Anne Perry - Callander Square

Balantyne was furious, a blind, incensed outrage boiled up inside him. This was a mockery of the principles he had believed in all his life: honor, dignity, justice for the living and the dead, the civilized order he had fought for and his peers had died for in the Crimea, in India, Africa, and God knew where else.

“Get out of my house, Reggie,” he said levelly. “And please do not return. You are no longer welcome here. And as far as the police are concerned, I shall move everything I have, speak to every man in power, to see that they ask every question, investigate every clue until they find out the uttermost truth about everything that has happened in Callander Square, and I don’t give a damn whom it hurts. Do you understand me?”

Reggie stared at him, blinking, the sherry glass in his hand.

“Y-you’re drunk!” he stammered, although he knew it was not true. “You’re insane! Have you any idea what harm it could do?” his voice ended in a squeak.

“Please leave, Reggie. It would make you look ridiculous to have to be thrown out.”

Reggie’s face darkened to crimson and he hurled the glass into the fire, splintering it into incandescent pieces. He turned on his heel and marched out, slamming the door behind him so hard the pictures teetered on the shelf and a small ornament fell over.

Balantyne stood alone for several minutes, his mind absorbing what he had done. Finally he rang the bell, and when the butler appeared, asked to have the footman fetch his coat as he was going out to see Sir Robert Carlton.

Carlton was at home, and Balantyne found him in the withdrawing room by the fire opposite Euphemia. He had never seen her look so happy, there seemed to be a warmth about her, as if she were somehow in the sunlight. Balantyne wished he had come for any other reason, but the outrage was still hot inside him.

“Good evening, Carlton; evening, Euphemia, you’re looking uncommonly well.”

“Good evening, Brandon.” There was a slight lift of question in her voice.

“I’m sorry, Euphemia, I need to speak to Robert urgently. Will you be so generous as to excuse us?”

Euphemia stood up, a little puzzled, and obligingly left the room.

Carlton frowned, annoyance flickering across his face.

“What is it, Balantyne? It had better be important, or I will find it hard to excuse your manners. You were something less than courteous to my wife.”

Balantyne was in no mood for trivialities.

“Did you use your influence to stop the police from investigating any further into the murders in this square?” he demanded.

Carlton faced him squarely, his face quite unperturbed by guilt or reserve.

“Yes, I did. I think they have done enough harm already, and no good can come of continuing to probe into our private lives and our tragedies and mistakes. They have had more than enough time to discover who gave birth to those unfortunate children, and what happened to them. There is no reasonable chance that after all this time they will discover who Helena Doran’s lover was, or find him if they did. As for Freddie Bolsover, he may or may not have been a blackmailer, but on the other hand he could perfectly well have been killed by a passing robber. Better for Sophie if we suppose that and leave it alone-”

“Balderdash!” Balantyne shouted. “You know damned well he was killed by someone in this square because he pushed too hard with his blackmail, and this time he caught not some lascivious ass who played around with a maid, but a murderer.”

Carlton’s face tightened.

“Do you really believe that?”

“Yes, and if you’re honest, so do you. I know you’re afraid for Euphemia. I’m afraid too. But I’m a damn sight more afraid of what I’ll turn into if I try to cover this up-”

“Freddie was a blackmailer,” Carlton said less certainly. “Let the wretch lie in peace, for Sophie’s sake, if nothing else.”

“Stop deceiving yourself, Robert. Whatever he was, his murder cannot be disregarded, swept away because it is ugly and its investigation is inconvenient to us. What the hell do you believe in, man? Have you nothing left but comfort?”

Carlton’s head came up sharply, his eyes blazing: but he had no defense. He opened his mouth to speak, but words evaded him. Balantyne did not flinch, and eventually it was Carlton who looked down.

“I’ll speak to the Home Secretary tomorrow,” he said quietly.

“Good.”

“I don’t know what good it will do. Campbell and Reggie are pulling pretty hard for it to be closed. Reggie is afraid for himself, of course; but I think Campbell is sorry for Sophie. Pretty frightful for her, poor girl. Mariah’s been taking care of her; very capable woman, Mariah; always seems to know what to do in a crisis. But nothing could protect Sophie from the disgrace if this is made public.”

“I’m glad there is someone who can keep their head,” Balantyne could not resist a last cruelly honest jibe, his anger was still too hot. “I am sorry for Sophie, but the truth cannot be changed. Give my apologies to Euphemia,” he said, and then turned and left. When he had spoken to Brandy and Augusta, told them his feelings, he would be drained of anger. Then he could come back, perhaps tomorrow, and make his peace with Carlton. In the future, when he was needed, he would help Sophie.

When he reached his own hallway he was surprised by the footman telling him Miss Ellison had called to see him. He was annoyed, disconcerted. He was far from at his best, and he did not wish her to see him in these circumstances. The footman was staring at him, and his brain could manufacture no excuse.

She was waiting for him in the study. She turned as he came in, and at sight of her face he remembered how much she pleased him, how clear and gentle were the lines of her face, passion without guile. There was nothing sophisticated in her, and it was both restful and exciting to him.

“Charlotte, my dear,” he went over toward her, holding out his hands, meaning to take hers, but she held back. “What is it?” She had changed and he was afraid of it; he did not want anything in her to be different.

“General Balantyne,” she said a little formally. There was color in her cheeks and she looked uncomfortable, but she did not avoid his eyes. She took a deep breath. “I am afraid I have lied to you. Emily Ashworth is my sister, but I am not unmarried, as I allowed you to believe. Ellison was my maiden name, I am Charlotte Pitt-”

At first the name meant nothing to him, he could see no reason for the deception. Had she imagined he would not employ her if she were married?

“Inspector Pitt is my husband,” she said simply. “I came here because I wanted to find out about the babies, and, if they were stillborn, to offer some support to the mother. Now I want to help Jemima. Mr. Southeron has charged that she blackmailed him, and then killed Dr. Bolsover in a quarrel over the money. If Thomas is called off the case and no one ever discovers who did kill Dr. Bolsover, she will have that hanging over her all her life.”

“You are married to Pitt,” he frowned, “the policeman?”

“Yes. I’m sorry for having deceived you. I never imagined at the time that it could matter. But please, think whatever you like of me, but don’t let them prevent Thomas from finding out the truth, at least about Dr. Bolsover. It is wrong to accuse someone, and then leave it unproved. If Jemima had been his social equal, he would not have dared. He only said it because he knew she could neither defend herself, nor attack him in return.”

He felt an illusion slip away from him, and a new value take its place. The dream had been fragile, and foolish; he had not named it even to himself. Now the thing in its place was a warm, gentle pain, the kind that becomes a familiar companion in time, part of one’s growing.