by Anne Perry
“Of course I know!” he said. “But they shouldn’t be. Rich men don’t make any better soldiers than poor men. In fact, worse!”
She squinted at him. “Wot yer talkin’ about?”
“General Balantyne is only a general because his father bought his commission for him,” he explained patiently. Perhaps he was expecting her to grasp too much. “He probably never did any real fighting, only ordering others around.”
Gracie jiggled in her seat as if she were making such a mighty effort at self-control that she could not keep still.
“If ’e’s got enough money ter do that, then we gotta be very careful,” she said crossly, and without looking at him. Then she raised her head, her eyes blazing. “Are yer sure yer can buy bein’ a general? An’ if anybody were that rich, why’d ’e buy bein’ a soldier? That’s daft.”
“You wouldn’t understand,” he said loftily. “People like that are different from us.”
“They’re not any different if they get shot,” she said instantly. “Blood’s blood, ’ooever’s it is.”
“I know that, and you know that,” he agreed. “But they think theirs is different, and better.”
She sighed very patiently, as she did with Daniel when he was obstructive and deliberately disobedient just to see how far he could push her.
“I daresay yer know more about it than I do, Mr. Tellman. I spec’ Mr. Pitt’s very lucky ter ’ave someone like you ter ’elp keep ’im straight an’ out o’ mistakes.”
“I do my best,” he agreed, accepting a third piece of cake and allowing her to refill his cup yet again. “Thank you, Gracie.”
She grunted.
But when he left half an hour later, without having seen either Pitt or Charlotte, he was overtaken by acute anxiety as to exactly what he had promised. It had been a long and very busy day. It was hot. His feet ached. He had walked miles and not had more to eat than a cheese-and-pickle sandwich and Gracie’s cake. She had made him welcome, and without realizing it, he had given his word that he would tell her what he uncovered in the Albert Cole case before he told Pitt. He must be losing his wits! He had never done anything so totally foolish in his life before. It was contrary to everything he had been taught.
Not that that was normally a reason. He was not a man to follow anyone’s commands against his own judgment.
He was too tired to think clearly, he just had a terrible feeling of being out of his depth, of following impulse more than his own nature and habit, all the path he was used to.
But he had given his word … and to Gracie Phipps, of all people.
4
Pitt had heard Tellman’s news from Gracie when he finally came home, and he was deeply saddened that the evidence seemed to be connecting Albert Cole more closely with Balantyne. He must instruct Tellman to learn all he could about Cole, most particularly if he had any pattern of burglary or attempts at extortion. Not that he could imagine anything in Balantyne’s life that would offer an opportunity for such a thing. The poor man’s tragedies had been forced into public knowledge years ago, every shred of misery ripped open.
He was reminded of the circumstances again as he passed a newspaper boy and heard him calling the headlines.
“Dead body on general’s doorstep! Police baffled by murder of old soldier in Bedford Square! Read all about it an’ see if you can do any better! So, wanna paper, sir? Ta. There y’are!”
Pitt took it from him and opened it up. He read it with mounting anger and dismay. Nothing was said directly enough to be actionable, but all the implications were plain: Balantyne was a general and the dead man must have served with him at some time. There was some bond between them, of love or hate, knowledge, revenge or conspiracy. Even treason was hinted at-so subtly that some might have missed it, but not all. Any of it could conceivably have been true.
And any of it would ruin Balantyne.
He closed the newspaper and, ramming it under his arm, he strode along the pavement to the steps of the Bow Street Station.
As soon as he was inside a constable came in to tell him that there was a message to say Assistant Commissioner Cornwallis wished to see him immediately. There was no reason given.
Pitt stood up again without even glancing at anything on his desk. The first fear that took him was that Cornwallis had received another letter, this time stating the terms for which the blackmailer would keep silent. All sorts of things entered his mind, from simple money through information on criminal cases, even to actual corruption of evidence.
He did not bother to leave any message for Tellman. The sergeant could proceed perfectly well alone. He did not need Pitt, or anyone else, to instruct him in the pursuit of the recent life and habits of Albert Cole.
Back in the street, Pitt walked around to Drury Lane and almost immediately found a hansom. He was aware of nothing as the cab turned and went south: not the other traffic; the fine, blustery morning; two brewers’ draymen shouting at each other; or the traffic stopping for a magnificent hearse with four perfectly matched black horses, their black plumes waving. Nor did he notice, three blocks farther on, an open brougham with six pretty girls giggling and showing off, waving parasols to the imminent peril of all other horse-drawn vehicles within striking distance of them.
He was admitted to Cornwallis’s office immediately and found him standing, as so often, by the window overlooking the street. Cornwallis turned as Pitt came in. He looked pale, and there were dark shadows around his eyes and a thin tenseness in his lips.
“Good morning,” he said quickly as Pitt closed the door. “Come in.” He waved in a very general way towards the chairs in front of the desk, but remained standing, balanced as if he would begin to pace back and forth the moment he had Pitt’s total attention. “Do you know of Sigmund Tannifer?”
“No.”
Cornwallis was staring at him. His body was rigid, his hands behind his back. “He’s a banker, very prominent in the City, very powerful man in financial circles.”
Pitt waited.
As if driven by compulsion, Cornwallis began to pace: five strides one way, turn smartly, five strides the other. The office could have been the quarterdeck sailing before the wind into battle.
“He called me last night,” he began, speaking jerkily. “He sounded … distressed.” He reached the end and turned again, glancing at Pitt. “Wouldn’t say what it was, but asked me about the Bedford Square business. Asked me who was in charge of the case.” He swiveled around and came back. “When I told him you were, he asked if he could see you … privately … as soon as possible-in fact, this morning.” He started back again, hands still locked behind him. “I asked him if he had any information regarding it. Thought he might have been burgled or know someone who had … someone in Bedford Square.” He stopped, his eyes puzzled, his face almost bruised looking. “He said he didn’t know anything about it. It was another matter, private and very grave.” He reached over to the desk and passed Pitt a slip of paper. “This is his address. He is at home, waiting for you.”
Pitt took the paper and glanced at it. Tannifer lived in Chelsea.
“Yes sir. I’ll go now.”
“Good. Thank you.” Cornwallis stood still at last. “Let me know what it is. I’ll be back by the time you are … I daresay.”
“Back?” Pitt asked.
“Ah … yes.” Cornwallis let out his breath slowly. “Have to go to my club … the Jessop Club. Don’t really want to, can’t spare the time.” He smiled fleetingly, an effort to hide his reluctance. He was dreading it, as if already his friends and colleagues would somehow know what was in the letter and believe it, or at best wonder. “Have to,” he went on explaining. “On a committee for charity. Too important not to go. For children.” He looked vaguely embarrassed as he said it, and turned quickly to pick up his hat and follow Pitt out of the door.
Pitt took a hansom and rode, again deep in thought, to Queen Street, just off the Chelsea Embankment. It was a beautiful neighborhood, near the Bo
tanical Gardens, just past the facade of the Chelsea Hospital and the wide space of Burton’s Court. The end of the street opened directly onto the river, which was blue and gray, sparkling in the sun.
He knocked on the door of the number he had been given, and when the footman answered he presented his card. He was shown across the stone-flagged hall with scattered Persian rugs. The walls were hung with an array of historical weapons, from a crusader’s two-handed sword through a Napoleonic saber to two pairs of dueling pistols and two rapiers. Within moments he was taken into an oak-paneled study, where he was left for no more than five minutes before the door opened and a tall man with receding dark hair came in. He was of striking appearance, although there was too much power in his features for handsomeness, too much flesh.
Pitt guessed him to be in his middle fifties, and extremely prosperous. His clothes were perfectly cut and of fabric which draped as if there could be silk in it. There was a sheen to his cravat as if it, too, were silk.
“Thank you for coming, Superintendent. I am much obliged. Please be comfortable.” He indicated the well-worn dark chairs, and as soon as Pitt was seated, he sank into the opposite one, but did not relax. He remained upright, his hands joined together. He was not openly nervous, but he was apparently deeply worried over something.
Several questions came to Pitt’s mind, but he did not speak them aloud. He would leave Tannifer to say what he wished without prompting.
“I understand that you are investigating this miserable business in Bedford Square?” Tannifer began tentatively.
“Yes,” Pitt agreed. “My sergeant is presently looking into the life of the dead man to see if we can learn what he was doing there. His usual area was Holborn. He sold bootlaces on the corner of Lincoln’s Inn Fields,”
“Yes.” Tannifer nodded. “I read in the newspapers that he was an old soldier. Is that true?”
“It is. Do you know something about him, Mr. Tannifer?”
Tannifer smiled. “No … I’m afraid I know nothing at all.” The smile vanished. “It was only the suggestion in the press regarding poor Balantyne’s possible involvement which made me wish to see you. You are obviously a man of sensitivity and discretion, in whom Cornwallis has the greatest trust, or he would not have assigned you to such a matter.” He was regarding Pitt narrowly, weighing him in his own judgment.
Pitt did not feel any response was required. A denial dictated by modesty would be inappropriate now. Obviously, Tannifer had looked into the subject.
Tannifer pursed his lips.
“Mr. Pitt, I have received a most disturbing letter. One might call it blackmail, except that nothing is asked for, as yet.”
Pitt felt almost winded with shock. It was the last thing he had expected. This affluent banker in front of him had none of the haunted look that Cornwallis had, but perhaps that was because he had not yet realized the full import of what the letter meant. The strain, the fear, the sleepless nights would come.
“When did you receive it, Mr. Tannifer?” he asked.
“Last post yesterday evening,” Tannifer replied quietly. “I informed Cornwallis straightaway. I know him slightly, and I felt I could take the liberty of going to him directly, even to troubling him at his home.” He took a very deep breath and let it out, consciously easing his shoulders. “You see, Mr. Pitt, I am in a very delicate position. My entire ability to follow my career, to be of service to anyone, depends upon trust.” He watched Pitt’s face to see if he understood. A look of doubt flashed across his eyes. Perhaps he was expecting too much.
“May I see the letter?” Pitt asked.
Tannifer bit his lip, moving uncomfortably in his chair, but he did not argue.
“Of course. It is there, on the corner of the desk.” He indicated it with his hand as if he were reluctant even to touch the thing again himself.
Pitt rose and picked the envelope off the polished surface where it was lying. The name and address were cut out of letters from newspapers, but with such painstaking precision, and glued so carefully, that at a glance it seemed to be printed as if by amachine.
The postmark was “Central London,” the previous evening.
He opened it up and read the single sheet he found inside.
Mr. Tannifer,
You have grown rich and respected by exercising your financial skills, all with the money of others. It is based upon their trust in you, in your unquestioned honesty. Would they feel the same if they were to know that once you were far less scrupulous, and prospered your own fortune using funds embezzled from your clients?
Warburton and Pryce, I believe. I do not know the sum, perhaps you no longer even know it yourself. Perhaps you never did. Why count what you will never repay? Have you a sense of the absurd?
You must have, or you would not allow other men to trust you with their money. I would not!
Perhaps one day no one will.
And that was all. The meaning was perfectly plain, as it had been in Cornwallis’s letter. And like his, nothing was asked for, no precise, explicit threat was made; but the ugliness, the malice and the danger were extremely clear.
Pitt looked across at Tannifer, who was watching him almost unblinkingly.
“You see!” Tannifer’s voice was harsh, rising a little as if the veneer were thin. “He doesn’t ask for anything, but the threat is there.” He leaned forward across the desk, pulling his jacket out of shape. “It is completely untrue! I have never stolen a halfpenny in my life. I daresay with sufficient time and a careful enough audit of the bank’s books I could prove it.”
He stared at Pitt, searching his eyes, his face, as if desperate to see some hope or understanding.
“But the very fact that I would, or thought I had to, would make people wonder why,” he went on. “The suggestion is enough to ruin me … and the bank too, if they did not dismiss me. The only course possible would be to resign.” He waved his hands wide, jerkily. “And then there would be those who would take that as an admission of some kind of guilt. For God’s sake … what can I do?”
Pitt longed to be able to give him some answer that would offer the hope he longed for, but there was no such thing that would be remotely honest.
Should he tell him there had been others?
“Is anyone else aware of this?” he asked, indicating the letter.
“Only my wife,” Tannifer replied. “She saw my distress, and I had either to tell her the truth or invent some lie. I have always trusted her absolutely. I showed it to her.”
Pitt thought that a mistake. He feared her reaction might be to become so afraid that she would unintentionally betray her distress, or even feel the need to confide in someone further, perhaps her mother or a sister.
Tannifer must have read his feelings in his expression. He smiled.
“You have no need to fear, Mr. Pitt. My wife is a woman of remarkable loyalty and courage. I would rather trust her than anyone else I know.”
It was an unusual statement to make, and yet when he thought about it, Pitt would have said the same thing of Charlotte, and he blushed now with some guilt that he should have assumed less of Mrs. Tannifer without the slightest evidence.
“I apologize,” he said contritely. “I was only-”
“Of course,” Tannifer dismissed it, speaking across him, and for the first time allowing himself to smile. “In most circumstances you would be quite right. There is no need to feel the least discomfort.” He reached for the embroidered bell cord and pulled it.
Within moments a footman appeared.
“Ask Mrs. Tannifer to join us, will you,” Tannifer instructed, then as the man went out, he regarded Pitt seriously again. “What can you do to help us, Superintendant? How should I behave regarding this … threat?”
“To begin with, tell no one else,” Pitt replied, watching him gravely. “Do not even allow them to suspect. If anyone observes your anxiety or distress, think in advance of some other believable cause, and attribute it to that. Better not to s
ay there is nothing wrong, when they may find that difficult to believe. Give no cause for speculation.”
“Of course. Of course.” Tannifer nodded.
There was a light rap on the door, and a moment later it opened and a woman came in who at first glance appeared quite ordinary. She was of average height, a trifle thin, her shoulders angular, her hips in her very lightly bustled gown too lean to be fashionable, or even very feminine. Her fair hair was naturally wavy and of a soft honey shade. Her features were not beautiful. Her nose lacked elegance, her eyes were wide, blue, and very direct. Her mouth was sensitive and curiously vulnerable. It was her bearing which made her remarkable. There was an extraordinary grace within her which would have marked her out from any crowd, and the longer one looked at her, the more attractive did she seem.
Both men rose to their feet.
“Parthenope, this is Superintendent Pitt, from Bow Street,” Tannifer introduced them. “He has come about this wretched letter.”
“I’m so glad,” she said quickly. Her voice was warm and a little husky. She looked at Pitt earnestly. “It is pure evil! Whoever wrote it does not even imagine it is true; he is simply using the threat of lies to hurt and to-to extort … I don’t know what. He doesn’t even say what he wants! How can we fight him?” She moved to stand closer beside her husband, and almost unconsciously she slid her arm into his. It was a casual gesture and yet intensely protective.
“First, behave as naturally as possible,” Pitt repeated, this time to Parthenope Tannifer. “But if anyone realizes you are anxious, give them some other cause to explain it, don’t fob them off with a denial they will not believe.”
“My wife’s brother is in India; Manipur, to be exact. The news from there is sufficient to worry anyone.…” He saw Pitt nod, and continued. “As you know, there was a palace coup in September last year. Our people decided that it constituted a rebellion, and in March of this year our man in Assam took four hundred Gurkhas and marched to Imphal, the capital of Manipur, to talk. They were promptly seized and killed.”