inexplicable. I feel as if I have left something undone. And I want to know what happened to the real Albert Cole. If he is alive, where is he? And if he is dead, did he die naturally or was he also murdered?”
She stood very still. “I suppose you must. I … I want to hope that you will find some other explanation, something that does not involve my husband. Every fact you have found so far makes that impossible, and yet I cannot believe it of the man I knew … and loved.” Her lip trembled a little, and she gestured impatiently. “You must mink me a fool. I imagine every woman whose husband has done something criminal says the same thing. You must expect it by now.”
“If people were so easy to read, Mrs. Cadell, anyone could do my job, and far better than I do it,” he said softly. “It can take me weeks to solve a case, and too often I don’t succeed at all. Even when I do, I am frequently just as surprised as anyone else. Most of the time we see what we expect to see, and what we want to.”
The ghost of a smile touched her face. “Where would you like to begin?”
“With the valet, if you please.”
But Didcott, the valet, proved of little use. He was obviously suffering from shock and bewilderment, and the very natural anxiety as to what his own future would be. He would have no employment once Cadell’s belongings were disposed of. He answered every question to the best of his ability, but he could shed no light on the subject of Cadell’s life outside what was generally known of his work at the Foreign Office and the social and diplomatic functions that one might have expected him to attend. If he owned any clothes suitable for venturing to the East End, or attending the rougher gambling houses, let alone such sports as bare-knuckle fighting or dog fights, he did not keep them in the house.
Pitt went through all the cupboards and drawers himself. Cadell had been a fastidious man, well dressed, as Pitt would have expected, but considering his position and his income, certainly not extravagant. Almost all his suits were formal; there was little of a more casual nature.
Didcott kept a diary of events Cadell attended in order that he might make sure every garment was ready, clean and pressed, when it should be required and that there were always sufficient clean shirts to hand. Pitt read it carefully, going back over the previous three months. If Cadell had kept every appointment, and Didcott assured Pitt that he had, then his schedule allowed very little time indeed for self-indulgence of any sort. It was difficult to see when he could have had time to go to Shoreditch, or anywhere else, to overspend money on private vices.
It also appeared, incidentally, that he had very seldom been to the Jessop Club lately, not above three times in the previous eight weeks, at least according to Didcott’s diary. Perhaps Pitt should go to the club and ask there? Maybe it was irrelevant, but it was a silly little fact that did not fit the picture.
He went downstairs and outside to the mews, where he found the coachman, but even with the most detailed questioning, he also could offer nothing of use. He had driven Cadell regularly over the previous eight years and had never taken him to Shoreditch, or anywhere like it. He looked at Pitt with wide, sad eyes, and seemed confused by almost everything Pitt said.
It seemed that if Cadell had gone on any private journeys, he had done so by hansom or some other form of public transport, or less likely, with an associate.
Was that the answer, a conspiracy?
With whom?
He should go through all the papers again. Reread everything to see if there was any indication of another person, another mind involved.
He was offered luncheon, and accepted it, eating it in the servants’ hall. They treated him civilly enough, but their grief was very obvious, and they spoke little.
He returned to his task, and it took him the rest of the afternoon, going through every drawer and cupboard. He even leafed through books from the shelves in the study, the only room in the house which was private to Cadell and not touched by any of the servants except in his presence. It was where he had kept certain of his work when he had brought it home.
Pitt questioned all the servants about the posting of a letter on the day before Cadell’s death, or that morning, but no one knew of a letter, to Dunraithe White or anyone else.
There was no glue in the study desk drawer. There was notepaper, but it was of a different texture and a slightly different size from that of the letters. It would seem Cadell had not written them at home. Could he really have done it at the Foreign Office? Or was there a third place, one they knew nothing of?
The only other thing that caught Pitt’s attention was a note on the side of Cadell’s appointment diary: “Balantyne still worried about Kew He is not a fool. I should take it seriously.”
He thanked Theodosia and left to go to Bedford Square. He had been to Kew himself. Charlotte had spoken to Balantyne also, but perhaps there was something Pitt could ask that would elicit an explanation as to why the General was concerned that made some kind of sense.
He did not believe it, but he could not leave it undone.
As he was shown in by the footman he was greeted with icy disdain by Augusta. She was dressed in a gray striped gown and looked magnificent. Pitt was jolted by memory of the past, her courage and resolution, her grief, and the loneliness that must haunt her solitary hours. There was no happiness in her, only cold strength. There was something admirable about her, something frightening, and not a little that evoked a sense of pity.
“What tragedy is it this time, Mr. Pitt?” she enquired, coming towards him with a remarkably graceful step for a woman of her age. There was nothing whatever fragile in her, nothing that spoke of vulnerability. “And what makes you imagine that we can assist you in your confusion?”
“The same tragedy, Lady Augusta,” he answered gravely, standing in the middle of the wide hall. “And I am not at all sure that General Balantyne can help, but I have to ask.”
“Do you?” she said with faint sarcasm. “I find that difficult to understand, but I suppose you have to justify yourself somehow.”
Pitt did not argue. He probably was wasting not only his own time but Balantyne’s. Nevertheless, he would still ask him about Kew.
“The orphanage?” Balantyne said with surprise. He stood with his back to the oak fireplace in the morning room, staring at Pitt. “Yes, I did speak to Cadell about it. Twice, I think … possibly three times.” He was frowning slightly. “I don’t understand why you are concerned now. If they are incompetent, or short of funds, it is hardly a police matter.”
“Incompetence? Is that what you were concerned about when you contacted Cadell two or three times?” Pitt asked with surprise. “Why Cadell? Did you speak to the committee in general?”
“Yes, of course I did. No one else seemed to consider the matter of any substance.”
“You thought the funds were insufficient,” Pitt said again. “You did not suspect that anyone was misusing them or diverting them to private profit?”
“No,” Balantyne said. “I don’t know what I thought was happening, just that sufficient care was not being taken.”
“So you spoke to Cadell? Why him?”
“I believed he would listen and take the matter up with the man in charge … Horsfall.”
“I went there myself,” Pitt confessed. “I looked through the financial books. They were faultless.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Balantyne said a little sharply. “I was not suspecting dishonesty … only a reluctance to demand more money, sufficient to care properly for the children there. I was concerned that they might be cold … or hungry.”
“I saw the children,” Pitt replied. “They were clean and well clothed and looked in excellent health.”
Balantyne was puzzled. “Then it would seem I was mistaken.” But there was disbelief in his voice. He was reluctant to let go of the conviction he had held.
“What made you think there was something wrong?” Pitt was puzzled also, because he respected Balantyne and could not dismiss his ideas lightly, even if they appeared to have no foundation.
Balantyne frowned. “I go to Kew every so often. I am familiar with the size of it, and how many children it could accommodate. I do not understand how they can manage adequately on the funds they have. It seems to me … far too little ….” He lifted one shoulder very slightly. “I don’t know why they didn’t press for more.”
“Were you alone in this?” Pitt thought of the other members of the committee in the Jessop Club. Surely no stretch of the imagination could connect the orphanage with blackmail or death?
“I don’t believe so” Balantyne answered a trifle ruefully. “I raised the subject when we all met. Cornwallis seemed to think I was mistaken. But then he is used to naval catering, which is hardly the same.” His lips
