Bedford Square - Anne Perry [38]
Now he did face her. “How? I have no idea who he is.”
“Then we must find out,” she retorted. “Or else we must contact someone who was there and can disprove what this person is saying. Make a list of everyone who even knows about it.”
“The army,” he said with the ghost of a smile.
She was determined. “Come, now! It was a skirmish in Abyssinia … it was hardly Waterloo! And it was twenty-three years ago. They will not all even be alive.”
“Twenty-five,” he corrected with a sudden softness in his eyes. “Shall we begin over luncheon? This is not the most convenient place for writing anything.”
“Certainly,” she agreed. “Thank you.” She took his arm again. “That would be an excellent beginning.”
They ate together at a most agreeable small restaurant, and were she less preoccupied with the problem, she would have luxuriated in delicious food in whose preparation she had taken no part. But the matter in hand was far too serious, and it had her entire attention.
Balantyne struggled to remember the names of all the men he knew who had been involved in the action in Abyssinia. With a little effort he managed all the officers, but when it came to the private soldiers he could bring to mind only about half.
“There will be military records,” he said somewhat glumly. “Although I doubt they will be able to help. It was so long ago.”
“Somebody remembers,” she pointed out. “Whoever sent that letter is connected one way or another. We’ll find these people.” She looked down the page from the small notebook he had purchased before coming to dine. There were fifteen names. “The army will know where they live, won’t it?”
He looked deeply unhappy. “After this length of time they may well have settled anywhere in the country—or the world, for that matter. Or, as you pointed out, they may no longer be alive.”
She felt his misery and understood his fear. She had certainly felt it herself several times, not the sharp, sick terror of physical pain or destruction, but the cold, creeping fear of loss, hurt to the mind and the heart, loneliness, shame, guilt, the desert of being unloved. She was not threatened by this. She must be strong for both of them.
“Well, the person we are looking for is definitely alive, and I imagine living here in London,” she said firmly. “Where did you send the snuffbox to?”
His eyes widened. “A messenger called for it, a boy on a bicycle. I spoke to him, but he had no idea where it was going, except that a gentleman had paid him and would meet him in the park at dusk. He couldn’t describe this gentleman at all, except that he was wearing a checked coat and a cloth cap, also with checks. It is presumably a disguise. No one would dress like that for any other reason. Whether he was the blackmailer or not, I don’t know. He might have been passing it on again.” He took a deep breath. “But you are quite right. He is here in London. There is something I did not tell you … the man who was found dead on my doorstep had my snuffbox in his pocket.”
“Oh …” She realized with a drenching coldness how that could be read by any investigating police, even Pitt. “Oh … I see.” Now Balantyne’s fear was better explained.
He was watching her, waiting for the anger, the blame, the changed perception.
“Do you know who he is?” she asked, meeting his eyes.
“No. I expected to, when I went to the mortuary to look at him for Pitt, but so far as I know I have never seen him before.”
“Could he have been a soldier?”
“Certainly.”
“Could he have been the blackmailer?”
“I don’t know. I half wish he were, and then he would be dead.” His fingers on the tablecloth were stiff. It took him a deliberate effort of will not to clench them. She could see it in the knotting and then relaxing of his hand. “But I did not kill him … and who else would … on my doorstep? Except the real blackmailer—to draw police attention to me!” He was shaking now, very slightly. “I watch every delivery of the post for another letter, telling me what