Callander Square

by Anne Perry

  “Get out of my house, Reggie,” he said levelly. “And please do not return. You are no longer welcome here. And as far as the police are concerned, I shall move everything I have, speak to every man in power, to see that they ask every question, investigate every clue until they find out the uttermost truth about everything that has happened in Callander Square, and I don’t give a damn whom it hurts. Do you understand me?”

  Reggie stared at him, blinking, the sherry glass in his hand.

  “Y—you’re drunk!” he stammered, although he knew it was not true. “You’re insane! Have you any idea what harm it could do?” his voice ended in a squeak.

  “Please leave, Reggie. It would make you look ridiculous to have to be thrown out.”

  Reggie’s face darkened to crimson and he hurled the glass into the fire, splintering it into incandescent pieces. He turned on his heel and marched out, slamming the door behind him so hard the pictures teetered on the shelf and a small ornament fell over.

  Balantyne stood alone for several minutes, his mind absorbing what he had done. Finally he rang the bell, and when the butler appeared, asked to have the footman fetch his coat as he was going out to see Sir Robert Carlton.

  Carlton was at home, and Balantyne found him in the withdrawing room by the fire opposite Euphemia. He had never seen her look so happy, there seemed to be a warmth about her, as if she were somehow in the sunlight. Balantyne wished he had come for any other reason, but the outrage was still hot inside him.

  “Good evening, Carlton; evening, Euphemia, you’re looking uncommonly well.”

  “Good evening, Brandon.” There was a slight lift of question in her voice.

  “I’m sorry, Euphemia, I need to speak to Robert urgently. Will you be so generous as to excuse us?”

  Euphemia stood up, a little puzzled, and obligingly left the room.

  Carlton frowned, annoyance flickering across his face.

  “What is it, Balantyne? It had better be important, or I will find it hard to excuse your manners. You were something less than courteous to my wife.”

  Balantyne was in no mood for trivialities.

  “Did you use your influence to stop the police from investigating any further into the murders in this square?” he demanded.

  Carlton faced him squarely, his face quite unperturbed by guilt or reserve.

  “Yes, I did. I think they have done enough harm already, and no good can come of continuing to probe into our private lives and our tragedies and mistakes. They have had more than enough time to discover who gave birth to those unfortunate children, and what happened to them. There is no reasonable chance that after all this time they will discover who Helena Doran’s lover was, or find him if they did. As for Freddie Bolsover, he may or may not have been a blackmailer, but on the other hand he could perfectly well have been killed by a passing robber. Better for Sophie if we suppose that and leave it alone—”

  “Balderdash!” Balantyne shouted. “You know damned well he was killed by someone in this square because he pushed too hard with his blackmail, and this time he caught not some lascivious ass who played around with a maid, but a murderer.”

  Carlton’s face tightened.

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “Yes, and if you’re honest, so do you. I know you’re afraid for Euphemia. I’m afraid too. But I’m a damn sight more afraid of what I’ll turn into if I try to cover this up—”

  “Freddie was a blackmailer,” Carlton said less certainly. “Let the wretch lie in peace, for Sophie’s sake, if nothing else.”

  “Stop deceiving yourself, Robert. Whatever he was, his murder cannot be disregarded, swept away because it is ugly and its investigation is inconvenient to us. What the hell do you believe in, man? Have you nothing left but comfort?”

  Carlton’s head came up sharply, his eyes blazing: but he had no defense. He opened his mouth to speak, but words evaded him. Balantyne did not flinch, and eventually it was Carlton who looked down.

  “I’ll speak to the Home Secretary tomorrow,” he said quietly.

  “Good.”

  “I don’t know what good it will do. Campbell and Reggie are pulling pretty hard for it to be closed. Reggie is afraid for himself, of course; but I think Campbell is sorry for Sophie. Pretty frightful for her, poor girl. Mariah’s been taking care of her; very capable woman, Mariah; always seems to know what to do in a crisis. But nothing could protect Sophie from the disgrace if this is made public.”

  “I’m glad there is someone who can keep their head,” Balantyne could not resist a last cruelly honest jibe, his anger was still too hot. “I am sorry for Sophie, but the truth cannot be changed. Give my apologies to Euphemia,” he said, and then turned and left. When he had spoken to Brandy and Augusta, told them his feelings, he would be drained of anger. Then he could come back, perhaps tomorrow, and make his peace with Carlton. In the future, when he was needed, he would help Sophie.

  When he reached his own hallway he was surprised by the footman telling him Miss Ellison had called to see him. He was annoyed, disconcerted. He was far from at his best, and he did not wish her to see him in these circumstances. The footman was staring at him, and his brain could manufacture no excuse.

  She was waiting for him in the study. She turned as he came in, and at sight of her face he remembered how much she pleased him, how clear and gentle were the lines of her face, passion without guile. There was nothing sophisticated in her, and it was both restful and exciting to him.

  “Charlotte, my dear,” he went over toward her, holding out his hands, meaning to take hers, but she held back. “What is it?” She had changed and he was afraid of it; he did not want anything in her to be different.

  “General Balantyne,” she said a little formally. There was color in her cheeks and she looked uncomfortable, but she did not avoid his eyes. She took a deep breath. “I am afraid I have lied to you. Emily Ashworth is my sister, but I am not unmarried, as I allowed you to believe. Ellison was my maiden name, I am Charlotte Pitt—”

  At first the name meant nothing to him, he could see no reason for the deception. Had she imagined he would not employ her if she were married?

  “Inspector Pitt is my husband,” she said simply. “I came here because I wanted to find out about the babies, and, if they were stillborn, to offer some support to the mother. Now I want to help Jemima. Mr. Southeron has charged that she blackmailed him, and then killed Dr. Bolsover in a quarrel over the money. If Thomas is called off the case and no one ever discovers who did kill Dr. Bolsover, she will have that hanging over her all her life.”

  “You are married to Pitt,” he frowned, “the policeman?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry for having deceived you. I never imagined at the time that it could matter. But please, think whatever you like of me, but don’t let them prevent Thomas from finding out the truth, at least about Dr. Bolsover. It is wrong to accuse someone, and then leave it unproved. If Jemima had been his social equal, he would not have dared. He only said it because he knew she could neither defend herself, nor attack him in return.”

  He felt an illusion slip away from him, and a new value take its place. The dream had been fragile, and foolish; he had not named it even to himself. Now the thing in its place was a warm, gentle pain, the kind that becomes a familiar companion in time, part of one’s growing.

  He sighed very slowly. “I have already been to see Sir Robert Carlton. That is where I was when you came. He will speak to the Home Secretary tomorrow.”

  The smile started in her eyes and her mouth till it seemed to fill all of her, even to the way she stood, very straight, but with a grace, an ease to the line of her body.

  “I am glad,” she said quietly. “I apologize for not having known that you would.” She gathered her cloak a little closer round her and moved past him.

  He let her go, he was too full to speak. The compliment, the trust burned inside him more fiercely than in any sweet moment of youth.

  He stood
alone for a long time in the room before he finally sent for Brandy.

  When Brandy came in he was ready for him.

  “I have been this evening to see Robert Carlton,” he began straight away. “I persuaded him to speak to the Home Secretary to permit the police to continue to investigate the murders in the square, however long it may be, or however painful, before they discover the truth. Since Freddie Bolsover was a blackmailer, it is highly likely that was the motive for his death. The police will naturally have to pursue that—no, don’t interrupt me, Brandon. I am telling you because they will doubtless come to this house again. They are already aware of Christina’s folly with Max. If there is anything you have done that would make you vulnerable to pressure, I advise you to tell me now, and then the police. If it has nothing to do with Freddie, I daresay they will be discreet about it.”

  “They already know,” Brandy replied soberly. “It seems they are extremely thorough, in everything except the actual murders! But thank you for the warning.” He looked away. “I’m glad you did that. Reggie accused Jemima of having blackmailed him, and then of having killed Freddie over the money. I intend to see him in hell for that.”

  “How do you know?” Balantyne demanded.

  Brandy looked back at him.

  “Inspector Pitt told me. I’m sorry about that, Father.” Then sensing Balantyne’s embarrassment, he spoke quite casually. “Do you want to see Mother? You’d better warn her as well, she does rather tend to take things into her own hands!”

  Balantyne winced at the memory of Max. He did not really want to see Augusta tonight. There was a lot he wished to say to her, but not yet. Presently, perhaps, when he better understood himself.

  “No, thank you,” he replied. “You can tell her, if you don’t mind. I don’t think it will be necessary to warn her, but it would be a courtesy.”

  Brandy hesitated a moment, then smiled.

  “Right,” he turned and went to the door. “Thank you for not exploding over Jemima. I mean to marry her, if she’ll have me. I dare say Mother won’t be pleased, but she’ll accommodate it in time, if you do.”

  “I didn’t say—!” but Brandy was gone, and there was nothing for Balantyne to do but stare at the door after him. Perhaps it was not such a monstrous thought; it was not as if she were a servant, indeed she was not so very unlike Charlotte—but that was another dream he would prefer not to contemplate tonight.

  It was after lunch the next day when he saw Alan Ross at his club. Quite naturally, since Alan was both friend and son-in-law, he went over to speak to him.

  “Afternoon, Alan, how are you? Christina well?”

  “Good afternoon, sir. Yes, in fine health, thank you. And you?”

  “Excellent.” What a stilted conversation. Why could he not say what he meant? Had he not learned that much at least from Charlotte? “No, that’s not true. You heard about Freddie Bolsover?”

  Ross frowned.

  “Yes. Somebody spoke of blackmail; is that true?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. There’s been a concerted effort round the square to stop the police from investigating it any further, for fear of digging up a lot of scandal, I presume, although of course those are not the motives given. I suppose everyone has something they would prefer not known; something sordid, or foolish, or just acutely private.”

  Ross made a small face of agreement. Then he looked up as if he had thought of something to say. Balantyne waited, but apparently the words eluded him. They spoke of trivialities for a little while, then Balantyne drew them back to Callander Square, feeling Ross still wished to speak to him.

  Again Ross hesitated.

  “Is there something you know that I don’t?” Balantyne asked quietly, commanding Ross’s attention with his eyes.

  “No,” Ross shook his head, a tiny, rueful smile at the corner of his mouth. “It is something we both know; but I imagine you are not aware of it.”

  Balantyne was puzzled, but he had as yet no sense of misgiving.

  “Then if I already know, why are you having such difficulty finding the words for it?” he asked. “And why the need to speak of it at all?”

  For the first time Ross really met his eyes, without veil or deception.

  “Because you may otherwise go to some lengths to keep it from me.”

  Balantyne stared.

  “Christina,” Ross replied. “I am perfectly aware of her liaison with Max, and the reason for her somewhat precipitate pursuit of me. No, there’s no need to look like that. I knew at the time. I don’t mind. I loved Helena, and I shall never love anyone else. I have a high regard for you; and, it may surprise you, for Lady Augusta also. I was quite willing to be of use to Christina. I shall never love her, but I shall be a good husband to her; and I intend to see that she is a good wife to me: as good as our feelings, or lack of them, will permit. There is still an honorable way to behave, love or not.” He looked down for a moment, then up again. “What I am trying to say is that there is no need to fear my hearing of the affair and treating Christina any differently.” The smile warmed his eyes. “Also, I am very fond of Brandy. Although he has tended to avoid me since my engagement. I think perhaps his conscience is affecting him. He was not born for deceit and it sits ill with him.”

  Balantyne would have defended himself against the implication of his own deceit, but it was true and he had no defense; and also there was no criticism in Ross’s face. He had a sudden feeling that Ross was a better man than Christina deserved, a man he both liked and respected himself.

  “Thank you,” he said warmly. “You could well have let me stew in fear, even betray myself, and have been justified. It is a great kindness that you do not. I hope in time you will learn to forgive us, not only in charity, but in understanding; although I have no right to ask.”

  “I might well have done the same,” Ross brushed it away. “Might yet, if I have children. Join me in a glass of claret?”

  “Thank you,” Balantyne accepted with real pleasure, and a sense of ease inside himself. “Yes, I will.”

  When Pitt was called again to Colonel Anstruther’s presence he was surprised and relieved to be told that there had been a change of directive from the Home Office, and he was to proceed with his inquiries into all the matters to do with Callander Square. He was surprised, because he had not expected a change of heart, not knowing Charlotte had visited General Balantyne, nor expecting there to have been any results had he been fully conversant with it; and relieved because he had had every intention of pursuing it to the last clue whatever anyone said. Although of course it would have had to be done in roundabout fashion, and largely in his own time, both of which would have been awkward. He did not wish to run the risk of serious demotion for disobedience, and he would very much rather have spent such free time as he had at home with Charlotte, particularly now when she had but four months to go till the birth of their first child.

  Therefore it was with a feeling almost of excitement that he ran down the steps and hailed a cab to take him, post haste, back to Callander Square.

  Sitting, jolting over the rough paving, he gave his mind to going over, yet again, all that he knew.

  He had no doubt in his own mind that Freddie Bolsover had been killed because of his blackmailing; whether or not he had ever actually used the information that had brought about his death, the mere knowledge of it had been fatal to him, the danger of his using it too great for someone to permit. It had been a daring and urgent murder. The murderer had considered his position in imminent peril. What could Freddie have known? Some affair, some illegitimate child? Hardly. With all the other scandals in Callander Square that barely seemed a matter over which to risk murder. Had he known who was the mother, or more likely the father, of the babies buried in the gardens? Certainly not from the beginning, or he would either have used the information sooner, or been killed sooner—

  Unless of course he had only just discovered it!

  Or there was another possibility—that the
murderer had only just discovered that Freddie knew: Freddie had either never intended to use the information, knowing it was too dangerous, or else not understood its meaning. Yes, that made sense. The murderer had killed him so precipitately before he could learn the value of what he knew!

  He had arrived at Callander Square and was standing huddled in his coat, collar up, watching the cab clop away into the mist before he realized the last possibility—that it was the knowledge that Freddie had blackmailed Reggie Southeron that had woken the murderer to his own danger! That was the most promising, it gave a precise point at which he could start.

  He crossed the square over the muddy gardens, past where the babies had been found, and where Freddie Bolsover had lain; his feet rang hollowly on the road again, the pavement, and up the steps to Reggie Southeron’s house.

  Since it was a cold and thoroughly unpleasant day Reggie had not troubled to go to the bank, however he sent a message that he would not see the police any further, nor permit the rest of his household to do so.

  Pitt replied to the footman that he had authorization from the Home Office, and if Mr. Southeron made it necessary for him to return with a warrant, then he would do so, but in view of the fact that nobody else in the square had yet behaved in such a way—true so far as it went, he had called on no one else—it might prove more embarrassing for Mr. Southeron than for him!

  Ten minutes later Reggie appeared, red-faced and extremely angry.

  “Who in hell do you think you are, quoting the Home Secretary at me?” he demanded, slamming the door behind him.

  “Good morning, sir,” Pitt answered courteously. “There is only one thing I would appreciate knowing, and that is, who else did you confide in about Dr. Bolsover’s attempts to blackmail you?”

  “No one. Hardly the sort of thing you go telling your friends!” Reggie said sharply. “Idiotic question!”

  “That’s odd, Mr. Campbell told me you mentioned it to him, and asked his advice.” Pitt raised his eyebrows.

  “Damned fool!” Reggie swore. “Well, daresay I did. Must have, if he says so.”