Bedford Square

2

CHARLOTTE HAD BEEN distressed to learn that the tragedy of murder had again overtaken General Balantyne, even if only in that the dead man had been found on his doorstep. But it was a public place. Certainly anyone at all might have come to it without his knowledge or any acquaintance with him.

The following morning when Pitt had gone, she left Gracie to clean away the breakfast dishes while she saw nine-year-old Jemima and seven-year-old Daniel off to school, then returned to the kitchen with the daily newspaper, brought to the step as a kindness by Mr. Williamson along the street. The first thing that leapt to her eye was the latest report on the Tranby Croft affair. Speculation was running riot as to whether the Prince of Wales would actually be called to the witness stand—and of course, what he would say. Having the heir to the throne appearing in court like a common man had never even been imagined before, much less had it happened. The room would be jammed with people curious just to stare at him, to hear him speak and have to answer questions put to him by counsel. Admission to the court was by ticket only.

Sir William Gordon-Cumming was represented by Sir Edward Clarke; for the other side, Sir Charles Russell. Present, according to the newspaper, were Lord Edward Somerset, the Earl of Coventry and Mrs. Lycett-Green, among many others.

Baccarat was an illegal game. Gambling in any form was upon by many. Cards were viewed as a waste of precious time. Everyone knew that thousands of people played, of course, but there was a world of difference between knowing and seeing. It was said that the Queen was beside herself with anger. But then she was rather a straitlaced and forbidding woman even at the best of times. Ever since Prince Albert had died of typhoid fever, nearly thirty years before, she seemed to have lost all pleasure in life and was fairly well determined to see that everyone else did too. At least that was what Charlotte had heard said, and the Queen’s rare public appearances did nothing to disprove it.

The Prince of Wales was a spendthrift, self-indulgent, gluttonous; and wildly and regularly unfaithful to his wife, the long-suffering Princess Alexandra, most particularly with Lady Frances Brooke, who was also intimately admired by Sir William Gordon-Cumming. Until this point Charlotte had had a very slight sympathy with him. Facing the court, Sir Ediward Clarke and the public would be nothing compared with facing his mother.

Then, farther down on the same page, she saw an article by one Lyndon Remus about the corpse found in Bedford Square.

The identity of the dead man on the front doorstep of the house of General Brandon Balantyne two mornings ago remains a mystery. Superintendent Thomas Pitt of Bow Street informs this writer that as yet the police have no idea as to his identity. Indeed he went so far as to say that he knew no more of it than any member of the general public.

When pressed he refused to say whether or not he intended to investigate General Balantyne, who as readers will remember, was the father of the infamous Christina Balantyne of what came to be known as the Devil’s Acre Murders which scandalised London in 1887.

There then followed a brief but lurid outline of that terrible and tragic case, with which Charlotte was all too familiar, remembering it now with a profound sense of sorrow. She could see Balantyne’s face as it had been when he had learned the truth, and everyone was powerless to help or comfort.

Now another wretchedness threatened him, and all the misery and grief of the past were resurrected again. She was furious with Lyndon Remus, whoever he might be, and her mind was filled with anxiety for Balantyne.

“Yer all right, ma’am?” Gracie’s voice cut across Charlotte’s thoughts. The little maid picked up the smoothing iron and automatically shooed Archie, the marmalade-and-white cat, from his nest on top of the laundry. He uncurled and moved away lazily, knowing full well that she would not hurt him.

Charlotte looked up. “No,” she replied. “The body that Mr. Pitt found the other night was on the doorstep of an old friend of mine, and the newspapers are suggesting that he may be somehow involved. There was an appalling crime in his family a few years ago, and they have raked that up again as well, reminding everybody of it just when he and his wife might be beginning to forget a little and feel normal again.”

“Some o’ them people wot writes for the newspapers is downright wicked,” Gracie said angrily, gripping the iron like a weapon. She knew precisely where her loyalties lay: with friends; with the hurt, the weak, the underdog, whoever he was. Sometimes, with a lot of reason and persuasion, she could change her mind, but not often and not easily. “Yer goin’ ter ’elp?” she said, looking narrowly at Charlotte. “In’t nuffin’ yer needs ter do ’ere. I can manage ev’rythink.”

Charlotte smiled in spite of herself. Gracie was a born crusader. She had come to the Pitts nearly seven years before, small and thin, in clothes too big for her and boots with holes in them. She had filled out only a little. All her dresses still had to be taken in and taken up. But she was not only an accomplished maid who knew all the duties in the house; with Charlotte’s help, she had learned to read and write. She had always been able to count. Above all, from being a waif that nobody wanted, she had turned into a young woman who was very proud of working for quite the best policeman in London, which meant anywhere. She would tell everyone so, if they appeared to be ignorant of that fact.

“Thank you,” Charlotte said with sudden decision. She closed the newspaper and stood up. She jammed it savagely into the coal scuttle and went to the door. “I shall go and visit the General and see if I can be of any help, even if it is only to let him know that I am still his friend.”

“Good,” Gracie agreed. “Mebbe we can do summink as can ’elp.” She included herself with both pride and determination. She regarded herself as part of the detective work. She had contributed significantly in the past and had every hope and intention of doing so in the future.

Charlotte went upstairs and changed out of her plain summer day dress of blue muslin and put on a very flattering gown of soft yellow, which complemented her complexion and the auburn tones of her hair. It was also cut to a very becoming shape, tight-waisted, full-sleeved at the shoulder, with a sweeping skirt and a very small bustle, as was the current fashion. It had been her one recent extravagance. Mostly she had to make do with what was serviceable and could last several seasons, with minor changes. Of course her sister, Emily, who had married very well indeed the first time and then been widowed, and was now married again, was generous with castoffs and mistakes. But Charlotte was loath to accept too much, in case it made Thomas feel more acutely aware of her step down in circumstances by marrying a policeman. And anyway, Parliament was in recess at the moment, and Emily and Jack were away in the country, on this occasion taking Grandmama with them. Even Caroline, Charlotte’s mother, was away; in Edinburgh with her husband Joshua’s new play.

But there was no questioning that this particular gown was as successful as anything she had ever worn, either owned or borrowed.

She left the house and went out into the sunshine of Keppel Street. There was no need to think of transport, as she had no more than a few hundred yards to go. It was odd to think of General Balantyne’s having moved to live so close by, and she had never encountered him. But then there must be scores of her neighbors she had not seen. And in spite of their proxfrowned imity to each other, Bedford Square and Keppel Street were socially of a very considerable difference.

She nodded to two young ladies walking side by side, and they nodded back to her politely, then immediately fell into animated conversation. An open brougham clattered past, its occupants surveying the world with superior interest. A man walked by swiftly, looking to neither side of him.

Charlotte did not know which house was the Balantynes’. Pitt had simply said “in the center of the north side.” She gritted her teeth and rang the bell of the one that seemed most likely. It was answered by a handsome parlormaid who informed her that she was mistaken and that General Balantyne lived two doors farther along.

Charlotte thanked her with as much aplomb as possible and retreated. She would have liked to abandon the whole thing at this point. She had not even any coherent plan as to what she would say if he were in and would receive her. She had come entirely on impulse. He might have changed completely since they had last met. It had been four years. Tragedy did change people.

This was a ridiculous idea, quixotic and open to the ugliest misinterpretations. Why was she still walking forward instead of turning on her heel and going home?

Because she had told Gracie she was going to see a friend who had been visited by misfortune and assure him of her loyalty. She could hardly go back home and admit that her nerve had failed her and she was afraid of making a fool of herself. Gracie would despise her for that. She would despise herself.

She strode up the steps, seized the doorbell and pulled it firmly before she could have time to think better of it.

She stood with her heart pounding, as if when the door opened she could be facing mortal danger. She had visions of Max, the footman the Balantynes had had years before, and all the tragedy and violence that had followed, and Christina … how that would have hurt the General. She had been his only daughter.

This was absurd. She was grossly intrusive! Why on earth should she imagine he wished to see her now, after all that Pitt had been forced to do to their family, and Charlotte had helped. She was practically the last person on earth he would have any kindness for. He certainly would not care for her friendship. It was tasteless of her to have come … and hopelessly conceited.

She stepped back and had half turned away to leave when the door opened and a footman asked her very distinctly, “Good morning, ma’am, may I help you?”

“Oh … good morning.” She could ask for directions somewhere. Pretend to be looking for some fictitious person. She did not have to say she had called here. “I … I wonder if …”

“Miss Ellison! I mean … I beg your pardon, ma’am, Mrs. Pitt, isn’t it?”

She stared at him. She could not remember him. How could he possibly have remembered her?

“Yes …”

“If you’d like to come in, Mrs. Pitt, I shall see if Lady Augusta or General Balantyne is at home.” He stepped back to allow her to accept.

She had no choice.

“Thank you.” She found she was shaking. If Lady Augusta was in, what could Charlotte possibly say to her? They had disliked each other before Christina. Now it would be even worse. What on earth could she say? What excuse was there for her presence?

She was shown into the morning room and recognized the model of the brass gun carriage from Waterloo on the table. It was as if the years had telescoped into each other and vanished. She felt the horror of the Devil’s Acre murders as if they were still happening, all the pain and injustice raw.

She paced back and forth. Once she actually went as far as the door into the hall and opened it. But there was a housemaid on the stairs. If she left now she would be seen. She would look even more absurd than if she stayed.

She closed the door again and waited, facing it as if she expected an attack.

It opened and General Balantyne stood there. He was older. Tragedy had marked his face; there was a knowledge of pain in his eyes and his mouth which had not been there when they had first met. But his back was as straight, his shoulders as square, and he looked as directly as he always had.

“Mrs. Pitt?” There was surprise in his face, and a softness which was almost certainly pleasure.

She remembered how very much she had liked him.

“General Balantyne.” Without thinking, she stepped forward. “I really don’t know why I have come, except to say how sorry I am that you should have the misfortune of some miserable man choosing your doorstep on which to die. I hope they can clear it up rapidly and you—” She stopped. He did not deserve platitudes. Lyndon Remus had already done the harm by resurrecting the Devil’s Acre case. No solution to this new murder would undo that.

“I’m sorry,” she said sincerely. “I suppose that was all I wanted to say. I could have written a letter, couldn’t I?”

He smiled very slightly. “A beautifully phrased, most tactful one, which would not have meant much and not sounded like you at all,” he answered. “And I should think you had changed, which I should regret.” Then he colored faintly, as if he were aware of having been too outspoken.

“I hope I’ve learned a little,” she said. “Even if I sometimes fail to put it into practice.” She wanted to remain at least a few minutes longer. Perhaps there was something she could do to help, if only she could think of it. But it would be horribly intrusive to ask questions, and Pitt would already have done so anyway. Why did she imagine she could do anything more?

He broke the silence. “How are you? How is your family?”

“Very well. My children are growing up. Jemima is quite tall ….”

“Ah, yes … Jemima.” A smile touched his mouth again. No doubt, like her, he was thinking of Jemima Waggoner, who had married his only son, and after whom Charlotte had named her daughter. “They returned the compliment, you know?”

“The compliment?” she asked.

“Yes. They called their second son Thomas.”

“Oh!” She smiled back. “No. I didn’t know. I shall tell him. He’ll be very pleased. Are they well?”

“Very. Brandy is posted in Madrid now. We don’t see them very often.”

“You must miss them.”

“Yes.” There was a moment of deep loneliness in his eyes. He looked away, staring out of the window into the quiet summer garden, roses lush and heavy in the morning sun, the dew already evaporated from them.

The clock ticked on the mantelshelf.

“My mother remarried,” Charlotte said awkwardly.

He dragged himself to the present and turned back to face her.

“Oh? I … hope she is happy.” It was not a question; one did not ask about such things, it was far too personal and intrusive. One did not even speak about happiness or unhappiness; it would be indelicate.

She smiled at him, meeting his eyes. “Oh, yes. She married an actor.”

He looked mystified. “I beg your pardon?”

Had she gone too far? She had meant to lighten the tension, and perhaps he had taken it for levity. She could not go back, so she plunged on. “She married an actor, rather younger than she is.” Would he be scandalized? She felt the heat burn up her cheeks. “He has a great deal of courage … and charm. Moral courage, I mean … to remain loyal to friends in difficulty and to fight for what he believes to be right.”

His expression eased, the lines around his mouth softening. “I am glad.” For an instant, almost too short to be certain she saw it, there was passionate regret in his eyes. Then he took a breath. “I gather that you like him?”

“Yes, I do, and Mama is very happy, although she has changed a good deal. She has the acquaintance now of people she would never have imagined knowing a few years ago. And I am afraid some of her earlier friends no longer call, and even turn the other way if they encounter her in the street.”

A flicker of amusement touched his mouth. “I can imagine it.”

The door opened and Lady Augusta Balantyne stood in the entrance. She looked magnificent, her dark hair piled in a great swirl on her head, the silver streaks making it look even more dramatic. She was dressed in lilac and gray in the height of fashion and wore a very fine amethyst necklace and earrings. She regarded Charlotte with cold distaste.

“Good morning, Mrs. Pitt. I assume I am addressing you correctly?” This was a sarcastic reminder that when Charlotte had first entered their house it had been ostensibly to assist the General with some clerical work on his memoirs, and she had used her maiden name to disguise her connection with Pitt and the police.

Again Charlotte felt the blush warm her cheeks. “Good morning, Lady Augusta. How are you?”

“I am perfectly well, thank you,” Augusta replied, coming farther into the room. “I presume it is not mere civility which brings you here to enquire after our well-being?”

This was an icy impasse. There was nothing to do but brazen it out. There was little room to make it any worse.

Charlotte smiled brightly. “Yes, it is.” Everyone would know that was a lie, but no one could call it so. “It was only yesterday I realized that we were near neighbors.”

“Ah … the newspapers,” Augusta said with immeasurable contempt. Ladies of breeding or gentility did not read the newspapers except for the society pages and the advertisements. And Charlotte might once have had an element of breeding, but she had married a policeman, and that had disposed of any pretensions to gentility now.

Charlotte raised her eyebrows very high. “Was your address in the newspapers?” she said innocently.

“Of course it was!” Augusta said. “As you know perfectly well, some unfortunate wretch was murdered on our doorstep. Don’t be disingenuous, Mrs. Pitt. It ill becomes you.”

Balantyne flushed hotly. Like most men, he loathed emotional confrontations, and those between women most of all. But he had never flinched from his duty.

“Augusta! Mrs. Pitt came to express her sympathy for our misfortune in that issue,” he said critically. “I assume she knew of it from Superintendent Pitt, not from the newspapers.”

“Do you!” Augusta retorted with equal chill towards him. “Then you are very naive, Brandon. But that is your own affair. I am going to call upon Lady Evesham.” She turned to Charlotte. “I am sure you will be gone when I return, so I shall wish you good day, Mrs. Pitt.” And she turned with a swirl of skirts and went out of the door, leaving it open behind her.

Balantyne went over and closed it with a sharp snap, to the obvious surprise of the footman standing in the foyer and holding Augusta’s cape.

“I’m sorry,” Balantyne said with profound embarrassment. He did not offer any explanation or attempt to make better of it. Any candor between them would be shattered by such a denial of the truth. “It was …”

“Probably well deserved,” she finished for him ruefully. “It was rather clumsy of me to have come at all, and I had no idea what I was going to say, except that I feel for you, and I hope you will consider me as your friend, regardless of what should transpire.”

He looked thoroughly taken aback by such frankness, and acutely pleased. “Thank you … of course I shall.” He seemed about to add something more, then changed his mind. He was still deeply troubled, and there was another emotion more powerful beneath the surface anger or shame for Augusta’s behavior or for his own discomfort in the face of candor.

“Actually, I did read the newspaper,” she admitted.

“I assumed you did,” he said with the ghost of a smile.

“It was a shameful piece! Completely irresponsible. That was what prompted me to come—outrage … and to let you know I am on your side.”

He looked away from her. “You speak blindly, Mrs. Pitt. You cannot have any idea what may transpire.”

He was not uttering some platitude. She was quite sure—from the stiffness in his body, the unhappiness in his face and the way he glanced away from her—that he feared something specific, and the anxiety of it underlay everything else he was able to think of.

It frightened her for him, and her response was to defend him, instantly and without thought.

“Of course not!” she agreed. “What kind of friend makes their support conditional upon knowing everything that will happen, and that there will be no unpleasant surprises and absolutely no inconvenience, embarrassment or cost?”

“A great many friends,” he said quietly. “But none of the best. But this loyalty must run both ways. One does not allow friends to walk unknowingly into danger or unpleasantness, nor require of them a pledge, even unspoken, whose costs you know and they do not.” He realized he had overstated what she had offered, and looked deeply uncomfortable. “I mean …”

She walked to the door, then turned and met his eyes. “There is no need to explain. Time has passed since we last met, but not so much as all that. We do not misunderstand one another. My friendship is yours, for what that may be worth. Good day.”

“Good day … Mrs. Pitt.”

Charlotte went straight home, walking so briskly she passed by two people she knew without even noticing them. She went in her own front door and straight through to the kitchen without bothering to take off her hat.

The ironing was finished, and Archie was asleep in the empty basket.

Gracie looked up from the potatoes she was peeling, the knife still in her hand, her face full of anxiety.

“Put on the kettle,” Charlotte requested, sitting down in the nearest chair. She would have done it herself, but one did not go near even the cleanest stove when wearing a yellow gown.

Gracie obeyed instantly, then got out the teapot and the cups and saucers. She fetched milk from the larder. She set the blue-and-white jug on the table and removed the muslin cover, weighted down all around with glass beads to keep it from blowing off.

“’Ow was the General?” she asked, getting the tin of biscuits off the dresser. She still had to stretch to do it, standing on tiptoe, but she refused to put them on a lower shelf. That would be acknowledging defeat.

“Very distressed,” Charlotte answered.

“Did ’e know the man wot was killed?” Gracie asked, putting the biscuits on the kitchen table.

“I didn’t ask him.” Charlotte sighed. “But I am afraid that he might. He was extremely worried about something.”

“But ’e din’t say, I suppose.”

“No.”

The kettle began to hiss as steam blew out of the spout, and Gracie took the holder for it to pick it up, poured a little hot water into the teapot, swilled it out and threw it away down the sink. She put three spoonfuls of tea leaves into the pot and carried it back to the stove, then poured the rest of the water on. She filled up the kettle again as a matter of habit. One should always have a kettle of hot water, even in June.

“Are we goin’ ter do summink about it?” she asked, carrying the teapot over and sitting down opposite Charlotte. The potatoes could wait. This was important.

“I don’t know what we can do.” Charlotte looked across at her. Absentmindedly, she took off her hat.

“Are you scared as mebbe ’e did do summink?” Gracie screwed up her face.

“No!”

Gracie bit her lip. “Aren’t yer?”

Charlotte hesitated. What was Balantyne afraid of? He was certainly afraid of something. Was it simply more pain, more public exposure of his personal and family affairs? Every family has grief, embarrassments, quarrels or mistakes they prefer to keep unknown from the public in general and from their own circle of acquaintances in particular … just as one does not undress in the street.

“I’m not really sure,” she said aloud, setting the hat on the table. “I believe he is a totally honorable man, but all of us can make errors of judgment, and many of us do foolish or rash things to protect those we love or feel responsible for.”

Gracie poured the tea. “’Oo’s ’e responsible fer, the General?”

“I don’t know. His wife, maybe any of the servants, perhaps a friend.”

Gracie thought for several minutes. “Wot’s ’is wife like?” she said at length.

Charlotte sipped her tea and tried to be fair. “Very handsome, very cold.”

“Wouldn’t a’ bin ’er lover, would ’e, this corpse?”

“No.” Charlotte could not imagine Augusta dissembling sufficiently to have a lover, let alone one who would be found dead on a doorstep.

Gracie was watching her anxiously. “You don’ like ’er a lot, do yer?”

Charlotte sighed. “No, not a lot. But I don’t think she would attack anyone without extraordinarily good reason, and I can’t think of anything that would make her kill someone and then not be perfectly prepared to call the police and explain herself—if, for example, she had caught him in the house attempting to steal, and he had turned on her.”

“Wot if the General caught ’im?” Gracie asked, taking a biscuit.

“The same. Why not call the police?”

“I dunno.” Gracie sipped her tea also. “Yer sure ’e were upset about the body, not summink else?”

“I think so.”

“Then I s’pose as we’d better keep up wif everythink as the Master finds out,” Gracie said seriously.

“Yes,” Charlotte agreed, wishing they could know at least some of it before Pitt found out.

Gracie was watching her, waiting for her to take the lead with some practical and clever plan.

There were only two things in her mind: the sense of fear she had drawn from General Balantyne as he stood by the window in his morning room; and her sharp awareness that Sergeant Tellman, very much against his will and judgment, was attracted to Gracie. It was against his judgment because they disagreed about almost everything. Gracie considered herself to be very fortunate to work in Pitt’s house, to have a roof over her head, a warm bed every night and good food every day. She had not always had these things, or expected to. She also considered that she was doing a very important and useful job, and was appropriately proud of it.

Tellman had profound feelings regarding the innate social evil of any person’s being servant to another. From that basic difference sprang a host of others on every subject of social justice and personal judgment. And Gracie was cheerful and outgoing by nature, while he was dour and pessimistic. They had neither of them yet realized that they shared a passionate sense of justice, a hatred of hypocrisy and a willingness to work and to risk their own safety to fight for what they believed in.

“Sergeant Tellman is on the case,” Charlotte said aloud.

“I don’t see as ’avin’ ’im ’elps,” Gracie replied, wrinkling her nose a little. “I s’pose ’e’s quite clever, in ’is own fashion.” This last was added half grudgingly. “But ’e won’t ’old no favors for generals an’ the like.”

“I know he won’t,” Charlotte admitted, thinking of Tellman’s opinion of all inherited privilege. No doubt he was fully aware that in Balantyne’s time of office commissions were purchased. “But at least we have him.”

“Yer mean like ter speak to?” Gracie was puzzled.

“Yes.” A plan was rapidly forming in Charlotte’s mind, not a very good one so far. “He might be persuaded to tell us what information he has learned.”

Gracie brightened. “Yer reckon? If yer asked ’im, like?”

“I was thinking more if you asked him.”

“Me? ’e wouldn’t tell me nuffink! ’E’d say sharpish as it were none o’ my business. I can see ’is face now if I started meddlin’ wif questions about ’is work. Tell me right w’ere to put meself, ’e would.”

Charlotte took a deep breath and plunged in.

“I had in mind more if he were to make his reports to Mr. Pitt at home, instead of at Bow Street, and perhaps when Mr. Pitt happened to be out.”

“’ow are we goin’ ter manage that?” Gracie was nonplussed.

Charlotte thought of Tellman’s face as he had looked at Gracie the last time she had observed them together.

“I think that could be arranged, if you were to be very nice to him.”

Gracie opened her mouth to argue, then colored very pink.

“I s’pose I could be, if it was important ….”

Charlotte beamed at her. “Thank you. I should be very grateful. Mind, I do appreciate it will take a great deal of careful planning, and it may not work every time. A little subterfuge may be necessary.”

“A little what?” Gracie frowned.

“A little more or less than the truth, now and again.”

“Oh, yeah … I see. O’ course.” Gracie smiled back and took another sip of her tea, reaching for a second biscuit. In the laundry basket, Archie woke up, stretched and started to purr.

When Sergeant Tellman had begun to work on identifying the body found on General Balantyne’s step he had naturally started at the mortuary. Looking at corpses was part of his duty, but something he disliked intensely. For a start, they were naked, and it was an intrusion into a man’s decent privacy he was helpless to prevent. Tellman found it offensive, even though he completely understood the necessity. Secondly, the smell of dead flesh, formaldehyde and carbolic turned his stomach, and no matter what time of the year it was, the place always seemed cold. He found himself both sweating and shivering. But he was conscientious. The more he disliked a job, the less would he stint in doing it.

However, even the most diligent examination taught him nothing he had not observed in the first few moments by lantern light in Bedford Square. The dead man was lean to thin, wiry, pale skinned where his clothes covered him, weathered where they did not, as if he spent much time in the open. His hands were not those of a laborer. He had several scrapes, as if he had fought hard to save himself, especially across his knuckles. He had been hit extremely hard on the head, killed with one blow.

He looked, as nearly as Tellman could judge, to be in his fifties. There were half a dozen old scars of varying sizes. None of them looked to be from major injuries, just the sort of thing any man might collect if he had been involved in dangerous work or lived largely on the streets. There was one exception: a long, thin scar across the left side of his ribs, as though from a knife slash.

Tellman replaced the sheet gratefully and moved to the clothes. They were well worn, rather grubby and uncared for. The soles of the boots were in need of repair. They were exactly what he would have expected of a poor man who had spent the day outside, and possibly the night before as well. They told him nothing.

But the contents of the pockets were a different matter. Of course, the most interesting thing was the snuffbox, now in Pitt’s keeping. He was puzzled as to its meaning; it could be any of a dozen things, all more or less implicating General Balantyne. But Pitt had said he would look into that himself. A year before, Tellman would not have believed him, expecting him to protect the gentry from the just desserts for their own deeds. Now he knew better, but it still rankled.

The only other thing that seemed relevant to the search for either his identity or that of the person who had killed him seemed to be the receipt for the three pairs of socks. Actually, he was surprised that a man in such circumstances should purchase socks from a shop which had its name on the paper. He would have expected him to buy them from a peddler or market stall. Still, the receipt was there, so he should follow it.

He was relieved to be able to go out into the sun again, and the relatively fresh air of the street with its smell of smoke, horse dung and dry gutters, and the sound of hooves on the cobbles, peddlers’ cries, the clatter of wheels, and somewhere in the distance a barrel organ and an errand boy whistling off-key.

He caught a horse-drawn omnibus, running after it the last few paces as it drew away from the curb and swinging himself onto the step to the great disapproval of a fat woman in gray bombazine.

“Yer’ll get yerself killed like that, young man!” she said critically.

“I hope not, but thank you for the warning,” he replied with politeness, which surprised both of them. He paid his fare to the conductor and looked without success for a seat, being obliged to remain standing, holding on to the post in the center of the aisle.

He got off again at High Holborn and walked the two blocks to Red Lion Square. He found the haberdasher’s shop easily and went inside with the receipt in his hand.

“Mornin’, sir,” the young man behind the counter said helpfully. “Can I show you anything? We have excellent gentlemen’s shirts at very agreeable prices.”

“Socks,” Tellman answered, wondering if he could afford a new shirt. Those on display looked very clean and crisp.

“Yes sir. What color, sir? We have ’em all.”

Tellman remembered the socks the dead man had been wearing. “Gray,” he answered.

“Certainly, sir. What size would you be requiring?”

“Nine.” If the dead man could afford socks, so could he.

The young man bent to a drawer behind him and produced three different pairs of gray socks in size nine.

Tellman selected the pair he liked best, glanced quickly at the price, and produced the money, leaving himself sufficient for his bus fare back to Bow Street but unfortunately not enough for lunch.

“Thank you, sir. Will that be all?”

“No.” Tellman held out the receipt. “I’m a policeman. Can you tell me who bought these gray socks five days ago?”

The man took the receipt. “Oh, dear. We sell a lot of socks, sir. And gray is a popular color this time o’ year. Lighter than black, you see, and better looking than brown. Always look a bit country, brown, if you know what I mean?”

“Yes. Think hard, if you please. It’s very important.”

“Done something wrong, has he? They were paid for, that I can swear to.”

“I can see that. Don’t know what he did, but he’s dead.”

The young man paled. Perhaps it had been a tactical error to have told him that.

“Gray socks,” Tellman repeated grimly.

“Yes sir. What did he look like, do you know?”

“About my height,” Tellman said, thinking with an unpleasant chill how much he resembled the man on the step. “Thin, wiry, fairish hair receding a little.” That at least was different. Tellman had dark hair, straight and still thick. “And mid-fifties, I would guess. Lived or worked outdoors, but not with his hands.”

“Sounds like two or three what come here often enough,” the young man said thoughtfully. “Could be George Mason or Willie Strong, or could be someone as never came but the once. Don’t know everybody’s name. Can’t you tell me anything else about him?”

Tellman thought hard. This might be their only chance to identify him.

“He had a long knife or bayonet scar on his chest.” He indicated on himself the place where it had been, then realized the futility of telling the salesman such a thing. “Could have been a soldier,” he added, more to defend his remark than anything else.

The salesman’s face brightened. “There was one gentleman come in, and I think he did buy several pairs, thinking on it. Had a bit of a conversation, ’cos he spoke about being a soldier, and how important it was to keep your feet right. I remember he said, ‘Soldier with sore feet is use to neither man nor beast.’ That’s why he sold bootlaces himself, now he’s fallen on hard times. But I can’t tell you his name or where he lives. Don’t recall as I ever saw him before. An’ didn’t see him that well this time. It were a fine evenin’, but he was muffled up, said he had a chill. But he was thinnish and about your height. Couldn’t say dark or fair.”

“Where did he sell his bootlaces?” Tellman asked quickly. “Did he say?”

“Yes, yes, he did. Corner of Lincoln’s Inn and Great Queen Street.”

“Thank you.”

It took Tellman the rest of the day, but he found George Mason and Willie Strong, the two men the salesclerk had named, and they were both quite definitely alive.

Then he made enquiries about the peddlers in Lincoln’s Inn Fields and learned that there was normally an old soldier named Albert Cole on the northwest corner near Great Queen Street. However, no one recalled seeing him for five or six days. Several barristers from the Inns of Court habitually bought their bootlaces from him and described him passably well. One of them offered to come to the mortuary the next day and identify the body if he could.

“Yes,” the barrister said unhappily. “I am afraid that looks very much like Cole.”

“Can you say for sure that it’s him?” Tellman pressed. “Don’t say if you aren’t happy about it.”

“I’m not exactly happy about it!” the barrister snapped. “But yes, I am quite certain. Poor devil.” He fished in his pocket and brought out four guineas. He put them on the table. “Put this towards a decent burial for him. He used to be a soldier. Served his Queen and country. He shouldn’t end up in a pauper’s grave.”

“Thank you,” Tellman said with surprise. He had not expected such generosity towards a stranger, and a peddler at that, from a class of man for whom he had an innate contempt.

The barrister gave him a chilly look and turned to leave.

“Do you know anything else about him, sir?” Tellman said as he followed him into the street. “It’s extremely important.”

The barrister slowed unwillingly, but his training in the law was deeply implanted.

“He was a soldier. Invalided out, I think. I don’t know what regiment, I never asked.”

“I can probably find that out,” Tellman said, keeping step. “Anything else, sir? Don’t know where he lived or if he had any other place except Lincoln’s Inn Fields?”

“I don’t think so. He was usually there, any weather.”

“Ever mention where he got his bootlaces?”

The barrister looked at him with surprise. “No! I merely purchased the odd pair from him, Sergeant. I did not indulge in long conversations. I am sorry this man is dead, but I cannot be of further assistance.” He pulled his gold watch out of his pocket and opened it. “Now, I have spared as much time as I can afford—in fact, rather more. I must take a cab back to my office. I wish you Godspeed in finding his killer. Good day to you.”

Tellman watched him disappear into the crowd. At least he now knew the identity of the dead man, and from as good a witness as he was likely to find—certainly one who would stand up in court.

But what had Albert Cole, ex-soldier, present seller of bootlaces, been doing in the middle of the night in Bedford Square? It was less than a mile away, but peddlers rarely moved even a couple of blocks. If they did they were on somebody else’s patch, and that was a mortal offense and likely to bring them considerable unpleasantness. Peddlers were very seldom violent people, but even if they were, it would be cause for a severe fight, but not murder, except by accident.

But one did not peddle bootlaces at midnight.

Obviously, something quite different had taken him to General Balantyne’s front doorstep. He could not have been courting a maid. That would have taken him to the back. The last thing he would want would be to go to the front door, exposed to the street, the beat constable, any passerby. And certainly no maid keeping an assignation would let him in at the front.

For that matter, why would anyone intending burglary be a moment longer at the front than necessary? Surely he would slip from one back alley to another, through the mews if possible, backyards and tradesmen’s entrances where coal and kitchen goods were delivered and rubbish was taken away.

So why was he at the front door, and with Balantyne’s snuffbox in his pocket?

Tellman walked along the footpath with his head down, deep in thought. He could not formulate a satisfactory answer, but he felt sure that somehow the Balantyne house had something to do with it. It was not chance. There was a reason.

He needed to know more about General Brandon Balantyne, and also about Lady Augusta.

He did not really suspect her of anything, certainly not alone, and he had very little idea of how to go about investigating her. He was not a cowardly man and held no innate respect for anyone because of their position or wealth, but he still quaked at the thought of addressing Augusta.

The General was different. Tellman understood men far better, and it would be a relatively easy business to check the General’s military career. Much of that would be public knowledge through the army. Similarly, he could find and check Albert Cole’s record of service.

“Albert Cole?” the military clerk repeated. “Middle name, Sergeant?”

“No idea.”

“Where was ’e born?”

“Don’t know.”

“Don’t know much, do you!” He was a middle-aged man who was bored by his job and made as much of it as possible, particularly in this instance of its complication and its inconvenience. Tellman was civil only with difficulty, but he needed the information.

“Only that he’s been murdered,” he replied.

“I’ll see what I can do.” The man’s face tightened and he went away to search, leaving Tellman sitting on a wooden bench in the outer office.

It was the best part of an hour before he returned, but he had the information.

“Albert Milton Cole,” he said with great importance. “This’ll be your man. Born May 26, 1838, in Battersea. Served in the 33rd Foot, it says here.” He looked up at Tellman. “That’s the Duke of Wellington’s regiment! Got a bullet wound in 1875. Left leg, ’igh up. Broke the bone. Sent ’orne and pensioned off. Nothing after that. Nothing against him though. Never married, according ter this. Any ’elp?”

“Not yet. What can you tell me about General Brandon Balantyne?”

The man’s eyebrows shot up. “Generals now, is it? That’s a different kettle o’ fish altogether. You got some authority for that?”

“Yes. I’m investigating the murder of a soldier who was found with his skull broken … on General Balantyne’s doorstep!”

The clerk hesitated, then decided he was curious himself. He had no particular love for generals. If he had to do this, and he thought he probably did, then he would look less unimportant if he did it willingly.

He went away again and came back fifteen minutes later with several sheets of paper and presented them to Tellman.

Tellman took them and read.

Brandon Peverell Balantyne had been born on March 21, 1830, the eldest son of Brandon Ellwood Balantyne of Bishop Auckland, County Durham. Educated at Addiscombe, graduated at sixteen. When he was eighteen, his father had purchased him a commission and he had sailed for India as a lieutenant in the Bengal Engineers, and was immediately involved in the Second Sikh War, where he was present at the siege of Multan and served with distinction, although wounded, at the battle of Gujrat. In 1852 he had led a column in the First Black Mountain Hazara Expedition on the Northwest Frontier, and the year after he was with an expedition against the Jowaki Afridis in Peshawar.

During the Indian Mutiny he had been with Outram and Havelock in the first relief of Lucknow, and then in its final capture. There he had served brilliantly, chasing rebel bands in Oudh and Gwalior in ’58 and ’59. He had gone on to command a division in the China War of 1860, where he had been decorated for valor.

He was in the Bombay army with General Robert Napier when Napier had been ordered to command the expedition to Abyssinia in ’67. Balantyne had gone with him.

After that Balantyne had been promoted to command himself, and remained in Africa, fighting with continued distinction in Ashantiland in ’73 and ’74, then in the Zulu Wars of ’78 and ’79. After that he retired and returned home to England permanently.

It was a career of apparent distinction and honor, and undeserved privilege, paid for in the first place by his father.

That was a deep offense to Tellman, an injustice inherent in a social system he despised. On the surface, he was more angered that apparently Balantyne’s path had never crossed that of Albert Cole.

He thanked the clerk for his assistance and left.

The following morning Tellman began the task of learning about Balantyne in earnest. He waited outside the house in Bedford Square, standing across from it on the pavement under the trees, alternatively kicking his heels or pacing back and forth, always swinging around to look at the front door or the main entrance. He had little hope that any of the servants would talk. In that sort of establishment, he knew, they had loyalties, and it was more than a servant’s job was worth to gossip about his or her employers. No one could afford to be dismissed without a reference. It was ruin.

General Balantyne emerged from the front door a little after half past ten and walked uprightly along the pavement along Bayley Street and turned left into the Tottenham Court Road down towards Oxford Street, where he turned right and walked westward. He was dressed formally in dark trousers and a beautifully tailored coat. Tellman had vivid opinions about anyone who required a servant to dress him satisfactorily.

The General spoke to no one and appeared not to look either to right or left as he went. Marched would have been the appropriate word. He looked stiff, as if he were going into battle. A cold, rigid man, Tellman thought as he walked behind him. Probably proud as Lucifer.

What was he thinking about the crowds he passed through? That they were the civilian equivalent of foot soldiers, people it was not necessary to make way for, even to regard at all? Certainly he barely seemed to be aware of them, and he spoke to no one, nor raised his hat. He passed two or three soldiers actually in uniform, but ignored them, and they him.

At Argyll Street he turned sharply right, and Tellman almost missed him climbing the steps of a handsome house and going inside.

Tellman went to the door after him and saw the brass plate on which was engraved the words THE JESSOP CLUB FOR GENTLEMEN. He hesitated. There would be a steward of some sort in the vestibule. He would no doubt know all the members. He would therefore be an excellent source of information, but again, one whose livelihood depended upon his discretion.

He must be inventive. He was serving no purpose standing in the street. People would think him a peddler! He jerked his lapels straighter, squared his shoulders and pulled the doorbell.

It was answered by a middle-aged steward in well-cut, slightly faded livery.

“Yes sir?” He regarded Tellman blankly, summing up his social status in a glance.

Tellman felt the blood burn in his face. He would have liked to tell the man his opinion of gentlemen who spent their days with their feet up or playing games of cards or billiards with each other. Parasites on decent people, the lot of them. He could also have added his contempt for those who earned their living by pandering to such leeches.

“Good morning,” he said stiffly. “I’m Sergeant Tellman of the Bow Street police station.” He held out his card as proof of it.

The steward looked at it without touching it, as if it had been unclean.

“Indeed,” he said expressionlessly.

Tellman gritted his teeth. “We are looking for a man who is pretending to be a retired army officer, of distinguished service, in order to defraud people out of considerable sums of money.”

The steward’s face darkened with disapproval. Tellman had his attention at least. “I hope you catch him!” he said vehemently.

“Doing everything we can,” Tellman replied with feeling. “This man is tall, broad-shouldered, very upright, military looking in his bearing. Dresses well.”

The steward frowned. “That describes a few that I can think of. Can you tell me anything else about him? I know all our members, of course, but sometimes gentlemen bring in guests.”

“So far as we know, he’s clean shaven,” Tellman went on. “Although of course that can change. Fairish hair, thinning a bit, gray at the temples. Aquiline features. Blue eyes.”

“Can’t say as I’ve seen him.”

“I followed a man here just this moment.”

The steward’s face cleared.

“Oh! That’s General Balantyne. Known him for years.” His expression suggested something close to amusement.

“Are you certain?” Tellman persisted. “This devil uses other people’s names pretty freely. Was General … Balantyne? Yes … did General Balantyne seem his usual self to you?”

“Well … hard to say.” The steward hesitated.

Tellman had a stroke of genius. “You see, sir,” he said confidentially, leaning forward a little, “I think this bounder may be using General Balantyne’s name … running up bills, even borrowing money …”

The steward’s face blanched. “I must warn the General!”

“No! No sir. That would not be a good idea … just yet.” Tellman swallowed hard. “He would be extremely angry. He might unintentionally warn this man, and we need to catch him before he does the same thing to someone else. If you would be so good as to tell me a little about the real General, then I can make sure that the other places he frequents are not taken in by the impostor.”

“Oh.” The steward nodded his understanding. “Yes, I see. Well, he belongs to one or two services clubs, I believe. And White’s, although I don’t think he goes there so often as here.” This last was added with pride, a slight straightening of the shoulders.

“Not a very social sort of man?” Tellman suggested.

“Well … always very civil, but not … not overfriendly, if you get my meaning, sir.”

“Yes, I do.” Tellman thought of Balantyne’s rigid back, his rapid stride along Oxford Street, speaking to no one.

“Does he gamble at all, do you know?”

“I believe not, sir. Nor drink very much either.”

“Does he go to the theater, or the music hall?”

“I don’t think so, sir.” The steward shook his head. “Never heard him refer to it. But I think he has been to the opera quite often, and to the symphony.”

Tellman grunted. “And museums, no doubt,” he said sarcastically.

“Yes sir, I believe so.”

“Rather solitary sort of occupations. Doesn’t he have any friends?”

“He’s always very agreeable,” the steward said thoughtfully. “Never heard anyone speak ill of him. But he doesn’t sit around talking a lot, doesn’t … gossip, if you know what I mean. Doesn’t gamble, you see.”

“No sports interests?”

“Not that I ever heard of.” He sounded surprised as he said it, as if it had not occurred to him before.

“Pretty careful with money?” Tellman concluded.

“Not extravagant,” the steward conceded. “But not mean either. Reads a lot, and I overheard him once say he liked to sketch. Of course he’s traveled a lot—India, Africa, China too, so I heard.”

“Yes. But always to do with war.”

“Soldier’s life,” the steward said a trifle sententiously and with considerable respect. Tellman wondered if he had the same respect for the foot soldiers who actually did the fighting.

He went on talking to the steward for several minutes more, but little was added to the picture he was forming of a stiff, cold man whose career had been purchased by his family and who had made few friends, learned little of comradeship and nothing of the arts of pleasure, except those he considered socially admirable, like the opera … which was all foreign anyway, so Tellman had heard.

None of it appeared to have anything whatever to do with Albert Cole. And yet there was a connection. There must be. Otherwise how had Cole got the snuffbox? And why was that the only thing taken?

General Brandon Balantyne was a lonely, unbending man who followed solitary pursuits. He had been privileged all his life, working for none of the advantages he possessed, money, rank, position in society, his beautiful house in Bedford Square, his titled wife. But he was also a troubled man. Tellman was a good enough judge of character to know that. And he intended to find out what that trouble was, most especially if it had cost ordinary, poor, underfed and ill-clothed Albert Cole his life. Honest men reported thieves, they did not murder them.

What could Albert Cole, poor devil, have seen in that house in Bedford Square for which he had been killed?