Bedford Square (14 page)

Pitt took a hansom and rode, again deep in thought, to Queen Street, just off the Chelsea Embankment. It was a beautiful neighborhood, near the Botanical Gardens, just past the facade of the Chelsea Hospital and the wide space of Burton’s Court. The end of the street opened directly onto the river, which was blue and gray, sparkling in the sun.

He knocked on the door of the number he had been given, and when the footman answered he presented his card. He was shown across the stone-flagged hall with scattered Persian rugs. The walls were hung with an array of historical weapons, from a crusader’s two-handed sword through a Napoleonic saber to two pairs of dueling pistols and two rapiers. Within moments he was taken into an oak-paneled study, where he was left for no more than five minutes before the door opened and a tall man with receding dark hair came in. He was of striking appearance, although there was too much power in his features for handsomeness, too much flesh.

Pitt guessed him to be in his middle fifties, and extremely prosperous. His clothes were perfectly cut and of fabric which draped as if there could be silk in it. There was a sheen to his cravat as if it, too, were silk.

“Thank you for coming, Superintendent. I am much obliged. Please be comfortable.” He indicated the well-worn dark chairs, and as soon as Pitt was seated, he sank into the opposite one, but did not relax. He remained upright, his hands joined together. He was not openly nervous, but he was apparently deeply worried over something.

Several questions came to Pitt’s mind, but he did not speak them aloud. He would leave Tannifer to say what he wished without prompting.

“I understand that you are investigating this miserable business in Bedford Square?” Tannifer began tentatively.

“Yes,” Pitt agreed. “My sergeant is presently looking into the life of the dead man to see if we can learn what he was
doing there. His usual area was Holborn. He sold bootlaces on the corner of Lincoln’s Inn Fields,”

“Yes.” Tannifer nodded. “I read in the newspapers that he was an old soldier. Is that true?”

“It is. Do you know something about him, Mr. Tannifer?”

Tannifer smiled. “No … I’m afraid I know nothing at all.” The smile vanished. “It was only the suggestion in the press regarding poor Balantyne’s possible involvement which made me wish to see you. You are obviously a man of sensitivity and discretion, in whom Cornwallis has the greatest trust, or he would not have assigned you to such a matter.” He was regarding Pitt narrowly, weighing him in his own judgment.

Pitt did not feel any response was required. A denial dictated by modesty would be inappropriate now. Obviously, Tannifer had looked into the subject.

Tannifer pursed his lips.

“Mr. Pitt, I have received a most disturbing letter. One might call it blackmail, except that nothing is asked for, as yet.”

Pitt felt almost winded with shock. It was the last thing he had expected. This affluent banker in front of him had none of the haunted look that Cornwallis had, but perhaps that was because he had not yet realized the full import of what the letter meant. The strain, the fear, the sleepless nights would come.

“When did you receive it, Mr. Tannifer?” he asked.

“Last post yesterday evening,” Tannifer replied quietly. “I informed Cornwallis straightaway. I know him slightly, and I felt I could take the liberty of going to him directly, even to troubling him at his home.” He took a very deep breath and let it out, consciously easing his shoulders. “You see, Mr. Pitt, I am in a very delicate position. My entire ability to follow my career, to be of service to anyone, depends upon trust.” He watched Pitt’s face to see if he understood. A look of doubt flashed across his eyes. Perhaps he was expecting too much.

“May I see the letter?” Pitt asked.

Tannifer bit his lip, moving uncomfortably in his chair, but he did not argue.

“Of course. It is there, on the corner of the desk.” He indicated it with his hand as if he were reluctant even to touch the thing again himself.

Pitt rose and picked the envelope off the polished surface where it was lying. The name and address were cut out of letters from newspapers, but with such painstaking precision, and glued so carefully, that at a glance it seemed to be printed as if by amachine.

The postmark was “Central London,” the previous evening.

He opened it up and read the single sheet he found inside.

And that was all. The meaning was perfectly plain, as it had been in Cornwallis’s letter. And like his, nothing was asked for, no precise, explicit threat was made; but the ugliness, the malice and the danger were extremely clear.

Pitt looked across at Tannifer, who was watching him almost unblinkingly.

“You see!” Tannifer’s voice was harsh, rising a little as if the veneer were thin. “He doesn’t ask for anything, but the threat is there.” He leaned forward across the desk, pulling his jacket out of shape. “It is completely untrue! I have never stolen a halfpenny in my life. I daresay with sufficient time and a careful enough audit of the bank’s books I could prove it.”

He stared at Pitt, searching his eyes, his face, as if desperate to see some hope or understanding.

“But the very fact that I would, or thought I had to, would make people wonder why,” he went on. “The suggestion is enough to ruin me … and the bank too, if they did not dismiss me. The only course possible would be to resign.” He waved his hands wide, jerkily. “And then there would be those who would take that as an admission of some kind of guilt. For God’s sake … what can I do?”

Pitt longed to be able to give him some answer that would offer the hope he longed for, but there was no such thing that would be remotely honest.

Should he tell him there had been others?

“Is anyone else aware of this?” he asked, indicating the letter.

“Only my wife,” Tannifer replied. “She saw my distress, and I had either to tell her the truth or invent some lie. I have always trusted her absolutely. I showed it to her.”

Pitt thought that a mistake. He feared her reaction might be to become so afraid that she would unintentionally betray her distress, or even feel the need to confide in someone further, perhaps her mother or a sister.

Tannifer must have read his feelings in his expression. He smiled.

“You have no need to fear, Mr. Pitt. My wife is a woman of remarkable loyalty and courage. I would rather trust her than anyone else I know.”

It was an unusual statement to make, and yet when he thought about it, Pitt would have said the same thing of Charlotte, and he blushed now with some guilt that he should have assumed less of Mrs. Tannifer without the slightest evidence.

“I apologize,” he said contritely. “I was only—”

“Of course,” Tannifer dismissed it, speaking across him, and for the first time allowing himself to smile. “In most circumstances you would be quite right. There is no need to feel the least discomfort.” He reached for the embroidered bell cord and pulled it.

Within moments a footman appeared.

“Ask Mrs. Tannifer to join us, will you,” Tannifer instructed, then as the man went out, he regarded Pitt seriously again. “What can you do to help us, Superintendant? How should I behave regarding this … threat?”

“To begin with, tell no one else,” Pitt replied, watching him gravely. “Do not even allow them to suspect. If anyone observes your anxiety or distress, think in advance of some other believable cause, and attribute it to that. Better not to say there is nothing wrong, when they may find that difficult to believe. Give no cause for speculation.”

“Of course. Of course.” Tannifer nodded.

There was a light rap on the door, and a moment later it opened and a woman came in who at first glance appeared quite ordinary. She was of average height, a trifle thin, her shoulders angular, her hips in her very lightly bustled gown too lean to be fashionable, or even very feminine. Her fair hair was naturally wavy and of a soft honey shade. Her features were not beautiful. Her nose lacked elegance, her eyes were wide, blue, and very direct. Her mouth was sensitive and curiously vulnerable. It was her bearing which made her remarkable. There was an extraordinary grace within her which would have marked her out from any crowd, and the longer one looked at her, the more attractive did she seem.

Both men rose to their feet.

“Parthenope, this is Superintendent Pitt, from Bow Street,” Tannifer introduced them. “He has come about this wretched letter.”

“I’m so glad,” she said quickly. Her voice was warm and a little husky. She looked at Pitt earnestly. “It is pure evil! Whoever wrote it does not even imagine it is true; he is simply using the threat of lies to hurt and to—to extort … I don’t know what. He doesn’t even say what he wants! How can we fight him?” She moved to stand closer beside her husband, and almost unconsciously she slid her arm into his. It was a casual gesture and yet intensely protective.

“First, behave as naturally as possible,” Pitt repeated, this time to Parthenope Tannifer. “But if anyone realizes you are
anxious, give them some other cause to explain it, don’t fob them off with a denial they will not believe.”

“My wife’s brother is in India; Manipur, to be exact. The news from there is sufficient to worry anyone.…” He saw Pitt nod, and continued. “As you know, there was a palace coup in September last year. Our people decided that it constituted a rebellion, and in March of this year our man in Assam took four hundred Gurkhas and marched to Imphal, the capital of Manipur, to talk. They were promptly seized and killed.”

He furrowed his brow as if he could still hardly believe what he said next. “Apparently, there was no commanding officer of sufficient rank left, so the young widow of the political agent led the surviving British officers and the Gurkhas out of the city, through the jungle and up the mountains towards Assam. They were rescued by a troop of Gurkhas coming the other way.” He gave an abrupt little laugh. “I can always say I am worried about him. I should be believed.” He glanced at Parthenope, who indicated her agreement, her eyes alight with imagination and pride.

Pitt dragged his attention back from the extraordinary story of Manipur to the present, grim situation in London. A deep chill settled inside him that two prominent men were being threatened with a very particular form of public ruin, but no price was asked.

It also forced itself into his mind to wonder if General Balantyne might be a third victim of the same plan, but had been too afraid, or too ashamed, to speak of it. And of course the threat to him was far greater … there was a dead body on his doorstep which made the whole issue public and brought the police to investigate.

Was Albert Cole the blackmailer?

It seemed highly unlikely. The more Pitt considered it, the less did it seem credible. He picked up Tannifer’s letter and read it again. It was complex and literate, not the work of a private soldier turned peddler of bootlaces.

And yet he had had in his pocket Balantyne’s snuffbox,
which, as it transpired, was not valuable, but still extremely beautiful, and possibly unique.

Both Tannifer and Parthenope were staring at him.

“Is there something of importance that you are not telling me, Superintendent?” Tannifer said with concern. “Your expression causes me considerable anxiety.”

Parthenope’s face was tight, her mouth pulled crooked with fear.

Pitt made an instant decision.

“You are not the only person to suffer from this man’s threats, Mr. Tannifer—” He stopped as he saw Tannifer’s amazement and something which could have been relief.

“This is monstrous!” Parthenope burst out, stiffening her body and removing her arm from Tannifer’s. She clasped her hands tightly in front of her. “Who else is … Oh! I’m sorry. What a stupid question. Of course you cannot tell us. At least I know you would not, because if you did it might mean you would tell others of our predicament.”

“No, Mrs. Tannifer,” Pitt agreed. “I would certainly not mention it without his specific permission. Like your husband, he is a man of dignity and honor whose reputation has never been questioned before. He is accused of the offense which would be most repugnant to him, and yet which, although he is totally innocent, he cannot prove himself innocent of. At least at the present he cannot prove it. With diligent work it may become possible. But his act also lies in the past, and many of those who could have disproved what is charged are no longer alive.”

“Poor soul,” Parthenope said with profound feeling. Her face was flushed, her eyes direct. “What can we do, Mr. Pitt?”

He was desperate to offer some answer which would comfort her and make her feel she was participating in the battle. But he turned to Tannifer himself as he spoke.

“There are certain things which will define this person,” he said thoughtfully. “He must know of the earlier matter you mentioned … how public was it?”

“Not at all.” Tannifer’s face brightened. “I see what you mean. It must be limited by those who either knew for them
selves or had heard of it from those who did. That does circumscribe it considerably. But you said two things. What is the other?”

“He must want something from you which will profit him. If you think what you can do—other than merely pay him money, of course—then you may learn something about who it is.”

Tannifer frowned. “Do you not think it will be money, when he has felt the exactness of his power well enough?”

“It may be,” Pitt replied. “Are you a wealthy man, with funds available?”