by Anne Perry
Since Mr. Cadell, who shot himself to death in his study yesterday morning, held a high position in the Foreign Office, one cannot but wonder if the conspiracy concerned the interests of Great Britain abroad, and even treason may have been narrowly averted by swift action from the police.
It is to be hoped that if there are other guilty parties they will not now be protected from answering for their crimes, whether carried out or simply intended. Lesser men have been exposed for lesser offences, and paid the cost.
He continued for several paragraphs in a similar vein, and by the time Vespasia came to the end of it she was so angry she could hardly hold the paper still enough to read it. She set it down on the table. Lyndon Remus might have begun as a sincere journalist intending to expose corruption, but he had allowed ambition to warp his judgment. The chance of his own fame and the power that the pen afforded had prompted him to make unfounded assumptions. All of them had a marked lack of compassion for the results of his speculation upon the bereaved, who might have been innocent but for whom proof of that would come too late to undo the pain or the ostracism that went hand in hand with suspicion.
“I have read them,” she said to Woods when he returned to see if she was ready to have the table cleared. “You may burn them now. There is no need for Mrs. Cadell to see them.”
“Yes, your ladyship,” he said quickly. His opinion was clear in his face, and his hands, when he took the papers, shook a little.
“How are the staff?” Vespasia asked him.
“We are managing, your ladyship,” he replied. “I regret to say there are persons outside in the street attempting to ask questions … for the newspapers. They are … most … ill mannered. They are intrusive and have no respect for … death.”
“Have you locked the areaway doors?” she asked. “We can do without deliveries today.”
“I … I hadn’t,” he admitted. “With your permission I shall do so.”
“You have it. And no one is to answer the front door unless they have first ascertained who is outside and sought either my permission or Mrs. Cadell’s. Is that clear?”
“Yes, indeed. Cook asked me to enquire what you would like for luncheon, Lady Vespasia. I assume you will be remaining?” He looked a little desperate.
“Most certainly,” she answered him. “I think whatever Cook cares to prepare will be excellent. May I suggest something very light. An egg custard would be a suitable pudding, or a fruit fool.”
“Yes, thank you, your ladyship.”
Vespasia went to the withdrawing room; somehow the formality of it seemed appropriate to the mood.
Theodosia came down a little after ten. She looked exhausted and wretched, dressed entirely in black, but her head was high and she wore an expression of resolution.
“There is a great deal I need to do,” she said even before Vespasia had the opportunity to ask her how she was, although it would have been a pointless question. She would probably never in her life suffer more than she was doing this morning. “And you are the only one I can ask to help me,” she finished.
“Leo must have had a man of affairs,” Vespasia replied, regarding Theodosia gravely. “There is very little you’re required to do yourself. Even that, I can do for you, if you wish.”
Theodosia’s eyebrows rose. “I am not referring to that sort of thing, Aunt Vespasia. I am quite sure Mr. Astell can do all of that. Although I should welcome your advice as to what you think would be suitable.” She frowned very slightly, concentrating. “I am quite certain Leo did not take his own life. No one could drive him to that, no matter what he thought or feared. I am even more certain he was not behind the blackmail.”
She stood with her back to the room, her face towards the garden but blind to its flowers and dappled light. “I do not delude myself I know everything about him,” she said slowly. “One never does … nor should one. It would be intrusive, and more dangerous than that, it would be boring. But I really do believe I knew Leo too well for him to have deceived me either to his elation when the plan seemed to have been succeeding or his despair when he would have felt such imminent failure as to have driven him to this.”
Vespasia was uncertain what to say. She had often imagined she knew people better than events had proved. But Theodosia had spoken of emotions, not morality, and that was a matter of observation. It was less easy to dismiss.
“There is no need to humor me,” Theodosia said quietly, still facing the window. “I realize how I sound. What woman could admit to such a thing of her husband without struggling against it? But I intend to do a great deal more than wring my hands in protest.”
“It will not be easy,” Vespasia pointed out tentatively. “I am afraid you must be prepared for a great deal of opposition ….”
“Of course.” Theodosia did not move. “If Leo did not do this, then someone else did. They are hardly going to welcome my disturbing what they wish to appear a very tidy end to the affair.” She turned at last. “Will you help me, Aunt Vespasia?”
She looked at Theodosia’s haggard face, her stiff shoulders and the desperation in her eyes. It might be hopeless. It might bring more grief upon them than there was already. But how could she refuse? It would not prevent Theodosia; it would only leave her more isolated to do it.
“Are you sure you wish to?” she asked gently. “What we discover may not all be what you would like, my dear. Sometimes one is better knowing less of the truth, rather than more. And you will assuredly make enemies.”
“Of course.” Theodosia remained standing. “Do you imagine it will be much worse for me than it will be anyway when this becomes known? Mr. Gordon-Cumming will not be the only person who will find it unbearable to remain in London or the Home Counties. The blackmailer has taken so much from me he has left me very little still to lose now. I do not need you to promise me fairy-tale endings, Aunt Vespasia. I know there are none. I only wish you to lend me your intelligence and your support. As I daresay you know, I shall persist whether you give it me or not, but I shall have much less chance of success.”
Vespasia smiled dryly; a small, sad gesture. “Put like that, you leave me little choice, unless I wish you to believe I preferred you to fail. Nothing would please me better than to discover Leo was innocent, both of the blackmail and of taking his life. We must consider carefully how to proceed, and of course where to begin.”
Theodosia moved back across the room and sat down heavily, looking suddenly a trifle lost.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “But who else could I turn to? And who better?” For all her determination, she actually had very little idea what she could do.
“Are you sure you are willing to face whatever we may discover?” Vespasia asked for a last time. “It may not be what you wish.”
“No.” The word was flat and certain. There was no happiness in it, but there was conviction. “But it will not be what they are saying at the moment. Where do we begin?”
“With logic … and a hot cup of tea,” Vespasia said decisively.
Theodosia gave a ghost of a smile and walked over to the embroidered bell rope. When the maid came she ordered hot tea.
“Now for the logic,” she requested when they were alone again.
Vespasia settled herself to begin. “Whoever the blackmailer is, he is personally acquainted with all of his victims, because he is aware of their past experiences sufficiently well to know to what charge they would be most vulnerable and where in their careers he can make it most reasonably believable.”
“Quite,” Theodosia agreed. “You say he. Does it have to be a man? Could it not be a woman? It is naive to suppose a woman incapable of such intelligence or such cruelty.”
“Of course it is,” Vespasia answered. “But I think that might be to suppose that the placing of the corpse on Brandon Balantyne’s doorstep was unconnected, which seems to me unlikely. I find it difficult to imagine circumstances where a woman who had the acquaintance of the victims would also be aware of the death
of Slingsby and have the means to move his body. Although I suppose it is not impossible.”
“I had forgotten about that,” Theodosia admitted. “We shall consider men first. I know something about most of Leo’s life, where he was born, grew up, went to school and to university and then into the diplomatic service. I have already racked my mind to think of any enemies who could be responsible for this.” She frowned. “Anyone who succeeds is bound to arouse envy, if nothing else. And it is regrettable, but many of those who succeed far less will explain it to themselves by blaming others.”
The maid arrived with fresh tea on a tray, and set it down on the low table between Vespasia and Theodosia. She offered to pour, but Theodosia declined, preferring to do it herself.
When they were alone again, Vespasia replied, “I do not believe this is a matter of personal vengeance, unless we can find some affair in which all the victims were involved. Did Leo even know them all?”
Theodosia looked at her with a thin shred of humor. “I don’t know. You have been far too discreet to tell me who they are.”
“Oh!” Vespasia had forgotten that. There seemed little point in worrying about indiscretion; clearing Leo’s name and finding the true blackmailer, if it was not he, were more important. “General Balantyne, John Cornwallis, Sigmund Tannifer, Guy Stanley and Dunraithe White.”
Theodosia looked startled. “I did not know that,” she said quietly. “They are different generations and quite different kinds of men. I know Parthenope Tannifer. She has called several times. A most interesting woman. And is not Dunraithe White a judge?”
“Yes. And John Cornwallis is assistant commissioner of police,” Vespasia added. “One wonders if some subversion of the law is intended. Except how could that involve Brandon Balantyne?”
“There must be some connection,” Theodosia said fiercely. “It is up to us to find it. It cannot be professional. It cannot be from school or university.”
“Then it must be social,” Vespasia deduced, sipping her tea. The hot liquid was peculiarly refreshing, even though the room was warm and bright in the summer morning sun. The whole house was unusually silent, the servants on tiptoe. Someone had thought to put straw in the street outside to muffle the hooves of passing horses. Vespasia had a sudden thought. “Or financial! Could Leo have invested in some scheme or other, and those other people also?”
“And there is something wrong in it?” Theodosia seized the idea eagerly. “Yes! Why not? That would make some sense of it.” She rose to her feet. “There will be notes of it in his study. We shall look.”
Vespasia went with her, the tea abandoned.
They spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon there, stopping for a brief luncheon only because Vespasia insisted for Theodosia’s sake, and Theodosia obeyed for hers. They searched for records of all Leo Cadell’s investments of any nature whatever, and discovered that he had been, on the whole, extremely prudent. There had been one rather rash backing of an adventure in the Caribbean which had lost him a modest amount, but all the rest were either adequate or extremely good. There was startlingly little invested overseas in anything speculative, and he had been scrupulous to avoid anything with even the semblance of profiting from his knowledge gained as a member of the diplomatic service.
Vespasia became increasingly saddened reading the dry facts of investment and return over the years. They demonstrated the financial life of a man who made good provision for his family but was extraordinarily careful, erring on the side of loss, never to make a penny from his professional advantage. It reflected the man she knew, nothing like the person Lyndon Remus wrote of in the newspapers, or the police presumed from the manner of his death. Funny that a series of figures should convey so much.
“There’s nothing here,” Theodosia said desperately a little after half past three. She was sitting at the desk with papers strewn all around her. She looked wretched and exhausted. “He gave to certain charities, but that’s about all I can think of that he could have had in common with the other people you mention, and then it wasn’t much. I mean, not the sort of money anyone would blackmail over.”
“What charities?”
Vespasia asked simply for something to say, to not allow the silence to make it seem she had given up.
Theodosia was surprised. “Specifically? An orphanage that was governed by several members of the Jessop Club. I knew he still went on attending that committee most of the time even when he was exceptionally busy. He mentioned that General Balantyne was on it also.” And without saying anything further she took a bundle of letters out of the desk drawer and began to read through them.
Vespasia went to one of the other drawers and found some more.
For half an hour she saw nothing that seemed of any relevance at all. It was unpleasant reading through another person’s letters which had been intended as private. There was nothing Leo would have had cause to be embarrassed or ashamed of, not even anything especially personal; it was simply intrusive for a third person to read them. She had a terribly oppressive sense of his death. Going through his belongings made its reality almost tangible.
She read one letter through, although it was more of a memorandum, and then she nearly missed the relevance. It was on the letterhead, printed below that of the Jessop Club. The handwritten part was addressed to Leo Cadell and concerned the patronage of a fund-raising art exhibition. A notable society lady was to attend. It had been held over six months before, and was of no importance. Leo had presumably kept it only because he had written an address on it, some collector of Chinese ginger jars living in Paris. It was the names of the committee that caught Vespasia’s eye: Brandon Balantyne; Guy Stanley, M.R; Lawrence Bairstow; Dunraithe White; John Cornwallis; James Cameron; Sigmund Tannifer and Leo Cadell.
She looked up. Theodosia was still reading, a growing pile of discarded papers strewn around her.
“Do you know Lawrence Bairstow?” Vespasia asked. “Or James Cameron?”
“I knew Mary Ann Bairstow,” Theodosia replied, looking up. “Why? What have you found?”
“Could Lawrence Bairstow be another victim?”
There was sudden disappointment in Theodosia’s face.
“No. The poor man is senile. He is a great deal older than she is. I am afraid he would be incapable of exerting any influence at all, for good or ill. And I believe his personal affairs are looked after by the family solicitors.” She could not keep the weariness of pain out of her voice.
“And James Cameron?” Vespasia pressed, not sure why, or if there was any purpose in it; it was simply unbearable to give up.
“The only James Cameron I knew of went to live abroad several months ago,” Theodosia answered. “He has poor health, and he moved to a drier, warmer climate. India, I think, but I’m not sure. Why? Why are you asking? What is that?”
“I think, just possibly, we may have discovered what they have in common,” Vespasia said slowly. “Although I cannot see, for the life of me, what conceivable profit there could be in it.”
Theodosia shot to her feet and snatched the paper from her. She read it, then looked up, puzzled. “They are all on this committee within the Jessop Club. But it’s for an orphanage. That is what the money is for. Could that be it … misappropriation of funds?” The expression in her eyes hovered between hope and despair. “It hardly seems worth it. How much could it be?”
“A great deal of disgrace, if it were discovered,” Vespasia answered gravely, trying to keep the emotion calm in her voice. “To steal from an orphanage is particularly despicable.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.” Theodosia’s hands were trembling. She gripped them together to control the movements. She so fervently wanted this new information to mean something she dared not hope too much, and yet she was so close to surrendering to grief she could not let go either. “That … that could be it … couldn’t it?”
Vespasia did not have the heart to deny it, even though she felt it could not be true. Perhap
s to give Theodosia some shred of light now was more important than a probable truth. She must survive.
“It could,” she agreed. “Let us see if there is any other reference to it here, then I shall take it to Thomas and see what he makes of it.”
“You mean Superintendent Pitt?” The hope fled from Theodosia’s face. “He is sure Leo was guilty.”
“He will listen if I tell him about this.” Vespasia filled her voice with an absolute conviction she did not feel.
“Will he?” Theodosia clutched at it.
“Most certainly. Now, let us see what else we can find.”
In another two hours of meticulous reading of every piece of paper in the desk and in the drawers of the cabinet they found only one other thing which seemed to have any bearing. It was a letter dated some two weeks earlier.
My dear Cadell,
Perhaps I am being over zealous, but I am concerned about the amount of money going to the orphanage at Kew. I have re-read the accounts and it seems to me to require some more detailed evaluation. I have raised the matter in committee once, but was overruled.
Of course it is possible I am out of touch with the cost of things, but I would value your opinion. I hope we may discuss the subject at a time suitable to you.
I remain,
your most obedient servant,
Brandon Balantyne
Theodosia was so encouraged by it that Vespasia could not bring herself to point out how trivial the matter almost certainly was.
“You’ll take it to Superintendent Pitt?” Theodosia urged.
“Of course.”
“Immediately?”
“I shall call on him before I return home,” Vespasia promised. “Now, my dear, I am far more concerned about you. Will you be all right alone tonight? I can return if you wish me to. It is not an inconvenience in the slightest. I can send for a change of linen without any trouble at all.”
Theodosia hesitated. “No … I shall have to learn … to become used to it … I think …” She tailed off.
Vespasia made the decision for her. “I shall return when I have seen Thomas. I do not know how long it shall be, as I may not find him immediately. Please do not wait supper for me. I shall be perfectly happy with whatever Cook can make for me then.”
