by Anne Perry
“Why is not difficult,” Pitt replied, facing her squarely. “He was a blackmailer.”
“Indeed?” she raised her eyebrows slightly. “How very unpleasant. I had no idea. I suppose you are quite sure.”
“Quite,” he waited, wondering what she would say next.
“Then surely his victim is the one who murdered him? You cannot need me to tell you that!”
He smiled very slightly.
“That is to presume he had only one victim, my lady. Why should I presume that?”
She looked at him and the corners of her mouth curled upward very faintly.
“Quite. I should have thought of that myself. When you remark it, it is quite obvious. What is it you imagine I can tell you? I assure you, Freddie Bolsover was not blackmailing me.”
“Not over Miss Christina’s unfortunate business with the footman?”
She barely flickered.
“It is hardly police business, I would have thought.”
“Not at all. Its discovery was incidental. But you haven’t answered my question-did Dr. Bolsover not approach you on the matter?”
“Certainly not,” she smiled very faintly and looked at him without dislike. “I should not have paid him. I should have found some other way of dealing with him; as I did with Max, who did try it. I have more brain, and more imagination, Inspector, than to resort to violence.”
He grinned widely.
”I believe it, my lady. I hope if you think of anything that might help me, however slight, you will let me know, immediately. For heaven’s sake, don’t deal with this yourself. He has killed once, maybe more than once.”
“I give you my word,” she said convincingly.
He saw Brandy a little later in the same room.
“What’s happened now?” Brandy demanded. “Not someone else dead!”
“No, and I want to see that it does not happen again. I must find out who killed Dr. Bolsover, before he feels threatened again.”
“Threatened?” Brandy looked worried.
“Dr. Bolsover was a blackmailer, Mr. Balantyne. That is almost certainly why he was killed.”
“Who was he blackmailing, do you know?”
“Mr. Southeron, at least.”
“Good-Reggie didn’t kill him, surely?”
“You think that unlikely?”
“Well-yes-I do. Somehow Reggie just doesn’t seem like-to be honest, I wouldn’t think he had the nerve!” Brandy smiled apologetically.
“Nor I,” Pitt agreed. “He said it was Jemima Waggoner who killed Dr. Bolsover-”
“What?” All the color blanched from Brandy’s face. “Jemima? That’s idiotic! Why on earth would Jemima kill anyone?”
“Because she was his partner in blackmail, and she became greedy over the spoils, and they quarreled-”
“He’s a liar!” This time there was no mistaking Brandy’s emotion, it was rage. “That’s your answer! Reggie killed him, and is lying to protect himself. There’s the proof of it! If he said Jemima blackmailed him, then he’s a liar!” His face was set, angry and defensive.
“One can lie to cover many things, Mr. Balantyne,” Pitt said quietly. “Not necessarily murder. Mr. Southeron panics rather easily.”
“He’s a liar!” Brandy’s voice was rising. “You can’t believe she-Jemima-” he stopped suddenly, struggling to control himself. He swallowed and began again. “I’m sorry. I feel very strongly about it. I’m sure Jemima is innocent, and I shall find a way to prove it to you.”
“I shall be grateful for all help,” Pitt smiled. “Did Dr. Bolsover approach you, sir?”
“No. Whatever for?”
“Money, favors, anything?”
“Of course not!”
“I thought you might have been prepared to pay, for example, to protect Lady Carlton.”
Brandy flushed deeply.
“How did you know about that?”
Pitt evaded an answer.
“Did he?”
“No. I’m pretty sure he had no idea. It was hardly a thing he would come in contact with. I mean, he might have known she was with child, being a doctor, and so on; but nothing about me. But all that is less important than seeing that Jemima is cleared. Please, Inspector,” he hesitated, “please get to the bottom of that.”
Pitt smiled very gently.
“You care about her, don’t you?”
“I-” Brandy seemed lost. He looked up. “Yes-I–I think I do.”
ELEVEN
Pitt also visited Robert Carlton, more to inform him that Freddie had been a blackmailer than with any hope that Carlton might admit to having been a victim himself. He made his questions discreet, almost to the point of nonexistence, as he felt Carlton’s cooperation was of more value than any possible involvement he might reluctantly divulge.
He could think of no reason why the Dorans should have attracted Freddie’s attention. The whole business of Helena was laid bare for public speculation before Freddie was killed, so he left them to the privacy of their grief.
Lastly he visited the Campbells. He knew of no reason why they should have been put under pressure either, but it was always possible there was some indiscretion as yet unguessed at, although of course they would hardly be likely to tell him. But many small clues were to be found in the most guarded conversations: frequently the very guard itself was an indication of the existence of something to hide.
He saw Mariah first, since Campbell himself was busy in his study writing letters. She was very calm and expressed nothing more than a deep sympathy for Sophie. He learned nothing from her whatsoever, beyond the increasing impression that she was a strong woman who had already surmounted hardships, even griefs, and would bend herself willingly to assist Sophie to endure the shock that was overwhelming her now, and the shame which was doubtless to come.
He was obliged to wait some quarter of an hour before Garson Campbell sent for him to come to his study. He found Campbell standing in front of the fire, feet wide apart, rocking a little backward and forward. He looked angry.
“Well, Pitt, what is it?” he said tersely.
Pitt decided immediately there was no point in trying to be subtle. This was a clever and aggressive man who would see and avoid any attempt at verbal traps laid for him.
“Did you know Dr. Bolsover was a blackmailer?” he asked.
Campbell considered for a moment.
“Yes,” he said slowly.
Pitt felt a quickening of excitement.
“How did you know that, sir?”
Campbell’s cold gray eyes looked at him with bitter amusement. “Not because he was blackmailing me, Inspector. One of his victims came to me for advice. Naturally I cannot tell you who.”
Pitt knew there was no purpose at all in pressing him. Some people he might have been able to coerce, or frighten, or even overcome by power of personality-but not Garson Campbell.
“Can you tell me what advice you gave this person?” he asked instead.
“Yes,” Campbell smiled slightly. “I advised them to pay, for the time being. It was an indiscretion, not a crime. The danger of its becoming public and doing any real harm would shortly pass. I also promised to speak to Freddie and warn him that such a trick would not work a second time.”
“And did you?”
“Yes.”
“And what was Dr. Bolsover’s reaction?”
“Not very reliable, I would think, Inspector. A man capable of blackmail would not jib at a little lying.”
“Blackmail is a sneaking, underhanded crime, Mr. Campbell. A blackmailer relies on secrecy, and is usually a coward. He might well have been frightened by a more powerful man-which Mr. Southeron is not, but you are.”
Campbell’s eyebrows went up in amusement.
“So you knew about it?”
“Of course,” Pitt allowed himself the luxury of a little arrogance.
“And you have not arrested poor Reggie? He’s an awful ass. Panics very easily.”
&nbs
p; “So I notice,” Pitt agreed. “But also something of a coward, I think. And not, by any means, the only person in Callander Square who might warrant a blackmailer’s attentions.”
Campbell’s face darkened and his big body tensed. It seemed for a moment as if a spasm of pain shot through him.
“I would be very particular what you say, Pitt. You could lay up a great deal of wrath for yourself if you make careless accusations about the people in this square. We all have our foibles, some of them no doubt unpleasant, by your standards, but we do not like them talked about. All men do what they like, as far as they dare. We have the good fortune to dare more than most; we have earned or inherited that position. Find out who killed the babies, by all means, if you must. And look into who stabbed Freddie Bolsover: but have a care for Sophie, and don’t go stirring up a lot of scandal just to see what floats to the surface. You won’t enhance your career, I promise you. You’re a damn sight more likely to finish up back on some beat down by the dockside.”
Pitt looked at his face for a moment or two. He did not doubt even for an instant that he meant precisely what he said, and that it was more than a warning.
“Freddie Bolsover was a blackmailer, sir,” he answered levelly, “and blackmail feeds on scandal. I can hardly hope to discover who killed him without discovering why.”
“If he was a blackmailer, he deserved to die. Perhaps for the happiness of those still in the square, it would be better if you left it at that. I have no scandal to hide, as I imagine you know by now; but there are a good many powerful men who have. For their safety, and my convenience, I would advise you not to press your dirt shoveling too far. We have had the police in Callander Square for a long time now. It is bad for us. It’s time you either came to some conclusion, or gave up and left us alone. Has it occurred to you that your persistent poking around may have precipitated these tragedies, that far from doing any good, you are making worse that which was bad enough to begin with?”
“It has happened before that a murderer has committed a second crime to cover a first. That cannot be a reason for leaving him free.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, man, don’t be so damn pious! What have you got? A servant girl who gets herself pregnant and kills her babies-or buries them stillborn-a trollop whose lover tired of her, and a blackmailer! You haven’t a devil’s chance of finding which servant girl it was now, and who gives a damn anyway? Helena’s lover is probably in another country by this time, and since apparently nobody ever even saw him, you’ve no better chance of hanging him than you have of swinging a noose round the moon. As for Freddie, he amply deserved it. Blackmail is a crime, even by your standards. And who’s to say it was anyone in Callander Square? He had patients all over the place. Try some of them. Could be any of them. But don’t blame me if they have you thrown out for it!”
Pitt left feeling more depressed than he had felt at any time since the case began. A great deal of what Campbell said was true. It was true that his presence may have precipitated both Freddie’s crime and his death. And he seemed no nearer a solution to any of the deaths than he had been on the very first day.
So it was that two days later, when he was called in to his superiors and questioned rather critically about the matter, that but for Charlotte’s passionate determination, he would have acceded to their pressure and admitted defeat on all but the death of Freddie Bolsover.
“We appreciate that you’ve done the best you can, Pitt,” Sir George Smithers said irritably. “But you just haven’t got anywhere, have you? We’re no nearer a conclusion now than we ever were! It was a pretty long shot in the first place.”
“And we need you for more important things,” Colonel Anstruther added rather more civilly. “Can’t waste a good man on a hopeless case.”
“What about Dr. Bolsover?” Pitt asked bitingly. “Is he to be marked ‘unsolved’ as well? Don’t you think it’s a trifle soon? The public might think we weren’t trying!” He was too angry to care if his tone offended them.
“There is no need to be sarcastic, Pitt,” Smithers said coldly. “Of course we must make some endeavor with regard to Bolsover, although it does look rather as if the bounder got no more than he deserved. Know Reggie Southeron myself; harmless chap. A bit fond of his pleasures, but no real spite in him.”
Pitt snorted at his private thought.
“Somebody stuck a knife into Bolsover,” he pointed out.
“Good heavens, man, you don’t imagine it was Reggie, do you?”
“No, Sir George, I don’t; which is why I need to know who else Bolsover was blackmailing.”
“I think that’s a dangerous line of inquiry,” Smithers shook his head disapprovingly. “Cause a lot of-er-embarrassment. Better leave it alone and concentrate on the facts, get the doctor to tell you things about the body, lie of the land, find witnesses, and that sort of thing. Get at the truth that way.”
“I don’t think it can be done, sir,” Pitt replied, meeting the man’s eyes.
Smithers colored angrily at the insolence, not of the words, but of the stare.
“Then you’ll have to admit defeat, won’t you! But give it a try; we’ve got to make some appearance of doing our best.”
“Even if we’re not?” Pitt’s temper gave way.
“Be careful, Pitt,” Anstruther warned quietly. “You’re sailing perilously close to the wind. Lot of important people in Callander Square. They’ve taken about as much as they’re going to of police noising around in their private lives.”
“I take it they’ve complained?” Pitt asked.
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“Several of them, naturally I cannot tell you precisely who, might prejudice you against them, quite unfairly. Now be a good chap, go and look at the facts again. You never know, if you ask all the servants, you may be able to find one who saw something, at least know who was in and who was out; alibis, and all that.”
Pitt acquiesced, because there was nothing else he could do. He left feeling angry, and close to defeat. Had it not been for the sure knowledge that Charlotte would warm him, strengthen him, and fight to the last ditch for him, he might well have considered obeying the order in spirit, as well as to the letter.
Balantyne knew nothing of the pressure that had been put upon Pitt, because he was the only man in the square who had not been party to instigating it. When Reggie came to see him, bubbling over with good cheer after his recent reprieve, he had no idea what it was that excited him.
“Damn good thing, what?” Reggie gulped a glass of sherry to which he had helped himself. “Be able to get back to normal soon; and about time. All that wretched business behind us.”
“Hardly,” Balantyne said a little stiffly. He found Reggie’s joviality distasteful. “There is still the matter of four murders, apart from anything else.”
“Four murders?” Reggie paled noticeably, but it was not the murders that upset him, it was the “anything else”: namely the change in Adelina. The emotional comfort of his home had vanished. He was living with a stange woman he discovered he did not know at all, but who knew him painfully well, and had done so for a long time. It was a very unpleasant feeling indeed.
“Had you forgotten?” Balantyne asked coolly.
“No, no. I just hardly thought of the babies as murders. Probably born dead, what? And who knows what happened with Helena? Can’t tell now, poor creature. Could have fallen on something by accident. And really, old fellow, you know, Freddie was no loss. Bounder was a blackmailer. No, far the best thing if the police ask a few questions, see if the servants saw anything; and then if they didn’t, mess off and catch pickpockets, or something; anyhow, take themselves away from here.”
“I hardly think they’ll do that. Murder is a great deal more important than picking pockets,” Balantyne said tartly.
“Well, I’m not going to help them any more,” Reggie poured himself another sherry from the decanter. “If the fellow comes again I shall refuse to see him. He
can talk to the servants, if he wants to. Don’t like to seem uncooperative; but I’m not seeing him again myself. Told him all I know, that’s an end to it.” He swallowed the half glassful and breathed out with a sigh. “Finish!”
Balantyne stared at him.
“Surely you don’t imagine one of the servants killed Freddie?” he said with acid disbelief.
“My dear fellow, I really don’t care any more. Sooner the police give up and clear out, the better.”
“They won’t give up, they’ll stay here until they find out who it was!”
“The hell they will! Been speaking to a few people, at the club, and what not. That Pitt fellow will be put back on the beat if he doesn’t draw his horns in a bit. Just stirring up a whole lot of scandal. Takes pleasure in discomfiting his betters, that’s all. All these working class chaps are the same, give them a little power and they run amok. No, don’t worry, old boy, he’ll be off soon enough. Just poke around a bit, make it look as if he’s trying, then after a decent period, take himself off and look for thieves again.”
Balantyne was furious, a blind, incensed outrage boiled up inside him. This was a mockery of the principles he had believed in all his life: honor, dignity, justice for the living and the dead, the civilized order he had fought for and his peers had died for in the Crimea, in India, Africa, and God knew where else.
“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.
