Bedford Square tp-19

by Anne Perry

  “I see,” Pitt said slowly, hating himself for the thoughts he could not dismiss. Vespasia was watching him also, less easy to see clearly in the half darkness as no one had wished to light the gaslamps. The last of the day was slipping away rapidly. The rustle of the poplar leaves sounded through the open windows like breaking waves on a shore, far away.

  Theloneus said it for him. “Of course, it is a possibility Cornwallis may be pressed to abandon the case, to order Springer to withdraw from it, discontinue investigation, somehow contaminate the evidence. And Dunraithe White may similarly be pressed to render an eccentric or perverse decision.”

  “Would that not cause a mistrial?” Pitt asked.

  “Only if there was a verdict of guilty,” Theloneus replied. “The Crown does not have the right to appeal against an acquittal. If it did, cases might never end.”

  “Of course.” Pitt had not been thinking clearly. The idea of Cornwallis in such a situation-that, in fact, he might already be compromised-was even more painful than he had expected. He had said nothing, but he was a uniquely lonely man, used to the isolation of command at sea, where he could never confide in anyone or his power to lead would be damaged beyond repair. The captain was as alone on the quarter deck as if he were the only man on the face of the ocean. The slightest weakness, indecision, possibility of ignorance or error, and his position was forfeit. Everything in the structure of rank, obligation and privilege conspired to make it so. It was the only way someone could survive in an element which obeyed only its own rules and knew neither thought nor mercy.

  Cornwallis could not change in a few short years, perhaps not ever. When he faced danger he would revert to the skills he knew, the ones that had carried him through countless perils before. It was an instinct he probably could not have helped, even had he wanted to.

  “Is Tannifer involved?” Pitt asked, thinking of Parthenope and her fierce loyalty.

  “It is embezzlement. It is possible,” Theloneus answered.

  “Cadell?” Pitt went on.

  “African funds. The Foreign Office may be concerned.”

  “Balantyne?”

  “I can’t see how, but there is much yet to be uncovered.”

  “I see.” Pitt stood up slowly. “Thank you very much for your time … and your thoughts.”

  Vespasia leaned forward to rise, and Theloneus offered her his arm. She took it, but lightly; as a gesture, not an assistance.

  “I am afraid we have not helped, have we?” she said to Pitt. “I am sorry, Thomas. The roads of friendship are sometimes strewn with many pitfalls, and some of them can hurt a great deal. I wish I could say Cornwallis will not fail, but it would be a lie, and you would know it. Nor can I say that, even with the utmost courage and honor, he will not be hurt. But we shall not cease to fight with the very few and inadequate weapons we have to hand.”

  “I know that.” He smiled at her. “We are not beaten yet.”

  She gave a very slight smile back, but was too tense to argue.

  They parted from Theloneus, leaving him standing in the lighted doorway, and drove home in her carriage through the lamplit streets, neither feeling it necessary to speak any further.

  The following morning Pitt went to see Cornwallis. He was torn between the personal loyalties of friendship and the necessities of his duty to pursue knowledge to its end. Whether Cornwallis understood that or not, he could not deliberately fail in it and remain of use to either of them.

  Cornwallis was pacing the floor again. He swung around and stopped as Pitt came in, almost as if he had been caught in some nefarious act. He looked as if he had not eaten properly or slept well in days. His eyes were sunken into his head, and for the first time since Pitt had known him, his jacket did not sit smoothly on his shoulders.

  “I have had another letter,” he said baldly. “This morning.” He waited for Pitt to ask what was in it.

  Pitt felt his stomach lurch and his body go cold. This was the demand at last. He could see it in Cornwallis’s eyes.

  “What does he want?” He tried not to betray his knowledge.

  Cornwallis’s voice was rough, as if his throat were sore, and he spoke with difficulty.

  “That I should drop a case,” he replied. “If I don’t, then the H.M.S. Venture matter will be exposed in every newspaper in London. I could deny it all I wished, but there would always be those who believed, those who doubted my version of events. I … I should be blackballed from my clubs, perhaps even lose my naval rank and standing. Look what happened to Gordon-Cumming, and for far less!” His face was ashen, and he controlled his hands from trembling only by supreme effort of will.

  “Which case?” Pitt asked, waiting for him to say the embezzlement that Springer commanded.

  “This case!” Cornwallis frowned. “The blackmail investigation. The truth about Slingsby and the Bedford Square murder … who put the body on Balantyne’s steps. What in God’s name does the man want from us?” His voice was rising in spite of himself, a note of panic creeping in.

  The room seemed to swim with the sunlight blazing in through the open window, the noise of traffic in the street below rose like thunder.

  “But you won’t …” Pitt said, forcing the words through stiff lips.

  A faint patch of color blushed up Cornwallis’s haggard cheeks. Something in his mouth softened.

  “No! Of course not,” he said with intense, choking emotion. It seemed to take him by surprise, as if he had not thought he could feel so passionately about anything. “No, Pitt, of course I won’t.” He seemed about to add something more, a word of thanks for having assumed so much, but at the last moment the words were too open, too intimate an acknowledgment of friendship, of vulnerability. It was all better understood, where it could be glossed over later. Men did not say such things to each other.

  “Naturally.” Pitt shoved his hands down inside his pockets. “At least it gives us something further to look into, a better place to begin.” He must say something trivial and matter-of-fact. It did not really matter what. “I think I’ll go and see Cadell again.”

  “Yes,” Cornwallis agreed. “Yes, of course. Let me know what you learn.”

  Pitt went to the door. “I might see Balantyne too,” he added as he went out. “I’ll tell you if there’s anything.”

  9

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  She realized he was speaking about the roses.

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

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

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

  He offered it unhesitatingly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “That seems likely,” he answered.

  “Any other offices?” she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “You know him well?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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