by Anne Perry
“Leo Cadell is a victim also,” she said, and knew the remark was pointless even as she made it. The blackmailer could easily pose as a victim. It would serve his purpose in many ways.
Pitt did not argue with her. He knew it was unnecessary.
“I realize that does not exclude him,” she said very deliberately. “But I have known Leo for a great many years. I have watched his pattern of behavior. And don’t tell me people can change with pressure or temptation. I know that, Thomas.” She was talking too quickly, too vehemently, and she could hear it in her voice, and yet it seemed to be beyond her control. Her thoughts were far ahead, and already inescapable. “He has his weaknesses, of course. He is an ambitious man and a good judge of other men’s characters, but he is fiercely patriotic, in a conventional way.” She felt a thin shudder of horror. “He is not a greedy man, nor an adventurous one.”
Pitt was listening to her, his face grave. The sunlight through the French windows lengthened across the carpet, apricot gold. The black-and-white dog had gone back to sleep as it lay in the warmth.
“I do not believe Leo has the cruelty, or the ingenuity, to have conceived a scheme like this,” she said with conviction. “But that he should use Theodosia’s beauty to win advancement is not impossible. He would deny doing it, even to himself.” She hated what she was saying; it was repugnant in every way. It felt like a betrayal to admit such a thing, even to Pitt, but it was true. It had crossed even her mind to wonder if the accusation could hold some truth. That in itself was the most powerful illustration of the blackmailer’s brilliance. Even she had entertained the idea … how much more easily would others believe it? She was ashamed of herself for her disloyalty, not only to Leo, but even more to Theodosia. And yet the thought had come, and the doubt.
Pitt was still talking.
“I called on him,” he said gravely, watching her face. “He seems to consider he may be asked for money. Mrs. Tannifer overheard a conversation about raising a large, unspecified amount.”
“But the blackmailer has not asked for money,” she responded. “That makes no sense.” But even as she said it the thought darkened in her mind. She refused to accept it. It was disloyal … untrue. She was doing exactly what the blackmailer wanted … she had yielded her independence, her belief. “It’s rubbish!” she said too loudly.
He did not argue. They discussed it a little longer and then he took his leave. But even when he had gone, she could not rid her mind of the thought and the unhappiness which oppressed her, and she spent a long and surprisingly lonely evening.
While Pitt was talking to Vespasia, Charlotte was sitting in her kitchen pouring tea for Tellman, who had called expecting to find Pitt at home. To judge from the expression on his face, he was both disconcerted and pleased to find that Pitt was unexpectedly late and the only people home to hear his report were Charlotte and Gracie.
He sipped the tea appreciatively and rested his feet. He would probably have liked to take his boots off, as Pitt himself would have done, but that was far too much of a liberty.
“Well?” Gracie said, watching him from where she stood at the sink. “Yer must ’ave come fer summink, ’ceptin’ ter sit down.”
“I came to see Mr. Pitt,” he replied, avoiding meeting her eyes.
Gracie kept her patience with difficulty. Charlotte could see the temper in her face and watched her thin chest rise and fall as she took a deep breath.
Archie, the marmalade-and-white cat, stalked across the floor, found just the right place in front of the stove and sat down.
“That means yer don’t trust us ter pass it on ter ’im?” Gracie said quietly.
Tellman seemed almost to have forgotten Charlotte. The idea that Gracie thought he did not trust her was obviously acutely uncomfortable to him. His struggle within himself was palpable.
Gracie did not help him at all. She waited, her arms folded, regarding him, her small face full of impatience.
“It’s nothing to do with trust,” he said at last. “It’s police business, that’s all.”
Gracie thought about that for a moment or two.
“I s’pose you’re ’ungry too?” she said.
That took him by surprise. He looked up quickly. He had been expecting an argument or a flash of temper.
“Well, are yer?” she demanded. “Cat got yer tongue?” Her tone became sarcastic. “That in’t a p’lice secret, is it?”
“Of course I’m hungry!” he said, coloring dull pink. “I’ve been walking around the streets all day.”
“Follerin’ poor General Balantyne, ’ave yer?” she said, also ignoring Charlotte. “Well, that must a’ bin ’ard work. W’ere’d ’ego, then?”
“I didn’t follow him today,” he replied. “Nothing to follow him for.”
“So ’e din’t do nuffin’, then?” she concluded. “Never thought as ’e did.” She sniffed.
Tellman was silent. If anything, his discomfort seemed to have increased. Watching him, Charlotte was aware that his mind was going through a kind of turmoil quite unfamiliar to him. His ideas had been challenged and found severely wanting. He had been forced to change his opinions about someone, presumably General Balantyne, and so perhaps a great many other people he had previously grouped together as a class and now had been obliged to see as individuals. To have one’s prejudices overthrown is always painful, at least at first, even if one can eventually accommodate them, and it becomes liberating in some distant future.
She felt sorry for him, but that would be the last thing he would want. She still remembered now and then how when she had first met Pitt he had shown her another world, full of individual people with loves and dreams, fears, loneliness and pain, perhaps different in cause but essentially the same as her own. Before that she had barely noticed some of the ordinary men and women in the streets; they had been a class to her rather than people just as unique as she was, with lives as full of incident and feeling as her own. The realization of how blind she had been was painful. She had despised her own narrowness, and it was not easy to acknowledge it even now.
She could see the confusion in Tellman’s face, his bent head, his bony hands lying on the table beside the mug of tea Gracie had given him.
Angus, the black cat, came in through the back door and sauntered across to sit so close to Archie that he was obliged to move. Angus began to wash himself.
Gracie cleared her throat. “Well, if yer like I can get yer a kipper an’ some bread an’ butter?” she offered, barely glancing at Charlotte to gain her permission. She was about detecting business, and that did not really require any additional sanction.
Tellman hesitated, but his desire to accept was far plainer than he could possibly have realized.
Gracie gave up, shrugging her shoulders. She treated him as she would seven-year-old Daniel; she took the decision out of his hands. She snatched the skillet from the rack and put it on the hob, poured water from the kettle into it, then went for the kipper.
“Yer ’avin’ it poached,” she said over her shoulder. “I in’t messin’ around wif fryin’. Anyway, tenderer poached.” And she disappeared into the larder to fetch it.
Tellman glanced up to Charlotte anxiously.
“You are very welcome, Mr. Tellman,” she said warmly. “I’m glad you have discovered General Balantyne is not involved in the death of Josiah Slingsby, and I am grateful to hear it.”
He bit his lip. He was still confused inside himself.
“He seems to be a good man, Mrs. Pitt, a good soldier. I spoke to quite a few men who served with him. They have a lot of … respect for him … more than that … a kind of … loyalty … affection.” The surprise and reluctance was still in his voice.
Charlotte found herself smiling, partly with sheer relief. She had not thought differently, but it was important to have Tellman say so. She was also amused to see his expression.
Gracie came back with a large kipper and, ignoring both of them, placed it in the simmering pan with s
atisfaction. Both cats immediately sat up, noses quivering, startled, and went eagerly towards the stove. Then Gracie went to the wooden breadbox and took out a loaf. Cutting them first from the end, she buttered several thin slices and laid them on a plate. She refilled the kettle and set it on the hob, working busily, as if she were alone in the room.
Still smiling to herself, Charlotte decided to leave them. Tellman could work through his awkwardness the best he was able. He gave her a quick, rather desperate look as she went to the door, but she pretended to have no idea of the emotion in the room, and excused herself to have a game of charades with Jemima and Daniel, leaving Gracie to finish the kipper.
Pitt was later than usual in to Bow Street the following morning; in fact, he had only just arrived when there was a sharp bang on his office door. Before he could answer, it opened to admit a breathless sergeant, his face filled with consternation.
“Sir … Mr. Cadell has been found shot!” He swallowed hard, catching his breath. “Looks like suicide. He left a note”
Pitt was stunned. Even as he sat motionless with the sense of shock sinking into him like ice, his brain told him that he should have expected it. The signs had been there; he had simply refused to recognize them because of the pain it would cause Vespasia. He thought of her now, and of Theodosia Cadell. For her this would be almost unbearable, except that one had to bear it because there was no alternative.
Was he to blame? Had his visit to Cadell yesterday evening precipitated this? Would Vespasia hold him responsible for it?
No, of course not. It would be unjust. If Cadell were guilty, then it was his own doing.
“Sir!” The sergeant shifted from one foot to the other, his eyes wide and anxious.
“Yes.” Pitt stood up. “Yes. I’m coming. Is Tellman in?”
“Yes sir. Shall I get ’im?”
“Send him to the door. I’ll get a hansom.” He went straight past the sergeant, not even thinking to pick up his hat from the stand, only snatching his jacket off its hook.
Downstairs he met Tellman, coming from the back of the station, his face grave and pale. He did not say anything, and together they went out onto the pavement and walked in the sun smartly along to Drury Lane. Pitt stepped into the road waving his arms, startling a shire horse pulling a wagon full of furniture. He shouted at a hansom coming around the corner from Great Queen Street and started running towards it, holding up all the traffic and being very thoroughly sworn at.
He scrambled in, calling out instructions to the driver, and slid across the seat to make room for Tellman. Of course, it was pointless-a few minutes here or there in reaching Cadell’s house could make no difference now-but the urgency of action released some of the anger and misery inside him.
Two or three times as they rode, Tellman made as if to speak, then, seeing Pitt’s face, changed his mind.
When they arrived Pitt paid the driver and strode across the pavement to the front door. There was a constable posted outside, his face stiff, his body at attention.
“Mornin’, sir,” he said quietly. “Sergeant Barstone’s inside. He’s expecting you.”
“Thank you.” Pitt brushed past him, opened the door and went in. It was absurdly like yesterday evening. The elaborate long case clock in the hall still ticked loudly, the hand moving from second to second with a little jerk each time. The brass edge of the umbrella stand still gleamed, but now from the sunlight streaming under the closed withdrawing room door. The bowl of roses had not shed any petals, or the maid had picked them up already.
All the doors were closed. He had not thought to ask where Cadell’s body was, and he had let himself in. There was no one else in the hall. He went back to the door again and rang the bell, then returned to wait.
“Do you want me to speak with the servants?” Tellman asked. “Don’t know what we could find. This looks like the end of it. Not really what I expected.”
“I suppose you might as well,” Pitt agreed. “Somebody might tell us some small thing which will explain how it all happened. Yes … yes, of course.” He straightened up. He was being careless. “We don’t know it was suicide yet. We are assuming.”
“Yes sir.” Tellman went willingly. Pitt knew why. He hated having to face the families of the dead. Corpses did not trouble him the same way-they were beyond their pain-but the living, the shocked, bewildered, grieving, were different. He felt helpless and intrusive, even though he could have justified his role to anyone. Pitt understood exactly; he felt the same.
The butler appeared from the green baize door into the servants’ quarters. He looked startled and angry to see Pitt already in the hall. In the distress of the morning he had apparently forgotten who Pitt was.
“Good morning, Woods,” Pitt said gravely. “I’m sorry for Mr. Cadell’s death. Is Mr. Barstone in the withdrawing room?”
Woods recollected himself. “Yes sir.” He swallowed, moving his neck as if his collar were too tight. “The … the study is locked, sir. I assume you will be needing to go in?”
“Is that where Mr. Cadell is?”
“Yes sir … I …”
Pitt waited.
Woods searched for words. He was obviously troubled by profound emotions.
“I don’t believe it, sir!” he said gruffly. “I’ve been with Mr. Cadell for nearly twenty years, and I don’t believe he’d take his own life. It has to be something else, some other answer.”
Pitt did not argue. Denial was the natural response to something so ugly, and from this man’s point of view, so utterly inexplicable. How could it make any sense to him?
“Of course we’ll investigate every possibility,” he said quietly. “Would you let me into the study; Sergeant Tellman has gone to speak with the rest of the staff. Who found Mr. Cadell this morning?”
“Polly, sir. She’s the downstairs maid. Went in to dust and make sure the room was clean and tidy. I’m afraid you can’t speak to her yet, sir. She’s taken it terribly hard. Awful thing for a young girl to find.” He blinked several times. “She’s usually very sensible, good worker, no trouble, but she just fainted clear away. She’s in the housekeeper’s sitting room, and you’ll just have to give her time. Can’t help that, sir.”
“Of course. Perhaps you can tell me most of what I need to know to begin with.”
“If I can, sir,” Woods conceded, perhaps helped in the immediate moment by the fact that he was able to be engaged in doing something. He fished in his pocket and produced a small brass key. He stood with it in his hand, waiting.
“What time was that?” Pitt asked him.
“Just after nine, sir.”
“Was that the usual time for Polly to go into the study?”
“Yes sir. Things sort of fall into a routine. Best way. Then nothing gets forgotten.”
“So everyone would know that Polly would go into the study at that time?”
“Yes sir.” Woods looked deeply troubled. It was easy to understand, and his thoughts were plain in his face. Cadell himself would have to have been aware of the almost certainty that a young maid would be the one to find him.
“And the door was unlocked ….” Pitt stated the obvious, but with surprise. People who intended killing themselves very often ascertained that they would have privacy.
“Yes sir.”
“Did anyone hear the shot? It must have made a considerable noise.”
“No sir, not that we realized, if you know what I mean?” Woods looked embarrassed, as if he had been at fault; if they had heard it they might have prevented the tragedy. It was irrational, but grief and incomprehension had numbed his faculties. “You must understand, sir, most of the staff were busy about their duties that hour of the day. The kitchen was full of comings and goings. There were tradesmen’s boys in the yard with deliveries and the like, wagons and carts and things clattering up and down the road, and with the windows open to air the house, there was a certain amount of noise anyway. I expect we heard it but never realized what it was.”
“Did Mr. Cadell have breakfast this morning?”
“No sir, just a cup of tea.”
“Wasn’t that unusual?”
“No sir, not lately. I’m afraid Mr. Cadell was not himself as far as his health was concerned.” He blinked again, stirring to govern his emotions. “He seemed very preoccupied, if you understand me. I daresay there is some foreign business that gives cause for concern. It is an extremely responsible …” He tailed off, suddenly remembering again that his master was dead. His eyes filled with tears and he turned away, embarrassed to lose such control of himself in front of a stranger.
Pitt was used to distress. He had been in situations like this countless times. He affected not to have noticed.
“Where did Mr. Cadell take his tea?”
It was a moment before Woods replied. “I believe Didcott the valet took it up to his dressing room, sir,” he said at last.
“And then he went down to the study?”
“I believe so. Didcott would know.”
“We’ll ask him. Thank you. Now I’ll go to the study, if you will let me in.”
“Yes sir, of course.” And with slightly shaky steps, Woods led the way across the hall and down a fairly long passage to an oak door which he opened with the key. He remained outside while Pitt went in.
Leo Cadell was slumped forward over the desk, his hands on top of it a trifle awkwardly, his head on one side. Blood from a wound to his right temple spilled out over the wooden surface of the writing top. A dueling pistol lay touching his right hand, two inches from a quill pen, the ink dried. There was also a cushion on the floor near the chair. Pitt bent and picked it up, putting it to his nose and sniffing. The smells of gunpowder and charring were plain. That explained why nobody had heard the sharp report of the shot.
It did not explain why Cadell had not locked the door from the inside, so people would know there was something wrong, and it would not be a young maid, or even his wife, who would be the first to find him.
But then a man capable of the kind of blackmail which had been practiced was hardly likely at this point to consider the feelings of a maid or of anyone else. How easy it is to be totally and disastrously mistaken in one’s judgment of people. Pitt still found it hard to accept, and Vespasia possibly never would. Apparently, even as wise and shrewd as she was, she could be utterly wrong.