She sat down on her favorite seat near the window and let the stick go. The black-and-white dog thumped its tail with pleasure. Vespasia looked steadily at Charlotte.
“You think he is ill … or …” Charlotte began, then realized her slowness of perception. “You think he is being blackmailed too!”
“I think he is under very great pressure of some sort,” Vespasia said more exactly. “I have known him for many years, and he has always been a most honorable man, scrupulously so. His responsibilities to the law are central to his life, second only to his love for Marguerite, his wife. They have no children, and perhaps have consoled each other for this and grown closer than many others.”
Charlotte sat opposite her, rearranging the newly glamorous gown. She was hesitant to ask the next question, but it burned in her mind, and her concern for Balantyne gave her a boldness she would not normally have had.
“Are these decisions in favor of anyone in particular, or any interests?”
A flash of understanding lit Vespasia’s eyes, and wry sadness.
“Not yet. According to Theloneus these are merely erratic, ill thought out, quite unlike his usual careful consideration and weighing of all factors.” She frowned. “It is as if his mind were only half on what he is doing. I was most concerned about him. I thought perhaps it was illness, which it may be. I saw him two or three days ago, and he looked most unwell, as if he had slept very little. But there was more, a sense of abstraction in him. Only when you told me of Brandon Balantyne did the thought of blackmail occur to me.” She moved her hands fractionally. “There are so many things a man may not be able to disprove once the suggestion is made. One only has to look at this ridiculous Tranby Croft affair to see how easily ruin may come simply by a misplaced word, a charge, whether it can be proved or not.”
“Is Gordon-Cumming going to be ruined?” Charlotte asked. “And is he innocent?” She knew Vespasia would be at least to some degree acquainted with the principal characters concerned, and very probably know a good deal about their private lives.
Vespasia shook her head slightly. “I have no idea whether he is innocent, but it is perfectly possible. The whole matter should never have arisen. It was handled appallingly badly. When they believed he was cheating they should have called an end to the game, without requiring him to sign a piece of paper promising never to play cards again, which was tantamount to an admission of guilt. Condemning who was present, somebody was bound to speak of it, and then scandal was inevitable. With two wits to rub together they could have foreseen that.” She shook her head with impatience.
“But there’s got to be something we can do about this threat of blackmail!” Charlotte protested. “It is monstrously unjust. It could happen to anyone.”
Vespasia was very tense, unaccustomed lines of anxiety in her face.
“What worries me is what this blackmailer may ask for. You say he has made no demand of Balantyne yet?”
“No … except a snuffbox … and that was found on the body of the man who was murdered on his doorstep.” She found her own fingers clenching. “Thomas knows all about the murder, of course, because it is his case. But that is not all ….”
“There is worse,” Vespasia said quietly; it was more of a conclusion than a question.
“Yes. Assistant Commissioner Cornwallis is being blackmailed too. Also for something in the past in which he cannot prove his innocence.”
“What, precisely?”
“Taking the credit for another man’s act of courage.”
“And General Balantyne?”
“That he panicked in the face of the enemy and allowed someone else to conceal it for him.”
“I see.” Vespasia looked deeply troubled. She understood only too bitterly how such rumors, no matter how softly whispered, how passionately denied, would make a man’s life nigh to intolerable. Less vicious charges than either of those had at best driven men to retire from all public life and move to some remote spot in the wilder parts of Scotland, or even to leave Britain altogether and become expatriates without a purpose. At worst, they had caused suicide.
“We must fight,” Charlotte urged, leaning forward a little. “We can’t let it happen.”
“You are right,” Vespasia agreed. “I have no idea whether we can win. Blackmailers have all the advantages.” She rose to her feet, again using the cane. The dog uncurled itself and stood up also. “They use methods we cannot and would not,” she continued. “They fight from the shadows. They are the ultimate cowards. We shall have luncheon, then we shall call upon the Whites.” She reached for the bell rope and pulled it. When it was answered she informed the butler of her plans, for him in turn to tell the cook and the coachman.
Dunraithe and Marguerite White lived in Upper Brook Street, between Park Lane and Grosvenor Street. Charlotte and Vespasia alighted from the carriage in the bright mid-afternoon sun. Vespasia knew all the proper etiquette for calling on “at home” days, once or twice a month. Anyone with a suitable degree of acquaintance might come. All “morning calls” actually took place in the afternoon, from three o’clock until four for the most formal and ceremonial, from four to five for those less formal, and from five until six for those which were quite intimate or between close friends.
However, there were certain advantages to high birth and the passage of time. When Vespasia chose to break the rules no one complained, except those who would like to have done so themselves but did not dare to, and they made their comments very quietly-and if overheard, denied them.
Fortunately, this was not an “at home” day. Mrs. White was without company, and a somewhat startled maid took Vespasia’s card and returned a few moments later to say that Mrs. White would receive them.
Charlotte was too concerned about the issues which had brought them there to take anything but the slightest notice of the house or its furnishings. She had a fleeting impression of heavy, gold-framed pictures, rather a lot of carved oak and curtains with fringes.
In the withdrawing room, Marguerite White stood near a chaise longue covered with cushions, rather as if she had just risen from it. She was slender and pale, with a mass of dark hair. Her eyes were hollow, heavy lidded, her brows delicate. She was a beautiful woman, but Charlotte’s most powerful impression was that she was not strong and the slightest exertion would tire her. She was dressed in a dark muslin gown, which was obviously not what she would have chosen had she expected callers.
A greater surprise was that her husband was standing behind her. He was only a little taller than she, a trifle portly now, and broad shouldered. But in spite of his ample frame and genial features, he looked as if he, too, had been ill. There was no color in his skin, and the shadows under his eyes were dark.
“Vespasia! How charming of you to call.” He made an effort to be courteous, and a genuine good nature was unmistakable in his voice. Nevertheless, he could not entirely conceal that he was puzzled to see her, and of course he was unacquainted with Charlotte.
Vespasia greeted him with warmth and made the appropriate introductions. All the usual remarks were made about health and weather, and tea was offered, although no one expected it to be accepted at this hour.
“Thank you,” Vespasia said with a smile, sitting down on the wide sofa and arranging her skirts with the merest flick of her hand, indicating that she fully intended to stay.
Marguerite looked startled, but there was nothing she could do about it short of extreme rudeness, and it had been apparent from her first response to Vespasia that she was fond of her, and perhaps a little in awe.
Charlotte sat down nervously. What could she possibly say in this absurd but desperately important situation? Something flattering but innocuous. She glanced out of the window.
“What a delightful garden you have, Mrs. White.”
Marguerite looked relieved. It must be a subject that gave her pleasure. Her face eased of some of its tension; her eyes brightened.
“Do you like it?” she asked eagerly. “I wish it were larger, but we do what we can to give the illusion of space.”
“You succeed admirably.” Charlotte was able to say it with sincerity. “I should love to have such a skill, or perhaps I should say an art? I doubt it is something which can be learned.”
“Would you like to see it more closely?” Marguerite offered.
It was precisely what Vespasia had most hoped for and intended to bring about were she able. Charlotte had accomplished it within the first few minutes of their visit.
