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  He furrowed his brow as if he could still hardly believe what he said next. “Apparently, there was no commanding officer of sufficient rank left, so the young widow of the political agent led the surviving British officers and the Gurkhas out of the city, through the jungle and up the mountains towards Assam. They were rescued by a troop of Gurkhas coming the other way.” He gave an abrupt little laugh. “I can always say I am worried about him. I should be believed.” He glanced at Parthenope, who indicated her agreement, her eyes alight with imagination and pride.

  Pitt dragged his attention back from the extraordinary story of Manipur to the present, grim situation in London. A deep chill settled inside him that two prominent men were being threatened with a very particular form of public ruin, but no price was asked.

  It also forced itself into his mind to wonder if General Balantyne might be a third victim of the same plan, but had been too afraid, or too ashamed, to speak of it. And of course the threat to him was far greater … there was a dead body on his doorstep which made the whole issue public and brought the police to investigate.

  Was Albert Cole the blackmailer?

  It seemed highly unlikely. The more Pitt considered it, the less did it seem credible. He picked up Tannifer’s letter and read it again. It was complex and literate, not the work of a private soldier turned peddler of bootlaces.

  And yet he had had in his pocket Balantyne’s snuffbox, which, as it transpired, was not valuable, but still extremely beautiful, and possibly unique.

  Both Tannifer and Parthenope were staring at him.

  “Is there something of importance that you are not telling me, Superintendent?” Tannifer said with concern. “Your expression causes me considerable anxiety.”

  Parthenope’s face was tight, her mouth pulled crooked with fear.

  Pitt made an instant decision.

  “You are not the only person to suffer from this man’s threats, Mr. Tannifer-” He stopped as he saw Tannifer’s amazement and something which could have been relief.

  “This is monstrous!” Parthenope burst out, stiffening her body and removing her arm from Tannifer’s. She clasped her hands tightly in front of her. “Who else is … Oh! I’m sorry. What a stupid question. Of course you cannot tell us. At least I know you would not, because if you did it might mean you would tell others of our predicament.”

  “No, Mrs. Tannifer,” Pitt agreed. “I would certainly not mention it without his specific permission. Like your husband, he is a man of dignity and honor whose reputation has never been questioned before. He is accused of the offense which would be most repugnant to him, and yet which, although he is totally innocent, he cannot prove himself innocent of. At least at the present he cannot prove it. With diligent work it may become possible. But his act also lies in the past, and many of those who could have disproved what is charged are no longer alive.”

  “Poor soul,” Parthenope said with profound feeling. Her face was flushed, her eyes direct. “What can we do, Mr. Pitt?”

  He was desperate to offer some answer which would comfort her and make her feel she was participating in the battle. But he turned to Tannifer himself as he spoke.

  “There are certain things which will define this person,” he said thoughtfully. “He must know of the earlier matter you mentioned … how public was it?”

  “Not at all.” Tannifer’s face brightened. “I see what you mean. It must be limited by those who either knew for them selves or had heard of it from those who did. That does circumscribe it considerably. But you said two things. What is the other?”

  “He must want something from you which will profit him. If you think what you can do-other than merely pay him money, of course-then you may learn something about who it is.”

  Tannifer frowned. “Do you not think it will be money, when he has felt the exactness of his power well enough?”

  “It may be,” Pitt replied. “Are you a wealthy man, with funds available?”

  Tannifer hesitated. “I–I could not pay a large amount in any haste. Even if I were to sell property, such a thing takes time-”

  “Influence!” Parthenope put in quickly, her expression eager. “Of course. That would make the most excellent sense.” She looked from Tannifer to Pitt. “Has this other man influence, Superintendent?”

  “More than money, yes, Mrs. Tannifer. He has great influence in certain areas.”

  A bitter smile touched Tannifer’s mouth. “I assume you are not referring to Brandon Balantyne but to someone else? Balantyne has no influence now.” He shook his head minutely, an oddly hopeless little gesture. “This is a filthy business, Superintendent. I pray most profoundly that you can help us.”

  Parthenope looked at him earnestly also, but she did not add anything to her husband’s words.

  “If you would make such a list, Mr. Tannifer?” Pitt prompted.

  “Of course. I shall send it around to you at Bow Street the moment it is accomplished,” Tannifer promised. He held out his hand. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Pitt. I rest my trust in you. We both do. Please convey my thanks to Cornwallis for sparing you so instantly.”

  Pitt left oppressed with foreboding and a sense that behind the threatening letters to both Cornwallis and Tannifer was a far greater power than he had at first imagined. There was nothing clumsy or hasty in it, not a greedy man simply taking a chance at extorting money from a mistake he had observed and seen an opportunity on which to capitalize. It was a more carefully laid plan, possibly over a period of time, to obtain power by the deliberate corruption of men of influence.

  And in spite of what Tannifer had said about Balantyne’s having now retired, Pitt could not help wondering if he, too, was the victim of blackmail. He was certain Balantyne had been deeply afraid of something, and it was connected with the pinchbeck snuffbox found in Albert Cole’s pocket. How had Cole come by it? In the answer to that would lie a great deal of the answer to his death.

  Pitt returned to Bedford Square, determined to speak to Balantyne again and see if he could learn from him anything further, possibly even ask him outright if he had received a letter. But when he enquired, the footman told him the General had gone out quite early and had not said at what hour he would return. He did not expect it to be before dinner that night.

  Pitt thanked him and went to see what he could learn about Sigmund Tannifer in the City, his reputation and standing as a banker, and if possible, what particular or delicate influence he might have upon the finances of others, and if there was any known connection with Cornwallis, or even Balantyne.

  Charlotte had no intention whatever of abandoning General Balantyne to hunt for the blackmailer on his own. She joined forces with him the next morning. They met on the steps outside the British Museum. Again she saw him from several yards’ distance, even though there were a number of people coming and going and at least half a dozen standing around or speaking with each other. He was probably more conspicuous than he realized due to his ramrod stiffness. She thought he looked as if he were expecting to face a charge any moment, a platoon with fixed bayonets, or perhaps a band of Zulu warriors.

  His face lit when he saw her, but in spite of his obvious pleasure, the tension did not slip from him.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Pitt,” he said, stepping down onto the pavement to meet her. “It is most generous of you to help in this way, giving up your time in a pursuit that may meet with no success.”

  “It is not much of a battle if there is no chance of failure,” she reminded him sharply. “I do not require assured success before I begin.”

  He flushed faintly. “I did not mean to sound as if I doubted your courage …”

  She shot him a dazzling smile. “I know that. I think you are just a little despondent this morning because this is such a cowardly thing for anyone to do, and we cannot strike back at something we cannot see.” She moved forward purposefully along Great Russell Street. Although she had no idea where they were going, it was simply better than seeming to sta
nd still. “With whom do we begin?”

  “The nearest geographically is James Carew,” he answered. “He lives in William Street, near the park.” He raised his arm to call a hansom, and a moment later one stopped. He handed her up and followed after, sitting beside her, straight-backed, staring ahead. He had given the driver the address, and they began to move swiftly, weaving through the traffic of carts, wagons, drays, omnibuses and carriages.

  She thought of several things to say, but glancing sideways at him she decided that anything at all would be an interruption to his thoughts, and so she remained silent. It was plain that idle talk would not lift his mind from his anxiety, only irritate him beyond bearing. It would indicate she had failed to understand the depth of his concern.

  They alighted in William Street and he paid the driver. However, when they rang the doorbell of the address they had been given, the footman who answered informed them that James Carew had undertaken an adventure to the Mountains of the Moon, and no one knew when, or even if, he would return.

  “The Mountains of the Moon!” Charlotte said as she strode towards Albany Street, her skirts swirling around her ankles, Balantyne lengthening his stride to keep up with her. “Impertinent oaf!”

  He took her arm, restraining her with a gentle pressure.

  “They are in Ruwenzori, in the middle of Africa,” he explained. “Discovered by the same Henry Stanley I mentioned to you before, if you recall? Two years ago-”

  “Two years ago?” She was confused.

  “He discovered them two years ago,” he elucidated. “In 1889.”

  “Oh. I see.” She slowed her pace, and walked for several yards in silence, feeling a trifle foolish. “Who is next?” she asked as they reached Albany Street.

  “Martin Elliott,” he answered without looking at her. There was no lift of hope in his voice.

  She forgot her own irritation. “Where does he live?”

  “York Terrace. We might walk there … unless …” He hesitated. It was plain in his face that it had suddenly occurred to him she might not wish to walk so far, or be accustomed to it.

  “Of course,” she agreed firmly. “It is an excellent day. We might usefully discuss what further plans to make after we have seen Mr. Elliott. If he does know who it is, or if it is himself, then he is unlikely to tell us the truth. What manner of person is he?”

  Balantyne looked startled. “I can hardly remember him. He was rather older than I, a career officer from an old military family. I seem to think he had fair hair, and grew up in the Border Country, but I cannot remember whether it was the English side or the Scottish.” He lapsed into silence again and walked with his eyes down as if studying the pavement.

  Charlotte gave her mind over to the evidence such as they possessed. Cole had been found dead on Balantyne’s doorstep with the snuffbox in his pocket. He had served on the same Abyssinian campaign twenty-five years before. Somebody had sent the threatening letter to Balantyne but had not yet actually asked for anything, except the snuffbox, as a pledge of intent, and Balantyne had been too aware of the damage they could do him to refuse it.

  “What else might they want, apart from money?” she said aloud.

  He swung around, startled. “What?”

  She repeated the question.

  A slow color spread up his cheeks, and he looked away.

  “Perhaps just the exercise of power,” he replied. “For some people that is a purpose in itself.”

  She spoke from impulse, before she had time to question herself and perhaps lose her courage, or think better and be more tactful.

  “Have you some idea who it is?”

  He stopped, wide-eyed, staring at her with amazement.

  “No. I wish to God I had.” He colored faintly. “I’m sorry. But that is one of the very worst aspects of it all … I think of everyone I can imagine, every man I know and have considered a friend, or at least someone I could respect, whether I liked him or not, and now I wonder. It is beginning to poison my views of everyone. I catch myself wondering if people know, if they are secretly smiling, watching me and knowing what I fear, and waiting for me to lose my nerve. And all of them but one will be totally innocent.” A bitter anger filled his eyes. “That is one of the greatest evils of secret accusation; the poison of it, how it slowly destroys your trust in all those to whom you should be able to turn with honor and regard. And how could the innocent forgive you for not having known they were innocent, for having allowed it to even enter your thoughts that they could do such a thing?” His voice dropped. “How could I ever forgive myself?” A woman walking a small dog passed them, and Balantyne was too distracted even to acknowledge her by raising his hat, a gesture so automatic to him he would normally have done it without thought.

  Impulsively, Charlotte reached out her hand and rested it on his arm, holding him lightly. “You must forgive yourself,” she said earnestly. “And no one else will need to forgive you, because they will not know. This may be precisely what the blackmailer wants, to make you so demoralized that when he asks for whatever it is, you are willing to give it to him simply to be rid of the fear and the doubts, to know at last who your enemy is so you can also know your friends.”

  She felt the muscles in his arm tighten as he clenched them, but his hand did not move and he stayed close to her.

  “I have had a second letter,” he said, watching her face. “It was much the same as the first. Cut from the Times again and pasted onto paper. It came by first post this morning.”

  “What did it say?” she asked, trying to keep perfectly steady. He must not see how alarmed she was.

  He swallowed. He was very pale. It was obviously difficult for him even to repeat the words. “That my friends would shun me, cross over in the street to avoid me, if they knew I was a coward and ran from battle, and was saved by a private soldier, and then would not even own up to my shame but let him conceal it for me.” He swallowed, his throat jerking painfully. His voice was hoarse. “That my wife, who had already suffered so much, would be ruined, and my son would have to disown his name or his career would be finished.” He stared at her in helpless misery. “And not a word of it is true, I swear that in the name of God.”

  “I had not doubted you,” she said quite calmly. The depth of his distress had the strange effect of setting a deep resolution in her to fight the issue in his defense to the very last iota of her strength or imagination, and not give in even after that. “You must never allow him to think he has won,” she said with utter conviction. “Unless, of course, it should be a tactical ploy, to lead him to betray himself. But I cannot see, at the moment, how that would be an advantage.”

  He started to walk again. They passed half a dozen people, laughing and talking together: women with tiny waists and sweeping skirts, flowers and feathers on their hats; men in summer coats. And all the time carriages were busy along the street.

  They found the house where Elliot had lived, only to be told that he had died of a kidney ailment two months previously.

  They ate luncheon in a small, quiet restaurant, trying to keep each other’s spirits up, and then took the underground railway right across the city to Woolwich to find Samuel Holt. It was an extraordinary experience, and entirely new to Charlotte, although she had heard about it from Gracie. It was acutely claustrophobic, and the noise was beyond belief. The whole train shot through long, tubelike tunnels, roaring like a hundred tin trays dropped upon a paved yard. But it did achieve the journey in a remarkably short time. They emerged into the blustery, mild wind north of the river and only two streets from Holt’s house.

  He received them with great pleasure, although unable to rise from his chair and apologizing for it with some embarrassment; old wounds and rheumatism had disabled him. But when asked, he said that yes, most certainly he had been on the Abyssinian Expedition and remembered it quite clearly. How could he assist?

  Charlotte and Balantyne accepted the seats offered.

  “Do you recall the st
orming of the baggage train on the Arogee Plains?” Balantyne said eagerly, unable to keep hope out of his voice.

  “Arogee? Oh, yes.” Holt nodded. “Nasty.”

  Balantyne leaned forward. “Do you remember a small bunch of men panicking before enemy fire?”

  Holt thought for a few moments, his blue eyes misty and far away, as if he were seeing the plains of Abyssinia again, the brilliant skies, the dry earth and the colors of fighting men a quarter of a century before.

  “Nasty,” he said again. “Got a lot of men killed that way. Never panic. Worst thing you can do.”

  “Do you remember me?”

  Holt squinted at him. “Balantyne,” he said with evident pleasure.

  “Do you remember me going back for the wounded?” Balantyne said eagerly. “My horse fell. I was thrown, but I got up after a moment or two. Got Manders and helped him back. He was shot in the leg. You turned and went for Smith.”

  “Oh, yes … Smith. Yes, I remember.” He looked at Balantyne with a charming, wide-eyed smile. “How can I help you, sir?”

  “You remember it?”

  “Of course. Dreadful business.” He shook his head, the sunlight catching his white hair. “Brave men. Too bad.”

  A shadow crossed Balantyne’s face. “The Abyssinians?” he questioned.

  Holt frowned. “Our men. Remember the jackals … eating the dead. Fearful! What makes you mention it now, sir?” He blinked several times. “Lose a lot of friends, did you?”

  Balantyne’s face tightened; a bleakness crossed it as if in that instant some hope in him had died.

  “Do you remember that attack and my going back for Manders? Do you remember how it happened?”

  “Of course I do,” Holt insisted. “I said so, didn’t I? Why does it matter now?”

  “Just recollections,” Balantyne replied, leaning back. “Bit of a difference of opinion with someone.”

  “Ask Manders himself, sir. He’ll tell you. You rescued the poor devil. He’d have been dead for certain if you hadn’t. What any officer worth his salt would do. Who says otherwise?” Holt was puzzled; it upset him. “Terrible bloodshed. Remember the stench of bodies.” His face pinched with distress.