Bedford Square - Anne Perry [47]
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 stand 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