by Anne Perry
“You are very generous,” he replied.
She looked at him candidly. “Rubbish! I am bored to tears with idle conversation, and you know it, Thomas. If I hear one more silly woman make some remark about Annabelle Watson-Smith’s betrothal, I shall cause my own scandal with my reply. I was going to call upon Mrs. Purves. And how she has an unbroken lamp mantle in her house I cannot imagine. Her laugh would shatter crystal. You know me well enough not to try humoring me.”
“I’m sorry,” he apologized.
“Good. And for heaven’s sake, sit down! I am getting a crick in my neck looking up at you.”
He sat obediently in the chair opposite her.
She regarded him steadily. “I assume you have come about this appalling business of Guy Stanley. Have you ascertained if he is another victim?” She shrugged very slightly, just the lifting of one shoulder. “Even if he is not, and this is simply a coincidental tragedy, the effect upon everyone else will be the same. I can imagine what Dunraithe White will feel. Thomas, this is really very serious.”
“I know it is.” It seemed strange to be speaking of such evil and deliberate pain in this beautiful room with its simplicity and its scent of flowers. “And you do not yet know the full extent of it. I went to see Sir Guy this morning, and it is uglier than I had supposed. He was indeed threatened in exactly the same manner as the others …”
“And he refused,” she finished for him, her face grim. “And this is the terrible revenge, and the warning to everyone else.”
“No … I wish it were.”
Her eyes widened. “I do not understand. Please be frank, Thomas. Whatever the truth is, I am not too fragile to hear it. I have lived a long time and seen more than I think you imagine.”
“I am not being evasive,” he said honestly. “I do wish the answer were as simple as Sir Guy’s having been asked for something and refusing it. He was not asked for anything at all, except a silver-plated flask, as a token, much as I assume Balantyne was asked for the snuffbox. Just something individual and marking the blackmailer’s power. Sir Guy gave him the flask, by messenger. This exposure comes without warning and for no reason other than to make a display of power. It chanced to be Sir Guy who was the victim; it could as easily have been anyone else.”
She looked at him steadily, absorbing what he had said.
“Unless Sir Guy has nothing the blackmailer wants,” he went on, thinking aloud. “And he was chosen in order to expose him and frighten the others.”
“So the poor man never had a chance.” She was pale, and she spoke sitting very upright, her back stiff and her chin high, her hands folded in her lap. She would never betray panic or despair-she had been schooled to greater self-mastery than that-but in the early-afternoon sun there was a rigidity in her that spoke of inner pain. “Nothing he could have said or done would have affected the outcome. I doubt the offense with which he is accused has much to do with him either.”
“He says not,” Pitt agreed. “And I believe him. But it is actually about something else that I have come to you. I know of no way in which you could help me regarding Sir Guy Stanley; in this other matter you may.”
Her silver eyebrows rose. “Other matter?”
“Mrs. Tannifer sent for me this morning. She is deeply concerned, having heard the news-”
“Tannifer?” she interrupted. “Who is she?”
“The wife of the banker, Sigmund Tannifer.” He had temporarily forgotten that she did not know about him.
“Another victim?”
“Yes. She is a woman of courage and individuality, and Tannifer himself did not keep the truth from her.”
The ghost of a smile touched Vespasia’s lips. “I assume Mr. Tannifer’s supposed offense was not of a marital nature?”
“No, financial.” The momentary humor flickered through him also. “The betrayal of trust regarding his clients’ funds. Ugly and certainly ruinous if it were even considered possible it were true, but not personal in the same way. Mrs. Tannifer is wholly behind him.”
“And she is alarmed, very naturally.”
“Yes.” He nodded. “But not simply that. She is determined to fight in every way open to her. She called me because she overheard a conversation on the telephone between her husband and Mr. Leo Cadell, who apparently holds a position of importance in the Foreign Office.” He stopped, seeing a new pain in Vespasia’s face, a very slight tightening of her fingers in her lap. “I came to ask you if you knew Mr. Cadell. I see that you do.”
“I have known him for years,” she answered, so quietly he had to strain to hear her. She saw him lean forward, and cleared her throat. “I have known his wife since she was born. Indeed, I am her godmother. I was at her wedding … twenty-five years ago. I have always liked Leo. Tell me what I can do.”
“I’m sorry. I hoped you might know them, but I wish it were not so well.” He meant it. The ugliness of this seemed to be touching so many places, the pain and the fear spreading, and he still had so little idea even where to look, never mind where to strike back. “Have you any idea as to a connection between Balantyne, Cornwallis, Dunraithe White, Tannifer and Cadell? Anything at all they have in common?”
“No,” she said without waiting to give the matter a thought. “I have already spent too many hours trying to imagine any sphere of influence or power they have in common, or the remotest family connection, and I should be surprised if they were even more than passingly acquainted with one another. I have wondered if there was anyone they could have injured, even unknowingly. But Cornwallis was in the navy; Balantyne, the army. Dunraithe has never been abroad so far as I know, and has always served the law. You say Tannifer is a banker; and Leo is in the Foreign Office. They are not of a generation, so even if they went to the same school, it could not have been at the same time. Brandon Balantyne must be at least fifteen years older than Leo Cadell.” She looked confused and at a loss.
“I have tried everything else,” he conceded. “I have tried financial and business interests, investments, even gambling or sporting pursuits. There doesn’t seem to be anything that ties them all together. If there is, it must be far in the past. I’ve asked Cornwallis. He is the one man I can press for any detail he can recall. He swears he never even heard of any of them, except Balantyne, until a couple of years ago.”
“Then I had better go and call upon Theodosia.” Vespasia rose, accepting Pitt’s hand reluctantly as he stood more rapidly than she and offered it. “I am not yet decrepit, Thomas,” she said a trifle stiffly. “I simply do not shoot to my feet as you do.”
He knew she was not angry with him but with her own limitations, most especially now, when she felt helpless to protect her friends and was growing daily more bitterly aware of how serious was the threat to them.
“Thank you for listening to me,” he said, walking beside her. “Please do not give any undertaking to keep confidences unless you have no other possible way of learning the truth. I need to know all you hear.”
She turned to look at him, her hooded eyes dark silver-gray. “I am as aware as you are of the depth of danger in this case, Thomas, and not only of how deeply it could scar the individual men and women involved but also of the corruption to our society altogether if even one of these men succumbs to whatever it is that is asked of them. Even if it is trivial, and not illegal, the very fact that they can be persuaded to do it at another’s command is the first symptom of a disease which kills. I know these men, my dear. I have known men like them all my life. I understand what they are suffering and what they fear. I understand their sense of shame because they do not know how to fight back. I know what the esteem of their fellows means to them.”
He nodded. No more words were necessary.
Vespasia alighted from her carriage on the pavement outside the house of Leo and Theodosia Cadell. It was a trifle early to call, except for the most formal of visits, which was the last thing she intended, but she had no inclination to wait. Theodosia could leave a messa
ge with the footman that she was not at home should anyone else come. She could select any reason she chose. An elderly relative was unwell. That was hardly true-Vespasia was in excellent health-but it would satisfy. She was certainly distressed.
She told her driver to take the carriage around to the mews, out of sight. She would send for him when she was ready to leave. She permitted him to pull the doorbell for her before moving to obey.
She was admitted by the parlormaid and was shown to the large, old withdrawing room with its burgundy curtains and Chinese vases she had always disliked. They were a wedding gift from an aunt whose feelings they had never wished to offend. Theodosia joined her within moments.
“Good afternoon, my dear.” Vespasia surveyed the younger woman carefully. There were thirty-five years between them, but just at the moment that was less than usually apparent. Theodosia also had been remarkably beautiful, perhaps not in the unique way Vespasia had, but sufficient to turn a great many heads-and not a few hearts. Her blue-black hair was touched with silver now, not only at the temples but across the front of the brow. Her dark eyes were magnificent, her high cheekbones just as clear, but there were shadows in her skin and a lack of color that spoke of poor sleep. There was a tightness in her movements and a loss of her usual grace.
“Aunt Vespasia!” No weariness or fear could mar the real pleasure in her greeting. “What a delightful surprise! If I had known you were coming I should have instructed the staff that I am not at home to anyone else. How are you? You look wonderful.”
“I am very well, thank you,” Vespasia answered. “A good dressmaker can achieve a great deal. However, even the best cannot work miracles. A corset can hold together your body and provide the best posture on earth, but there is nothing that can do the same for the face.”
“There is nothing wrong with your face.” Theodosia looked surprised and half amused.
“I hope not, except a certain passage of time,” Vespasia agreed wryly. “But I cannot be so kind to you, my dear, and do so with the remotest honesty. You look worried sick.”
What little color there was blanched from Theodosia’s cheeks. She sat down suddenly in the chair opposite Vespasia, who naturally had not risen.
“Oh, dear. Is it so apparent? I thought I had disguised it rather better than that.”
Vespasia relented. “From most people, I daresay. But I have known you since you were born. Also,” she added, “I have fashioned a few repairs to the appearance myself, well enough to know how they are done.”
“I am afraid I have not been sleeping very well,” Theodosia said, looking at Vespasia, then away again. “Silly, but perhaps I am coming to the time of life when late nights are not as easy to accommodate as they used to be. I hate to admit that.”
“My dear,” Vespasia said very gently, “late nights are usually followed by late mornings, and you are in an excellent position to sleep until noon, if you so wish. If you do not sleep well, it is because you are ill, or something is worrying you too profoundly to allow you to forget it, even in your bed. I rather think it is the latter.”
It was clear in Theodosia’s face that she meant to deny it; it was so plain she might almost have spoken. Then she met Vespasia’s unwavering gaze. Her resistance crumpled, but nevertheless she did not explain.
“May I tell you something about a friend of mine?” Vespasia enquired.
“Of course.” Theodosia relaxed a little. The immediate pressure had been removed from her. She sat back in the chair, preparing to listen, her skirts in an elegant swirl around her, her eyes on Vespasia’s face.
“I shall not tell you a great deal about his history or circumstances,” Vespasia began. “Because for reasons which will become apparent, I prefer to keep you from guessing his name. He might not mind in the slightest your knowing his predicament, but that is not my decision to make.”
Theodosia nodded. “I understand. Tell me only what you wish.”
“He is a military man of distinguished service,” Vespasia began, never taking her eyes from Theodosia’s face. “He has now retired, but his career was long and honorable. He had great courage and qualities of leadership. He was held in high esteem, both by friends and by those who liked him less, for whatever reason.”
Theodosia was attending closely, but with no more than polite interest. It was a great deal easier than being questioned as to her own anxieties. The hands in her lap were loosely folded, the pearl-and-emerald ring catching the light.
“He has had his share of personal grief,” Vespasia continued. “As most of us do. However, lately something quite new has happened, without the slightest warning.”
“I’m sorry,” Theodosia sympathized. It was clear in her wide eyes that she expected some domestic discord, or possibly financial reverse, the sort of misfortune which can afflict most people.
Vespasia’s voice did not alter. “He received a letter, anonymous of course, cut from words in the Times newspaper ….” She saw Theodosia stiffen and her hands lock, but she affected not to have noticed. “It was very plainly and articulately phrased, accusing him of cowardice in the face of the enemy, a great many years previously, during one of our lesser foreign campaigns.”
Theodosia swallowed, her breath rapid, as if she were struggling to gain sufficient air and this warm and pleasant room were actually suffocating her. She started to say something and then changed her mind.
Vespasia hated going on, but if she stopped now she would have served no purpose and helped no one.
“The threat to disclose the details of this incident, entirely false, was quite plain,” she said. “As was the ruin it would bring, not only to my friend but of course to his family. He is quite innocent of the charge, but it is all so long ago, and happened in a foreign land with which we now have little connection, so it will be well-nigh impossible to verify it. It is always harder to prove that something did not happen than that it did.”
Theodosia was very white, her body so stiff beneath her smoky-blue dress that the fabric seemed strained.
“The curious thing,” Vespasia went on in the silence, “is that the writer of the letter did not ask for anything, no money, no favor, nothing at all. He has now written at least twice that I am aware of.”
“That is … terrible,” Theodosia whispered. “What is your friend going to do?”
“There is very little he can do.” Vespasia watched her closely. “I am not sure if he is aware that he is not the only person so victimized.”
Theodosia was startled. “What? I mean … you think there are others?”
“There are four others that I know of. I think there may be five. Don’t you, my dear?”
Theodosia licked her lips. She hesitated for several long, silent minutes. The clock in the hall struck the quarter hour. In the garden, outside the long windows, a bird sang. Somewhere, beyond the wall, children were calling out in a game.
“I promised Leo I would tell no one,” Theodosia said at last, but the anguish in her face made it desperately clear how she longed to share the burden.
Vespasia waited.
Outside the bird was still singing, the same liquid call over and over-a blackbird, high in a tree in the sun.
“I suppose you already know,” Theodosia said at last. “I don’t know why I hesitate, except that the nature of the accusation is … oh, it’s all so stupid, and yet so real … so … almost … not true … but …” She signed. “What am I making excuses for? It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t alter anything.” She looked steadily at Vespasia. “Leo has received two of these letters as well, making the charges but not yet asking for anything, just pointing out how if it became public it would ruin him … ruin us both … and Sir Richard Aston as well.”
Vespasia was puzzled. She could imagine no charge that could possibly include Leo and Theodosia and Aston. Aston was Leo’s superior in the Foreign Office, a man of highly distinguished career and very great influence. His wife was connected to several of the great aristocratic fam
ilies in the land. He was a charming man, possessed of both wit and intelligence.
Theodosia laughed, but it was a hollow sound, amusement without pleasure.
“I see you had not even thought of it,” she observed. “It was Sir Richard who was responsible for Leo’s promotion.”
“It was entirely merited,” Vespasia replied. “He has amply proved that. But even had it not been, it is a mistake to promote someone beyond their ability, but it is not an offense, and certainly not Leo’s offense, or yours.”
“Your trust in me is making you naive,” Theodosia said with an edge of bitterness. “The suggestion was that Leo paid for his promotion.”
“That’s balderdash,” Vespasia dismissed it, but without conviction or relief. It was so foolish it could be only part of the story. “Aston has all the money he could need, and Leo hasn’t sufficient to pay an amount that would make any difference. And you mentioned that you were involved, or at least you implied you had some part in it greater than simply that his ruin would accomplish yours as well.” Then even as she spoke a glimmering of another idea came to her; it was repellently ugly, because she cared for Theodosia, but not unbelievable of someone for whom she had no regard. Others would believe it.
“I can see it in your face,” Theodosia said gently. “You understand at last. You are right; the letter said that Sir Richard had admired me far more than as a friend, and Leo had sold me to him, as a lover, in return for his promotion, and Sir Richard had accepted.” She winced as she gave it words, and her hands were twisting in her lap. “The only part of it that bears any relation to fact is that I was aware that Sir Richard did … desire me. But he never made any improper suggestion, let alone advance. I was simply … a trifle uncomfortable because of his position regarding my husband.” Her jaw set. “Why should I have to apologize for that? I was beautiful. I could name a score of other women, two score, who were the same.”