Callander Square (32 page)

“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.

“Please leave, Reggie. It would make you look ridiculous to have to be thrown out.”

Reggie’s face darkened to crimson and he hurled the glass into the fire, splintering it into incandescent pieces. He turned on his heel and marched out, slamming the door behind him so hard the pictures teetered on the shelf and a small ornament fell over.

Balantyne stood alone for several minutes, his mind absorbing what he had done. Finally he rang the bell, and when the butler appeared, asked to have the footman fetch his coat as he was going out to see Sir Robert Carlton.

Carlton was at home, and Balantyne found him in the withdrawing room by the fire opposite Euphemia. He had never seen her look so happy, there seemed to be a warmth about her, as if she were somehow in the sunlight. Balantyne wished he had come for any other reason, but the outrage was still hot inside him.

“Good evening, Carlton; evening, Euphemia, you’re looking uncommonly well.”

“Good evening, Brandon.” There was a slight lift of question in her voice.

“I’m sorry, Euphemia, I need to speak to Robert urgently. Will you be so generous as to excuse us?”

Euphemia stood up, a little puzzled, and obligingly left the room.

Carlton frowned, annoyance flickering across his face.

“What is it, Balantyne? It had better be important, or I will find it hard to excuse your manners. You were something less than courteous to my wife.”

Balantyne was in no mood for trivialities.

“Did you use your influence to stop the police from investigating any further into the murders in this square?” he demanded.

Carlton faced him squarely, his face quite unperturbed by guilt or reserve.

“Yes, I did. I think they have done enough harm already, and no good can come of continuing to probe into our private lives and our tragedies and mistakes. They have had more than enough time to discover who gave birth to those unfortunate children, and what happened to them. There is no reasonable chance that after all this time they will discover who Helena Doran’s lover was, or find him if they did. As for Freddie Bolsover, he may or may not have been a blackmailer, but on the other hand he could perfectly well have been killed by a passing robber. Better for Sophie if we suppose that and leave it alone—”

“Balderdash!” Balantyne shouted. “You know damned well he was killed by someone in this square because he pushed too hard with his blackmail, and this time he caught not some lascivious ass who played around with a maid, but a murderer.”

Carlton’s face tightened.

“Do you really believe that?”

“Yes, and if you’re honest, so do you. I know you’re afraid for Euphemia. I’m afraid too. But I’m a damn sight more afraid of what I’ll turn into if I try to cover this up—”

“Freddie was a blackmailer,” Carlton said less certainly. “Let the wretch lie in peace, for Sophie’s sake, if nothing else.”

“Stop deceiving yourself, Robert. Whatever he was, his murder cannot be disregarded, swept away because it is ugly and its investigation is inconvenient to us. What the hell do you believe in, man? Have you nothing left but comfort?”

Carlton’s head came up sharply, his eyes blazing: but he had no defense. He opened his mouth to speak, but words evaded him. Balantyne did not flinch, and eventually it was Carlton who looked down.

“I’ll speak to the Home Secretary tomorrow,” he said quietly.

“Good.”

“I don’t know what good it will do. Campbell and Reggie are pulling pretty hard for it to be closed. Reggie is afraid for himself, of course; but I think Campbell is sorry for Sophie. Pretty frightful for her, poor girl. Mariah’s been taking care of her; very capable woman, Mariah; always seems to know what to do in a crisis. But nothing could protect Sophie from the disgrace if this is made public.”

“I’m glad there is someone who can keep their head,” Balantyne could not resist a last cruelly honest jibe, his anger was still too hot. “I am sorry for Sophie, but the truth cannot be changed. Give my apologies to Euphemia,” he said, and then turned and left. When he had spoken to Brandy and Augusta, told them his feelings, he would be drained of anger. Then he could come back, perhaps tomorrow, and make his peace with Carlton. In the future, when he was needed, he would help Sophie.

When he reached his own hallway he was surprised by the footman telling him Miss Ellison had called to see him. He was annoyed, disconcerted. He was far from at his best, and he did not wish her to see him in these circumstances. The footman was staring at him, and his brain could manufacture no excuse.

She was waiting for him in the study. She turned as he came in, and at sight of her face he remembered how much she pleased him, how clear and gentle were the lines of her face, passion without guile. There was nothing sophisticated in her, and it was both restful and exciting to him.

“Charlotte, my dear,” he went over toward her, holding out his hands, meaning to take hers, but she held back. “What is it?” She had changed and he was afraid of it; he did not want anything in her to be different.

“General Balantyne,” she said a little formally. There was color in her cheeks and she looked uncomfortable, but she did not avoid his eyes. She took a deep breath. “I am afraid I have lied to you. Emily Ashworth is my sister, but I am not unmarried, as I allowed you to believe. Ellison was my maiden name, I am Charlotte Pitt—”

At first the name meant nothing to him, he could see no reason for the deception. Had she imagined he would not employ her if she were married?

“Inspector Pitt is my husband,” she said simply. “I came here because I wanted to find out about the babies, and, if they were stillborn, to offer some support to the mother. Now I want to help Jemima. Mr. Southeron has charged that she blackmailed him, and then killed Dr. Bolsover in a quarrel over the money. If Thomas is called off the case and no one ever discovers who did kill Dr. Bolsover, she will have that hanging over her all her life.”

“You are married to Pitt,” he frowned, “the policeman?”

“Yes. I’m sorry for having deceived you. I never imagined at the time that it could matter. But please, think whatever you like of me, but don’t let them prevent Thomas from finding out the truth, at least about Dr. Bolsover. It is wrong to accuse someone, and then leave it unproved. If Jemima had been his social equal, he would not have dared. He only said it because he knew she could neither defend herself, nor attack him in return.”