There were the obvious lovers, strolling arm in arm, whispering to each other and laughing, seeing no one else. There were those less open, pretending they were merely friends and had met by chance, being elaborately inconsequential. Several young girls in pastel dresses passed by, giggling, huddled close together, swinging their petticoats, eyeing the young men and trying to look as if they weren’t. Their muslin skirts drifted in the slightest breeze, their hair gleamed, the blood warm in their cheeks.
Two young soldiers paraded by in uniform, dashing and elegant. Charlotte could not help thinking that probably in ordinary browns and grays they would have looked like any other clerks or apprentices. The bravado made all the difference. She smiled as she watched them. They had a kind of brash innocence. Had Balantyne once been like that, thirty years ago?
It was impossible to imagine him so young, so callow and unaware.
An elderly lady came past dressed in lavender. Perhaps she was in half-mourning, or maybe she merely liked the color. She walked slowly, her entire attention upon the flowers, profuse and dazzling in their beauty.
Although Charlotte was waiting for Balantyne, she did not see him until he was at her elbow.
“Good morning,” he said, startling her. “They are beautiful, aren’t they?”
She realized he was speaking about the roses.
“Oh, yes. Marvelous.” She was suddenly completely uninterested in them. In the bright sunlight the weariness showed in his face, the network of fine lines about his eyes and mouth, the shadows from too little sleep.
“How are you?” he continued, looking at her as if the answer mattered to him greatly.
“Let us walk,” she suggested, reaching to take his arm.
He offered it unhesitatingly.
“I am very well,” she answered as they passed between the flower beds, just another two people among the many. “But the situation is hardly better; in fact, I am afraid it is worse.” She felt his arm tighten under her hand. “There have been very curious developments which have not been in the newspapers. It is proved beyond doubt that the body was not that of Albert Cole at all, but a petty thief from Shoreditch called Josiah Slingsby.”
He stopped and swung around to stare at her. “But that makes no sense!” he protested. “Did he steal the snuffbox? From whom? He cannot have been the blackmailer … I received another letter this morning!”
She had known more would come, and yet she still felt a shock as if someone had struck her. He had touched them again, closely, personally, had reminded them of his reality, his power to act, to hurt them.
“What did he say?” She found the words awkward, her lips dry.
“The same,” he answered, beginning to walk again. In the shelter they had lost the breeze, and the perfume of the roses was heavy, dizzying in the sun.
“Did he still not ask for anything?” she pressed. She wished he would. Waiting for the blow to fall was almost worse than facing it when it did. But then, that was presumably a large part of the plan, the weakening, the fear, the wearing down before the attack.
“No.” He faced straight ahead, avoiding looking at her. “There is still no request for money or anything else. I have lost count of the hours I have lain awake trying to imagine what he could wish of me. I have thought of every area in which I could act, or have influence, of every person I know whose behavior I could affect, for good or ill, and I can think of nothing.”
She hated the thought, but it must be faced if it were to be fought against.
“Is there anyone in whose path of promotion or gain you are standing?”
“Militarily?” He laughed with a sharp, desperate sound. “Hardly. I am retired. I have no title or wealth that should pass to anyone but Brandy, and he could not be behind this. You know that as well as I.”
“Any other position, social or financial?” she pressed. “Any elected office?”
He smiled. “I am president of an explorers’ club which meets once a quarter and tells each other stories, greatly embellished by imagination and wishful thinking, entirely for entertainment. We are all of us over fifty, and many over sixty. We live in the glory and the color of our past exploits. We remember Africa when it truly was a dark continent, full of mystery and adventure. We traveled for love of the unknown, long before anyone thought of it in connection with investment and the extension of empire.”
“But you have knowledge of it, real knowledge, from having been there?” she pressed.
“Of course, but I cannot think it is of any use to present-day explorers and financiers.” He frowned. “Do you think this has anything to do with Africa?”
“Thomas does … at least he holds it as a possibility. Great-Aunt Vespasia believes it is a very powerful conspiracy, and great profit for someone lies at the root of it.”
They were passing other flower beds now which were brilliant with color and perfume. The drone of bees was audible above the swish of skirts and a faint murmur of conversation.
“That seems likely,” he answered.
“Any other offices?” she asked.
“I was president of a society promoting young artists, but my term finished last year.” His voice emphasized the triviality of it. “Other than that, newly being a member of a group within the Jessop Club that raises finances for an orphanage. I cannot imagine anyone desiring to take my place in that. It is hardly exclusive anyway. I believe anyone who wished to join it would be welcomed.”
“It doesn’t sound like the sort of thing one would commit blackmail to achieve,” she agreed.
They walked in silence for a hundred yards or so, across the pathway which circled the gardens and out into the main part of Regents Park. The sun was growing hotter and the breeze had dropped. Somewhere in the distance a band was playing.
“I don’t think the fact that the body is that of Slingsby, and not Cole, has made any difference to the police’s believing I could have been responsible for his death,” he said at length. “I suppose he could have been running errands for the blackmailer as easily as anyone else. You say he was a thief?”
“Yes … from Shoreditch, nowhere near Bedford Square,” she said quickly “He was killed in Shoreditch, by his accomplice. Thomas knows it had nothing to do with you at all.”
“Then why is his sergeant still making enquiries about me?”
“To learn what the blackmailer wants,” she said with conviction. “It must be some influence you have, some power or information. What have you in common with the other victims?”
He smiled bleakly, a flash of hard humor. “Since I don’t know who they are, I cannot even guess.”
“Oh …” She was taken aback. “Yes … of course. They are a banker, a diplomat, Sir Guy Stanley of course you know …” She saw the wince of pity in his face but went on. “A judge …” Should she mention Cornwallis or not? Pitt might prefer she did not, but the situation was too serious for secrets that were largely a matter of saving embarrassment. “And an assistant commissioner of police.”
He looked at her. “Cornwallis,” he said softly. “I don’t expect you to answer that … of course. I’m sorry. He’s a very decent man.”
“You know him well?”
“No, very slightly. Simply members of the same club … two clubs, actually. Always thought him a good fellow, very straightforward.” Again he lapsed into silence for several yards. “I knew Guy Stanley too. Not well, but I liked him.”
“You are speaking of him in the past.…”
His face tightened. “So I am. I’m sorry. That is inexcusable. I’ve been thinking about him a lot since that news broke. Poor devil.” He shivered a little and hunched his shoulders, knotting the muscles as if he were cold in spite of the sun. “I called on him. Wanted to tell him … I don’t know … perhaps only what you came to me to say, that I still regarded him as my friend. I don’t think him guilty of that charge, but I have no idea if he believed me.”
A dog scampered across their path carrying a stick in its mouth.
He stared straight ahead. “Perhaps I should have had the courage to tell him I was a victim of the same blackmail, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell even him what it accused me of. I do not admire myself for that. I wish now that I had. Then he might have known I believed him. But I suppose if I were honest, I was afraid he would not believe me.” He swung around to face her again. “That is the thing; I am not sure of anybody anymore. I mistrust where I would never have thought of it even a month ago. People offer me decency, friendship, kindness, and I look at them and doubt. I try to see motives behind which are ugliness and duplicity, double meanings to remarks that are made in innocence. I am tainting even the good that I have.”
