we are concerned with.” He had spoken more sharply than he intended, but it was too late to moderate it.

Cornwallis blushed. For a moment Pitt thought it was from anger, then he realized it was from shame.

Cornwallis turned away. “I’m sorry. I have the greatest regard for Lady Vespasia. My own relief has … has blinded me for a moment to the reality of other people’s grief.” His voice thickened with tightly suppressed emotion. “I want this to be the end of it so fiercely I cannot bear to believe otherwise. It has obliged me to think about a great many things, events and people which I had taken for granted most of my life … other men’s opinions of me I assumed I knew. Even my career has … still, that is hardly important now.” He let out his breath in a soundless sigh and turned back to face Pitt. “You had better find Cole … or at least have Tellman look for him. There is nothing else pressing … is there?”

Before Pitt could answer that there was not, there was a sharp rap on the door.

“Come in,” Cornwallis replied, looking towards it.

The man who came in looked startled.

“Mr. Justice Quade is here to see you, sir,” he said to Cornwallis. “He is extremely perturbed and says the matter is urgent.”

“Send him in,” Cornwallis directed. “Pitt, you’d better stay.”

Theloneus Quade appeared the moment after, and indeed, the clerk had not exaggerated. Quade’s thin, gentle face wore an expression of deep concern.

“I apologize for intruding upon you, Mr. Cornwallis.” He glanced at Pitt. “Fortunate to find you also here, Thomas. I am afraid there has been a development I find disturbing—most disturbing—and I felt I should inform you of it in case it has meaning.” He looked abashed, and yet perfectly determined.

“What is it?” Pitt asked with sinking misgiving, though with less surprise than he should have felt.

Theloneus looked from one to the other of them. “Dunraithe White has just excused himself from a case he was scheduled to hear. It was rather an important one, involving a major fraud in one of the large investment trusts. His withdrawal will severely inconvenience everyone and delay the hearing until someone can be found to replace him.”

Cornwallis stood motionless. “Is he ill?” he said without hope.

“He has said so,” Theloneus replied, “but I saw him at the opera yesterday evening, and he was in excellent health then.” His lips tightened. “I happen to be acquainted with his doctor. I took the liberty of calling him when I heard. I am afraid I practiced an untruth. I asked if Dunraithe had been taken to a hospital, that I might send him a letter or attend to anything he might wish. His doctor quite obviously had no idea what I was talking about, and assumed I must be mistaken. He may, of course, be ill at home and not have found it necessary to send for any medical help, but that would be an unusual way to behave, and Dunraithe is a conventional man. Mrs. White would have sent for someone, even if he had not.”

Cornwallis opened his mouth to argue with some reasonable answer and then changed his mind. Without being aware of it, his body was tense again, the ease gone from his face.

“It occurs to me,” Theloneus said sadly, “that a letter has been overdue in the mail, and perhaps he received it only this morning. He may imagine that Cadell was not alone in his crime and that a threat still exists.” He looked from one to the other of them. “I don’t know if you know the answer to that, but if you do, then you might persuade him of it. If not, then we had better continue our work. It would seem it is not entirely finished.”

Cornwallis glanced at Pitt, then back to Theloneus.

“We don’t know the answer,” he said frankly. “We were discussing it before you arrived. We don’t know exactly what Cadell wanted. We have assumed it was money, but it is only an assumption. We also assumed he was alone, and perhaps we should not have.” His voice was rough-edged. The weight of fear he had only just cast aside had descended upon him again. It seemed the heavier for the short respite. Quite suddenly he was once more haggard, the color gone from his skin. The one night’s untroubled sleep need never have been given him, or the few meals eaten with pleasure.

“I’ll go and see Mr. White,” Pitt said quietly. He looked at Theloneus. “Will you come with me? He may simply refuse to admit me. He could send his butler with a message that he is too ill. I can scarcely argue that I know he has not yet sent for a doctor.”

“Of course,” Theloneus agreed. “I had thought of it myself. I can persuade him, on judicial business, if nothing else. He cannot refuse to speak to me on that, whatever his state of health.” He gave a sad little grimace. “I do not know whether to wish he is telling the truth or not.”

It proved a wise decision. When the butler opened the door there was a cool refusal in his face prepared for whoever should consider disturbing his master’s peace. However, when Theloneus introduced himself and declared the nature of his business, the butler recognized that it was not within his jurisdiction to refuse, and he dutifully carried Theloneus’s card upstairs on his silver tray.

He returned several minutes later, his face grim.

“Mr. White is not well this morning, sir, as I explained. If the matter truly cannot wait, then of course he will see you. Perhaps you would not mind doing him the favor of allowing him a few minutes to compose himself and come downstairs.” It was not really a question.

“Of course,” Theloneus said sympathetically. He sat down in one of the large chairs in the study where they had been shown. Pitt could not help thinking that it was one of the few rooms in the house where Marguerite White would almost certainly not interrupt them. Dunraithe would not have to explain their presence to her.

Pitt and Theloneus sat in silence. Several times Pitt nearly spoke, then changed his mind. They had already said all there was until they knew whether White had indeed received a letter, or if perhaps he had some genuine illness. Perhaps he had, and the anxiety and distress of the past few weeks had so worn down his courage that he no longer had the strength to fight back.

The door opened and Dunraithe White came in, closing it behind him. He was dressed in trousers and a soft smoking jacket. He looked gray-faced, as if he had not slept for nights on end, and there was a dry, stiff texture to his skin. He had shaved, but poorly, as if his attention had not been upon the task. As well as a small missed patch on his chin, there were two tiny spots of blood where the blade had caught him. The butler had simply reported Pitt as “another gentleman,” and White was profoundly shaken to recognize him.

“Superintendent! Has something further happened?” He cleared his throat. “Stokes did not tell me you were here. Only you …” He turned to Theloneus. “I … I thought it was a judicial matter.”

“It is,” Theloneus replied, staring at him levelly and without the slightest evasion. “I am deeply concerned over your withdrawal from the Leadbetter case. As you must know, it will cause the deepest inconvenience to the court calendar, and a considerable cost due to the delay, which must necessarily follow, until someone else can be found to hear it. Is there any way whatsoever, with your physician’s assistance, that in a day or two you may be recovered sufficiently to resume your role?” He regarded White with innocent concern.

“No.” White answered without hesitating to give the matter thought. “It would be quite misleading of me to allow you to think I will be well … I really cannot say that.” He swallowed. “In … in fairness to all concerned, the prosecution and the defense … you must replace me.” He looked at Theloneus with something like despair in his eyes.

Seeing the compassion in Theloneus’s face, Pitt expected him to relent, but he did not. Without a moment’s change in the gentleness in his eyes or his voice, he continued as if White had not spoken.

“I am sorry, my dear fellow. I must know the truth of this. You do indeed look as if you are suffering greatly, but you do not seem unwell, which is a different thing.”

White made as if to protest, but he could not find the words.

“If you have some ailment,” Theloneus went on, “then allow me to send for your physician. I know him well, and I have no doubt he will come to you within the hour.”

“Really!” White protested. “I am perfectly able to … to send for him myself, should I require his assistance. You take too much …” He half turned away, moving his arm ineffectually. “Please accept my word, Quade, and my apologies, and let the matter be. I have said all I have to.”

Theloneus remained where he was.

“I think not,” he said very quietly. “Perhaps I wrong you, and if so I am in your debt, but I think you are not ill in any medical sense, and even the Lord Chancellor would understand if—”

White wheeled around. “Are you threatening me?” he accused, his eyes hot and angry.

Theloneus did not even look surprised.

“Is somebody threatening you even though Cadell is dead?” he asked mildly.

What shred of color there was left White’s face. For several moments he did not speak, and neither Theloneus nor Pitt broke the silence.

“Are you sure Cadell was the blackmailer?” White said at last, his voice strained to cracking.

“He confessed,” Pitt said, speaking for the first time. “His note was exactly the same as the blackmail letters, and on the same white notepaper.”

“I want to believe that,” White said desperately. “Dear God, you don’t know how much I do ….”

Theloneus frowned. “Why do you find it so hard? Have you received another letter? Were you told to drop the Leadbetter case?”

White shook his head; there was a bitter laughter in him close to hysteria. “No … nothing to do with the Leadbetter case.” His voice cracked. “I simply can’t face it. I think I shall resign from the bench altogether. I cannot go on like this.” He held his hands out in front of him, palms down. They trembled very slightly. “But you are correct; I did receive another letter in the post this morning.”

“May I see it?” Pitt requested.

White gestured towards the fireplace. “I burnt it … in case Marguerite found it. But it was just the same as the others … threats … talks of ruin and pain, but nothing asked for.” Unconsciously, his hands clenched. “I cannot continue like this … I will not!” He looked from one to the other of them. “My wife is terrified. She has no idea what is wrong, but she cannot help but be aware that I am beside myself with worry. I have told her it is a case I am concerned with, but she will not believe that forever. She knows little of the ways of the world, but she is not a foolish woman, nor unobservant.” In spite of himself his voice softened. “And she cares for my welfare with the tenderest concern. The whole matter is beginning to affect her health also, and I cannot keep it from her indefinitely. She will begin to know I am lying, and that will make her even more afraid. She has always trusted me. It will destroy every shred of peace of mind she has.” He lifted his chin, and his shoulders stiffened. “You may enquire all you wish, Quade. I shall do whatever this blackguard asks of me. I will not subject Marguerite to scandal and ruin. I have told you this before, and I fail to see why you did not believe me then. I thought you knew me better.” He turned away, his back rigid, his jaw set.

A dozen arguments rose to Pitt’s lips, but he knew Dunraithe White was not listening. Fear, exhaustion and the passionate desire to protect his wife had closed his mind to argument of any sort.

Theloneus tried a last time.

“My dear fellow, Cadell is dead. He cannot hurt you or your family. Please reconsider before you commit yourself to a course of action which will bring to an end a long and memorable career. I shall deem that I did not hear your last words …”

White turned around, glaring at him.

“… because if I had,” Theloneus continued, “I should have to inform the Lord Chancellor of their import. He might then find it most difficult to keep you in a position of high trust, knowing that you would place the love of your family before the duty of your calling.”

White stared at him, ashen-faced, swaying a little on his feet.

“You are very brutal, Quade. I had not seen it like that.” He swallowed with difficulty. “I suppose it may look like that to you.”

“It would look like it to you, my dear fellow, were our places reversed,” Theloneus assured him. “And if you think of it for a moment, you know that. Would you prefer I told you only after you had made your decision?”

White took several moments to answer.

“No …” he said at last. “No, I should not. I have enjoyed my career. I shall be at a loss without it. But I can see that my present ill health must become a permanent thing. I shall write my resignation to the Lord Chancellor this morning.” There was a finality of despair in his voice. “It will be in the afternoon post. You have my word. Then I shall disregard this damnable letter, whoever it is from. I think that perhaps my wife and I should take a short holiday in the country, for recuperation. Perhaps a month or so.”

Theloneus did not make any further attempt to dissuade White. He took his leave quietly, and he and Pitt went out into the sun and the noise and ordinariness of the street. Neither spoke of it, except on parting when Pitt thanked Theloneus for having come with him. There really was nothing that needed more words.

* * *

Pitt’s mind was still troubled over the details of Cadell’s knowledge. How he had learned, and invented, sufficient detail with which to blackmail his fellow members of the Jessop Club was not difficult to imagine. But Pitt could still think of no answer to the question of how Cadell knew of Slingsby and Cole, not to mention Ernest Wallace and the murder in Shoreditch. Had it been simply money he was after, eventually? And if so, why? What was he spending it on that he needed more than his very ample salary and his inherited wealth?

Or was it the sadistic power to hurt, to torment and to ruin? Such a thing was entirely outside anything Aunt Vespasia had observed in the man in over quarter of a century’s acquaintance.

Or was it, as they had considered before, some mad African venture into speculation and empire building?

Whatever it was, a more careful scrutiny of all his papers and a more thorough and directed questioning of his wife and his household staff should reveal a thread, a shadow, some indication of an answer.

Accordingly, Pitt hailed the next cab which passed him and gave the driver directions to Cadell’s house.

There was still straw muffling the street outside, and of course all the curtains were drawn, giving the windows a blind look, almost as if the house itself were dead.

But when he pulled the bell he was let in immediately, and Theodosia herself came into the withdrawing room within minutes. She was dressed in black with no relief except a jet mourning brooch at the throat. Her eyes were hollow and her skin had no color at all. Anything artificial would have stood out like a clown’s makeup. Even so, she was a beautiful woman; her high cheekbones and long slender throat could not be affected by any grief, nor the thick, carefully dressed dark hair with its silver streaks. She reminded him of Vespasia.

“Is there something further I can do for you, Superintendent?” she asked. “Or have you discovered …?” She tried with painful intensity to keep hope out of her voice, and almost succeeded.

How could he answer without the cruelty of suggesting something only to snatch it away again?

“Nothing new,” he said immediately, and saw the light fade from her eyes. “Just questions to which I can’t find any answers, and I must at least look.”

She was too well-bred to be impolite, and perhaps she remembered he was a friend of Vespasia’s.

“I assume that you wish to look here?”

“Please. I would like to go through Mr. Cadell’s letters and papers once more, everything he kept at home, and speak to the staff again, in particular his valet and the coachman.”

“Why?” she asked, then immediately comprehension flooded her face, and a darkness of misery. “You don’t believe he killed that wretched man who was found in Bedford Square, do you? You can’t! How would he even know him?”

“No, I don’t believe he killed him,” he said quickly. “We know who did that. It was witnessed. We have the man arrested and charged. But he swears that he did not move the body from Shoreditch to Bedford Square. He simply fled. That was witnessed as well. I want to know how the body got to General Balantyne’s step and who put his snuffbox in the pocket and tried to have the body identified as Albert Cole.”

“What snuffbox?” She was completely bemused.

“General Balantyne had a highly unusual snuffbox,” he explained. “Like a reliquary, only made of pinchbeck. He gave it to the blackmailer”—he saw her wince at the word, but there was no other he could use—“as a token of surrender. It was found in the corpse’s pocket, along with a receipt for socks, from which we identified him—wrongly, as it turns out—as Albert Cole, a man who had served with Balantyne on the campaign where the incident occurred over which he was threatened.”

“And you believe my husband found the body, wherever it was, and moved it, and put those things on it?” she asked with disbelief, but no strength to deny. She was dizzy with confusion and pain. “Do the details matter now, Mr. Pitt? Do you need to dot every i and cross every t?”

“I need to understand more than I do now, Mrs. Cadell,” he replied. “There is still too much of it which seems inexplicable. I feel as if I have left something undone. And I want to know what happened to the real Albert Cole. If he is alive, where is he? And if he is dead, did he die naturally or was he also murdered?”

She stood very still. “I suppose you must. I … I want to hope that you will find some other explanation, something that does not involve my husband. Every fact you have found so far makes that impossible, and yet I cannot believe it of the man I knew … and loved.” Her lip trembled a little, and she gestured impatiently. “You must mink me a fool. I imagine every woman whose husband has done something criminal says the same thing. You must expect it by now.”

“If people were so easy to read, Mrs. Cadell, anyone could do my job, and far better than I do it,” he said softly. “It can take me weeks to solve a case, and too often I don’t succeed at all. Even when I do, I am frequently just as surprised as anyone else. Most of the time we see what we expect to see, and what we want to.”

The ghost of a smile touched her face. “Where would you like to begin?”

“With the valet, if you please.”

But Didcott, the valet, proved of little use. He was obviously suffering from shock and bewilderment, and the very natural anxiety as to what his own future would be. He would have no employment once Cadell’s belongings were disposed of. He answered every question to the best of his ability, but he could shed no light on the subject of Cadell’s life outside what was generally known of his work at the Foreign Office and the social and diplomatic functions that one might have expected him to attend. If he owned any clothes suitable for venturing to the East End, or attending the rougher gambling houses, let alone such sports as bare-knuckle fighting or dog fights, he did not keep them in the house.

Pitt went through all the cupboards and drawers himself. Cadell had been a fastidious man, well dressed, as Pitt would have expected, but considering his position and his income, certainly not extravagant. Almost all his suits were formal; there was little of a more casual nature.

Didcott kept a diary of events Cadell attended in order that he might make sure every garment was ready, clean and pressed, when it should be required and that there were always sufficient clean shirts to hand. Pitt read it carefully, going back over the previous three months. If Cadell had kept every appointment, and Didcott assured Pitt that he had, then his schedule allowed very little time indeed for self-indulgence of any sort. It was difficult to see when he could have had time to go to Shoreditch, or anywhere else, to overspend money on private vices.

It also appeared, incidentally, that he had very seldom been to the Jessop Club lately, not above three times in the previous eight weeks, at least according to Didcott’s diary. Perhaps Pitt should go to the club and ask there? Maybe it was irrelevant, but it was a silly little fact that did not fit the picture.

He went downstairs and outside to the mews, where he found the coachman, but even with the most detailed questioning, he also could offer nothing of use. He had driven Cadell regularly over the previous eight years and had never taken him to Shoreditch, or anywhere like it. He looked at Pitt with wide, sad eyes, and seemed confused by almost everything Pitt said.

It seemed that if Cadell had gone on any private journeys, he had done so by hansom or some other form of public transport, or less likely, with an associate.

Was that the answer, a conspiracy?

With whom?

He should go through all the papers again. Reread everything to see if there was any indication of another person, another mind involved.

He was offered luncheon, and accepted it, eating it in the servants’ hall. They treated him civilly enough, but their grief was very obvious, and they spoke little.

He returned to his task, and it took him the rest of the afternoon, going through every drawer and cupboard. He even leafed through books from the shelves in the study, the only room in the house which was private to Cadell and not touched by any of the servants except in his presence. It was where he had kept certain of his work when he had brought it home.

Pitt questioned all the servants about the posting of a letter on the day before Cadell’s death, or that morning, but no one knew of a letter, to Dunraithe White or anyone else.

There was no glue in the study desk drawer. There was notepaper, but it was of a different texture and a slightly different size from that of the letters. It would seem Cadell had not written them at home. Could he really have done it at the Foreign Office? Or was there a third place, one they knew nothing of?

The only other thing that caught Pitt’s attention was a note on the side of Cadell’s appointment diary: “Balantyne still worried about Kew He is not a fool. I should take it seriously.”

He thanked Theodosia and left to go to Bedford Square. He had been to Kew himself. Charlotte had spoken to Balantyne also, but perhaps there was something Pitt could ask that would elicit an explanation as to why the General was concerned that made some kind of sense.

He did not believe it, but he could not leave it undone.

As he was shown in by the footman he was greeted with icy disdain by Augusta. She was dressed in a gray striped gown and looked magnificent. Pitt was jolted by memory of the past, her courage and resolution, her grief, and the loneliness that must haunt her solitary hours. There was no happiness in her, only cold strength. There was something admirable about her, something frightening, and not a little that evoked a sense of pity.

“What tragedy is it this time, Mr. Pitt?” she enquired, coming towards him with a remarkably graceful step for a woman of her age. There was nothing whatever fragile in her, nothing that spoke of vulnerability. “And what makes you imagine that we can assist you in your confusion?”

“The same tragedy, Lady Augusta,” he answered gravely, standing in the middle of the wide hall. “And I am not at all sure that General Balantyne can help, but I have to ask.”

“Do you?” she said with faint sarcasm. “I find that difficult to understand, but I suppose you have to justify yourself somehow.”

Pitt did not argue. He probably was wasting not only his own time but Balantyne’s. Nevertheless, he would still ask him about Kew.

“The orphanage?” Balantyne said with surprise. He stood with his back to the oak fireplace in the morning room, staring at Pitt. “Yes, I did speak to Cadell about it. Twice, I think … possibly three times.” He was frowning slightly. “I don’t understand why you are concerned now. If they are incompetent, or short of funds, it is hardly a police matter.”

“Incompetence? Is that what you were concerned about when you contacted Cadell two or three times?” Pitt asked with surprise. “Why Cadell? Did you speak to the committee in general?”

“Yes, of course I did. No one else seemed to consider the matter of any substance.”

“You thought the funds were insufficient,” Pitt said again. “You did not suspect that anyone was misusing them or diverting them to private profit?”

“No,” Balantyne said. “I don’t know what I thought was happening, just that sufficient care was not being taken.”

“So you spoke to Cadell? Why him?”

“I believed he would listen and take the matter up with the man in charge … Horsfall.”

“I went there myself,” Pitt confessed. “I looked through the financial books. They were faultless.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Balantyne said a little sharply. “I was not suspecting dishonesty … only a reluctance to demand more money, sufficient to care properly for the children there. I was concerned that they might be cold … or hungry.”

“I saw the children,” Pitt replied. “They were clean and well clothed and looked in excellent health.”

Balantyne was puzzled. “Then it would seem I was mistaken.” But there was disbelief in his voice. He was reluctant to let go of the conviction he had held.

“What made you think there was something wrong?” Pitt was puzzled also, because he respected Balantyne and could not dismiss his ideas lightly, even if they appeared to have no foundation.

Balantyne frowned. “I go to Kew every so often. I am familiar with the size of it, and how many children it could accommodate. I do not understand how they can manage adequately on the funds they have. It seems to me … far too little ….” He lifted one shoulder very slightly. “I don’t know why they didn’t press for more.”

“Were you alone in this?” Pitt thought of the other members of the committee in the Jessop Club. Surely no stretch of the imagination could connect the orphanage with blackmail or death?

“I don’t believe so” Balantyne answered a trifle ruefully. “I raised the subject when we all met. Cornwallis seemed to think I was mistaken. But then he is used to naval catering, which is hardly the same.” His lips tightened. “Nor is it ideal … especially for children. I thought Cadell at least considered the possibility of examining the situation.”

“I see,” Pitt replied with a sudden and profound sense of disappointment. What had he hoped for? It was never going to be a motive for blackmail, far less murder. “Thank you for giving me your time, General. I really should let this subject go.”

“The orphanage at Kew?” Balantyne asked.

“No … no, I meant the possibility of it being connected with Cadell’s blackmail attempts or his death. Even if you are right, it is hardly a motive.”

Balantyne’s surprise showed in his face. “Had you thought it was?”

“I don’t know. It seemed to be the one thing you all had in common, but I realize now it was membership of the committee, not its purpose, that counted.”

“What happened to the real Albert Cole?” Balantyne asked.

“I don’t know. But we shall go on looking for him.” Pitt held out his hand. “Thank you. I hope I shall not need to disturb you again.”

Balantyne clasped Pitt’s hand warmly, but he said nothing further.

Pitt walked home in the warm twilight, still filled with unease, trivial questions unanswered, pricking his mind, leaving him no sense of completion.