Belgrave Square - Anne Perry [104]
“What about his work at the Treasury?” Drummond suggested it without belief, but he had to exhaust every possibility.
“I can think of nothing that would cause him the dread which I saw in him that night, and the constant fear I can feel at the edge of his mind even through the day.” She was sitting awkwardly on the edge of the chair, her fingers clenched together. “He is nervous, ill at ease. He cannot concentrate on the things which used to give him such pleasure: music, theater, books. He declined an invitation to dine with friends we have known and respected for years.”
“Could it be some friend in trouble?” He knew it was not even as he said it, but still the words spilled out, seeking any solution but the obvious.
“No.” She did not bother to elaborate her answer. It was as if she understood that they were simply making questions to put off the moment. “No,” she said again more softly, but still looking down. “I know him well enough. It is not the way in which he would behave for such a concern.” She bit her lip. “He is not a cold man. I do not mean that he is indifferent to the suffering or distress of friends, but that he is a man of decision. Such a happening would not affect him to such …” She lifted her shoulders very slightly. She was slenderer than he had realized, more fragile. “To such horror and inability to act. You did not see his face.”
“Then we must presume that something has happened that he knows of—and we do not,” he admitted finally. “Or at least he believes that it has. But he will not tell you what it is?” That was only half a question; she had already made the answer plain.
“No.”
“Are you sure you still want to know?”
She closed her eyes. “I’m frightened. I think I can guess what it may be—the least awful guess …”
“What?”
“That someone else has found the letter and the notes that Weems made of Sholto’s payments to him, and the reason. I suppose whoever killed him. Unless someone also was there after he was dead, and before the police found his body. And that person is now trying to blackmail Sholto himself.” She looked up at him suddenly, her eyes full of pain and fear.
He ached to be able to offer her some comfort, anything to take the cutting edge from her distress, or at the very least let her feel that she was not alone. Loneliness lent sharpness to all pains, as he knew only too well. But he knew of no practical comfort, nothing to ease the truth of what she said, and personal comfort would be so appallingly misplaced it would only add a fearful embarrassment to increase her misery, which was the last thing he wished.
“That at least would be proof that he was entirely innocent,” he said, clutching at a shred of hope. “If the worst happens and Pitt cannot find the murderer, then Lord Byam will have to tell what he knows, tell of the further blackmail, and expose the man.” He leaned a little forward. “After all,” he said earnestly, “the most he can do is make public the old matter of Laura Anstiss’s death, which would be most unpleasant, and there are some who may feel he was to blame, but may well also have great sympathy with him. And surely he is keeping the matter silent almost as much for Lord Anstiss’s sake as his own. It would be extremely distasteful for him also.”
“I think that troubles Sholto as much as any scandal attaching to himself,” she admitted. A curious look crossed her face, of confusion and distress, and then it was gone. “He admires Frederick so much. They have been friends since their youth, you know. There is something uniquely precious about an old friendship. One has shared so much, seen the passage of time, how it has marked and changed us, the hopes realized and the hopes dashed, the work to fulfill the dreams, and the dreams that are crumbled and kept secret.” She smiled. “One has laughed at the same things, and developed such an understanding because at times there