Bedford Square tp-19

by Anne Perry

  Vespasia smiled dryly; a small, sad gesture. “Put like that, you leave me little choice, unless I wish you to believe I preferred you to fail. Nothing would please me better than to discover Leo was innocent, both of the blackmail and of taking his life. We must consider carefully how to proceed, and of course where to begin.”

  Theodosia moved back across the room and sat down heavily, looking suddenly a trifle lost.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “But who else could I turn to? And who better?” For all her determination, she actually had very little idea what she could do.

  “Are you sure you are willing to face whatever we may discover?” Vespasia asked for a last time. “It may not be what you wish.”

  “No.” The word was flat and certain. There was no happiness in it, but there was conviction. “But it will not be what they are saying at the moment. Where do we begin?”

  “With logic … and a hot cup of tea,” Vespasia said decisively.

  Theodosia gave a ghost of a smile and walked over to the embroidered bell rope. When the maid came she ordered hot tea.

  “Now for the logic,” she requested when they were alone again.

  Vespasia settled herself to begin. “Whoever the blackmailer is, he is personally acquainted with all of his victims, because he is aware of their past experiences sufficiently well to know to what charge they would be most vulnerable and where in their careers he can make it most reasonably believable.”

  “Quite,” Theodosia agreed. “You say he. Does it have to be a man? Could it not be a woman? It is naive to suppose a woman incapable of such intelligence or such cruelty.”

  “Of course it is,” Vespasia answered. “But I think that might be to suppose that the placing of the corpse on Brandon Balantyne’s doorstep was unconnected, which seems to me unlikely. I find it difficult to imagine circumstances where a woman who had the acquaintance of the victims would also be aware of the death of Slingsby and have the means to move his body. Although I suppose it is not impossible.”

  “I had forgotten about that,” Theodosia admitted. “We shall consider men first. I know something about most of Leo’s life, where he was born, grew up, went to school and to university and then into the diplomatic service. I have already racked my mind to think of any enemies who could be responsible for this.” She frowned. “Anyone who succeeds is bound to arouse envy, if nothing else. And it is regrettable, but many of those who succeed far less will explain it to themselves by blaming others.”

  The maid arrived with fresh tea on a tray, and set it down on the low table between Vespasia and Theodosia. She offered to pour, but Theodosia declined, preferring to do it herself.

  When they were alone again, Vespasia replied, “I do not believe this is a matter of personal vengeance, unless we can find some affair in which all the victims were involved. Did Leo even know them all?”

  Theodosia looked at her with a thin shred of humor. “I don’t know. You have been far too discreet to tell me who they are.”

  “Oh!” Vespasia had forgotten that. There seemed little point in worrying about indiscretion; clearing Leo’s name and finding the true blackmailer, if it was not he, were more important. “General Balantyne, John Cornwallis, Sigmund Tannifer, Guy Stanley and Dunraithe White.”

  Theodosia looked startled. “I did not know that,” she said quietly. “They are different generations and quite different kinds of men. I know Parthenope Tannifer. She has called several times. A most interesting woman. And is not Dunraithe White a judge?”

  “Yes. And John Cornwallis is assistant commissioner of police,” Vespasia added. “One wonders if some subversion of the law is intended. Except how could that involve Brandon Balantyne?”

  “There must be some connection,” Theodosia said fiercely. “It is up to us to find it. It cannot be professional. It cannot be from school or university.”

  “Then it must be social,” Vespasia deduced, sipping her tea. The hot liquid was peculiarly refreshing, even though the room was warm and bright in the summer morning sun. The whole house was unusually silent, the servants on tiptoe. Someone had thought to put straw in the street outside to muffle the hooves of passing horses. Vespasia had a sudden thought. “Or financial! Could Leo have invested in some scheme or other, and those other people also?”

  “And there is something wrong in it?” Theodosia seized the idea eagerly. “Yes! Why not? That would make some sense of it.” She rose to her feet. “There will be notes of it in his study. We shall look.”

  Vespasia went with her, the tea abandoned.

  They spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon there, stopping for a brief luncheon only because Vespasia insisted for Theodosia’s sake, and Theodosia obeyed for hers. They searched for records of all Leo Cadell’s investments of any nature whatever, and discovered that he had been, on the whole, extremely prudent. There had been one rather rash backing of an adventure in the Caribbean which had lost him a modest amount, but all the rest were either adequate or extremely good. There was startlingly little invested overseas in anything speculative, and he had been scrupulous to avoid anything with even the semblance of profiting from his knowledge gained as a member of the diplomatic service.

  Vespasia became increasingly saddened reading the dry facts of investment and return over the years. They demonstrated the financial life of a man who made good provision for his family but was extraordinarily careful, erring on the side of loss, never to make a penny from his professional advantage. It reflected the man she knew, nothing like the person Lyndon Remus wrote of in the newspapers, or the police presumed from the manner of his death. Funny that a series of figures should convey so much.

  “There’s nothing here,” Theodosia said desperately a little after half past three. She was sitting at the desk with papers strewn all around her. She looked wretched and exhausted. “He gave to certain charities, but that’s about all I can think of that he could have had in common with the other people you mention, and then it wasn’t much. I mean, not the sort of money anyone would blackmail over.”

  “What charities?”

  Vespasia asked simply for something to say, to not allow the silence to make it seem she had given up.

  Theodosia was surprised. “Specifically? An orphanage that was governed by several members of the Jessop Club. I knew he still went on attending that committee most of the time even when he was exceptionally busy. He mentioned that General Balantyne was on it also.” And without saying anything further she took a bundle of letters out of the desk drawer and began to read through them.

  Vespasia went to one of the other drawers and found some more.

  For half an hour she saw nothing that seemed of any relevance at all. It was unpleasant reading through another person’s letters which had been intended as private. There was nothing Leo would have had cause to be embarrassed or ashamed of, not even anything especially personal; it was simply intrusive for a third person to read them. She had a terribly oppressive sense of his death. Going through his belongings made its reality almost tangible.

  She read one letter through, although it was more of a memorandum, and then she nearly missed the relevance. It was on the letterhead, printed below that of the Jessop Club. The handwritten part was addressed to Leo Cadell and concerned the patronage of a fund-raising art exhibition. A notable society lady was to attend. It had been held over six months before, and was of no importance. Leo had presumably kept it only because he had written an address on it, some collector of Chinese ginger jars living in Paris. It was the names of the committee that caught Vespasia’s eye: Brandon Balantyne; Guy Stanley, M.R; Lawrence Bairstow; Dunraithe White; John Cornwallis; James Cameron; Sigmund Tannifer and Leo Cadell.

  She looked up. Theodosia was still reading, a growing pile of discarded papers strewn around her.

  “Do you know Lawrence Bairstow?” Vespasia asked. “Or James Cameron?”

  “I knew Mary Ann Bairstow,” Theodosia replied, looking up. “Why? What have
you found?”

  “Could Lawrence Bairstow be another victim?”

  There was sudden disappointment in Theodosia’s face.

  “No. The poor man is senile. He is a great deal older than she is. I am afraid he would be incapable of exerting any influence at all, for good or ill. And I believe his personal affairs are looked after by the family solicitors.” She could not keep the weariness of pain out of her voice.

  “And James Cameron?” Vespasia pressed, not sure why, or if there was any purpose in it; it was simply unbearable to give up.

  “The only James Cameron I knew of went to live abroad several months ago,” Theodosia answered. “He has poor health, and he moved to a drier, warmer climate. India, I think, but I’m not sure. Why? Why are you asking? What is that?”

  “I think, just possibly, we may have discovered what they have in common,” Vespasia said slowly. “Although I cannot see, for the life of me, what conceivable profit there could be in it.”

  Theodosia shot to her feet and snatched the paper from her. She read it, then looked up, puzzled. “They are all on this committee within the Jessop Club. But it’s for an orphanage. That is what the money is for. Could that be it … misappropriation of funds?” The expression in her eyes hovered between hope and despair. “It hardly seems worth it. How much could it be?”

  “A great deal of disgrace, if it were discovered,” Vespasia answered gravely, trying to keep the emotion calm in her voice. “To steal from an orphanage is particularly despicable.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.” Theodosia’s hands were trembling. She gripped them together to control the movements. She so fervently wanted this new information to mean something she dared not hope too much, and yet she was so close to surrendering to grief she could not let go either. “That … that could be it … couldn’t it?”

  Vespasia did not have the heart to deny it, even though she felt it could not be true. Perhaps to give Theodosia some shred of light now was more important than a probable truth. She must survive.

  “It could,” she agreed. “Let us see if there is any other reference to it here, then I shall take it to Thomas and see what he makes of it.”

  “You mean Superintendent Pitt?” The hope fled from Theodosia’s face. “He is sure Leo was guilty.”

  “He will listen if I tell him about this.” Vespasia filled her voice with an absolute conviction she did not feel.

  “Will he?” Theodosia clutched at it.

  “Most certainly. Now, let us see what else we can find.”

  In another two hours of meticulous reading of every piece of paper in the desk and in the drawers of the cabinet they found only one other thing which seemed to have any bearing. It was a letter dated some two weeks earlier.

  My dear Cadell,

  Perhaps I am being over zealous, but I am concerned about the amount of money going to the orphanage at Kew. I have re-read the accounts and it seems to me to require some more detailed evaluation. I have raised the matter in committee once, but was overruled.

  Of course it is possible I am out of touch with the cost of things, but I would value your opinion. I hope we may discuss the subject at a time suitable to you.

  I remain,

  your most obedient servant,

  Brandon Balantyne

  Theodosia was so encouraged by it that Vespasia could not bring herself to point out how trivial the matter almost certainly was.

  “You’ll take it to Superintendent Pitt?” Theodosia urged.

  “Of course.”

  “Immediately?”

  “I shall call on him before I return home,” Vespasia promised. “Now, my dear, I am far more concerned about you. Will you be all right alone tonight? I can return if you wish me to. It is not an inconvenience in the slightest. I can send for a change of linen without any trouble at all.”

  Theodosia hesitated. “No … I shall have to learn … to become used to it … I think …” She tailed off.

  Vespasia made the decision for her. “I shall return when I have seen Thomas. I do not know how long it shall be, as I may not find him immediately. Please do not wait supper for me. I shall be perfectly happy with whatever Cook can make for me then.”

  “Of course,” Theodosia agreed, her face filled with gratitude. “I … thank you!”

  In the event, Vespasia did find Pitt in his office in Bow Street. As far as anyone could tell, the case was closed, and he was now obliged to deal with a great many other matters that had arisen while he was wholly occupied with the Bedford Square murder and the blackmail. He was delighted to see her and welcomed her with enthusiasm.

  She regarded his piled desk critically.

  “I can see that I am interrupting you,” she said with very gentle sarcasm. “Perhaps I should wait, and call upon you at home?”

  “Please!” He readjusted the chair he was holding for her. “There could be nothing more urgent than seeing you.”

  “It looks extremely urgent,” she observed with a dry smile, sitting carefully in the chair. “But perhaps also rather arduous. I shall not keep you for very long.”

  “Never mind.” He smiled back at her, his eyes alight for the first time in weeks. He returned to his own seat. “I shall have to make do with what time you can spare. What is it?”

  She sighed, her humor vanishing. “Almost certainly nothing. But in going through Leo Cadell’s papers I have discovered one thing which all the blackmail victims had in common and which was a cause of concern to at least one among them … the one who was most viciously accused, by implication.”

  “Balantyne?” He looked surprised. “What is it?”

  She took the letter and the memorandum on the Jessop Club paper from her reticule and passed them both over to him.

  He read them carefully and then looked up. “An orphanage? What about those other two people, Bairstow and Cameron? Are they victims as well?”

  “I have no reason to suppose so; in fact, every reason to believe they are not, and could not be,” she replied. “Bairstow is senile, according to Theodosia, and Cameron has left England to live abroad. That leaves of the committee members only those we know.” She watched his face closely. She saw the lift of interest and the slight change in his expression. “Will you do me the favor of investigating it, Thomas, for Theodosia’s sake? I appreciate that it is extremely unlikely to be anything other than what it seems, a worthy cause assisted by a group of gentlemen who happen to belong to the same club. But I am extremely fond of Theodosia, and I, too, find it difficult and painful to believe that Leo was guilty of blackmail and of suicide. I am compelled to explore any possibility that it is not so, however remote.”

  She hated asking favors, and she saw the understanding of that in his face.

  “Of course,” he agreed. “I shall go out to Kew tomorrow and require to see their books, and send men to check on Bairstow and Cameron. Cornwallis will give me all the excuse I need.”

  “Thank you, Thomas. I am most grateful.” She rose to leave. It had been an exhausting two days, and now suddenly the grief overtook her and she found it difficult to muster the strength to face returning to Theodosia and staying awake long into the night to offer her what comfort and companionship she could. She could not lessen Theodosia’s pain, only share it. But she could hardly love her and do less.

  The next day was beautiful. The heat wave continued, bright and hot, but there was a clarity to the air and every now and then a breeze. People were out in the streets and parks, and on the river were scores of little boats, pleasure steamers, ferries, barges and every other kind of vessel that could take to the water. The sounds of singing, barrel organs and penny-whistles drifted on the air. Children shouted to one another, and every so often there was a burst of laughter.

  Pitt took the boat up the river to Kew. It seemed not only the pleasantest way to travel but also probably the fastest.

  As he stood on the deck between a fat woman in a striped blouse and a man with a red face, he wondered if
he should really be doing this at all. It was an escape from the paperwork that had piled up while he was occupied with the blackmail case, and he did not want to refuse Vespasia. She had looked unusually tired. Grief had taken none of her spirit or her determination, but there was an acceptance of defeat in her which was the profoundest change he could have imagined. It troubled him enough to justify this trip up the river with the sun and the breeze on his face as the steamer made its way up past Battersea and turned south towards Wandsworth. There was another complete S bend before Kew. He would enjoy it.

  He found himself smiling as he watched the rowing boats plying back and forth, narrowly avoiding getting in everyone’s way. Little boys in sailor suits stood up precariously and anxious women held them by the britches. Little girls with ribboned straw hats waved excitedly. Fathers bent their backs to the oars with proprietorial satisfaction.

  On the shore people picnicked on stretches of grass. He thought idly that a few of them were going to be burned by this evening. At the water’s edge they did not realize how strong the sun was.

  He was wasting his time going to an orphanage. Even if there had been petty pilfering, and Balantyne had suspected it, it was not the same degree of crime as the sort of blackmail they had been dealing with. It could only be a few hundred pounds at the very most, and that would have to have been over years or it would have been noticed long before now.

  Why had Balantyne questioned it instead of requiring an audit of the books? He had written to Cadell about his concerns. Cadell would hardly be blackmailing him with something as extreme as a murdered man on the doorstep in order to stop him from pursuing such a request.