Bedford Square

silver-plated flask, as a token of submission more than anything else. It was of no value of itself, only symbolic of victory.”

“Then why … why was he exposed?”

“I don’t know,” Pitt admitted. “I would guess it is as a warning to the other victims, a demonstration of power … and of the will to use it.”

Cadell was sitting very still, only his chest rising and falling as he breathed unnaturally slowly. His fingers did not clench on the desk, but they were stiff. He was holding himself in control with a massive effort.

Footsteps passed along the corridor and disappeared.

“You are quite right,” he said at length. “I have no idea how you knew I was a victim as well … perhaps I should not ask. The suggestion made about me is … disgusting, and totally untrue. But there are those who, for their own reasons, would be only too willing to believe it and repeat it. It would ruin not only me but others as well. Even to deny it would suggest the idea to those to whom such a thought would never have occurred. I am helpless.”

“But you have been asked for nothing so far?” Pitt insisted.

“Nothing whatsoever, not even a token of submission, as you put it.”

“Thank you for being so frank, Mr. Cadell. Would you describe the letter for me? Better still, if you have it, may I see it?”

Cadell shook his head.

“I don’t have it. It was cut from newspaper, I believe the Times, and glued on plain paper. It was posted in the City.”

“Exactly like the others.” Pitt nodded. “Will you keep me apprised of anything further you may receive, or anything you consider could throw any light on this at all …”

“Of course.” Cadell stood up and ushered Pitt to the door.

Pitt left uncertain of whether Cadell would tell him or not. Cadell was obviously a man of great self-control, deeply shaken by events. Unlike others, he had not told Pitt what the threat to him had been. It must cut too sharply, cause too deep a fear.

But then Dunraithe White had told only Vespasia. He would not have told Pitt.

He caught a hansom in Whitehall and went straight to see Cornwallis.

He found him at his desk amid a sea of papers, apparently searching for something. He looked up as soon as Pitt came in. He seemed glad to abandon his task. His face showed the marks of tiredness and strain. His eyes were red-rimmed, his skin papery, shadowed on his cheeks and around his lips.

Pitt felt a tug of pity for him, and anger welled up, driven by his own helplessness. He knew that what he had to tell Cornwallis now would make it worse.

“Morning, Pitt. Have you news?” Cornwallis asked before the door was closed. He looked closely at Pitt’s face, and understanding of failure came slowly into his eyes. Something in his body relaxed, but it was not ease so much as despair, a knowledge of being beaten again.

Pitt sat down without being asked. “I’ve spoken with Leo Cadell at the Foreign Office. Mrs. Tannifer was right. He is another victim, just the same.”

Cornwallis looked at him sharply. “The Foreign Office?”

“Yes. But he hasn’t been asked for anything, not even a token.”

Cornwallis leaned forward over the desk and rubbed his hands over his brow up onto his smooth head.

“That’s a police commissioner, a judge, a junior minister in the Home Office, a diplomat in the Foreign Office, a City banker and a retired general. What have we in common, Pitt?” He stared at him, a flicker of desperation in his eyes. “I’ve racked my brains! What could anybody want of us? I went to see Stanley, poor devil ….”

“So did I,” Pitt said, sinking back in the chair and crossing his legs. “He couldn’t add anything.”

“He didn’t defy the blackmailer.” Cornwallis leaned forward. “The poor devil didn’t have the chance! I think we have to assume that his exposure was a demonstration of power, to frighten the rest of us.” He waited to see if Pitt would disagree. When he did not Cornwallis went on, his voice lower, catching a little. “I had another letter this morning. Essentially the same as the others. A little shorter. Just told me I’d be blackballed from all my clubs … that’s only three, but I value my memberships.”

He was looking down at the disordered papers on the desk as if he could not bear the intrusion of meeting anyone’s eyes. “I … I enjoy going there and being able to feel comfortable … at least I did. Now, God knows, I loathe it. I wouldn’t go at all if I were not involved in certain duties I would not betray.” His lips tightened. “The sort of place where you would wander in if you felt like it, or not visit for a year, and it would be just the same as when you were last there. Big, comfortable chairs. Always a fire in bad weather, warm, crackling. I like the sound of a fire. Sort of a live thing, like the sea around you. Like a ship’s crew, stewards know you. Don’t have to be told each time what you like. Can sit there for hours and read the papers if you feel like it, or find some decent sort of chap to talk to if you fancy a spot of company. I …” He looked away. “I care what they think of me.”

Pitt did not know what to say. Cornwallis was a lonely man, without the love or the warmth, the belonging or the responsibilities, of a wife and children such as Pitt had. Only servants waited for him in his rooms. He could come and go as he pleased. He was not needed or missed. His freedom had a high price. Now there was no one to talk to him, demand his attention or offer him comfort, take his mind from his own fears and loneliness, distract him from nightmares or give him companionship and the kind of love that does not depend upon circumstance.

Cornwallis started pushing around the papers on his desk as if he were looking for something, making what had been merely untidy into complete chaos.

“White has resigned,” he said, gazing at the shambles in front of him.

Pitt was startled. He had had no idea.

“From the judiciary? When?”

Cornwallis jerked his head up. “No! From the Jessop Club. Although …” His voice was strained. “I suppose he might resign from the bench as well. It would at least remove him from the power or the temptation to comply with this man’s wishes … if that is what they are.” He pushed his hand over his head again, as if he had hair to thrust back. “Although judging by his treatment of Stanley, he could be perfectly capable of then exposing White even more violently to warn the rest of us, and surely White will have thought of that?”

“I don’t know,” Pitt said honestly.

Cornwallis sighed. “No, neither do I. When I saw him at the club, just before he resigned, he looked appalling, like a man who has read his own death warrant. I sat in my chair like a fool, pretending to read some damned newspaper … you know I can’t look at the Times these days?” His fingers were fiddling with the letters, notes and lists in front of him, but idly, not as if he had the faintest interest in what they were.

“I looked at White and I knew what he was feeling. I could practically read his thoughts, they were so like my own. He was ill with anxiety, trying to suppress the fear in case anyone else guessed, attempting to appear natural, and all the time half looking over his shoulder, wondering who else knew, who thought he was behaving oddly, who suspected. That’s one of the worst things of all, Pitt.” He looked up, his face tense, the skin shining across his cheekbones. “The mind racing away with thoughts you hate and can’t stop. People speak to you, and you misinterpret every remark, wondering if they mean something more by it. You don’t dare meet a friend’s eyes in case you see knowledge there, loathing, or worse, that he should see the suspicion in yours.”

Suddenly he stood up and strode over to the window, his back half turned to Pitt. “I hate what I have allowed this to make me into, and even as it happens I don’t know how to stop it. Yesterday I met an old friend from the navy, quite by chance. I was crossing Piccadilly, and there he was. He looked delighted and dodged in front of a brougham, nearly being clipped by the wheels, in order to see me. My first thought was to wonder if he could be the blackmailer. Then I was so ashamed I couldn’t look in his face ….”

Pitt scrambled for anything to say that would be of comfort. Everything would be lies. He could not say the man would have understood or would have forgiven. Does one forgive for being considered a blackmailer, even for an instant? If Cornwallis had suspected Pitt, Pitt could never have liked him the same way afterwards. Something irreparable would have been broken. He should know Pitt better than that. Blackmail was an abysmal sin, cruel, treacherous, and above all the act of a coward.

Cornwallis laughed abruptly. “Thank you at least for not replying with some platitude that it doesn’t matter, or that he would never know or do no better himself.” He was still staring at the street below, his back to the room. “It does matter, and I wouldn’t expect anyone to forgive. I couldn’t forgive any man who thought me capable of