Bedford Square (24 page)

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 words. “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.

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.”