Anne Barbour (32 page)

“I believe I have the answer to that as well.” He smiled a trifle painfully. “You see, quite a bit has happened since I last saw you.”

Charles leaned forward in his chair. “Tell me.”

Justin hesitated. “To begin with, I have been in touch with Jerry Church for the last week or so.”

“Jerry Church.” Charles rolled the name on his tongue. “I know him, do I not? Yes.” His eyes opened wide. “By God, Justin, Jerry Church works on the Top Floor. He’s some sort of clerk!”

“Yes.”

“But why would you go to a stranger there, when you know I have been working on your case? Good Lord, Justin, how could
you trust some minor functionary you don’t even know. He may be preparing to turn you in even now. I don’t—”

“I thought it necessary,” said Justin quietly, “for a number of reasons. And my decision seems to have been proven wise. Jerry was able to provide me with some extremely valuable information. In fact—” Justin drew a long breath. “He has given me the answer, Charles. I know now who is the traitor in the Depot and the real traitor in the Rivenchy affair. And a bloody disgusting mess it is, too.”

Charles’s jaw dropped open. “You know? You know everything?”

Justin nodded. “It appears we were right. Bentick is a spy. He’s been arranging for the shipment of information to the French for a couple of years now, and it was he who paid a forger to draw up identification documents for Rivenchy’s escape.”

“My God!” whispered Charles. “The man has worked under me for almost ten years! I can’t believe this.”

He sat down and drew a shaking hand over his brow.

“There is more,” said Justin quietly. “Bentick was not working alone. In fact, he was merely a pawn. Another man supervised his efforts, and that man was in direct contact with the French.”

“My God,” said Charles again, rising abruptly. “Do you have any idea who—?”

“Bentick did not put a name to the man.”

It seemed to Justin that Charles sagged at the news.

“However, in the file obtained for me by Jerry Church, Bentick listed names of contacts in the Peninsula. A few were underlings, but most were men from whom he took orders. At the top of this list was someone to whom Bentick referred as—as Mac.”

“Mac!” repeated Charles explosively. He sat down again, heavily. “Dear Lord, Justin, I was afraid of this. I did not wish to say anything before, because I know of your long-standing affection for Robbie McPherson, but there were several indications-known only to me—-that pointed directly to him. My dear boy, I am so very sorry.”

“As am I, Charles.” Justin’s voice was a harsh rasp. “I, too, had perceived several signposts that led to the probability of Robbie’s guilt. The sudden rise in his standard of living, the fact that it was eventually borne to me—as well as—to someone else—that he was hiding something. And Bentick’s reference to ‘Mac,’ of course, but—” He drew a deep, shuddering breath. “I came to realize eventually that I was quite wrong in my suspicions. Not that those suspicions ever became full-blown. I know Robbie rather
better than that. Of course,” he added, in a barely audible tone, “I thought I knew you, too.”

Charles, in the act of bringing his glass to his lips, paused. “I beg your pardon?”

Justin could hardly form the words. “I told you Charles, I know everything. It’s over.”

Slowly, Charles set his glass on the table at his elbow. He leaned forward in his chair, and his gaze narrowed. “Do I hear you aright, Justin? Are you saying ... ?”

Justin sighed. “You know, Charles, when I visited you after my return from the Continent, one of the first things I noticed about this room was the absence of the clock that used to hang above the mantel.”

His expression one of bewilderment, Charles said, “What? What has that to do with anything? I told you—”

“I know what you told me. It was out for repairs. However, I notice it is still missing. Those repairs are taking a rather long time, are they not?”

“Justin, I don’t know what the devil—

“And the Venus. Do you think if we were to retire to your drawing room, we would find it there—among a classical grouping? I think not.”

Charles drew his hand over his face, once again trembling badly. But now, his face was heavily bedewed with perspiration.

“Justin, if you’re saying what I think you’re saying, I—well, I can’t believe you would think such a thing of one who loves you like a son.”

Justin winced. “Oh, God, Charles, please don’t. I can hardly believe it, either, but yes, I am saying that it is you who are the traitor who has been passing secrets to the French for the past two years and the man who arranged for Rivenchy’s escape. And it is you who has been systematically trying to kill me for the past month.”

Chapter Twenty-one

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the muted crackle of the small fire in the hearth and the soft rush of the breeze as it pushed in the curtains of the long windows of Charles’s study.

Charles’s demeanor had changed somewhat in the last few minutes. He had settled back in his chair, a small twisted smile on his face. His eyes were those of a swordsman fighting for his life.

“And on what do you base this absurd accusation?” he asked, all avuncular inquiry, an adult ready to listen to the prattlings of a child.

“Oh, I cannot say I attached any particular importance to the gradual disappearance of your knickknacks. In fact, with all that I learned from Jack Nail’s surveillance and my own prowlings, my thoughts were—most unwillingly—beginning to turn to Robbie. Then, something you said awhile back clicked in my brain. You see, you told me that you had scarcely left your desk for weeks—since before Salamanca. Yet St. John told me that when my father tried to see you at Horse Guards, you were away—possibly, out of the country.”

Charles waved a hand. “Well, of course, I may have been absent once or twice—  It is necessary for me to visit some of our positions in Spain from time to time.”

“But you were not in Spain, Charles,” said Justin softly. “Jerry checked your whereabouts and reported that you had no journeys scheduled at all over the last month or so. A few questions, however, to the smugglers we use for clandestine dashes across the Channel revealed that you went across to Opporto in Portugal, just a few days before Rivenchy’s escape and returned less than a week afterward.”

Justin rose and began to pace the floor. “One or two of these gentlemen,” he said meditatively, “also mentioned that you had for many months been making trips to Rambouillet, not far from Paris. I would be willing to wager that no one on the Top Floor, not even Wilkerson, knew anything about those.”

Charles said nothing, but he seemed slightly diminished as he listened intently.

“Getting back to the tiresome subject of your missing possessions, once I learned of your mysterious excursions, I set Jack Nail to scouring all the shops in London that specialize in expensive curios. He, or one of his men, discovered that just such a clock had been brought in to one of those establishments by a gentleman whose description closely matches yours. It was sold not long afterward. The shopkeeper reported that the same gentleman had brought several other items to him, including a bronze Venus, just like the one supposedly gracing your drawing room at this very moment.

“I then managed some discreet inquiries at the gaming houses that you’ve been frequenting for so many years. You have enjoyed more than a flutter in them, Charles, most unsuccessful. You’ve squandered thousands of pounds, and your losses had increased alarmingly over the last few years. In short, you brought yourself to point-non-plus.”

Charles rose from his chair to face Justin. “And from this flimsy fabric of supposition and coincidence you hope to persuade my colleagues at the Depot—men who have known and trusted me for decades—that I am a traitor?” He pointed a finger that trembled only slightly. “What about Bentick’s reference to Mac? That seems to me a clear implication of your very good friend.”

“Indeed,” said Justin quietly, “I wondered about that myself until I recalled that your family originally came from Scotland. In fact, I remember at least two of your colleagues who jokingly referred to you as ‘MacTavish.’“

Charles turned on his heel and walked to his desk, where he seated himself once more.

Justin steepled his fingers before him. He was finding his attitude of casual elucidation more and more difficult to maintain. “There is one more thing, Charles. I told you that Bentick had not named you in his file, but I was not being quite truthful. In the very last paragraph, he details the successful completion of the mission to get Rivenchy back to the French, and he speaks of my being blamed for the whole thing as well as a congratulatory note on my supposed death. He concludes with the words, ‘I knew my man, Rutledge, would make it all right.’ ”

He waited for a response, but Charles, it seemed, had nothing to say.

Justin continued, his voice hard, “I shall be going to Wilkerson
at the Depot tomorrow morning, Bentick, I should imagine, will be questioned shortly afterward, and I fancy it will not be difficult to persuade him to reveal all. On the other end of the situation, Robbie is probably exerting his best efforts at this moment to winkle the facts from Roger Maltby. I do not think he will fail. You are rolled up, Charles.”

Charles’s gaze fell to the surface of his desk, where, as if he had not heard Justin at all, as if his attention were solely directed to the work on his desk, he picked up the various papers scattered about. He gathered them into a neat pile, and, moving his ink bottle, pen, and the other small impedimenta that lay at hand, he arranged them with precision. At last, he looked up to face Justin.

“You are right,” he said in a voice Justin had never heard. It was the voice of a very old man. “I have always enjoyed gambling, and after Mary died, it became my solace and my pleasure. What had once been a venial habit grew to an obsession; one that was bringing me to ruin without my even realizing it.”

He smiled mirthlessly. “The clock was not the first thing to go, but it was the one that brought me the most sadness to part with. It had been a gift from Mary on the occasion of our fifth wedding anniversary.

“It was, oh, almost three years ago that I was first approached by the French. The man who contacted me was an old adversary, and our relationship had grown to one of mutual respect and even friendship. Jean asked for a specific bit of information, something quite innocuous, really. They wanted a list of ordnance depots in this country. I knew there were several other sources from which they could gather that information, and I could not see that it would be of significant benefit to them, so I passed along what I knew. I was paid an inordinate sum of money for this assistance, and in a few weeks Jean was back. Again, he wanted to know something that he could probably have found out elsewhere, and it seemed so harmless that I was able to acquiesce with a relatively clear conscience.

“The third time, however, Jean asked me about troop movements. I knew such information could have devastating consequences for Wellington, but by now I was snared. You see—” Charles picked up a letter opener and balanced it idly on his fingertips. “I had made the inexcusably stupid blunder of writing out that ordnance list in my own hand. I was thus ripe for blackmail. I could not face ruin—to say nothing of hanging—so—”

“So you sold out your country,” interposed Justin, his voice a barely intelligible growl.

Charles flinched, but his gaze remained steady. “Yes.”

“From there,” he continued, “it was a downward spiral. I kept providing them with information—the occasional dispatches, memoranda from various conferences, a change in troop strength here or there—sometimes delivered to a courier here in London, sometimes taken by me across the Channel. Then one day, Cyrus Bentick came to me.” Charles laughed, a bitter sound that hung in the room like a mourner’s pall. “He was ordinarily the most obsequious of unpleasant little toads, but on this day his demeanor bordered on the insolent, and he wore a cocky smile. He virtually demanded a private meeting with me, and as we lunched at a chophouse not far from Whitehall, he informed me that he had in his possession a piece of paper that could bring about my downfall. He had found a message from one of my French contacts in a coat I had left hanging on a hook in my office. It appears the smarmy worm was in the habit of slipping his hands into other people’s pockets when the opportunity presented itself.”

“Behavior far beneath your standards, of course,” said Justin dryly.

Charles flushed. “At any rate,” he continued, “I do not know whether I was more dismayed or relieved when he told me he would not reveal what he had learned if I would allow him to be my assistant. It appears, Bentick, too, was in financial difficulties, and he saw little problem in making a profit from his position in the Depot.

“Things went smoothly for a long while. With Bentick’s help, I was able to accomplish even more for my ‘friends’ across the Channel. They were most generous in their appreciation, and I was soon on a solid financial footing once again. However”—he looked up to gaze at Justin from anguished eyes—”once I was brought back to that condition, Justin, if you think that my conscience did not trouble me, you are mistaken. I was in an agony of remorse. Daily, I thought about confessing all and taking whatever punishment might be meted out to me.”

“But you just could not bring yourself to the mark,” said Justin harshly.

“No.” Charles’s voice was barely audible. “But I did try to draw back from the morass of deceit and lies I had created. I began providing information that was of far less value than my previous offerings. The French realized almost immediately what I was doing, and they made threats. I realized that if I were not to be exposed, I had to come up with something of real use to them. And then disaster struck.” Charles tapped the letter opener on the
desktop. “We learned that Rivenchy had been captured at Salamanca. I had met the man on several occasions during my forays to France with information. I knew he was cognizant of my entire operation here. If he were to reveal anything of my doings, everything would be over for me.