Bedford Square

by Anne Perry

  He had expected it, not from Parthenope Tannifer, but from her husband, and possibly from Dunraithe White also, although since White had told Vespasia he had no intention of fighting the blackmailer, no matter what he should demand, perhaps he would not wish to draw police attention to himself.

  Pitt also thought of how Balantyne would feel when he saw the morning newspapers. He must be ill with anxiety, and helpless even to know which way to turn to defend himself. He could not prove the original charge was untrue. He could not prove he had not killed the man on his doorstep, Cole or Slingsby. The fact that it was Slingsby did not clear Balantyne of suspicion; Slingsby could have been a messenger of the blackmailer.

  Most of all as Pitt went down the stairs again and out into the hot, dusty street, he thought of Cornwallis, and the misery which he must feel this morning as he realized that the threats were fully intended and the blackmailer had no hesitation in carrying them out. He had the will and the means. He had demonstrated it now beyond doubt or hope.

  Pitt was received in the Tannifer house immediately and was shown to Parthenope’s boudoir, that peculiarly feminine sitting room where ladies read, embroidered, or gossiped pleasantly together with very rare intrusion from men.

  This particular room was unlike others he had been in. The colors were very simple and cool, with none of the usual oriental affectations that had become so fashionable over the last decade. It was most individual, catering entirely to the taste of its owner, making no concessions to what was expected. The curtains were plain, cool green, no flowers. Similarly, the green glazed vase on the small table had no blooms; its own shape was sufficient ornament. The furniture was simple, old, very English.

  “Thank you for coming so rapidly, Mr. Pitt,” Parthenope said as soon as the maid had closed the door. She was dressed in dusky blue-gray with a white fichu at the throat, and it became her well enough, in spite of being rather severe. Something softer would have disguised her angular proportions. She looked extremely distressed and made no attempt to hide it. The morning newspaper was lying on the table beside her chair. Her embroidery was in a heap next to it, the needle stuck into the linen. Silks in shades of brown and taupe and cream spilled all around it where she had presumably left it last. Scissors and a silver thimble were on the carpet, as if dropped in haste.

  “Have you seen it?” she demanded, pointing her finger at the newspaper. She stood in the center of the room, too angry to sit.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Tannifer. If you are referring to the article about Sir Guy Stanley, yes, I have read it, and I have spoken to Sir Guy himself—”

  “Have you?” she cut across him. “How is he?” Her eyes were bright, her face full of concern and pity, for a moment the fear overridden.

  “Do you know him?” He was interested.

  “No.” She shook her head quickly. “But I can imagine what pain he is enduring at the moment.”

  “You assume he is innocent of the implications in the article,” Pitt said with some surprise. It was a kinder judgment than many people would be making.

  She smiled briefly, like a flash of sunlight, there and gone. “I suppose that is because I know my husband is innocent. Am I mistaken?” That was a demand, almost a challenge.

  “Not so far as I know,” he replied. “Sir Guy is a victim of the same letter writer as Mr. Tannifer, and therefore I believe him when he says the charge is unfounded.”

  Her voice dropped a little. “But he had the courage to defy him … as the Duke of Wellington said, ‘Publish and be damned!’ How I admire him!” Her voice rang with sincerity, and there was a faint flush in her cheeks. “What a terrible price to pay. I cannot imagine he will now obtain the post in the government that he desired. His only comfort will be his own courage, and perhaps the respect of those friends who know him well enough to dismiss the accusation.” She took a deep breath and straightened her slender shoulders. There was a warmth in her tone that lent an extraordinary beauty to her voice. “I hope we shall face the future as well. I shall write to him this morning and tell him of my regard for him. It may be of some small comfort. It is all I can do.”

  He did not know how to answer her. He did not want to lie, and perhaps he could not afford to if he were to learn anything from her; but neither was he prepared to lay open Stanley’s confidences, and his own personal doubts.

  “You hesitate, Mr. Pitt,” she observed, watching him closely. “There is something you do not wish to tell me. It is worse than I feared?”

  “No, Mrs. Tannifer, I was merely considering how to phrase what I say so I do not betray confidences. Even though Sir Guy Stanley and Mr. Tannifer are in the same situation, I would not discuss one with the other to their embarrassment.”

  “Of course!” she agreed quickly. “That is admirable. But have you learned anything more about who this devil may be? Surely all information must be helpful? I … I called you today not just because I am at my wit’s end to know what to do, how even to begin to fight this battle, but because I have information to give you myself. Please sit down.” She indicated the soft, plain chair opposite her own.

  Pitt did as he was bid as soon as she had seated herself. Suddenly there was a lift of hope.

  “Yes, Mrs. Tannifer? What have you learned?”

  She leaned forward a little, leaving her skirts disarranged as they had crumpled in the chair. “We have received a second letter, in much the same terms as the first, but rather more direct, using words like cheat and embezzler….” Her cheeks colored with embarrassment and anger. “It is so unjust! Sigmund has never profited a ha’penny except by his own skill and judgment. He is the most honorable man I have ever known. My own father was a soldier, the colonel of a regiment. I know much of honor and loyalty, and the complete trust one must have in everything, and how it must be earned.” She lowered her gaze. “I’m sorry. That is not what you want to know. We are already assuming all the accusations are unjust. This one was cut from the Times as well, and glued onto a sheet of ordinary paper. It came by the first post. It was put in a box in the City, just like before. Only the wording was different.” She looked up at him.

  “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. Th
e 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?”