agree, but perhaps the purist would not.”
He offered her his arm and she took it as they walked slowly back across the grass to the terrace and up the steps.
“I am afraid I have very unpleasant news, Aunt Vespasia,” he said when they were inside and she was seated.
“I can see it in your face, my dear,” she replied. “You had better tell me what it is.”
“Tannifer sent for me today. He also seems to be of the opinion that the blackmailer’s ultimate goal may be to influence African affairs to his own advantage.”
“That is not news, Thomas,” she said a trifle sharply. She had not realized how tense she was. She heard the edge in her own voice. “We had assumed as much,” she continued. “Did he offer any evidence?”
He must have caught her emotion. He came directly to the point. “He mentioned Cadell’s name in two regards, one intentionally, concerning his professional interest in African affairs.”
His face was filled with distress, and it touched her with in creasing fear. She found herself swallowing with an effort, but she did not interrupt.
“The other was accidental, at least as to meaning,” he continued quietly. “He was concerned that Cornwallis might also be a victim, and that thought was prompted by Cadell’s having referred to an incident in Cornwallis’s career which was open to misinterpretation and therefore made him vulnerable.”
For a moment she did not understand. Her concern was for Pitt.
“But Cornwallis said that he saved the man,” she argued. “Does that now make you reconsider his innocence?”
“No.” He shook his head minutely. “It makes me wonder how Cadell knew of it and why he should even consider Cornwallis as a victim.”
Then she understood. A great weight of coldness settled inside her. She dared not think of the tragedy that might lie ahead. She had known Theodosia and cared for her since her birth; she had watched her grow up as she had her own children.
“Leo Cadell is a victim also,” she said, and knew the remark was pointless even as she made it. The blackmailer could easily pose as a victim. It would serve his purpose in many ways.
Pitt did not argue with her. He knew it was unnecessary.
“I realize that does not exclude him,” she said very deliberately. “But I have known Leo for a great many years. I have watched his pattern of behavior. And don’t tell me people can change with pressure or temptation. I know that, Thomas.” She was talking too quickly, too vehemently, and she could hear it in her voice, and yet it seemed to be beyond her control. Her thoughts were far ahead, and already inescapable. “He has his weaknesses, of course. He is an ambitious man and a good judge of other men’s characters, but he is fiercely patriotic, in a conventional way.” She felt a thin shudder of horror. “He is not a greedy man, nor an adventurous one.”
Pitt was listening to her, his face grave. The sunlight through the French windows lengthened across the carpet, apricot gold. The black-and-white dog had gone back to sleep as it lay in the warmth.
“I do not believe Leo has the cruelty, or the ingenuity, to have conceived a scheme like this,” she said with conviction. “But that he should use Theodosia’s beauty to win advancement is not impossible. He would deny doing it, even to himself.” She hated what she was saying; it was repugnant in every way. It felt like a betrayal to admit such a thing, even to Pitt, but it was true. It had crossed even her mind to wonder if the accusation could hold some truth. That in itself was the most powerful illustration of the blackmailer’s brilliance. Even she had entertained the idea … how much more easily would others believe it? She was ashamed of herself for her disloyalty, not only to Leo, but even more to Theodosia. And yet the thought had come, and the doubt.
Pitt was still talking.
“I called on him,” he said gravely, watching her face. “He seems to consider he may be asked for money. Mrs. Tannifer overheard a conversation about raising a large, unspecified amount.”
“But the blackmailer has not asked for money,” she responded. “That makes no sense.” But even as she said it the thought darkened in her mind. She refused to accept it. It was disloyal … untrue. She was doing exactly what the blackmailer wanted … she had yielded her independence, her belief. “It’s rubbish!” she said too loudly.
He did not argue. They discussed it a little longer and then he took his leave. But even when he had gone, she could not rid her mind of the thought and the unhappiness which oppressed her, and she spent a long and surprisingly lonely evening.
While Pitt was talking to Vespasia, Charlotte was sitting in her kitchen pouring tea for Tellman, who had called expecting to find Pitt at home. To judge from the expression on his face, he was both disconcerted and pleased to find that Pitt was unexpectedly late and the only people home to hear his report were Charlotte and Gracie.
He sipped the tea appreciatively and rested his feet. He would probably have liked to take his boots off, as Pitt himself would have done, but that was far too much of a liberty.
“Well?” Gracie said, watching him from where she stood at the sink. “Yer must ’ave come fer summink, ’ceptin’ ter sit down.”
“I came to see Mr. Pitt,” he replied, avoiding meeting her eyes.
Gracie kept her patience with difficulty. Charlotte could see the temper in her face and watched her thin chest rise and fall as she took a deep breath.
Archie, the marmalade-and-white cat, stalked across the floor, found just the right place in front of the stove and sat down.
“That means yer don’t trust us ter pass it on ter ’im?” Gracie said quietly.
Tellman seemed almost to have forgotten Charlotte. The idea that Gracie thought he did not trust her was obviously acutely uncomfortable to him. His struggle within himself was palpable.
Gracie did not help him at all. She waited, her arms folded, regarding him, her small face full of impatience.
“It’s nothing to do with trust,” he said at last. “It’s police business, that’s all.”
Gracie thought about that for a moment or two.
“I s’pose you’re ’ungry too?” she said.
That took him by surprise. He looked up quickly. He had been expecting an argument or a flash of temper.
“Well, are yer?” she demanded. “Cat got yer tongue?” Her tone became sarcastic. “That in’t a p’lice secret, is it?”
“Of course I’m hungry!” he said, coloring dull pink. “I’ve been walking around the streets all day.”
“Follerin’ poor General Balantyne, ’ave yer?” she said, also ignoring Charlotte. “Well, that must a’ bin ’ard work. W’ere’d ’ego, then?”
“I didn’t follow him today,” he replied. “Nothing to follow him for.”
“So ’e din’t do nuffin’, then?” she concluded. “Never thought as ’e did.” She sniffed.
Tellman was silent. If anything, his discomfort seemed to have increased. Watching him, Charlotte was aware that his mind was going through a kind of turmoil quite unfamiliar to him. His ideas had been challenged and found severely wanting. He had been forced to change his opinions about someone, presumably General Balantyne, and so perhaps a great many other people he had previously grouped together as a class and now had been obliged to see as individuals. To have one’s prejudices overthrown is always painful, at least at first, even if one can eventually accommodate them, and it becomes liberating in some distant future.
She felt sorry for him, but that would be the last thing he would want. She still remembered now and then how when she had first met Pitt he had shown her another world, full of individual people with loves and dreams, fears, loneliness and pain, perhaps different in cause but essentially the same as her own. Before that she had barely noticed some of the ordinary men and women in the streets; they had been a class to her rather than people just as unique as she was, with lives as full of incident and feeling as her own. The realization of how blind she had been was painful. She had despised her own narrowness, and it was not easy to acknowledge it even now.
She could see the confusion in Tellman’s face, his bent head, his bony hands lying on the table beside the mug of tea Gracie had given him.
Angus, the black cat, came in through the back door and sauntered across to sit so close to Archie that he was obliged to move. Angus began to wash himself.
Gracie cleared her throat. “Well, if yer like I can get yer a kipper an’ some bread an’ butter?” she offered,
