Callander Square (33 page)

He felt an illusion slip away from him, and a new value take its place. The dream had been fragile, and foolish; he had not named it even to himself. Now the thing in its place was a warm, gentle pain, the kind that becomes a familiar companion in time, part of one’s growing.

He sighed very slowly. “I have already been to see Sir Robert Carlton. That is where I was when you came. He will speak to the Home Secretary tomorrow.”

The smile started in her eyes and her mouth till it seemed to fill all of her, even to the way she stood, very straight, but with a grace, an ease to the line of her body.

“I am glad,” she said quietly. “I apologize for not having known that you would.” She gathered her cloak a little closer round her and moved past him.

He let her go, he was too full to speak. The compliment, the trust burned inside him more fiercely than in any sweet moment of youth.

He stood alone for a long time in the room before he finally sent for Brandy.

When Brandy came in he was ready for him.

“I have been this evening to see Robert Carlton,” he began straight away. “I persuaded him to speak to the Home Secretary to permit the police to continue to investigate the murders in the square, however long it may be, or however painful, before they discover the truth. Since Freddie Bolsover was a blackmailer, it is highly likely that was the motive for his death. The police will naturally have to pursue that—no, don’t interrupt me, Brandon. I am telling you because they will doubtless come to this house again. They are already aware of Christina’s folly with Max. If there is anything you have done that would make you vulnerable to pressure, I advise you to tell me now, and then the police. If it has nothing to do with Freddie, I daresay they will be discreet about it.”

“They already know,” Brandy replied soberly. “It seems they are extremely thorough, in everything except the actual murders! But thank you for the warning.” He looked away. “I’m glad you did that. Reggie accused Jemima of having blackmailed him, and then of having killed Freddie over the money. I intend to see him in hell for that.”

“How do you know?” Balantyne demanded.

Brandy looked back at him.

“Inspector Pitt told me. I’m sorry about that, Father.” Then sensing Balantyne’s embarrassment, he spoke quite casually. “Do you want to see Mother? You’d better warn her as well, she does rather tend to take things into her own hands!”

Balantyne winced at the memory of Max. He did not really want to see Augusta tonight. There was a lot he wished to say to her, but not yet. Presently, perhaps, when he better understood himself.

“No, thank you,” he replied. “You can tell her, if you don’t mind. I don’t think it will be necessary to warn her, but it would be a courtesy.”

Brandy hesitated a moment, then smiled.

“Right,” he turned and went to the door. “Thank you for not exploding over Jemima. I mean to marry her, if she’ll have me. I dare say Mother won’t be pleased, but she’ll accommodate it in time, if you do.”

“I didn’t say—!” but Brandy was gone, and there was nothing for Balantyne to do but stare at the door after him. Perhaps it was not such a monstrous thought; it was not as if she were a servant, indeed she was not so very unlike Charlotte—but that was another dream he would prefer not to contemplate tonight.

It was after lunch the next day when he saw Alan Ross at his club. Quite naturally, since Alan was both friend and son-in-law, he went over to speak to him.

“Afternoon, Alan, how are you? Christina well?”

“Good afternoon, sir. Yes, in fine health, thank you. And you?”

“Excellent.” What a stilted conversation. Why could he not say what he meant? Had he not learned that much at least from Charlotte? “No, that’s not true. You heard about Freddie Bolsover?”

Ross frowned.

“Yes. Somebody spoke of blackmail; is that true?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. There’s been a concerted effort round the square to stop the police from investigating it any further, for fear of digging up a lot of scandal, I presume, although of course those are not the motives given. I suppose everyone has something they would prefer not known; something sordid, or foolish, or just acutely private.”

Ross made a small face of agreement. Then he looked up as if he had thought of something to say. Balantyne waited, but apparently the words eluded him. They spoke of trivialities for a little while, then Balantyne drew them back to Callander Square, feeling Ross still wished to speak to him.

Again Ross hesitated.

“Is there something you know that I don’t?” Balantyne asked quietly, commanding Ross’s attention with his eyes.

“No,” Ross shook his head, a tiny, rueful smile at the corner of his mouth. “It is something we both know; but I imagine you are not aware of it.”

Balantyne was puzzled, but he had as yet no sense of misgiving.

“Then if I already know, why are you having such difficulty finding the words for it?” he asked. “And why the need to speak of it at all?”

For the first time Ross really met his eyes, without veil or deception.

“Because you may otherwise go to some lengths to keep it from me.”

Balantyne stared.

“Christina,” Ross replied. “I am perfectly aware of her liaison with Max, and the reason for her somewhat precipitate pursuit of me. No, there’s no need to look like that. I knew at the time. I don’t mind. I loved Helena, and I shall never love anyone else. I have a high regard for you; and, it may surprise you, for Lady Augusta also. I was quite willing to be of use to Christina. I shall never love her, but I shall be a good husband to her; and I intend to see that she is a good wife to me: as good as our feelings, or lack of them, will permit. There is still an honorable way to behave, love or not.” He looked down for a moment, then up again. “What I am trying to say is that there is no need to fear my hearing of the affair and treating Christina any differently.” The smile warmed his eyes. “Also, I am very fond of Brandy. Although he has tended to avoid me since my engagement. I think perhaps his conscience is affecting him. He was not born for deceit and it sits ill with him.”

Balantyne would have defended himself against the implication of his own deceit, but it was true and he had no defense; and also there was no criticism in Ross’s face. He had a sudden feeling that Ross was a better man than Christina deserved, a man he both liked and respected himself.

“Thank you,” he said warmly. “You could well have let me stew in fear, even betray myself, and have been justified. It is a great kindness that you do not. I hope in time you will learn to forgive us, not only in charity, but in understanding; although I have no right to ask.”

“I might well have done the same,” Ross brushed it away. “Might yet, if I have children. Join me in a glass of claret?”

“Thank you,” Balantyne accepted with real pleasure, and a sense of ease inside himself. “Yes, I will.”

When Pitt was called again to Colonel Anstruther’s presence he was surprised and relieved to be told that there had been a change of directive from the Home Office, and he was to proceed with his inquiries into all the matters to do with Callander Square. He was surprised, because he had not expected a change of heart, not knowing Charlotte had visited General Balantyne, nor expecting there to have been any results had he been fully conversant with it; and relieved because he had had every intention of pursuing it to the last clue whatever anyone said. Although of course it would have had to be done in roundabout fashion, and largely in his own time, both of which would have been awkward. He did not wish to run the risk of serious demotion for disobedience, and he would very much rather have spent such free time as he had at home with Charlotte, particularly now when she had but four months to go till the birth of their first child.

Therefore it was with a feeling almost of excitement that he ran down the steps and hailed a cab to take him, post haste, back to Callander Square.

Sitting, jolting over the rough paving, he gave his mind to going over, yet again, all that he knew.

He had no doubt in his own mind that Freddie Bolsover had been killed because of his blackmailing; whether or not he had ever actually used the information that had brought about his death, the mere knowledge of it had been fatal to him, the danger of his using it too great for someone to permit. It had been a daring and urgent murder. The murderer had considered his position in imminent peril. What could Freddie have known? Some affair, some illegitimate child? Hardly. With all the other scandals in Callander Square that barely seemed a matter over which to risk murder. Had he known who was the mother, or more likely the father, of the babies buried in the gardens? Certainly not from the beginning, or he would either have used the information sooner, or been killed sooner—

Unless of course he had only just discovered it!

Or there was another possibility—that the murderer had only just discovered that Freddie knew: Freddie had either never intended to use the information, knowing it was too dangerous, or else not understood its meaning. Yes, that made sense. The murderer had killed him so precipitately before he could learn the value of what he knew!

He had arrived at Callander Square and was standing huddled in his coat, collar up, watching the cab clop away into the mist before he realized the last possibility—that it was the knowledge that Freddie had blackmailed Reggie Southeron that had woken the murderer to his own danger! That was the most promising, it gave a precise point at which he could start.

He crossed the square over the muddy gardens, past where the babies had been found, and where Freddie Bolsover had lain; his feet rang hollowly on the road again, the pavement, and up the steps to Reggie Southeron’s house.

Since it was a cold and thoroughly unpleasant day Reggie had not troubled to go to the bank, however he sent a message that he would not see the police any further, nor permit the rest of his household to do so.

Pitt replied to the footman that he had authorization from the Home Office, and if Mr. Southeron made it necessary for him to return with a warrant, then he would do so, but in view of the fact that nobody else in the square had yet behaved in such a way—true so far as it went, he had called on no one else—it might prove more embarrassing for Mr. Southeron than for him!

Ten minutes later Reggie appeared, red-faced and extremely angry.

“Who in hell do you think you are, quoting the Home Secretary at me?” he demanded, slamming the door behind him.

“Good morning, sir,” Pitt answered courteously. “There is only one thing I would appreciate knowing, and that is, who else did you confide in about Dr. Bolsover’s attempts to blackmail you?”

“No one. Hardly the sort of thing you go telling your friends!” Reggie said sharply. “Idiotic question!”

“That’s odd, Mr. Campbell told me you mentioned it to him, and asked his advice.” Pitt raised his eyebrows.

“Damned fool!” Reggie swore. “Well, daresay I did. Must have, if he says so.”

“Who else? It is rather important, sir.”

“Why? Why in hell should it matter now?”

“You seem to have forgotten, Mr. Southeron, that there is a murderer still in Callander Square. He has killed once, maybe more. He may kill again, if he feels threatened. Does that not frighten you at all? It could be the next friend you speak to as you walk to your own door, the next muffled figure to bid you good night, then stick a knife into you. Dr. Bolsover was stabbed in the front, by someone he knew and trusted, not twenty yards from his own house. Does that not disturb you? It would me.”

“All right!” Reggie’s voice rose sharply. “All right! I didn’t speak to anyone but Campbell. Carlton is as stuffy as hell, and Balantyne is hardly any better, there’s no man in the Doran house, and Housman, the old buzzard at the other end, never speaks to anybody. Campbell’s a pretty useful fellow, and not too self-righteous or scared of his own shadow to do anything. I told him. And he stopped it, too!”

“Indeed,” Pitt invested it with more meaning than Reggie understood. “Thank you, sir. That may be most helpful.”

“I’m damned if I can see how!”

“If it does turn out so, you will know eventually; and if not, it hardly matters,” Pitt replied. “Thank you sir. Good morning.”

“Morning,” Reggie answered with a frown. “Silly ass,” he muttered to himself. “Footman will show you out.”

Pitt still did not know what he was looking for, but at long last he thought he at least knew where to look.

He knocked at the Campbells’ door and asked permission to speak to Mr. Campbell. He was admitted and shown into the morning room where Mariah was writing letters.

“Good morning, ma’am,” he said, hiding his surprise.

“Good morning, Mr. Pitt. My husband is engaged at the moment, but he should be able to see you in a short while, if you do not mind waiting.”

“Not at all, thank you.”

“Would you care for some refreshment?”

“No, thank you. Please do not let me disturb you.”

“Did you come to see my husband about the murder of Dr. Bolsover?”

“In part.”

Her face was very pale. Perhaps she was not well this morning, or was the strain of comforting Sophie beginning to tell on her?

“Why should my husband know anything about it?” she asked.

There was nothing to be gained by avoiding the truth. She might even inadvertently help him. Possibly she had learned something from Sophie, without knowing its meaning.

“He was the only person in whom Mr. Southeron confided that Dr. Bolsover was blackmailing him,” he replied.

“Reggie told Garson?” she said slowly. She looked very white. Pitt was afraid she might faint. Was she indeed ill, or did she know something of her husband that he had not even guessed at?

The answer came instantly.

Helena!

An older man, successful, sure of himself, with dignity, power, not free to marry her—was he the lover? His mind raced over a whole new spectrum of possibilities. But why murder? Was she about to betray him, charge him openly with being the father of her child? Had he panicked and killed her in that deserted garden?