Bedford Square - Anne Perry [112]
She squeezed his arm more tightly, standing close to him in the bright light. The feathers of her hat fluttered in the breeze, almost close enough to him to touch his cheek.
“You must keep not only your head but also your heart,” she said gently. “You know it is not true. You must think better of us than to imagine we are so easily misled or so quick to be cruel.” She made herself smile. “You have only one enemy that we know of, and even he does not actually believe it is true. He knows better.”
The wind caught a loose strand of her hair and blew it across her brow.
“Thank you,” he said very quietly; it was little more than a breath. Then he put out his hand and pushed the hair back where it had come from, under the brim of Vespasia’s hat. In that one gesture he had committed himself, and he knew it. In this isolated moment in the sun it did not matter. Tomorrow perhaps it would, but today could not be taken from the memory.
She felt a moment of sweetness, and pain, and a realization that she was guilty of a wild kind of carelessness that she had never intended, and could similarly never be undone.
A little way off a woman with a blue parasol laughed. Two little boys chased each other, tumbling in the grass and getting happily dirty.
She must start to walk again, say something natural.
“As I mentioned, Aunt Vespasia thinks it may have something to do with Africa,” she remarked. “The situation there is so volatile, with fortunes to be made and lost.”
“She is right,” he agreed, also beginning to move forward, his mind returned to the matter in hand. “That would explain the various men he has apparently chosen.”
“The Cape-to-Cairo railway?” she suggested.
They discussed African politics for some time: Cecil Rhodes and the expansion northwards, the possibilities of vast quantities of gold to be discovered, land, diamonds, the conflicting interests of other European countries, most particularly Germany.
But by noon when they parted they were no closer to knowing what any such political adventurers could demand of Balantyne, or anything he knew which could stand in any man’s way to the fortunes to be exploited in Africa or anywhere else.
While Charlotte was in the Royal Botanical Gardens talking to Balantyne, Pitt returned to see Sigmund Tannifer, at his request. He found him in a grave mood, and this time Parthenope was not present.
“I have discussed this with my wife,” Tannifer said as soon as the formalities had been met and he and Pitt were sitting facing each other in his handsome, rather ornate study. “We have given a great deal of thought to who may be involved, and even more as to what they may demand of me, when they finally reach that stage.” He also appeared haggard and as if his nerves were stretched almost to the breaking point. His left hand constantly fidgeted, and Pitt noticed that the crystal decanter on the chiffonier behind him was less than a quarter full of brandy. He would not have blamed any man in these circumstances for seeking a little extra comfort.
“And you have some conclusion?” he asked aloud.
Tannifer bit his lip. “Not really conclusions, Superintendent, more speculation I would like to put before you.” He gave a half smile. “Perhaps I am looking for excuses to speak with you, obtain some reassurance. I fear it is rather like pulling the dressing off a wound to see if it is healing … or not.” He shrugged his heavy shoulders. It was an oddly defeated gesture. “It doesn’t help in the slightest, neither the wound itself nor one’s ease of mind, and yet the compulsion is irresistible.”
Pitt understood perfectly. “And what are your thoughts, Mr. Tannifer?”
Tannifer looked slightly self-conscious. “I am not trying to usurp