by Anne Perry
Theloneus sat for some time without answering.
The black-and-white dog lay asleep in the sun, snoring gently and occasionally giving a little whimper as she dreamed.
“I see,” Theloneus said at last. “You are right; it is far worse than I thought.”
“He will not refuse the man, whatever he demands,” she said gravely. “I tried the arguments of reason. I told him that he has nothing whatever of which to be ashamed now, and Marguerite will understand that. But if he does something because this man forces him to, something he would not do of his own will, then he will have, and she will know that too.”
“Did he not perceive it for himself?” He leaned forward a little.
“T think he is too frightened for her to look beyond tomorrow,” she answered. “Sometimes fear can be like that … paralyzing the will or the ability to see what is too horrible.”
“Is she really so delicate, Vespasia?” He looked uncomfortable, unwilling to appear harsh, and yet he needed to ask.
She considered hard before she answered him, thinking of all she knew of Marguerite White over the years, piecing together memories, wondering how she had interpreted them then, and how with hindsight they might be different now.
“Perhaps not,” she said at length, speaking slowly. “Certainly she does not have good health, that has always been true. How ill she is would be difficult to say. She is in her mid-forties at least, perhaps a trifle more, so the delicacy that was feared in her youth must have been overestimated. She was told that she could not bear children, that to do so would certainly jeopardize her life.”
He was watching her closely, listening.
She wished to be fair, but memory crowded in, and doubt. She was glad she was speaking to Theloneus, whom she loved, and would not have him think ill of her, but also whom she trusted well enough that she dared allow him to see in her what was vulnerable, and perhaps frightened, or weak, or less than beautiful. He would judge with the eyes of a friend.
“Yes?” he prompted.
“She is also used to thinking of herself as the one to be protected,” she went on. “The one who must never be distressed or asked too much of. Dunraithe has spoiled her … with the very best intention. Perhaps he was sometimes too careful to be wise. She might have become stronger, at least in spirit, had she faced reality more often. Most of us will run away if there is someone who will protect us, face all the unpleasantness for us, and count it a privilege to do so.”
“Could she face this?” he asked, his eyes wide and intent, unwavering from hers.
“I don’t know,” she replied. “I have been asking myself that, considering all the avenues one might take, even to precipitating some crisis to draw out this blackguard. I can hardly bear to think what will happen if he asks Dunraithe to do something which would be an abuse of his office ….”
Theloneus put his hand over hers, very gently, touching rather than holding. She noticed with surprise how thin it was, how visible the veins. His face had changed so much less; the curve of the nose was the same, the steady eyes, the sensitive mouth. It was so natural to protect someone you loved, someone you saw as vulnerable and to whom you felt a burning loyalty, someone without whom you would have no happiness, no laughter, no sharing, perhaps above all someone who loved you.
“The answer is that whether Marguerite would survive it or not, my dear,” she said with absolute conviction, “Dunraithe will never be sure enough of it to take that risk. We must assume that if some demand comes, he will accede to it.”
He sat back. “Then I shall have to watch all his decisions with the greatest care, a thing I do not wish at all. I do not ask what this person accuses him of, but I think perhaps I need to know whether it is an offense in law which may affect his position.”
“No, it is purely a moral one,” she replied with a twisted smile. “If this were to be an offense in law our prisons would be full and the Houses of Parliament empty.”
“Oh!” His answering smile was instant. “I see … of that nature. I should find it difficult to believe of Dunraithe, but I can see how difficult that might be for Marguerite, even if the better part of her knew it was untrue. Sometimes laughter is the cruelest judgment.”
She must tell him the rest. “That is not all … it is not even the worst of it, Theloneus.”
Something in her voice, an edge of fear, caught him with a sudden sharpness, it was so unlike Vespasia to be afraid of anything. She was far more likely to respond to evil with anger.
“What is it?”
“Dunraithe White is not the only one. John Cornwallis and Brandon Balantyne are being blackmailed also, almost certainly by the same person … or people.”
“Brandon Balantyne?” His eyes widened in amazement. “John Cornwallis? I find that … almost impossible to credit. And you said ’people’? Do you imagine more than one?”
She sighed. Suddenly she was weary with the effort of the ugliness she could imagine. “Perhaps. Nothing has been asked for yet. Dunraithe is not a wealthy man, but he has great power, great influence. He is a judge. To corrupt a judge is very wicked. It strikes at the root of the only barrier between the people and injustice, the loss of trust in society to protect its members, in the end against chaos and the rule of the jungle.”
She saw his agreement in his face. He did not interrupt.
“And John Cornwallis similarly,” she went on. “He is not wealthy, but as assistant commissioner of police he, too, has great power. If the police are corrupted then what protection has anyone against violence or stealth? Order begins to fail, and men take the law into their own hands because they trust no other. The one I do not yet understand is Brandon Balantyne.” She saw the lack of comprehension in his face.
“Did he tell you that he is being blackmailed?” he asked quickly.
“No. Charlotte did. She is most concerned about it. She is very fond of him. And that is an entirely different problem.”
He did not understand that either; she saw it plainly in his eyes.
“No,” she said with the ghost of a smile. “That is not what I mean at all,” she answered the question he was only thinking. “But she has little perception that he may be fonder of her than either of them realizes.” She moved her other hand slightly, dismissing the idea for the moment. “But I am deeply afraid, Theloneus. What does this blackmailer want? If he exercises his power with sufficient skill, the damage he may do is incalculable. Who else may be affected?”
He was very pale. “I don’t know, my dear. But I think we must face the possibility that there are more, and that we may not be able to find them, or even to guess who they are. Vespasia, this may be very serious indeed. Far more than the reputation of any one person may rest on it, important as that is. Is it possible that Brandon Balantyne may be persuaded to stand out against the pressure?”
“Perhaps.” She thought of all she knew of Balantyne, the fleeting memories, his face as a young man, the grief that had come to him since. “The accusation against him is cowardice in the face of the enemy ….”
Theloneus winced. He was not a military man, but he knew enough of war and honor to grasp at least something of what such a thing meant.
“He has already been hurt so much …” she said quietly. “But perhaps with having endured that, he can face public ignominy again with more courage than others. I pray that it will not be necessary.”
“And Cornwallis?” he asked.
“Taking credit for another man’s act of courage at sea,” she replied. “In each case the charge is the most painful that particular man could face. We are dealing with someone who knows his victims well and can hurt with a unique skill.”
“Indeed,” he said grimly. “We shall need as much skill if we are to beat him, and I think a great deal of luck as well.”
“A great deal,” she agreed. “Perhaps we should not go into battle on an empty stomach. Would you care for a little late supper? I believe Cook has asparagus, brown bread and butte
r, and I expect there is champagne.”
“Knowing you, my dear, I am quite sure there is,” he accepted.
Cornwallis paced along the pavement outside the Royal Academy of Art. He was suffering a kind of pain he had never experienced before. He was long familiar with loneliness, the physical discomfort of coldness, exhaustion, miserable food, stale sea biscuit and salt bacon, brackish water. He had been seasick, feverish, injured. He had certainly been frightened, ashamed, torn with pity he did not know how to bear.
Only since he had met Isadora Underhill, the wife of Bishop Underhill, had he understood what it was to think of a woman with a pleasure and a pain which were inextricably bound together, to long to be in her company, and to be so terrified of hurting or disappointing her that the thought of it made him sick.
Nothing in the world was as sweet as the thought that she also cared for him. In what way he had not dared to contemplate. It was sufficient that she thought well of him, that she believed him to be a man of honor and compassion, of courage and that inner integrity which no outside circumstance can tarnish or bend.
The last time they had met, she had mentioned that she would attend the exhibition of paintings by Tissot at the Royal Academy. If he did not go, she would believe he did not wish to see her. Their relationship was far too delicate for him to offer any explanation, as if she had expected him. And yet if he did go, and they were to meet, and they would, and fall into conversation, as they must, would she see the fear in him caused by the letter? She was so perceptive; in some ways she understood emotions in him no one else had even guessed at. If he could agonize as he was doing, and she were to walk and talk with him, and be unaware of it, then what was their affection worth?
And yet if she did see it, how could he explain it?
Even as he was saying this to himself, he was mounting the steps and going in. The room of the exhibition was posted. He walked past the grave, delicate beauty of a Fra Angelico Madonna, which normally would have stirred a unique joy in him. Today he barely noticed it. He would not go to the room with the Turners. Their passion would overwhelm him.
Without realizing it he was already at the exhibition of Tissot. There was Isadora. He could always see her at a glance, her dark head held at just such an angle. Her hat had a sweeping brim, very plain. She was alone, regarding the paintings as if she took great pleasure in them. They were not really her taste, he knew that, too stylized. She preferred landscape, vision and dream.
He walked across to her as if drawn by a power beyond him to resist.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Underhill,” he said quietly.
She smiled at him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Cornwallis. How are you?”
“Very well, thank you. And you, Mrs. Underhill?” He wanted to say how lovely she looked, but that would have been far too familiar. There was a perfect grace in her bearing, a beauty in her far deeper and more pleasing to the mind than simple perfection of line or coloring. It was in the expression of her eyes and her lips. He wished he could tell her that. “A fine exhibition,” he said instead.
“Indeed,” she answered without enthusiasm, a very slight smile touching her lips. “But I prefer the watercolors in the next room.”
“I too,” he agreed immediately. “Shall we look at them instead?”
“I should like that,” she accepted, taking his arm and walking beside him past a small group of gentlemen admiring a portrait of a young woman in a striped gown.
In the room beyond they were almost alone. As one, they stopped in front of a small seascape. “He has caught the effect of light on water very well, don’t you think?” he said with fierce admiration.
“I do,” she agreed, turning to glance at him momentarily. “The touch of green is exactly right. It makes it look so cold and translucent. It is difficult to make water look liquid.” There was concern in her eyes, as if she saw in his face the marks of sleeplessness, fear, the mistrust which was beginning to creep into every waking thought, and last night, even into his dreams.
What would she think if she knew? Would she believe that he was innocent? Would she understand why he was afraid? Might she even be afraid herself, in case others believed it and she would want to distance herself from the shame of it, the embarrassment of having to say she did not believe it, explain why, see the looks of polite amusement and wonder … and then afterwards be abashed?
“Mr. Cornwallis?” There was a lift of concern in her voice.
“Yes!” he said too quickly. He felt a slight warmth in his cheeks. “I’m sorry, my thoughts were wandering. Shall we move to the next picture? I always find pastoral scenes most agreeable.” How stilted he sounded, as if they were strangers forcing a meaningless conversation, and how cold. Agreeable. What a lukewarm word to use for beauty of such deep and abiding peace. He looked at the black-and-white cows grazing in dappled sunlight and the rolling countryside glimpsed through summer trees. It was land he loved with a passion. Why could he not say so to her?
What is love without trust, forgiveness, patience, and gentleness? Mere hunger and need, joy in another’s company, shared pleasures, even laughter and perceptions, are merely the things of good acquaintance. To be more than that must be giving as well as taking, cost as well as gain.
“You look a little concerned, Mr. Cornwallis,” she said gently. “Have you a troublesome case?”
He made a decision. “Yes, but I intend to leave it behind for half an hour.” He forced himself to smile and linked his arm through hers, something he had never done before. “I shall look at this perfect loveliness which nothing shall fade or destroy, and it will be doubled from now because I shall share it with you. The rest of the world can wait. I shall return to it soon enough.”
She smiled back at him, as if she had understood far more than he had said. “How very wise of you. I shall do exactly the same.” And she walked close to his side, keeping her arm through his.
6
TELLMAN NEEDED to know more about Albert Cole, most particularly his comings and goings in the last few days of his life. So far every additional fact had only added to the confusion. He must go back to the beginning and start again. The best place for that was Cole’s lodgings in Theobald’s Road.
The house was shabby, more so in the clear morning sunlight than it had seemed the first time he had been there. But it was clean, and there were neat rag rugs on the board floors and the landlady was busy with pail and scrubbing brush. Her faded blond hair was tied up in a cloth cap to keep it off her face, and her red-knuckled hands were covered in suds.
“Good morning, Mrs. Hampson,” he said pleasantly. “Sorry to bother you again when you’re busy.” He glanced at the half-scrubbed floor of the passage. The smell of lye and vinegar reminded him of the rooms where he had grown up, of his mother kneeling just like this with a brush in her hand, her sleeves rolled high. He could have been a small boy again with bare knees and holes in his boots.
Mrs. Hampson stood up stiffly, smoothing her apron. “S’you again, is it? I dunno any more ’bout your Mr. Cole now than I did w’en yer first come. ’e were a quiet, decent sort o’ man. Always got a civil word. I dunno w’y anybody’d wanter go an’ kill ’im for.”
“Can you think back to the last few days of his life, Mrs. Hampson?” he asked patiently. “What time of the morning did he get up? Did he have breakfast? When did he go out? When did he come back? Did he have anybody call on him here?”
“Nob’dy I ever seen,” she answered, shaking her head. “Don’t encourage callers. In’t room, an’ yer never knows wot they’ll get up ter. Anyway, decent man, ’e were. If ’e ever did anythink like … natural … ’e din’t do it ’ere.”
Tellman did not think Cole’s death had had anything to do with women. He did not bother to pursue that path.
“When did he come and go during the last few days of his life, Mrs. Hampson?”
She thought for a moment. “Well, the last day I saw ’im, which were the Tuesday, like, ’e went out abaht
seven in the mornin’. Catch them as would buy laces on their way ter work. Can’t afford ter miss ’em.” She pursed her lips. “Next lot’d be later, more nine or ten, so ’e said ter me. The lawyers start later, bein’ gents, like. An’ o’ course there’s casuals all the time.”
“And the day before? Can you remember?”
“Some.” She ignored the brush in her hand, still dripping water onto the floor. “Can’t remember partic’lar, but I’d a’ remembered if it a’ bin different. Same every day. Gruel fer breakfast, an’ a piece o’ bread. Look, mister, I got work ter do. If yer wants more’n this, yer’ll ’ave ter come inside an’ let me get on.” She knelt and wiped up the drips and then the last few inches of soap and water and he picked up the pail to carry it for her, their palms meeting on the wooden spool of the handle.
She was so startled she nearly dropped it, but she said nothing.
In the kitchen she left the pail in the corner and began to mix white brick dust into a paste with linseed oil to scour the tabletops. She mixed some more with water to polish the knife blades and the large brass-handled poker by the stove.
Tellman sat in the corner out of her way. He watched her work. He asked her everything he could think of about Albert Cole. An hour later she had finished cleaning the kitchen, and he followed her as she took the besom brush made of coarse twigs to sweep the landing floor and give the mats a hefty beating and return them. By the time Tellman left he had a fairly good idea of Cole’s domestic life, ordinary, decent, and comfortably monotonous. As far as she knew, he spent every night alone in his bed, presumably asleep.
Tellman’s next stop was the corner of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, to ask passersby and local tradesmen if they remembered seeing Cole in his usual spot. It was hard to disentangle memory of one day from that of another.
The flower seller diagonally across leading to New Square was a little more help.
“ ’e weren’t there Sunday, ’cos folks don’t buy on Sunday any’ow. Most of ’em in’t ’ere,” she said, scratching her head and pushing her bonnet a trifle crooked. “ ’e were ’ere Monday, ’cos I seen ’im. ’Ad a word wif ’im. ’e said summink abaht gettin’ a bit o’ money soon. I laughed at ’im, ’cos I thought as ’e were ‘avin’ me on, like. But ’e said as ’e were serious. ’e wouldn’t say as ’ow ’e were gonner get it. An’ I never see’d ’im again.”