Anne Perry - Belgrave Square

He looked around. “Where are the children?”

“At school, of course. It’s only three o’clock. What is it?”

“Oh-yes, of course it is. I want to talk to you.”

She passed him the raffia trug for the flower heads and he took it obediently, holding it for her to continue.

“What about?” she asked, clipping off another head.

“Lord Anstiss.”

She must have caught the urgency in his voice. She stopped what she was doing, her hands motionless above the next rose. She looked at him.

“You think he is behind your secret society?” She put the secateurs in the basket and abandoned the task. “I think you are probably right. We had better go inside and talk about it.”

“No,” he said honestly, although even as he said it it ceased to be true. “I think he might have murdered Weems, but I am not totally sure why. I have bits of motives, but they none of them seem quite strong enough.”

She frowned, standing still by the rose bed. “Well, he surely wouldn’t kill someone just so the police would find the notes incriminating Mr. Carswell, and the police officers, even if he did want to take away the references to Lord Byam, who was his friend-and presumably in good favor with the society. He must be clever enough to think of a better way of doing that.” She shook her head. “One that wouldn’t be so dangerous to himself, or so extreme. It seems rather hysterical to me-and he certainly is not a panicky man, I am as sure of that as I am of anything about anyone. I would say he is cold-blooded, and quite in control of himself at all times. Wouldn’t you?”

“Yes-but we could be mistaken. Sometimes very deep emotions lie under an outwardly calm face and manner.” He followed as she led the way inside and set the trug down on the kitchen table. Without asking she put the kettle on the hob and reached for cups and the teapot.

“Lord Byam might panic,” she replied. “I still don’t think Anstiss would. But I know that is not proof of anything. And he would need a very good reason indeed to do something so dangerous.”

“I know.” He sat down at the table.

“Have you had luncheon?” she asked.

“No.”

Automatically she took bread, butter, cheese and rich, fruity pickle from the cupboard.

“Byam is still being blackmailed,” he went on thoughtfully.

“For money?” she asked, spreading the bread.

“Not directly, so far as I can see. According to Lady Byam he has changed his mind very radically over the government policy in lending moneys to certain small countries in the empire, in Africa. One of his longtime friends and colleagues called recently and they had a fearful quarrel. He accused Byam of having betrayed his principles. Byam is in a very poor state, sleeping badly and looks like a ghost.”

She stopped what she was doing, her hands in the air.

“Peter Valerius-” she said.

“Peter Valerius is blackmailing him?” Pitt asked with disbelief.

“No, no! He told me about venture capital.”

“What are you talking about? Why are you interested in venture capital, and what is it?”

“I’m not.” She took the kettle off the hob and poured the water over the tea, letting it steep. “He told me because honestly I think he’d tell anyone who would have the good manners to listen, or the inability to escape. It is a sort of money you can get, at a terrible usury, when no one else will lend you money and you are desperate. I mean industries and countries and the like, not little personal debtors.” She turned around to face him. It was not easy to explain because she understood it only very little herself. “If you have a big industry and you have run out of money, perhaps your costs have gone up and your profits have gone down, and your ordinary banker won’t help-that is someone like Byam-then you may go to someone who will lend you venture capital, at a very high rate of interest, and the price of a third of your company, forever-which may be where Anstiss comes in-maybe? But if you are desperate and will lose everything-perhaps you are a small country and your whole trade is tied up in one export-your people are starving…”

“All right,” he said quickly. “I understand. But I have no idea if Anstiss has anything to do with venture capital.”

“Well if that is what Byam is being blackmailed for, then it seems someone has.”

He bit into the bread and pickle, hungry in spite of the thoughts running faster and faster in his brain.

“I need to know a great deal more about Anstiss,” he said with his mouth full.

“Well where was he when Weems was killed?” she began, With one hand she poured his tea and passed him the mug.

“I don’t know-but I think it is past time I found out.” He ate the rest of his bread and held out his hand for the tea. As soon as he was finished he meant to go and find this Peter Valerius. He needed to know if Anstiss had profited from Byam’s Treasury decision. “Where does Valerius work?” he asked her. “He does work, I suppose?”

“I haven’t any idea. But Jack probably knows. You could ask him.”

Pitt stood up. “I will.” He kissed her quickly. “Thank you.”

He took a hansom to Emily’s house and was fortunate that Jack was at home. From him he learned where to find Peter Valerius, and by quarter to five he was striding along Piccadilly with him, dodging around slower pedestrians, leaping off the pavement over the gutter and back again, avoiding hooves and carriage wheels with considerable skill, coattails flying.

“Of course that is off the top of my head,” Valerius warned cheerfully. “You will want some sort of documentary proof.”

“If I’m right, I will,” Pitt replied, increasing his pace to keep up.

Valerius jumped back onto the curb with alacrity. A horse swerved sideways and the coachman shouted a string of ungentlemanly imprecations at him.

“My apologies!” Valerius called over his shoulder. He grinned at Pitt. “Anstiss is the prime mover behind a lot of financial dealings, and the major shareholder in a few merchant banking interests. He, and his associates, stand to make a fortune, and not a small one, if certain African interests have to go to venture capital. A single year’s interest repayments alone would keep most of us for life, let alone a third share in the company and all its profits in perpetuity.” His face tightened and a look of anger close to hatred came into his eyes. “Never mind they are robbing blind a small country of people caught in a vise of borrowing, price fixing, and trade wars, and not sophisticated or powerful enough to fight.”

Pitt caught him by the arm and pulled him back as he was about to launch off the pavement into a cross street almost under the hooves of a hansom.

“Thank you,” Valerius said absently. “It’s one of the most monstrous damned crimes going on, but no one seems to care.”

Pitt had no argument to offer and no comfort. He refused to make some polite platitude.

The hansom passed and they crossed the street, Pitt watching both ways for traffic, and just reaching the far side as an open carriage swept by at a reckless speed.

“Idiot,” Pitt said between his teeth at the driver.

“It will be traceable.” Valerius went on with his own train of thought. “I’ll get you the proof.” He lengthened his step yet again, his coat flying. Meandering pedestrians who were simply taking the air and showing off moved aside with more haste than dignity, a dandy with a monocle muttering under his breath and two pretty women stopping to stare with interest.

“Thank you,” Pitt said with appreciation. “Can you bring it to me in Bow Street?”

“Of course I can. How long will you be there?”

“Tonight?”