ambitions, contrary to government policy. He had lately succeeded in a brilliant move towards his aims, greatly assisted by what looked like inside information. In the picture, he had his back turned to his wife and Sir Guy and was looking away.
The story below suggested that Sir Guy, a favored candidate for a ministerial position, had been far more intimate with Mrs. Shaughnessy than was consistent with morality or honor, and threaded through the ambiguous phrases was the implication that he had let slip government business in return for her favors. There was also a difference of some thirty years in their ages, which made it uglier and lent it a sordid and pathetic air.
If Sir Guy Stanley had been hoping for preferment, he would not now receive it. A blow like this to a man’s reputation, whether the suggestion was founded or not, would make him an impossible choice for the post in the government for which his name had been put forward.
Pitt sat at the breakfast table holding the newspaper in his hand, his toast and marmalade forgotten, his tea growing cold.
“What is it?” Charlotte asked anxiously.
“I’m not sure,” he said slowly. He read out the article about Guy Stanley, then lowered the paper and met her eyes. “Is it coincidence, or is this the first threat carried out as a warning to the others?” He wondered what could have precipitated it.
“Even if it isn’t,” she pointed out, “it will serve the same purpose.” She was pale faced as she put her cup down in its saucer. “As if the Tranby Croft business were not enough without this. It will reinforce the blackmailer’s message, whether this was his doing or not. Do you know anything about Guy Stanley?”
“No more than I’ve read here.”
“And this Mrs. Shaughnessy?”
“Nothing at all.” He took a deep breath and pushed away his plate. “I think I must go and see Sir Guy. I need to know if he had a letter. More than that, I need to know what he was asked to do … and had the courage to refuse.”
Charlotte remained silent. She sat with her body tense, her shoulders pulling at the rose-colored cotton of her dress, but there was nothing more to say.
He touched her lightly on the cheek as he passed, and went out to collect his boots and his hat.
The newspaper had given Guy Stanley’s address, and Pitt alighted from the hansom half a block away and walked briskly in the warm morning air up to the house and rang the doorbell.
It was answered by a footman who informed him that Sir Guy was not in and would not be receiving callers. He was about to close the door again, leaving Pitt on the step. Pitt produced his card and held it out.
“I am afraid it is police business about which I need to see your master and it cannot wait,” he said firmly.
The footman looked highly dubious, but it was not within the bounds of his authority to refuse the police, in spite of the orders he had been given to admit no one.
He left Pitt on the step while he went to enquire, carrying the card on his silver tray.
The slight wind was already welcome in the rising heat of this unusual July. By midday it would be sweltering. It was an uncomfortable wait, reminding Pitt sharply of his social status. A gentleman would have been asked in, even if left in the morning room.
The footman returned with a look of slight surprise and conducted Pitt into a large study, where he had only a moment to wait before the door opened and Sir Guy Stanley came in. He was a tall, thin man only barely recognizable from the newspaper photograph, which must have been taken at least two or three years previously. His white hair was markedly thinner now, and his side-whiskers shorter and neater. He walked carefully, as if uncertain of his balance, and he banged his elbow against the oak-paneled door as he closed it. His face was almost bloodless.
Pitt’s heart sank. Stanley did not look like a man who had faced the enemy down, at whatever the cost, but like someone who had received a fearful and unexpected blow. He was still reeling with the shock and barely in command of himself.
“Good morning, Mr ….” He glanced at the card in his hand. “Mr. Pitt. I am afraid this is not a fortunate morning for me, but if you tell me in what way I may be of assistance, I shall do what I can.” He indicated the overstuffed chairs, leather buttoned into complex patterns. “Please sit down.” He almost fell into the closest of them himself, as if not certain he could remain on his feet any longer.
Pitt sat opposite him. “There is no pleasant or diplomatic way of putting this, sir, so I shall avoid wasting your time and simply tell you the situation. However, I shall omit the names of the people concerned in consideration of their reputations, as I will yours, should you be able to assist me.”
There was no understanding in Stanley’s face, only polite resignation. He was listening only because he had promised to.
“Four prominent men of my acquaintance are being blackmailed-” Pitt began. He stopped abruptly, seeing the sudden blaze of interest in Stanley’s face, the rush of blood up his thin cheeks and the clenching of his hands on the wood-and-leather arms of the chair.
Pitt smiled bleakly. “I believe each to be innocent of the charge leveled against him by the writer of the letters, but unfortunately, in every case it is almost impossible to prove it. They are also, in every case, the offenses of which each would be most profoundly ashamed, and therefore peculiarly vulnerable to pressure.”
“I see ….” Stanley curled and uncurled his fingers on the arm of the chair.
“No money was asked for,” Pitt continued. “In fact, so far nothing at all has been named, or given, except one small token of faith … or if you like, submission.”
Stanley’s hands knotted more tightly.
“I see. And what is it you think I may be able to help you with, Mr. Pitt? I have no idea who it is or how to battle against such a thing.” He smiled with bitter self-mockery. “Surely today I am the last man in England to offer advice on the safeguarding of one’s honor or reputation.”
Pitt had already decided to be honest.
“Before I came here, Sir Guy, I had wondered if perhaps you were also a victim of this man, and when he had named his price for silence, you had told him to go to the devil.”
“You thought better of me than I had warranted,” Stanley said very quietly, the color bright on his thin cheeks. “I am afraid I did not tell him to go to the devil, in spite of profoundly wishing him there.” He looked at Pitt very steadily. “He only asked one very small thing of me, a silver-plated brandy flask, as a token of good faith. Or perhaps ‘surrender’ would be more accurate.”
“You gave it to him?” Pitt asked, dreading the answer.
“Yes,” Stanley replied. “His threat was couched in roundabout terms, but it was perfectly plain. As you no doubt observed in this morning’s newspapers, he has carried it out.” He shook his head a little, a gesture of confusion, not of denial. “He gave me no warning, no further threat, and he did not ask for anything.” He smiled very faintly. “I like to think I would not have given it him, but now I shall never know. I am not sure whether I really wish I had tested myself … or not. I have my illusions still … but no certainty. Is that better, do you think?”
He stood up and walked towards the window facing the garden, not the street. “In my better moments I shall believe I would have damned him, and gone down with my own honor intact, no matter what the world thought. In my worse ones, when I am tired or alone, I shall be convinced my nerve would have failed, and I should have surrendered.”
Pitt was disappointed. He was startled by how much he had been trusting that Stanley had actually been asked for something specific, even use of his influence, and had precipitated this act by his refusal. It would have been an indication of what to expect regarding the others. It might even have narrowed the field to who the blackmailer might be.
Stanley saw his face and read the emotion correctly, but misjudged the reason for it. The hurt was in his eyes, and the shame.
Pitt shrugged very slightly. “A pity. I’m sorry to have intruded at such a time. I came because I hoped he had tipped his hand far enough to ask you for some abuse of influence or power, and then we would know what he wanted. You see, the other victims are men in many different fields of achievement, and I can see no common link between them.”
“I’m sorry,” Stanley said sincerely. “I wish I could be of help. Naturally, I have racked my mind as to who it could be. I have gone over every personal enemy or rival, anyone I might have slighted or insulted, anyone whose
