“It may be,” Pitt replied. “Are you a wealthy man, with funds available?”
Tannifer hesitated. “I–I could not pay a large amount in any haste. Even if I were to sell property, such a thing takes time-”
“Influence!” Parthenope put in quickly, her expression eager. “Of course. That would make the most excellent sense.” She looked from Tannifer to Pitt. “Has this other man influence, Superintendent?”
“More than money, yes, Mrs. Tannifer. He has great influence in certain areas.”
A bitter smile touched Tannifer’s mouth. “I assume you are not referring to Brandon Balantyne but to someone else? Balantyne has no influence now.” He shook his head minutely, an oddly hopeless little gesture. “This is a filthy business, Superintendent. I pray most profoundly that you can help us.”
Parthenope looked at him earnestly also, but she did not add anything to her husband’s words.
“If you would make such a list, Mr. Tannifer?” Pitt prompted.
“Of course. I shall send it around to you at Bow Street the moment it is accomplished,” Tannifer promised. He held out his hand. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Pitt. I rest my trust in you. We both do. Please convey my thanks to Cornwallis for sparing you so instantly.”
Pitt left oppressed with foreboding and a sense that behind the threatening letters to both Cornwallis and Tannifer was a far greater power than he had at first imagined. There was nothing clumsy or hasty in it, not a greedy man simply taking a chance at extorting money from a mistake he had observed and seen an opportunity on which to capitalize. It was a more carefully laid plan, possibly over a period of time, to obtain power by the deliberate corruption of men of influence.
And in spite of what Tannifer had said about Balantyne’s having now retired, Pitt could not help wondering if he, too, was the victim of blackmail. He was certain Balantyne had been deeply afraid of something, and it was connected with the pinchbeck snuffbox found in Albert Cole’s pocket. How had Cole come by it? In the answer to that would lie a great deal of the answer to his death.
Pitt returned to Bedford Square, determined to speak to Balantyne again and see if he could learn from him anything further, possibly even ask him outright if he had received a letter. But when he enquired, the footman told him the General had gone out quite early and had not said at what hour he would return. He did not expect it to be before dinner that night.
Pitt thanked him and went to see what he could learn about Sigmund Tannifer in the City, his reputation and standing as a banker, and if possible, what particular or delicate influence he might have upon the finances of others, and if there was any known connection with Cornwallis, or even Balantyne.
Charlotte had no intention whatever of abandoning General Balantyne to hunt for the blackmailer on his own. She joined forces with him the next morning. They met on the steps outside the British Museum. Again she saw him from several yards’ distance, even though there were a number of people coming and going and at least half a dozen standing around or speaking with each other. He was probably more conspicuous than he realized due to his ramrod stiffness. She thought he looked as if he were expecting to face a charge any moment, a platoon with fixed bayonets, or perhaps a band of Zulu warriors.
His face lit when he saw her, but in spite of his obvious pleasure, the tension did not slip from him.
“Good morning, Mrs. Pitt,” he said, stepping down onto the pavement to meet her. “It is most generous of you to help in this way, giving up your time in a pursuit that may meet with no success.”
“It is not much of a battle if there is no chance of failure,” she reminded him sharply. “I do not require assured success before I begin.”
He flushed faintly. “I did not mean to sound as if I doubted your courage …”
She shot him a dazzling smile. “I know that. I think you are just a little despondent this morning because this is such a cowardly thing for anyone to do, and we cannot strike back at something we cannot see.” She moved forward purposefully along Great Russell Street. Although she had no idea where they were going, it was simply better than seeming to stand still. “With whom do we begin?”
“The nearest geographically is James Carew,” he answered. “He lives in William Street, near the park.” He raised his arm to call a hansom, and a moment later one stopped. He handed her up and followed after, sitting beside her, straight-backed, staring ahead. He had given the driver the address, and they began to move swiftly, weaving through the traffic of carts, wagons, drays, omnibuses and carriages.
She thought of several things to say, but glancing sideways at him she decided that anything at all would be an interruption to his thoughts, and so she remained silent. It was plain that idle talk would not lift his mind from his anxiety, only irritate him beyond bearing. It would indicate she had failed to understand the depth of his concern.
They alighted in William Street and he paid the driver. However, when they rang the doorbell of the address they had been given, the footman who answered informed them that James Carew had undertaken an adventure to the Mountains of the Moon, and no one knew when, or even if, he would return.
“The Mountains of the Moon!” Charlotte said as she strode towards Albany Street, her skirts swirling around her ankles, Balantyne lengthening his stride to keep up with her. “Impertinent oaf!”
He took her arm, restraining her with a gentle pressure.
“They are in Ruwenzori, in the middle of Africa,” he explained. “Discovered by the same Henry Stanley I mentioned to you before, if you recall? Two years ago-”
“Two years ago?” She was confused.
“He discovered them two years ago,” he elucidated. “In 1889.”
“Oh. I see.” She slowed her pace, and walked for several yards in silence, feeling a trifle foolish. “Who is next?” she asked as they reached Albany Street.
“Martin Elliott,” he answered without looking at her. There was no lift of hope in his voice.
She forgot her own irritation. “Where does he live?”
“York Terrace. We might walk there … unless …” He hesitated. It was plain in his face that it had suddenly occurred to him she might not wish to walk so far, or be accustomed to it.
“Of course,” she agreed firmly. “It is an excellent day. We might usefully discuss what further plans to make after we have seen Mr. Elliott. If he does know who it is, or if it is himself, then he is unlikely to tell us the truth. What manner of person is he?”
Balantyne looked startled. “I can hardly remember him. He was rather older than I, a career officer from an old military family. I seem to think he had fair hair, and grew up in the Border Country, but I cannot remember whether it was the English side or the Scottish.” He lapsed into silence again and walked with his eyes down as if studying the pavement.
Charlotte gave her mind over to the evidence such as they possessed. Cole had been found dead on Balantyne’s doorstep with the snuffbox in his pocket. He had served on the same Abyssinian campaign twenty-five years before. Somebody had sent the threatening letter to Balantyne but had not yet actually asked for anything, except the snuffbox, as a pledge of intent, and Balantyne had been too aware of the damage they could do him to refuse it.
“What else might they want, apart from money?” she said aloud.
He swung around, startled. “What?”
She repeated the question.
A slow color spread up his cheeks, and he looked away.
“Perhaps just the exercise of power,” he replied. “For some people that is a purpose in itself.”
She spoke from impulse, before she had time to question herself and perhaps lose her courage, or think better and be more tactful.
“Have you some idea who it is?”
He stopped, wide-eyed, staring at her with amazement.
“No. I wish to God I had.” He colored faintly. “I’m sorry. But that is one of the very worst aspects of it all … I think of everyone I can imagine, every man I know and have considered a friend, or at least someone I could respect, whether I liked him or not, and now I wonder. It is beginning to poison my views of everyone. I catch myself wondering if people know, if they are secretly smiling, watching me and knowing what I fear, and waiting for me to lose my nerve. And all of them but one will be totally innocent.” A bitter anger filled his eyes. “That is one of the greatest evils of secret accusation; the poison of it, how it slowly destroys your trust in all those to whom you should be able to turn with honor and regard. And how could the innocent forgive you for not having known they were innocent, for having allowed it to even enter your thoughts that they could do such a thing?” His voice
