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And he had. When he took the manuscript out of its box, there were over four hundred pages of it. He put it down carefully on the bedside table. It was roughly formed notes, rather than narrative. If he dropped it, it might take him the rest of the night to put it back in order. It was a daunting task. Exactly what was he looking for? Names of important people who might still care about Vespasia, or Narraway: people whose reputations could be injured.
He went over to the cupboard that served him as an office, and took out a block of note paper and three sharp pencils, then he sat down to begin.
It was eleven o’clock and his eyes ached from reading the print, his head throbbed and his muscles were tight where he had clenched his hand to hold the pencil, but he had found no names.
He realised reluctantly that he was progressing very slowly indeed. Bluntly, he was taking too long. He marked the page he had been reading, put the whole lot back in its box, put the box in a Gladstone bag and went downstairs with it. He would be days discovering anything at this rate. He must get help.
He slipped out of the front door. Quietly closing it, he walked to the end of the street, carrying the manuscript in the heavy bag, and stopped a taxi. He gave the driver Blackwell’s address, and sat back. If neither Blackwell nor Mercy were in, he would have to leave them a note, asking for their urgent help, and travel all the way back again.
He rang the doorbell, and after several minutes, and several more rings of the bell, Blackwell himself opened the door, rather cautiously.
‘I need help,’ Daniel said. ‘This is more than I can manage on my own. And I’m not sure Kitteridge could do this anyway, even if he had the time.’
‘Then you’d better come inside,’ Blackwell answered, blinking a little owlishly. ‘Pay the driver first, or we’ll never get rid of him. Anyway, only a fool stiffs a taxi driver; you’d be bound to meet him again one day, when you really need him.’
‘Thank you,’ Daniel said with profound feeling. He put the Gladstone bag on the doorstep, turned on his heel, and walked back to the road to pay the driver. When he returned, Blackwell had taken the bag inside and stood by the door in his nightshirt, looking rumpled and curious.
Daniel went in and shut the door. The hallway was barely lit, but it was warm and smelled faintly of furniture wax. ‘Nothing is as we thought,’ he began. ‘For a start, the body isn’t Ebony Graves.’
Blackwell turned to face him. ‘What? Who says so? Who is it?’
‘Miss fford Croft. It’s too long a story for just now. But that isn’t why I’ve come. I’ve got Graves’ manuscript here and have to read it, find the accusations we can prove are not true, and do that – prove it – and find the people who will be prepared to fight to defend—’
‘Stop!’ Blackwell held up his hand. ‘Just tell me what to look for. I don’t need to know why. It’s important, that’s all that matters. Now tell me, what are we looking for exactly?’
For a moment, Daniel hesitated. He was afraid of what he would find. Not that it might be true, but that it could not be proved untrue. Often accusations stay in the mind, even after the apparent facts have been shown to be false. He had learned that with juries. Some people think that the police cannot be wrong. Why would they have accused a man if they had no proof? Charges gave credibility, just as print can. Blackmailers know that. Politicians know it. It can become a high and murderous art with some men, as it had with Robespierre in the French Revolution.
Blackwell was waiting, hands held out.
Was Daniel betraying Pitt to exposure for a weakness real or fancied? Should he find it himself, so that he could protect it properly, without anyone else knowing?
Blackwell was still waiting.
There wasn’t time. He must believe Blackwell could be trusted; Blackwell had believed in him! But he had had no chance, no alternative.
But then, neither had Daniel now.
He put the manuscript in Blackwell’s hands.
‘I’m looking for any accusation against Narraway, or against Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould, later Lady Narraway, that we can prove is not true. Ideally, if we can find them, with proof that they are untrue, we can, by implication, invalidate all the accusations. Or at least show that to level them would prove ruinous to anyone who did so. That should be enough to persuade the publishers that it would definitely be against their interests to bring out Graves’ book.’
Daniel could see before he had finished speaking that Blackwell understood. ‘We must stick to the truth,’ he ended, smiling to soften the effect of his words, ‘because we may well have to prove what we say.’
Blackwell’s face broke into a wide smile. ‘Of course. When you’re playing for high stakes, and against a man who has much to lose, always stick to the truth.’
Daniel let out his breath with a sigh. ‘Thank you. Can we get a start now? Please!’
‘Of course! No time to waste. I understand. No whisky, but a cup of tea would be nice.’
‘Make it later. Let me show you the manuscript, and the notes I have made so far.’
‘I wasn’t going to make the tea myself,’ Blackwell said with eyes wide. ‘Is there some reason why we should not get Mercy in to help us? She probably knows more about the indiscretions of society than both of us together. Not that I suppose you know anything anyway. Too young, and too innocent. You are as clean as a baby just out of the bath.’
Daniel did not waste time protesting that. ‘If she doesn’t mind, I’d be . . .’
Blackwell had already turned to leave. ‘I’ll tell her,’ he said at the doorway. ‘Start reading.’
Daniel got out the papers, made himself comfortable in one of the armchairs, and resumed his reading where he had left off. He begrudged admitting it, even to himself, but Graves was an engaging writer. He was not likeable in the least, but he knew how to draw out the curiosity of the reader and build suspense so that you turned the page. Each section led satisfactorily into the next. He was fascinated, in spite of himself.
