Sigmund Tannifer, Guy Stanley and Dunraithe White.”
Theodosia looked startled. “I did not know that,” she said quietly. “They are different generations and quite different kinds of men. I know Parthenope Tannifer. She has called several times. A most interesting woman. And is not Dunraithe White a judge?”
“Yes. And John Cornwallis is assistant commissioner of police,” Vespasia added. “One wonders if some subversion of the law is intended. Except how could that involve Brandon Balantyne?”
“There must be some connection,” Theodosia said fiercely. “It is up to us to find it. It cannot be professional. It cannot be from school or university.”
“Then it must be social,” Vespasia deduced, sipping her tea. The hot liquid was peculiarly refreshing, even though the room was warm and bright in the summer morning sun. The whole house was unusually silent, the servants on tiptoe. Someone had thought to put straw in the street outside to muffle the hooves of passing horses. Vespasia had a sudden thought. “Or financial! Could Leo have invested in some scheme or other, and those other people also?”
“And there is something wrong in it?” Theodosia seized the idea eagerly. “Yes! Why not? That would make some sense of it.” She rose to her feet. “There will be notes of it in his study. We shall look.”
Vespasia went with her, the tea abandoned.
They spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon there, stopping for a brief luncheon only because Vespasia insisted for Theodosia’s sake, and Theodosia obeyed for hers. They searched for records of all Leo Cadell’s investments of any nature whatever, and discovered that he had been, on the whole, extremely prudent. There had been one rather rash backing of an adventure in the Caribbean which had lost him a modest amount, but all the rest were either adequate or extremely good. There was startlingly little invested overseas in anything speculative, and he had been scrupulous to avoid anything with even the semblance of profiting from his knowledge gained as a member of the diplomatic service.
Vespasia became increasingly saddened reading the dry facts of investment and return over the years. They demonstrated the financial life of a man who made good provision for his family but was extraordinarily careful, erring on the side of loss, never to make a penny from his professional advantage. It reflected the man she knew, nothing like the person Lyndon Remus wrote of in the newspapers, or the police presumed from the manner of his death. Funny that a series of figures should convey so much.
“There’s nothing here,” Theodosia said desperately a little after half past three. She was sitting at the desk with papers strewn all around her. She looked wretched and exhausted. “He gave to certain charities, but that’s about all I can think of that he could have had in common with the other people you mention, and then it wasn’t much. I mean, not the sort of money anyone would blackmail over.”
“What charities?”
Vespasia asked simply for something to say, to not allow the silence to make it seem she had given up.
Theodosia was surprised. “Specifically? An orphanage that was governed by several members of the Jessop Club. I knew he still went on attending that committee most of the time even when he was exceptionally busy. He mentioned that General Balantyne was on it also.” And without saying anything further she took a bundle of letters out of the desk drawer and began to read through them.
Vespasia went to one of the other drawers and found some more.
For half an hour she saw nothing that seemed of any relevance at all. It was unpleasant reading through another person’s letters which had been intended as private. There was nothing Leo would have had cause to be embarrassed or ashamed of, not even anything especially personal; it was simply intrusive for a third person to read them. She had a terribly oppressive sense of his death. Going through his belongings made its reality almost tangible.
She read one letter through, although it was more of a memorandum, and then she nearly missed the relevance. It was on the letterhead, printed below that of the Jessop Club. The handwritten part was addressed to Leo Cadell and concerned the patronage of a fund-raising art exhibition. A notable society lady was to attend. It had been held over six months before, and was of no importance. Leo had presumably kept it only because he had written an address on it, some collector of Chinese ginger jars living in Paris. It was the names of the committee that caught Vespasia’s eye: Brandon Balantyne; Guy Stanley, M.R; Lawrence Bairstow; Dunraithe White; John Cornwallis; James Cameron; Sigmund Tannifer and Leo Cadell.
She looked up. Theodosia was still reading, a growing pile of discarded papers strewn around her.
“Do you know Lawrence Bairstow?” Vespasia asked. “Or James Cameron?”
“I knew Mary Ann Bairstow,” Theodosia replied, looking up. “Why? What have you found?”
“Could Lawrence Bairstow be another victim?”
There was sudden disappointment in Theodosia’s face.
“No. The poor man is senile. He is a great deal older than she is. I am afraid he would be incapable of exerting any influence at all, for good or ill. And I believe his personal affairs are looked after by the family solicitors.” She could not keep the weariness of pain out of her voice.
“And James Cameron?” Vespasia pressed, not sure why, or if there was any purpose in it; it was simply unbearable to give up.
“The only James Cameron I knew of went to live abroad several months ago,” Theodosia answered. “He has poor health, and he moved to a drier, warmer climate. India, I think, but I’m not sure. Why? Why are you asking? What is that?”
“I think, just possibly, we may have discovered what they have in common,” Vespasia said slowly. “Although I cannot see, for the life of me, what conceivable profit there could be in it.”
Theodosia shot to her feet and snatched the paper from her. She read it, then looked up, puzzled. “They are all on this committee within the Jessop Club. But it’s for an orphanage. That is what the money is for. Could that be it … misappropriation of funds?” The expression in her eyes hovered between hope and despair. “It hardly seems worth it. How much could it be?”
“A great deal of disgrace, if it were discovered,” Vespasia answered gravely, trying to keep the emotion calm in her voice. “To steal from an orphanage is particularly despicable.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.” Theodosia’s hands were trembling. She gripped them together to control the movements. She so fervently wanted this new information to mean something she dared not hope too much, and yet she was so close to surrendering to grief she could not let go either. “That … that could be it … couldn’t it?”
Vespasia did not have the heart to deny it, even though she felt it could not be true. Perhaps to give Theodosia some shred of light now was more important than a probable truth. She must survive.
“It could,” she agreed. “Let us see if there is any other reference to it here, then I shall take it to Thomas and see what he makes of it.”
“You mean Superintendent Pitt?” The hope fled from Theodosia’s face. “He is sure Leo was guilty.”
“He will listen if I tell him about this.” Vespasia filled her voice with an absolute conviction she did not feel.
“Will he?” Theodosia clutched at it.
“Most certainly. Now, let us see what else we can find.”
In another two hours of meticulous reading of every piece of paper in the desk and in the drawers of the cabinet they
My dear Cadell,
Perhaps I am being over zealous, but I am concerned about the amount of money going to the orphanage at Kew. I have re-read the accounts and it seems to me to require some more detailed evaluation. I have raised the matter in committee once, but was overruled.
Of course it is possible I am out of touch with the cost of things, but I would value your opinion. I hope we may discuss the subject at a time suitable to you.
I remain,
your most obedient servant,
Brandon Balantyne
Theodosia was so encouraged by it that Vespasia could not bring herself to point out how trivial the matter almost certainly was.
