by Anne Perry
Gordon-Cumming appealed to Butler to delay such an enquiry in order not to prejudice his own pending civil action for slander.
The Prince of Wales wound himself into a state of all but nervous exhaustion over the prospect of having to testify, but to no effect. The other witnesses, the Wilsons, the Lycett Greens and Levett, all refused to withdraw their charges of cheating.
Now the case was being heard before the Lord Chief Justice, Lord Coleridge, and a special jury. In the glorious sunshine of a hot, early July, the courtroom was packed, and the public hung on every word.
Pitt was interested in the case only for its reflection on the fragility of reputation, and how easily a man, any man, could be ruined by a suggestion, let alone a fact.
Lower down the page, another scandal caught his eye. It was a story printed beneath a photograph of Sir Guy Stanley, M.P., speaking with a very strikingly dressed woman named in the caption as Mrs. Robert Shaughnessy They had been caught in a moment’s close conversation. Mr. Shaughnessy was a young man with radical political ambitions, contrary to government policy. He had lately succeeded in a brilliant move towards his aims, greatly assisted by what looked like inside information. In the picture, he had his back turned to his wife and Sir Guy and was looking away.
The story below suggested that Sir Guy, a favored candidate for a ministerial position, had been far more intimate with Mrs. Shaughnessy than was consistent with morality or honor, and threaded through the ambiguous phrases was the implication that he had let slip government business in return for her favors. There was also a difference of some thirty years in their ages, which made it uglier and lent it a sordid and pathetic air.
If Sir Guy Stanley had been hoping for preferment, he would not now receive it. A blow like this to a man’s reputation, whether the suggestion was founded or not, would make him an impossible choice for the post in the government for which his name had been put forward.
Pitt sat at the breakfast table holding the newspaper in his hand, his toast and marmalade forgotten, his tea growing cold.
“What is it?” Charlotte asked anxiously.
“I’m not sure,” he said slowly. He read out the article about Guy Stanley, then lowered the paper and met her eyes. “Is it coincidence, or is this the first threat carried out as a warning to the others?” He wondered what could have precipitated it.
“Even if it isn’t,” she pointed out, “it will serve the same purpose.” She was pale faced as she put her cup down in its saucer. “As if the Tranby Croft business were not enough without this. It will reinforce the blackmailer’s message, whether this was his doing or not. Do you know anything about Guy Stanley?”
“No more than I’ve read here.”
“And this Mrs. Shaughnessy?”
“Nothing at all.” He took a deep breath and pushed away his plate. “I think I must go and see Sir Guy. I need to know if he had a letter. More than that, I need to know what he was asked to do … and had the courage to refuse.”
Charlotte remained silent. She sat with her body tense, her shoulders pulling at the rose-colored cotton of her dress, but there was nothing more to say.
He touched her lightly on the cheek as he passed, and went out to collect his boots and his hat.
The newspaper had given Guy Stanley’s address, and Pitt alighted from the hansom half a block away and walked briskly in the warm morning air up to the house and rang the doorbell.
It was answered by a footman who informed him that Sir Guy was not in and would not be receiving callers. He was about to close the door again, leaving Pitt on the step. Pitt produced his card and held it out.
“I am afraid it is police business about which I need to see your master and it cannot wait,” he said firmly.
The footman looked highly dubious, but it was not within the bounds of his authority to refuse the police, in spite of the orders he had been given to admit no one.
He left Pitt on the step while he went to enquire, carrying the card on his silver tray.
The slight wind was already welcome in the rising heat of this unusual July. By midday it would be sweltering. It was an uncomfortable wait, reminding Pitt sharply of his social status. A gentleman would have been asked in, even if left in the morning room.
The footman returned with a look of slight surprise and conducted Pitt into a large study, where he had only a moment to wait before the door opened and Sir Guy Stanley came in. He was a tall, thin man only barely recognizable from the newspaper photograph, which must have been taken at least two or three years previously. His white hair was markedly thinner now, and his side-whiskers shorter and neater. He walked carefully, as if uncertain of his balance, and he banged his elbow against the oak-paneled door as he closed it. His face was almost bloodless.
Pitt’s heart sank. Stanley did not look like a man who had faced the enemy down, at whatever the cost, but like someone who had received a fearful and unexpected blow. He was still reeling with the shock and barely in command of himself.
“Good morning, Mr ….” He glanced at the card in his hand. “Mr. Pitt. I am afraid this is not a fortunate morning for me, but if you tell me in what way I may be of assistance, I shall do what I can.” He indicated the overstuffed chairs, leather buttoned into complex patterns. “Please sit down.” He almost fell into the closest of them himself, as if not certain he could remain on his feet any longer.
Pitt sat opposite him. “There is no pleasant or diplomatic way of putting this, sir, so I shall avoid wasting your time and simply tell you the situation. However, I shall omit the names of the people concerned in consideration of their reputations, as I will yours, should you be able to assist me.”
There was no understanding in Stanley’s face, only polite resignation. He was listening only because he had promised to.
“Four prominent men of my acquaintance are being blackmailed—” Pitt began. He stopped abruptly, seeing the sudden blaze of interest in Stanley’s face, the rush of blood up his thin cheeks and the clenching of his hands on the wood-and-leather arms of the chair.
Pitt smiled bleakly. “I believe each to be innocent of the charge leveled against him by the writer of the letters, but unfortunately, in every case it is almost impossible to prove it. They are also, in every case, the offenses of which each would be most profoundly ashamed, and therefore peculiarly vulnerable to pressure.”
“I see ….” Stanley curled and uncurled his fingers on the arm of the chair.
“No money was asked for,” Pitt continued. “In fact, so far nothing at all has been named, or given, except one small token of faith … or if you like, submission.”
Stanley’s hands knotted more tightly.
“I see. And what is it you think I may be able to help you with, Mr. Pitt? I have no idea who it is or how to battle against such a thing.” He smiled with bitter self-mockery. “Surely today I am the last man in England to offer advice on the safeguarding of one’s honor or reputation.”
Pitt had already decided to be honest.
“Before I came here, Sir Guy, I had wondered if perhaps you were also a victim of this man, and when he had named his price for silence, you had told him to go to the devil.”
“You thought better of me than I had warranted,” Stanley said very quietly, the color bright on his thin cheeks. “I am afraid I did not tell him to go to the devil, in spite of profoundly wishing him there.” He looked at Pitt very steadily. “He only asked one very small thing of me, a silver-plated brandy flask, as a token of good faith. Or perhaps ‘surrender’ would be more accurate.”
“You gave it to him?” Pitt asked, dreading the answer.
“Yes,” Stanley replied. “His threat was couched in roundabout terms, but it was perfectly plain. As you no doubt observed in this morning’s newspapers, he has carried it out.” He shook his head a little, a gesture of confusion, not of denial. “He gave me no warning, no further threat, and he did not ask for anything.” He smiled very faintly. “I like to think I would not
have given it him, but now I shall never know. I am not sure whether I really wish I had tested myself … or not. I have my illusions still … but no certainty. Is that better, do you think?”
He stood up and walked towards the window facing the garden, not the street. “In my better moments I shall believe I would have damned him, and gone down with my own honor intact, no matter what the world thought. In my worse ones, when I am tired or alone, I shall be convinced my nerve would have failed, and I should have surrendered.”
Pitt was disappointed. He was startled by how much he had been trusting that Stanley had actually been asked for something specific, even use of his influence, and had precipitated this act by his refusal. It would have been an indication of what to expect regarding the others. It might even have narrowed the field to who the blackmailer might be.
Stanley saw his face and read the emotion correctly, but misjudged the reason for it. The hurt was in his eyes, and the shame.
Pitt shrugged very slightly. “A pity. I’m sorry to have intruded at such a time. I came because I hoped he had tipped his hand far enough to ask you for some abuse of influence or power, and then we would know what he wanted. You see, the other victims are men in many different fields of achievement, and I can see no common link between them.”
“I’m sorry,” Stanley said sincerely. “I wish I could be of help. Naturally, I have racked my mind as to who it could be. Í have gone over every personal enemy or rival, anyone I might have slighted or insulted, anyone whose career I have affected adversely, whether intentionally or not, but I can think of no one who would stoop to such a thing.”
“Not Shaughnessy himself?” Pitt asked with little hope.
Stanley smiled. “I disagree profoundly with everything Shaughnessy believes in and is trying to bring about, with a great deal more chance of success lately, but he is open about it, a man to meet you face-to-face and fight his cause, not resort to blackmail or secrecy.”
He gave a very slight shrug, a weary little lift of one shoulder. “Apart from which, if you consider recent political history, such an effort on his part would hardly be necessary. He already has all I could have given. Ruining me will taint his own cause, not help it. And he is not a fool.” His lips tightened. “And although this picture”—he gestured to the newspaper lying on the desk—“paints me as gullible and treacherous, it also paints his wife as a whore, not a thing any man wants in the eyes of the public, whatever the truth in private may be. And although I do not know Mrs. Shaughnessy nearly as well as the comments imply, I have observed her on many occasions, and I have seen no cause to doubt her virtue.”
“Yes … of course,” Pitt was forced to agree. Shaughnessy had no motive, whether he had the means and the opportunity or not. “Do you still have the letter?”
Distaste curled Stanley’s thin lips. “No. I burnt it, in case anyone should chance to see it. But I can describe it to you. It was cut from the Times, in some cases individual letters, sometimes whole words, and pasted onto a sheet of plain white paper. It was posted in central London”
“Can you recall what it said?”
“I see by your face that that is what you expected,” Stanley observed. “I assume the others were the same?”
“Yes.”
Stanley let out his breath in a sigh. “I see. Yes, I think I can, not perhaps word for word, but the intent. It stated that I had given Mrs. Shaughnessy government information helpful to her husband in return for her physical favors, and should such a thing become known I would be ruined, and most certainly fail to receive the ministerial appointment I had hoped for. It asked that as a pledge of my understanding I should give to the writer a token gift; a small silver-plated flask would serve very well. Instructions were included as to how I should parcel it up and give it to a messenger on a bicycle who would call for it.”
Pitt sat forward a little. “How did he know that you possessed such a thing?”
“I have no idea. I admit, his knowledge unnerved me considerably.” Stanley shivered very slightly. “I felt … as if he were observing me all the time … unseen … but always there. I suspected everyone ….” His voice tailed off, defeated, full of pain.
“And did you give him the flask?” Pitt asked in the silence that followed.
“Exactly as instructed,” Stanley replied. “In order to give myself time to think. It was asked for immediately, to be collected that day.”
“I see,” Pitt replied. “It fits the pattern of the others. Thank you for your candor, Sir Guy. I wish I could offer any way of mitigating this circumstance, but I know of none. However, I shall do everything within my power to find this man and bring some kind of justice on him.” He meant it with a vehemence that startled him. There was a rage inside him that was almost choking, as real as for any murder or violence of the flesh.
“Some kind of justice?” Stanley questioned.
“The extortion of a silver-plated flask is not a very great crime,” Pitt pointed out bitterly. “And if you can prove that he has libeled you, then you may sue for damages, but that is your decision rather than mine. It is a course most men hesitate to pursue, simply because to take the issue to court brings it far more publicity than to say nothing. Poor Gordon-Cumming and the Tranby Croft affair is surely the most eloquent proof of that that one could ask.” He stood up, instinctively holding out his hand.
“I am well aware of it, Mr. Pitt,” Stanley said ruefully, taking Pitt’s hand and grasping it. “And all the proof in the world would not undo the damage in the public’s eyes. That is the nature of scandal. Its tarnish hardly ever wears oft: I suppose it will be some satisfaction if you catch the devil. But I daresay he is a man whose own reputation would be little hurt by the exposure of his acts.”
“There I disagree with you,” Pitt said with sudden satisfaction. “I think he is a man whose intimate knowledge of his victims indicates he may well be of a similar social standing. I travel in hope.”
Stanley looked at him very directly. “If I can be of any assistance whatever, Mr. Pitt, please call on me at any time. I am now a far more dangerous enemy than I was yesterday, because I have nothing left to lose.”
Pitt took his leave and went out into the hot sun. The air was completely still, and the pungent odor of horse droppings came sharply to his nose. A carriage passed by, loud on the stones, the brass on the harness winking in the light, ladies with parasols up to shade their faces, footmen in livery sweating.
Pitt was not more than fifty yards along the street when he saw Lyndon Remus coming towards him, his expression alight with recognition.
Pitt felt himself tense with dislike, which was unjust, and he knew it. Remus had not written the article exposing Sir Guy Stanley. But he was there ready to make capital of it.
“Good morning, Superintendent!” he said eagerly. “Been visiting Stanley, I see. Are you investigating the allegations against him?”
“Whether Sir Guy’s relationship with Mrs. Shaughnessy was proper or improper is none of my business, Mr. Remus,” Pitt said coldly. “And I don’t see that it is any of yours.”
“Oh, come now, Mr. Pitt!” Remus’s fair eyebrows shot up. “If a Member of Parliament is selling government information in exchange for a lady’s favors, that is the business of every man in the kingdom.”
“I have no evidence that he has done so.” Pitt stood still on the hot pavement, facing him. “I have merely read the implication, made by innuendo in a newspaper. But if it should be, it is still not my concern. There are appropriate people to enquire into it, and I am not one of them, nor are you.”
“I ask in the public interest, Mr. Pitt,” Remus persisted, standing directly in front of him. “Surely you don’t say that the ordinary citizen has no right to be concerned in the honesty and morality of the men whom he elects to govern him?”
Pitt knew he had to be careful. Remus would remember what he said, and perhaps even quote it.
“Of course not,” he answered, measuring his word
s. “But there are proper ways of enquiring, and libel is a moral offense, even where it is occasionally not a civil one. I went to see Sir Guy Stanley on a completely different issue where I thought he might be able to give me some assistance from his experience. He did, but I am not able to discuss it with you because it would jeopardize a current investigation.”
“The murder in Bedford Square?” Remus concluded swiftly. “Is Sir Guy involved in that?”
“Do you not understand me, Mr. Remus?” Pitt snapped. “I told you that it is a matter I cannot discuss, and I gave you the reasons. Surely you don’t wish to hinder me, do you?”
“Well … no, of course not. But we have a right to know—”
“You have a right to ask,” Pitt corrected him. “You have asked, and I have answered you. Now, would you please step out of my way. I must return to Bow Street.”
Reluctantly, Remus did so.
In his room in the police station, Pitt considered Remus again. Was it worth having anyone enquire a little more closely about him? He was almost certainly simply doing his job with rather more relish than Pitt found pleasant. But investigation of corruption and abuse of office or privilege was a legitimate part of his duties, just as it was of Pitt’s own. Society required such men, even if on occasion they trespassed into people’s private lives in a way which was intrusive, painful and unjustified. The alternative was the beginning of tyranny and the loss of the right of society to understand itself and have any curb upon those who ruled it.
Still, the privilege of the press could also be abused. Membership in its ranks did not confer immunity from police enquiry. He could have someone see if Lyndon Remus had any connection with Albert Cole, Josiah Slingsby, or any of the men who were being blackmailed.
But before he could attend to that he was met with a message that Parthenope Tannifer wished to see him the very first moment it was possible, and would he please call upon her at her home.
