by Anne Perry
“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 families 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.”
“You do not have to explain,” Vespasia pointed out with a flash of humor. “I do understand.”
Theodosia blushed. “I’m sorry. Of course you do, better than I. You must have faced envy and discomfort on that account all your life, the little remarks and suggestions.”
Vespasia lifted her chin a trifle. “It is not quite in the past, my dear. The body may become a little stiff, and tire more easily, the appetites of the flesh become controlled, the hair may fade and the face betray the years and all that one has made of them, but the passion and the need to be loved do not die. Nor, I am afraid, do the jealousies or the fears.”
“Good,” Theodosia said after only a moment. “For all its pain, I think I like the way we are. But what can I do to help Leo?”
“Keep silent,” Vespasia responded immediately. “If you make the slightest attempt to deny it, you will raise thoughts in people’s minds which had never entered them before. Sir Richard will hardly thank you for that, nor will Lady Aston. She is not an easy creature, rather overbearing, and the kindest thing that can be said of her appearance would be to liken her to a well-bred dog, one of those ones that has difficulty breathing. Most unfortunate.”
Theodosia tried to laugh, and failed. “She is actually quite pleasant, you know, and even if it was a dynastic marriage to begin with, I believe he is very fond of her. She has humor and imagination, both of which last longer than beauty.”
“Of course they do,” Vespasia agreed. “And they are a great deal easier and more rewarding to live with. But too few people realize it. And beauty has such an immediate impact. Ask any girl of twenty whether she would rather be beautiful or amusing, and I will be surprised if you find one in a score who will choose humor. And Lucy Aston is undoubtedly one of the nineteen.”
“I know. Is that all I can do, Aunt Vespasia, nothing?”
“It is all I can think of, for the moment,” Vespasia insisted. “But if Leo should receive a letter which asks him to do something under duress, if you have any love for him, or for yourself, do all you can to dissuade him from it. Whatever the cost of scandal precipitated by his making this charge public, it will be small compared with the ruin agreeing to it will bring. It is no guarantee the blackmailer will keep silent—Guy Stanley is witness of that—and you will add the real dishonor of whatever he would have you do. He may damage your reputation, but only you can damage your honor. Don’t let it happen.” She leaned forward a little, looking intently at the younger woman. “Assure him you can withstand anything that is said of you wrongly, and
all that may come because of it, but not that he should allow this man to turn him into the kind of creature he is, or to become a tool in his evil.”
“I will,” Theodosia promised. In a quick gesture she reached forward and took Vespasia’s hands in her own, gripping them warmly. “Thank you for coming. I should not have had the courage to come to you, but I feel stronger, and quite certain of what I must do now. I shall be able to help Leo.”
Vespasia nodded. “We shall stand together,” she promised. “There are several of us, and we shall not stop fighting.”
Tellman was meanwhile busy tracking the last few days in the life of Josiah Slingsby. Someone had murdered him, either with deliberate intent or accidentally in a fight which had gone too far. That was one of the few things in this whole affair of which he was certain. Whether it had any connection with the blackmail attempt or not, it must be solved. It was the original case, and must not be lost sight of in whatever else was occupying most of Pitt’s time. Tellman fully expected the trail he was following to cross General Balantyne’s path, and it might be easier to come at it from this angle than from pursuing Balantyne directly, although that, too, would have to be done.
He began by discovering where Slingsby had lived. It was tedious and time-consuming, but not difficult for someone who was used to the mixture of threat, trickery and small bribes necessary to deal with fencers of stolen goods, prostitutes and keepers of “netherskens,” as cheap rooming houses were called, where those who wished to keep well out of the way of the police could rent a space to sleep in for a few pence a night. The owners asked nothing about their patrons and simply took the money. None were friends of the law, and whatever business they were involved in was best not discussed.
Lapsing into the attitude of the beggars and pickpockets lounging around the area, Tellman fell into conversation with a bull-chested man whose “terrier-crop” haircut indicated he had not long been out of prison. In spite of his impressive physique he had a hacking cough and dark circles of exhaustion under his eyes.
From him Tellman learned that Slingsby frequently worked in partnership with a man named Ernest Wallace, infamous for his ability to climb up drainpipes and balance along roof ledges and windowsills, and for his filthy temper.
He spent the rest of the day in Shoreditch, learning all he could about Wallace. Little of it was to his credit. He seemed to inspire both dislike and considerable fear. He was very good at his chosen skill of thieving, and his profits were both high and regular. So far he had escaped the attention of the law, who might well have been aware of him but had not yet proved any charge against him. However, he had quarreled with almost everyone with whom he had had dealings, and two or three of them that Tellman found carried the scars.
In this area it was understood that no one cooperated with the police to the extent of betraying one of their own, even at the cost of life. Tellman was the enemy, and he knew it. But revenge might be sought in more than one direction. He needed to find someone whom Wallace had hurt badly enough that he would be willing to savor Wallace’s downfall and pay the price. A little fear and a little profit might sway the argument.
It took him another day of slipping in and out of gin mills, crowded markets, being bumped and jostled, carrying nothing in his pockets, and even then the linings were ripped by cutpurses so skilled he did not feel their hands or their knives. He ate from a sandwich stall, walked dripping alleys, stepping over refuse, hearing rats’ feet scurrying away, and mixed threats and wheedling, but finally he found the person he sought, not a man but a woman. Wallace had beaten her, and as a result she had miscarried her child. She hated him enough not to care how she took her revenge.
Tellman had to be very careful how he questioned her. He must not prompt her into saying anything intentionally to ruin Wallace, and thereby end up being useless in any trial.
“It’s Slingsby I want,” he insisted.
She stood leaning against the dark brick wall of the street, her face half shaded in the gloom. The sky was hazed over with chimney smoke, and the smell of effluent was heavy in the air.
“Well, find Ernie Wallace an’ yer’ll find Joe,” she answered. “Joe Slingsby’s the only one as’ll work wif’im. Least ’e were. Dunno if ’e still does.” She sniffed. “ ’Ad a fight summink terrible ’baht a week ago—it were, ’cos o’ the big row down at the Goat an’ Compasses. Were the same night. Ernie damn near killed Joe, the bleedin’ swine. In’t seen Joe around ’ere since then. I ’spec ’e went orff.” She sniffed again and passed the back of her hand across her mouth. “I’d a’ come back an’ stuck a shiv in ’is ribs, if I’d a’ bin ’im. Bleedin’ bastard. Would now, if I could get near enough the swine. But ’e’d see me comin’, an’ ’e’s too fly by ’alf ter ’ang around any dark alleys by ’isself.”
“But you’re sure Joe Slingsby was with him that night a week ago?” Tellman tried to keep the excitement out of his voice. He could hear his words falling over each other with eagerness. She could hear it too.
“Din’ I just tell yer?” She stared at him. “Yer deaf, or summink? I dunno w’ere Joe is. I in’t seen ’ide ner ’air of ’im since then, but I know w’ere Ernie Wallace is. ’E’s bin throwin’ money around summink wild, like ’e ’ad it all.”
Tellman swallowed. “You reckon he and Joe Slingsby did a burglary that day and fought over the takings, and Wallace won?”
“ ’Course I do!” she said with contempt. “Wot else? Yer in’t very bright, are yer?”
“May be true.” He must be very careful. He affected doubt, turning away from her. “An’ maybe not.”
She spat on the narrow pavement. “ ’Oo cares!” She took a step back, her voice hard.
“I do!” He reached out and snatched her arm. “I gotter find Ernie Wallace. It’s worth something to me to know for sure what happened.”
“Well, Joe won’t tell yer!” she said derisively. “ ’e got the worse of it, I know fer sure.”
“How do you know?” he insisted.
“ ’Cos I saw it, o’ course! ’ow d’yer think?”
“Did Slingsby say he’d get back at Wallace? Where’d he go after?”
“I dunno. ’e never went anyw’ere.” She pulled her arm away roughly. “ ’e could a’ bin dead, fer all I know.” Suddenly her face changed. “Jeez! Mebbe ’e were dead! Nobody in’t seen ’im since then.”
“In that case,” Tellman said very slowly, looking straight at her, “if it can be proved, then Ernie Wallace murdered him, and he’ll swing for it.”
“Oh, it can be proved ….” She stared back at him, wide-eyed. “I’ll see ter it. I swear ter that, I do. I’ll get it fer yer!”
She was as good as her word. The evidence was all he needed. He took two constables and together they found and arrested Ernest Wallace and charged him with the murder of Josiah Slingsby. But regardless of the subtlety or persistence of questioning, or the threats or promises made to him, Wallace was adamant that he had left the body of Slingsby in the alley where he had fallen, and himself left the scene with all the speed he could muster.
“W’y the bleedin’ ’ell should I a’ took ’im ter bleedin’ Bedford Square?” he demanded with amazement. “Wo’ for? D’yer fink I’m gonna carry a corpse wot I done in ’alfway ’roun’ Lunnon in the middle o’ the night, jus’ so as I can leave ’im on someone else’s bleedin’ doorstep? Wo’ fer?”
The notion of placing Albert Cole’s bill for socks in the pocket of the corpse had him seriously questioning Tellman’s sanity.
“Yer bleedin’ mad, you are!” He snorted, his eyes wide. “Wot the ’ell are yer on abaht—socks?” He guffawed with laughter.
Tellman left the Shoreditch police station deep in thought. Unconsciously, he pushed his hands farther into his pockets, not realizing how he was mimicking Pitt. He believed Wallace, simply because what he said made sense. He had killed Slingsby in a fight which was violent, stupid, born of an un-governed temper and a quarrel over money. There w
as no forethought in it, no planning either before or after.
So who put the socks receipt in Slingsby’s pocket and where had he got it from? Where was Albert Cole now … alive or dead? And above all, why?
There was only one answer that came to his mind: in order to blackmail General Brandon Balantyne.
The street was shimmering with heat. It rose in waves from the stones, and the sheer brick walls on either side seemed to hem him in. The horses trotting briskly between the shafts of hansoms and drays alike were dark with sweat. The smell of manure was sharp in the air. He preferred it to the stale, clinging odor of drains.
A running patterer stood on the corner with a small group of listeners gathered around him. He was spinning a doggerel poem about the Tranby Croft affair and the Prince of Wales’s affection for Lady Frances Brooke. His version of the tale reflected rather better on Gordon-Cumming than on the heir to the throne or his friends.
Tellman stopped and listened for a minute or two, and gave the man a threepenny bit, then crossed the street and went on his way.
What did the blackmailer want? Money, or some corrupt action? And there had to be more to it than merely Slingsby’s body, even if it were believed to be that of Albert Cole, or Balantyne would never submit. The answer to those questions must lie with Balantyne. He would do as Pitt had told him and investigate the General more thoroughly, but he would be highly discreet about it. And he would tell Gracie nothing. His face burned at the thought, and he was surprised and angry at how guilty it made him feel that he would be keeping it from her, after he had given her his word, at least implicitly, to help.
He pushed his hands deeper into his pockets and strode along the pavement with his shoulders hunched and his lips in a thin line, the smells of rotten wood, soot and effluent catching in the back of his throat.
He began early the following morning by looking again at what he knew of Balantyne’s military record. He needed to know something of the man in order to understand his weaknesses, why he might have created enemies and who they would be. According to what little Tellman had learned by following him since the discovery of the corpse in Bedford Square, he was a cold, precise man whose few pleasures were solitary.