Bedford Square tp-19

by Anne Perry

  “But did he ask for anything, Mrs. Tannifer?”

  “No.” She shook her head. Her thin hands were clenched in her lap, her eyes grave and troubled. “He seems to be some kind of monster who merely wishes to inflict pain and terror upon people for no gain to himself beyond the pleasure it affords him.” She looked at him with desperate earnestness. “But I believe I know who may be another victim, Mr. Pitt. I have hesitated whether to tell you or not, and the fact that I do so may not please my husband. But I am distracted to know how to face this matter and avoid just the kind of ruin he has cost poor Sir Guy Stanley.”

  Pitt leaned forward. “Tell me what you know, Mrs. Tannifer. It may help, and I doubt very strongly that it can hurt any more than will be inevitable, regardless of what we do.”

  She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She was obviously embarrassed by what she had done, and yet the determination in her to fight, to defend her husband, did not waver in the slightest.

  “I had been in the study with my husband, discussing the matter. He is far more troubled by it than I believe he allowed you to see. It is much more than financial ruin or the loss of career; it is the knowledge that ordinary people, friends, those whom one admires and whose opinions mean so much, will believe you to be dishonorable … that is what hurts beyond any reparation. Perhaps when all is said and done, a quiet conscience is the greatest possession, but a good name in the eyes of others is second.”

  He did not argue. He knew how dear to himself he held the belief in others that he was honest, and perhaps even more, that he was generous, that he never deliberately caused pain.

  “What did you hear, Mrs. Tannifer?”

  “I had just left, but I did not quite close the door. I was in the hallway when I heard my husband pick up the telephone. We have one; it is an excellent instrument. He placed a call to Mr. Leo Cadell, of the Foreign Office. At first I was about to continue on my way to the kitchen-I was intending to speak to the cook-but I heard his voice change. Suddenly he became very grave, and there was both sympathy and fear in his tone.”

  She regarded Pitt intently. “I know my husband very well. We have always been extremely close, and keep nothing from each other. I knew straightaway that Mr. Cadell had told him something grave and confidential. I concluded from what I could hear of my husband’s part of the conversation that Mr. Cadell had asked about raising money, a large amount, at very short notice. He is a man of considerable means, but it does not necessarily follow that a large sum can be realized with ease. Good financial advice is imperative if one is not to lose a great deal.” She took a breath. “Sigmund tried to be of every assistance to him, but I know from what he said that he guessed it was to pay some suddenly incurred debt, the size of which was not yet known, but it could not be avoided or delayed in any way.”

  “It does sound as if it could be blackmail,” Pitt agreed. “But if that is the case, he is the first one to be asked for anything specific. No one else has been asked for money at all.”

  “I am not certain that is what it was,” she conceded. “But I heard the tone of Sigmund’s voice, and I saw his face afterwards.” She shook her head quickly. “He would not discuss it with me, of course, because whatever Mr. Cadell told him was in confidence, but it was not an ordinary matter of luxuries. Sigmund was deeply troubled, and when we spoke, he referred to the blackmail letter again and asked me how deeply I would mind if we were to find ourselves in greatly reduced circumstances. Would I be prepared to leave London and live somewhere quite different, even in another country, if it should come to that.” Her voice was strong, full of confidence. “I said that of course I would. As long as we kept our honor and went together, I should live anywhere and do anything that necessity drove us to.” She lifted her chin and looked very directly into Pitt’s eyes. “I should rather be ruined by libel like poor Sir Guy Stanley than pay a halfpenny to this monster and feed his evil.”

  “Thank you for your frankness, Mrs. Tannifer.” Pitt meant intensely what he said. She was a remarkable woman possessed of a courage and loyalty he admired, and at the same time in her there was passion, and a fierce knowledge and ability to feel pain. Her compassion for Stanley was not born purely of imagination.

  He rose to his feet to take his leave.

  “Will it help?” she demanded, standing also. “Will you be able to learn anything further?”

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I shall certainly go to see Mr. Cadell. He may be able to tell me more about what he has been asked for, and possibly what he is threatened regarding. All information should narrow the possibilities as to who could have known enough to write the letter. In each case the victim is accused of the sort of offense likely to hurt him the most deeply. That speaks of a certain knowledge, Mrs. Tannifer. If you should learn anything more, please call me immediately.”

  “Of course. Godspeed, Mr. Pitt.” She stood in the center of her uniquely peaceful room, a slender, rather angular figure of burning emotion. “Find the devil who does this … for us all!”

  7

  As soon as Pitt had left to go and see Sir Guy Stanley, Charlotte picked up the newspaper and read the article again. She did not know if Stanley had been threatened by the blackmailer or not, or what he might have been asked for, and really it was irrelevant. Whatever the truth of the matter was, the other victims would feel the same horror and pity for him, and fear for themselves. Whether it was a fortuitous accident or a deliberate warning to them, the result would be exactly the same, a tightening of the pressure, perhaps this time almost beyond bearing.

  She explained her intentions very briefly to Gracie, then went upstairs and changed into the same yellow morning dress she had worn on the first occasion, because it was the one in which she felt most confident, and then set out to walk to Bedford Square.

  Her sense of outrage and anxiety carried her all the way to the doorstep of Balantyne’s house, and when the door was opened she explained with the greatest simplicity that she had come to call upon the General, if he was in and would receive her.

  However, she was crossing the hall when she encountered Lady Augusta, dressed magnificently in browns and golds. Augusta came down the stairs just as Charlotte reached the foot with its elaborately carved newel.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Pitt,” she said icily, her eyes wide, her brows arched. “Over what hitherto unknown disaster have you come to commiserate with us today? Has some catastrophe occurred of which my husband has not yet informed me?”

  Charlotte was too angry to be awed by Augusta, or anyone else, and she had been lately in Vespasia’s presence. Something of the older woman’s supreme confidence had rubbed off. She stopped and regarded Augusta with equal chill.

  “Good morning, Lady Augusta. So kind of you to be interested. But then as I recall, you were always a person of warmth and most generous judgment of others.” She ignored the flush of anger on Augusta’s face. “The answer to your question rather depends upon whether you are just descending for the first time today, or if you have already been down, perhaps for breakfast?” Again she overrode Augusta’s sharply indrawn breath and obvious irritation. “I am afraid the news is most distressing. There is a highly scurrilous article about Sir Guy Stanley. And of course the usual miserable disclosures about the Tranby Croft affair, although I did not read that.”

  “Then how do you know they are miserable?” Augusta snapped.

  Charlotte widened her eyes very slightly, as if a mere flicker of surprise had touched her.

  “I regard it as miserable that an unfortunate matter of gentlemen’s behavior while playing cards should have passed into public dispute and comment,” she replied. “Was I mistaken in imagining that you would also?”

  Augusta’s face was tight. “No, of course you weren’t!” she said through her teeth.

  “I’m so glad,” Charlotte murmured, wishing profoundly that Balantyne would appear and rescue the situation.

  Augusta was not easily bested. She resumed
the attack. “Then since it is not the Tranby Croft affair which brings you here, I must assume it is because you have supposed that Sir Guy Stanley’s misfortune is somehow of concern to us. I do not believe I am acquainted with him.”

  “Indeed …” Charlotte said vaguely, as if the remark was completely irrelevant, as indeed it was.

  Augusta was now visibly irritated. “No! So why should you imagine that I am sufficiently distressed by his misfortune, deserved or not, that I should require your sympathy, Mrs. Pitt? Particularly at”-she glanced at the long case clock in the hall-“half past nine in the morning!” Her tone of voice conveyed how outlandish it was that anyone at all should call at such an unheard-of hour.

  “I am sure,” Charlotte agreed with surprising calm, wishing even more fervently the General would appear. “Had I thought for a moment you were … concerned … I should have sent you my card, and called by at three.”

  “Then not only is your journey unnecessary,” Augusta retorted, glancing again at the clock, “but you are somewhat early.”

  Charlotte smiled at her dazzlingly, wondering frantically what she could say. Apart from her desire to see Balantyne, she hated to be beaten by a woman she realized she loathed-not for anything she might have said or done to Charlotte, but for her coldness towards her own husband.

  “I cannot assume you could be aware of General Balantyne’s regard for Sir Guy and remain so unconcerned,” she said with glittering and spurious charm. “That would be too uncharitable. Indeed, it would be heartless … which no one would think of you.…”

  Augusta drew in her breath and let it out again.

  There were footsteps along the passageway, and General Balantyne appeared in the hall. He saw Charlotte and started forward.

  “Mrs. Pitt! How are you this morning?” His face was haggard with anxiety, fear and distress. The skin around his eyes was shadowy and paper-thin, the lines at his mouth deeper.

  She turned to him with immense relief, effectively dismissing Augusta.

  “I am quite well,” she answered, meeting his look frankly. “But I found the news appalling. I had not foreseen such a thing, and I don’t yet really know what to make of it. Thomas has gone there, of course, but I will not know what he has learned until this evening, if he will discuss it at all.”

  Balantyne looked beyond her to Augusta and saw the expression in his wife’s face. Charlotte did not turn.

  Augusta made a slight sound, as if she thought of saying something, and then reconsidered. There was a sharp swish of skirts and a rustle and tap of feet as she walked away.

  Charlotte still did not turn.

  “It was kind of you to come,” Balantyne said quietly. “I admit I am extraordinarily glad to see you.” He led the way to his study and opened the door for her. Inside was warm and bright, and comfortable with long use. There was no fire lit-the unusually hot summer did not require one-and there was a large, green-glazed vase full of white lilies on the drum table. The flowers perfumed the whole room and seemed to catch the sunlight from the long windows.

  He closed the door.

  “You read the newspaper?” she said immediately.

  “I did. I don’t know Guy Stanley well, but the poor devil must be feeling … beyond description.” He ran his hands over his brow, pushing his hair hard back. “Of course, we don’t even know yet if he is one of us, but I dare not believe he isn’t. It almost seems irrelevant; this has shown just what ruin can come upon us with a whisper, an innuendo. As if we didn’t know … with the Tranby Croft affair. Although I think Gordon-Cumming might well have been guilty.”

  Suddenly his face paled, tightening with pain. “God! What am I saying? I know no more of the man than rumor, the gossip that passes in the club, snatches overheard. That’s exactly what is going to happen to all of us.” He walked unsteadily over to one of the large leather chairs and sat down heavily. “What hope have we?”

  She sat down opposite him. “It is not quite the same as Mr. Gordon-Cumming,” she said quietly but very firmly. “There is no question that they were playing baccarat. No one denies that. And Mr. Gordon-Cumming’s reputation prior to this is such that there are many who do not find it difficult to believe that he would cheat. Seemingly there have been doubts before. Has anyone ever made so much as a whisper that you could have panicked on the battlefield?”

  “No” He lifted his head a little. He smiled very slightly.

  “That is some comfort, but there will still be many only too happy to assume the worst. I never heard any question of Stanley’s honor or integrity before, and yet look at the newspapers. I doubt he will be able to sue for libel, it is so subtly worded, and what could he prove? Even if he did, what could he win back that would be a quarter the value of the reputation he has lost? Money answers so very little where love or honor are concerned.”

  It was true, and to argue with him would be not only pointless but offensive.

  “No value, except punitive,” she agreed. “And I suppose a court case would only give people the opportunity to throw more accusations. And all the charges are so cleverly chosen that one cannot prove they are untrue. He has obviously thought of that.” She leaned forward, the sun catching the corner of her sleeve in vivid gold. “But we must not give up trying. There must be someone still left alive from the ambush in Abyssinia who can remember what happened and whose testimony would be believed. We must just keep searching for them.”

  There was no hope in his face. He tried to compose himself to some kind of resolution, but it was automatic, without heart.

  “Of course. I have been thinking who else I might approach.” He gave a half smile. “One of the ugliest aspects of all this is that one begins to suspect everyone of being involved. I try hard not to wonder who it is, but when I am awake at night thoughts come into my mind unbidden.” His mouth tightened. “I determine not to entertain them, but the hours go by and I find I have done. I can no longer think of anyone without suspicion. People whose decency and whose friendship I had never questioned before suddenly become strangers whose every motive I look at again. My whole life has changed, because I see it differently. I question everything good … might it really conceal deceit and secret betrayal?” He looked at her with undisguised anguish. “And in thoughts like that I am betraying all that I am myself, all that I want to be, and thought I was.” His voice dropped. “Perhaps that is the worst thing that he is doing to me … showing me something in myself I had not known was there.”

  She understood what he meant; she could see it in him too clearly, isolated, frightened, and alone, so vulnerable, all the certainties he had built over the years dissolving in a space of days.

  “It is not you,” she said gently, putting out her hand and laying it not on his hand, but on his arm, on the fabric of his coat. “It is just being human. Any of us might be there; the only difference is that most of us don’t know that, and we cannot imagine it when it is outside our experience. Some things no imagining can reach.”

  He sat silently for a few moments. He looked up at her once, and there was warmth in his eyes, a tenderness she was not certain how to interpret. Then the instant passed, and he drew in his breath.

  “I have other people in mind whom I could ask about the Abyssinian Campaign,” he said in a studiously casual voice. “And I must go to my club for luncheon.” He could not hide the sudden tension about his eyes and lips. “I should greatly prefer not to, but I have obligations I cannot avoid … I won’t. I will not allow this to make me break my promises.”

  “Of course,” she agreed, withdrawing her hand and standing up slowly. She would have liked to protect him from it, but there is no defense against failure except to keep trying, to face the enemy, open or secret. She smiled at him a trifle wanly. “Please always count on me to help in any way I am able.”

  “I do,” he said softly. “Thank you.” He colored painfully and turned away, walking to the door into the hall and opening it for her.

  She went past
him and nodded to the waiting footman.

  Pitt stood in Vespasia’s pale, calm sitting room staring at the sunlit garden beyond the windows, waiting for her to come downstairs. It was too early in the afternoon for a social call, especially on someone of her age, but his business was urgent, and he had not wished to arrive and find she had gone out to pay calls herself, which could have easily happened if he had left his own visit until a more appropriate hour.

  The white lilacs still perfumed the air, and the silence, away from the road, was almost palpable. It was a windless day; there was no rustle of leaves. Once a thrush sang for a moment, and then the sound disappeared again, lost in the heat.

  He turned as he heard the door open.

  “Good afternoon, Thomas.” Vespasia came in, leaning a little on her cane. She was dressed in ecru and ivory lace with a long rope of pearls catching the light almost to her waist. He found himself smiling in spite of the reason for his visit.

  “Good afternoon, Aunt Vespasia,” he replied, savoring the fact that she permitted him to use that title. “I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour, but it is too important to me to risk missing you.”

  She brushed the air delicately with one hand, dismissing the idea. “My calls can wait for another day. It was nothing of importance, merely a way to spend the afternoon and fulfill a certain duty. Tomorrow will do as well, or next week, for that matter.” She walked across the carpet and sat down in her favorite chair, facing the garden.