by Anne Perry
He went over to the cupboard that served him as an office, and took out a block of note paper and three sharp pencils, then he sat down to begin.
It was eleven o’clock and his eyes ached from reading the print, his head throbbed and his muscles were tight where he had clenched his hand to hold the pencil, but he had found no names.
He realised reluctantly that he was progressing very slowly indeed. Bluntly, he was taking too long. He marked the page he had been reading, put the whole lot back in its box, put the box in a Gladstone bag and went downstairs with it. He would be days discovering anything at this rate. He must get help.
He slipped out of the front door. Quietly closing it, he walked to the end of the street, carrying the manuscript in the heavy bag, and stopped a taxi. He gave the driver Blackwell’s address, and sat back. If neither Blackwell nor Mercy were in, he would have to leave them a note, asking for their urgent help, and travel all the way back again.
He rang the doorbell, and after several minutes, and several more rings of the bell, Blackwell himself opened the door, rather cautiously.
‘I need help,’ Daniel said. ‘This is more than I can manage on my own. And I’m not sure Kitteridge could do this anyway, even if he had the time.’
‘Then you’d better come inside,’ Blackwell answered, blinking a little owlishly. ‘Pay the driver first, or we’ll never get rid of him. Anyway, only a fool stiffs a taxi driver; you’d be bound to meet him again one day, when you really need him.’
‘Thank you,’ Daniel said with profound feeling. He put the Gladstone bag on the doorstep, turned on his heel, and walked back to the road to pay the driver. When he returned, Blackwell had taken the bag inside and stood by the door in his nightshirt, looking rumpled and curious.
Daniel went in and shut the door. The hallway was barely lit, but it was warm and smelled faintly of furniture wax. ‘Nothing is as we thought,’ he began. ‘For a start, the body isn’t Ebony Graves.’
Blackwell turned to face him. ‘What? Who says so? Who is it?’
‘Miss fford Croft. It’s too long a story for just now. But that isn’t why I’ve come. I’ve got Graves’ manuscript here and have to read it, find the accusations we can prove are not true, and do that – prove it – and find the people who will be prepared to fight to defend—’
‘Stop!’ Blackwell held up his hand. ‘Just tell me what to look for. I don’t need to know why. It’s important, that’s all that matters. Now tell me, what are we looking for exactly?’
For a moment, Daniel hesitated. He was afraid of what he would find. Not that it might be true, but that it could not be proved untrue. Often accusations stay in the mind, even after the apparent facts have been shown to be false. He had learned that with juries. Some people think that the police cannot be wrong. Why would they have accused a man if they had no proof? Charges gave credibility, just as print can. Blackmailers know that. Politicians know it. It can become a high and murderous art with some men, as it had with Robespierre in the French Revolution.
Blackwell was waiting, hands held out.
Was Daniel betraying Pitt to exposure for a weakness real or fancied? Should he find it himself, so that he could protect it properly, without anyone else knowing?
Blackwell was still waiting.
There wasn’t time. He must believe Blackwell could be trusted; Blackwell had believed in him! But he had had no chance, no alternative.
But then, neither had Daniel now.
He put the manuscript in Blackwell’s hands.
‘I’m looking for any accusation against Narraway, or against Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould, later Lady Narraway, that we can prove is not true. Ideally, if we can find them, with proof that they are untrue, we can, by implication, invalidate all the accusations. Or at least show that to level them would prove ruinous to anyone who did so. That should be enough to persuade the publishers that it would definitely be against their interests to bring out Graves’ book.’
Daniel could see before he had finished speaking that Blackwell understood. ‘We must stick to the truth,’ he ended, smiling to soften the effect of his words, ‘because we may well have to prove what we say.’
Blackwell’s face broke into a wide smile. ‘Of course. When you’re playing for high stakes, and against a man who has much to lose, always stick to the truth.’
Daniel let out his breath with a sigh. ‘Thank you. Can we get a start now? Please!’
‘Of course! No time to waste. I understand. No whisky, but a cup of tea would be nice.’
‘Make it later. Let me show you the manuscript, and the notes I have made so far.’
‘I wasn’t going to make the tea myself,’ Blackwell said with eyes wide. ‘Is there some reason why we should not get Mercy in to help us? She probably knows more about the indiscretions of society than both of us together. Not that I suppose you know anything anyway. Too young, and too innocent. You are as clean as a baby just out of the bath.’
Daniel did not waste time protesting that. ‘If she doesn’t mind, I’d be . . .’
Blackwell had already turned to leave. ‘I’ll tell her,’ he said at the doorway. ‘Start reading.’
Daniel got out the papers, made himself comfortable in one of the armchairs, and resumed his reading where he had left off. He begrudged admitting it, even to himself, but Graves was an engaging writer. He was not likeable in the least, but he knew how to draw out the curiosity of the reader and build suspense so that you turned the page. Each section led satisfactorily into the next. He was fascinated, in spite of himself.
It was about twenty minutes later that the door opened and Mercy Blackwell came in. Her hair was piled loosely instead of coiled, but it was still elegant, perhaps more so because it was natural rather than artifice. She was wearing a robe of deep violet purple, but no particular shape.
‘So, we are hunting,’ she said, as if it were something she did regularly and found no disturbance being got up out of bed to take part. There was no mention of it being in the middle of the night. ‘Show me where.’ She sat down as Daniel scrambled to his feet out of the most basic manners.
‘Are you sure?’ he said, and immediately felt foolish. There was no accepted way in which to conduct themselves in such circumstances.
She did not bother to answer him.
‘Start here, if you please.’ He gave her a pile of pages. ‘We are looking for—’
‘Yes, I know. Roman told me,’ she interrupted him. ‘Scandals concerning certain people, and particularly those that can be disproved. First, we must find every reference to their name, then see what stories can be given the lie. It might be a good idea to see other people that are condemned, even obliquely. You never know who might be a useful ally. Shall I write down their names, and the page numbers on which they are mentioned? It looks as if we have a long list, and a short time.’ She gave him a dazzling smile, then went immediately to Daniel’s notes.
Blackwell himself came in ten minutes later with a pot of tea on a tray, with mugs, a jug of milk, and a plate with several slices of rich fruitcake. He said nothing to interrupt either Mercy or Daniel. He poured the tea, and then as each took a mug and cake, he joined them in their labours.
Daniel was intensely grateful to them for this, but he did not know how to say so, more than he already had, and there was no time or effort to waste on trying.
It was easy reading, most of the time, but Daniel made notes of the names mentioned in connection with anyone he knew, or knew about. He gradually began to realise how much was innuendo: inference rather than fact. It drew the reader in like quicksand. First a little extra temptation to that area, a little suggestion of scandal, or illicit romance, the odd joke or two, and then he found himself turning the pages more and more rapidly in contemplation of a name turning up again, more interestingly.
Twice he caught himself racing to find another reference to a woman cleverly described, not literally, but only by the effect she had on certain men. People were f
ascinated by her laughter. No matter how often she laughed, they turned towards her. She moved with a grace that made others look awkward. Men straightened their shoulders and stood more elegantly when she was present. Daniel turned page after page to see who she was. He had to read further to know, forgetting to note all the names as he went.
He forced himself to go back and be more diligent. He hated doing it, but Graves knew the weaknesses of human nature, and how to mask ugliness as ordinary frailty, how to make observation seem like familiarity rather than intrusion.
Daniel looked across at Blackwell. He, too, was bent over his pages, and his hand was writing notes almost automatically. Was that also how he saw it? Weaknesses, that in compassion should be covered rather than exposed? Daniel had seen both humour and compassion in him, but did not know him well enough to know what aroused one more than the other in a frailty observed.
How did his father deal with weaknesses in others, vulnerabilities? He knew the answer to that. He had overheard enough discussions of cases to know that he rarely exposed them if he could avoid it, and when he did, it hurt him.
Was that what Graves considered weakness in Daniel, too?
It was a deeper question than he had thought at first. What was weakness? Where was the line between weakness and compassion? A judgement call? The division where it exposed only yourself, and the place where others were hurt? There was a judgement call too, most of the time. It looked as if, to Graves, it was where danger to yourself met profitability. What was the risk to him? Of course, there was also the pleasure in malice and revenge. It did not always come at a price. Was, for him, the judgement call the weighing of price against pleasure?
Another hour went by. To Daniel, words were beginning to waiver on the page. He rubbed his eyes, found that they still blurred.
‘Enough,’ Mercy said quietly, watching him. ‘Go to bed and we will wake refreshed, or at least better than we are now, and I will make us breakfast. Bacon and eggs, toast and marmalade, hot tea.’ She stood up slowly, as if her back were stiff. She moved her shoulders a little.
Daniel rose to help her, but he was too late.
‘You are asleep,’ she told him briskly. ‘Go to bed. Top of the stairs, first door to the right. Bathroom is next after that. Don’t argue with me. I haven’t time for it. Or the strength. Good night.’
‘Good night, Mercy,’ he said obediently. ‘Thank you.’
‘You saved Roman’s life. What did you expect me to do?’ she replied. ‘Go to bed!’
Daniel slept soundly, although he had not expected to, and woke up to find the room full of sunlight, and Mercy standing beside his bed, fully dressed and her hair wound up like usual, the white streak blazing.
‘Breakfast in fifteen minutes,’ she said. ‘I expect you at the table, washed and shaved, and dressed of course. Then we will continue to work.’ She did not wait to see if he was going to answer.
They worked the rest of the morning and all afternoon. No one mentioned that the last day was fast approaching on which they could hope to get their appeal before a judge in time to get a stay of execution. No one needed to say that they did not want to let Graves be hanged.
Daniel felt that they had to have a plan ready for the next morning. That was going to mean a hard day followed by a hard night.
In the middle of the afternoon, he reached the end of his pile, and Blackwell reached the end of his ten minutes later.
Mercy looked up. ‘Well?’ she asked.
Daniel felt defensive. The book was principally about Victor Narraway, with major digressions about people he had known, and letters that were personal and had little to do with his career. But it was cruel. There was more than one interpretation of most events, and Graves had always chosen the one that fitted his own estimate of Narraway as greedy, vain, and in the end always self-serving. So many stories that he had found skirted the edge of slander, but never tipped over. Daniel felt as if all the defence somehow made more of the fault rather than less. If there were nothing wrong, why would anyone leap to offer an excuse? It drew more attention to the lapse and made most people consider it in the light of the assumption that it required defending.
‘Clever,’ Mercy said quietly. ‘But not infallible, I think.’
‘Do you?’ Daniel heard his own voice sounding absurdly hopeful. ‘Not infallible?’
‘There is this story here.’ Mercy held up a sheet of paper and pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. ‘Page one hundred and sixty-eight. It concerns Dorothy Devoke. Graves says Narraway was having an affair with her. Used her to gain very personal information about her husband, Richard Devoke. Forced him into supporting Narraway in some venture or another, and when it turned out badly – Devoke lost a fortune – it transpired that Narraway did not put any of his own money into it. Dorothy was furious and caused a very ugly scene at Claridge’s, of all places. Devoke left the Government and retired to the country. Narraway prospered.’
Daniel had reached the place where Graves referred back to it. ‘It sounds bad . . .’
‘That is because of the language used,’ Mercy explained. ‘Put in other words, it sounds different. It’s all supposition. And I know a lot about Dorothy Devoke. I could make as good a case for the opposite view . . . which is that Narraway warned him not to invest, and he did, out of perversity.’
‘But does it help us?’ Daniel insisted. Doubt was not enough. Especially if Richard Devoke had been so upset about the losses that he had given up his position in the Government.
Mercy smiled patiently. ‘You’re missing the point, my dear. Robert Devoke, Richard’s son, is a very powerful man now. Discreetly, of course, but he has the ear of some very important people. He knows the truth behind this, and if he has temporarily forgotten, I for one would be happy to remind him. Narraway actually helped him. I happen to know that because I—’ She stopped abruptly. ‘I just know.’
Daniel did not wish either to probe her personal life, or hear things he would rather not know.
‘Richard Devoke would be happy to have his revenge. If this book comes out, he’ll be . . . embarrassed. It is an affair he would prefer we all forgot. I would be happy to warn him that this book repeats it, in the worst possible light. He will be happy to make the publishers wish they had not given it house room.’
‘Good!’ Daniel allowed himself some relief. ‘Page . . .?’
‘One sixty-eight to one ninety,’ she answered. She handed him the twenty-three pages.
‘Thank you.’ He attached them together, and when he looked up, she had resumed reading again.
Daniel glanced across at Blackwell, but Blackwell was deep in concentration and unaware of Daniel, or of his mother. There was a deep frown on his face, and his mouth was turned down at the corners, as if he found something he was reading to be more and more distasteful.
Ideas raced through Daniel’s mind. Was Blackwell discovering a truth that he knew would distress Daniel profoundly, but that sooner or later he would have to hear? Daniel liked Blackwell. In his own way, he was honest. He would be deliberately vague about facts, but never about his own kind of morality. And he could not bear unkindness, arrogance, or hypocrisy. He could not afford to be judged, and in turn he judged others gently.
Looking again at his face as he read, Daniel was certain that Blackwell had found one of the sins he despised.
But Daniel could not afford to sit watching Blackwell, and wondering what arguments he might be seeing, and if it would hurt Daniel to know it. He was no use to his father, or his memories of Narraway and Vespasia, if he could not face the darkness as well as the light. Everyone made mistakes, even those you loved the most. Friends did not require you to be perfect, and to live up to their dreams of you. To do so was unfair, juvenile, and in itself deeply unkind. He had made a few mistakes of his own. He would prefer that those who loved him did not know. You carried these things alone, if you are permitted to. Sometimes they were public. It was tempting to lie, find excuses, but in the en
d it only increased the burden.
How was he going to find out about Narraway? The whole book was based on this trivia. There were bound to be failures as well as successes, otherwise he would never have attempted anything that stretched his knowledge or judgement, his abilities, or his honesty. What kind of a man is that? The question that bothered him now was not that Narraway had made mistakes, it was whether he had blamed others for them or acknowledged them himself.
He bent back to his own reading again.
He found Narraway’s occasional mistakes, but Graves had found them through Narraway’s own admission. He had added to them generously, crediting other events to those errors. Daniel thought that, with care, those could be proved false, or at least questionable. But he also realised explaining them away, no matter how successfully, looked like making excuses. Narraway would emerge as unlikeable, self-justifying. Graves had called him a weasel in the night. The image remained in the mind.
Certainly, it was not enough to make any publisher afraid to bring out the book.
He bent to look further.
Ten minutes later, it was Mercy who interrupted him. ‘I found a story about Lady Vespasia that I know is not true,’ she said with triumph in her voice. ‘And what is rather more to the point, Lord Shadox is still alive and has a large family, who among them own a number of houses of finance, and could call in a great many loans, if they wish to. They might make life most uncomfortable for the publishers, if they felt insulted, either for Lady Vespasia or on their own behalf. Page two hundred and five.’
She passed him the papers. ‘If this were true, the current Lord Shadox would lose his part of the title, and with it his home in Northumberland, which I happen to know he is extremely fond of. Oh dear, what a mistake. Hot temper, too.’ She smiled even more widely. ‘Very hot! He won’t like this, it’s grubby.’ She looked up at Daniel. ‘Victor Narraway seems to have been quite a character, in his time. There are some of these events that could be embarrassing to a good few. Graves gives the true beginnings of them, and then allows his own imagination to complete them. He is clever, but I think he has outwitted himself here. The suggestions are scandalous. He all but says Narraway covered them up for payment. Which, whether it is true or not, leaves the reader believing them. That is a very serious error.’
