Bedford Square

4

PITT HAD HEARD Tellman’s news from Gracie when he finally came home, and he was deeply saddened that the evidence seemed to be connecting Albert Cole more closely with Balantyne. He must instruct Tellman to learn all he could about Cole, most particularly if he had any pattern of burglary or attempts at extortion. Not that he could imagine anything in Balantyne’s life that would offer an opportunity for such a thing. The poor man’s tragedies had been forced into public knowledge years ago, every shred of misery ripped open.

He was reminded of the circumstances again as he passed a newspaper boy and heard him calling the headlines.

“Dead body on general’s doorstep! Police baffled by murder of old soldier in Bedford Square! Read all about it an’ see if you can do any better! So, wanna paper, sir? Ta. There y’are!”

Pitt took it from him and opened it up. He read it with mounting anger and dismay. Nothing was said directly enough to be actionable, but all the implications were plain: Balantyne was a general and the dead man must have served with him at some time. There was some bond between them, of love or hate, knowledge, revenge or conspiracy. Even treason was hinted at—so subtly that some might have missed it, but not all. Any of it could conceivably have been true.

And any of it would ruin Balantyne.

He closed the newspaper and, ramming it under his arm, he strode along the pavement to the steps of the Bow Street Station.

As soon as he was inside a constable came in to tell him that there was a message to say Assistant Commissioner Cornwallis wished to see him immediately. There was no reason given.

Pitt stood up again without even glancing at anything on his desk. The first fear that took him was that Cornwallis had received another letter, this time stating the terms for which the blackmailer would keep silent. All sorts of things entered his mind, from simple money through information on criminal cases, even to actual corruption of evidence.

He did not bother to leave any message for Tellman. The sergeant could proceed perfectly well alone. He did not need Pitt, or anyone else, to instruct him in the pursuit of the recent life and habits of Albert Cole.

Back in the street, Pitt walked around to Drury Lane and almost immediately found a hansom. He was aware of nothing as the cab turned and went south: not the other traffic; the fine, blustery morning; two brewers’ draymen shouting at each other; or the traffic stopping for a magnificent hearse with four perfectly matched black horses, their black plumes waving. Nor did he notice, three blocks farther on, an open brougham with six pretty girls giggling and showing off, waving parasols to the imminent peril of all other horse-drawn vehicles within striking distance of them.

He was admitted to Cornwallis’s office immediately and found him standing, as so often, by the window overlooking the street. Cornwallis turned as Pitt came in. He looked pale, and there were dark shadows around his eyes and a thin tenseness in his lips.

“Good morning,” he said quickly as Pitt closed the door. “Come in.” He waved in a very general way towards the chairs in front of the desk, but remained standing, balanced as if he would begin to pace back and forth the moment he had Pitt’s total attention. “Do you know of Sigmund Tannifer?”

“No.”

Cornwallis was staring at him. His body was rigid, his hands behind his back. “He’s a banker, very prominent in the City, very powerful man in financial circles.”

Pitt waited.

As if driven by compulsion, Cornwallis began to pace: five strides one way, turn smartly, five strides the other. The office could have been the quarterdeck sailing before the wind into battle.

“He called me last night,” he began, speaking jerkily. “He sounded … distressed.” He reached the end and turned again, glancing at Pitt. “Wouldn’t say what it was, but asked me about the Bedford Square business. Asked me who was in charge of the case.” He swiveled around and came back. “When I told him you were, he asked if he could see you … privately … as soon as possible—in fact, this morning.” He started back again, hands still locked behind him. “I asked him if he had any information regarding it. Thought he might have been burgled or know someone who had … someone in Bedford Square.” He stopped, his eyes puzzled, his face almost bruised looking. “He said he didn’t know anything about it. It was another matter, private and very grave.” He reached over to the desk and passed Pitt a slip of paper. “This is his address. He is at home, waiting for you.”

Pitt took the paper and glanced at it. Tannifer lived in Chelsea.

“Yes sir. I’ll go now.”

“Good. Thank you.” Cornwallis stood still at last. “Let me know what it is. I’ll be back by the time you are … I daresay.”

“Back?” Pitt asked.

“Ah … yes.” Cornwallis let out his breath slowly. “Have to go to my club … the Jessop Club. Don’t really want to, can’t spare the time.” He smiled fleetingly, an effort to hide his reluctance. He was dreading it, as if already his friends and colleagues would somehow know what was in the letter and believe it, or at best wonder. “Have to,” he went on explaining. “On a committee for charity. Too important not to go. For children.” He looked vaguely embarrassed as he said it, and turned quickly to pick up his hat and follow Pitt out of the door.

Pitt took a hansom and rode, again deep in thought, to Queen Street, just off the Chelsea Embankment. It was a beautiful neighborhood, near the Botanical Gardens, just past the facade of the Chelsea Hospital and the wide space of Burton’s Court. The end of the street opened directly onto the river, which was blue and gray, sparkling in the sun.

He knocked on the door of the number he had been given, and when the footman answered he presented his card. He was shown across the stone-flagged hall with scattered Persian rugs. The walls were hung with an array of historical weapons, from a crusader’s two-handed sword through a Napoleonic saber to two pairs of dueling pistols and two rapiers. Within moments he was taken into an oak-paneled study, where he was left for no more than five minutes before the door opened and a tall man with receding dark hair came in. He was of striking appearance, although there was too much power in his features for handsomeness, too much flesh.

Pitt guessed him to be in his middle fifties, and extremely prosperous. His clothes were perfectly cut and of fabric which draped as if there could be silk in it. There was a sheen to his cravat as if it, too, were silk.

“Thank you for coming, Superintendent. I am much obliged. Please be comfortable.” He indicated the well-worn dark chairs, and as soon as Pitt was seated, he sank into the opposite one, but did not relax. He remained upright, his hands joined together. He was not openly nervous, but he was apparently deeply worried over something.

Several questions came to Pitt’s mind, but he did not speak them aloud. He would leave Tannifer to say what he wished without prompting.

“I understand that you are investigating this miserable business in Bedford Square?” Tannifer began tentatively.

“Yes,” Pitt agreed. “My sergeant is presently looking into the life of the dead man to see if we can learn what he was doing there. His usual area was Holborn. He sold bootlaces on the corner of Lincoln’s Inn Fields,”

“Yes.” Tannifer nodded. “I read in the newspapers that he was an old soldier. Is that true?”

“It is. Do you know something about him, Mr. Tannifer?”

Tannifer smiled. “No … I’m afraid I know nothing at all.” The smile vanished. “It was only the suggestion in the press regarding poor Balantyne’s possible involvement which made me wish to see you. You are obviously a man of sensitivity and discretion, in whom Cornwallis has the greatest trust, or he would not have assigned you to such a matter.” He was regarding Pitt narrowly, weighing him in his own judgment.

Pitt did not feel any response was required. A denial dictated by modesty would be inappropriate now. Obviously, Tannifer had looked into the subject.

Tannifer pursed his lips.

“Mr. Pitt, I have received a most disturbing letter. One might call it blackmail, except that nothing is asked for, as yet.”

Pitt felt almost winded with shock. It was the last thing he had expected. This affluent banker in front of him had none of the haunted look that Cornwallis had, but perhaps that was because he had not yet realized the full import of what the letter meant. The strain, the fear, the sleepless nights would come.

“When did you receive it, Mr. Tannifer?” he asked.

“Last post yesterday evening,” Tannifer replied quietly. “I informed Cornwallis straightaway. I know him slightly, and I felt I could take the liberty of going to him directly, even to troubling him at his home.” He took a very deep breath and let it out, consciously easing his shoulders. “You see, Mr. Pitt, I am in a very delicate position. My entire ability to follow my career, to be of service to anyone, depends upon trust.” He watched Pitt’s face to see if he understood. A look of doubt flashed across his eyes. Perhaps he was expecting too much.

“May I see the letter?” Pitt asked.

Tannifer bit his lip, moving uncomfortably in his chair, but he did not argue.

“Of course. It is there, on the corner of the desk.” He indicated it with his hand as if he were reluctant even to touch the thing again himself.

Pitt rose and picked the envelope off the polished surface where it was lying. The name and address were cut out of letters from newspapers, but with such painstaking precision, and glued so carefully, that at a glance it seemed to be printed as if by amachine.

The postmark was “Central London,” the previous evening.

He opened it up and read the single sheet he found inside.

Mr. Tannifer,

You have grown rich and respected by exercising your financial skills, all with the money of others. It is based upon their trust in you, in your unquestioned honesty. Would they feel the same if they were to know that once you were far less scrupulous, and prospered your own fortune using funds embezzled from your clients?

Warburton and Pryce, I believe. I do not know the sum, perhaps you no longer even know it yourself. Perhaps you never did. Why count what you will never repay? Have you a sense of the absurd?

You must have, or you would not allow other men to trust you with their money. I would not!

Perhaps one day no one will.

And that was all. The meaning was perfectly plain, as it had been in Cornwallis’s letter. And like his, nothing was asked for, no precise, explicit threat was made; but the ugliness, the malice and the danger were extremely clear.

Pitt looked across at Tannifer, who was watching him almost unblinkingly.

“You see!” Tannifer’s voice was harsh, rising a little as if the veneer were thin. “He doesn’t ask for anything, but the threat is there.” He leaned forward across the desk, pulling his jacket out of shape. “It is completely untrue! I have never stolen a halfpenny in my life. I daresay with sufficient time and a careful enough audit of the bank’s books I could prove it.”

He stared at Pitt, searching his eyes, his face, as if desperate to see some hope or understanding.

“But the very fact that I would, or thought I had to, would make people wonder why,” he went on. “The suggestion is enough to ruin me … and the bank too, if they did not dismiss me. The only course possible would be to resign.” He waved his hands wide, jerkily. “And then there would be those who would take that as an admission of some kind of guilt. For God’s sake … what can I do?”

Pitt longed to be able to give him some answer that would offer the hope he longed for, but there was no such thing that would be remotely honest.

Should he tell him there had been others?

“Is anyone else aware of this?” he asked, indicating the letter.

“Only my wife,” Tannifer replied. “She saw my distress, and I had either to tell her the truth or invent some lie. I have always trusted her absolutely. I showed it to her.”

Pitt thought that a mistake. He feared her reaction might be to become so afraid that she would unintentionally betray her distress, or even feel the need to confide in someone further, perhaps her mother or a sister.

Tannifer must have read his feelings in his expression. He smiled.

“You have no need to fear, Mr. Pitt. My wife is a woman of remarkable loyalty and courage. I would rather trust her than anyone else I know.”

It was an unusual statement to make, and yet when he thought about it, Pitt would have said the same thing of Charlotte, and he blushed now with some guilt that he should have assumed less of Mrs. Tannifer without the slightest evidence.

“I apologize,” he said contritely. “I was only—”

“Of course,” Tannifer dismissed it, speaking across him, and for the first time allowing himself to smile. “In most circumstances you would be quite right. There is no need to feel the least discomfort.” He reached for the embroidered bell cord and pulled it.

Within moments a footman appeared.

“Ask Mrs. Tannifer to join us, will you,” Tannifer instructed, then as the man went out, he regarded Pitt seriously again. “What can you do to help us, Superintendant? How should I behave regarding this … threat?”

“To begin with, tell no one else,” Pitt replied, watching him gravely. “Do not even allow them to suspect. If anyone observes your anxiety or distress, think in advance of some other believable cause, and attribute it to that. Better not to say there is nothing wrong, when they may find that difficult to believe. Give no cause for speculation.”

“Of course. Of course.” Tannifer nodded.

There was a light rap on the door, and a moment later it opened and a woman came in who at first glance appeared quite ordinary. She was of average height, a trifle thin, her shoulders angular, her hips in her very lightly bustled gown too lean to be fashionable, or even very feminine. Her fair hair was naturally wavy and of a soft honey shade. Her features were not beautiful. Her nose lacked elegance, her eyes were wide, blue, and very direct. Her mouth was sensitive and curiously vulnerable. It was her bearing which made her remarkable. There was an extraordinary grace within her which would have marked her out from any crowd, and the longer one looked at her, the more attractive did she seem.

Both men rose to their feet.

“Parthenope, this is Superintendent Pitt, from Bow Street,” Tannifer introduced them. “He has come about this wretched letter.”

“I’m so glad,” she said quickly. Her voice was warm and a little husky. She looked at Pitt earnestly. “It is pure evil! Whoever wrote it does not even imagine it is true; he is simply using the threat of lies to hurt and to—to extort … I don’t know what. He doesn’t even say what he wants! How can we fight him?” She moved to stand closer beside her husband, and almost unconsciously she slid her arm into his. It was a casual gesture and yet intensely protective.

“First, behave as naturally as possible,” Pitt repeated, this time to Parthenope Tannifer. “But if anyone realizes you are anxious, give them some other cause to explain it, don’t fob them off with a denial they will not believe.”

“My wife’s brother is in India; Manipur, to be exact. The news from there is sufficient to worry anyone.…” He saw Pitt nod, and continued. “As you know, there was a palace coup in September last year. Our people decided that it constituted a rebellion, and in March of this year our man in Assam took four hundred Gurkhas and marched to Imphal, the capital of Manipur, to talk. They were promptly seized and killed.”

He furrowed his brow as if he could still hardly believe what he said next. “Apparently, there was no commanding officer of sufficient rank left, so the young widow of the political agent led the surviving British officers and the Gurkhas out of the city, through the jungle and up the mountains towards Assam. They were rescued by a troop of Gurkhas coming the other way.” He gave an abrupt little laugh. “I can always say I am worried about him. I should be believed.” He glanced at Parthenope, who indicated her agreement, her eyes alight with imagination and pride.

Pitt dragged his attention back from the extraordinary story of Manipur to the present, grim situation in London. A deep chill settled inside him that two prominent men were being threatened with a very particular form of public ruin, but no price was asked.

It also forced itself into his mind to wonder if General Balantyne might be a third victim of the same plan, but had been too afraid, or too ashamed, to speak of it. And of course the threat to him was far greater … there was a dead body on his doorstep which made the whole issue public and brought the police to investigate.

Was Albert Cole the blackmailer?

It seemed highly unlikely. The more Pitt considered it, the less did it seem credible. He picked up Tannifer’s letter and read it again. It was complex and literate, not the work of a private soldier turned peddler of bootlaces.

And yet he had had in his pocket Balantyne’s snuffbox, which, as it transpired, was not valuable, but still extremely beautiful, and possibly unique.

Both Tannifer and Parthenope were staring at him.

“Is there something of importance that you are not telling me, Superintendent?” Tannifer said with concern. “Your expression causes me considerable anxiety.”

Parthenope’s face was tight, her mouth pulled crooked with fear.

Pitt made an instant decision.

“You are not the only person to suffer from this man’s threats, Mr. Tannifer—” He stopped as he saw Tannifer’s amazement and something which could have been relief.

“This is monstrous!” Parthenope burst out, stiffening her body and removing her arm from Tannifer’s. She clasped her hands tightly in front of her. “Who else is … Oh! I’m sorry. What a stupid question. Of course you cannot tell us. At least I know you would not, because if you did it might mean you would tell others of our predicament.”

“No, Mrs. Tannifer,” Pitt agreed. “I would certainly not mention it without his specific permission. Like your husband, he is a man of dignity and honor whose reputation has never been questioned before. He is accused of the offense which would be most repugnant to him, and yet which, although he is totally innocent, he cannot prove himself innocent of. At least at the present he cannot prove it. With diligent work it may become possible. But his act also lies in the past, and many of those who could have disproved what is charged are no longer alive.”

“Poor soul,” Parthenope said with profound feeling. Her face was flushed, her eyes direct. “What can we do, Mr. Pitt?”

He was desperate to offer some answer which would comfort her and make her feel she was participating in the battle. But he turned to Tannifer himself as he spoke.

“There are certain things which will define this person,” he said thoughtfully. “He must know of the earlier matter you mentioned … how public was it?”

“Not at all.” Tannifer’s face brightened. “I see what you mean. It must be limited by those who either knew for them selves or had heard of it from those who did. That does circumscribe it considerably. But you said two things. What is the other?”

“He must want something from you which will profit him. If you think what you can do—other than merely pay him money, of course—then you may learn something about who it is.”

Tannifer frowned. “Do you not think it will be money, when he has felt the exactness of his power well enough?”

“It may be,” Pitt replied. “Are you a wealthy man, with funds available?”

Tannifer hesitated. “I—I could not pay a large amount in any haste. Even if I were to sell property, such a thing takes time—”

“Influence!” Parthenope put in quickly, her expression eager. “Of course. That would make the most excellent sense.” She looked from Tannifer to Pitt. “Has this other man influence, Superintendent?”

“More than money, yes, Mrs. Tannifer. He has great influence in certain areas.”

A bitter smile touched Tannifer’s mouth. “I assume you are not referring to Brandon Balantyne but to someone else? Balantyne has no influence now.” He shook his head minutely, an oddly hopeless little gesture. “This is a filthy business, Superintendent. I pray most profoundly that you can help us.”

Parthenope looked at him earnestly also, but she did not add anything to her husband’s words.

“If you would make such a list, Mr. Tannifer?” Pitt prompted.

“Of course. I shall send it around to you at Bow Street the moment it is accomplished,” Tannifer promised. He held out his hand. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Pitt. I rest my trust in you. We both do. Please convey my thanks to Cornwallis for sparing you so instantly.”

Pitt left oppressed with foreboding and a sense that behind the threatening letters to both Cornwallis and Tannifer was a far greater power than he had at first imagined. There was nothing clumsy or hasty in it, not a greedy man simply taking a chance at extorting money from a mistake he had observed and seen an opportunity on which to capitalize. It was a more carefully laid plan, possibly over a period of time, to obtain power by the deliberate corruption of men of influence.

And in spite of what Tannifer had said about Balantyne’s having now retired, Pitt could not help wondering if he, too, was the victim of blackmail. He was certain Balantyne had been deeply afraid of something, and it was connected with the pinchbeck snuffbox found in Albert Cole’s pocket. How had Cole come by it? In the answer to that would lie a great deal of the answer to his death.

Pitt returned to Bedford Square, determined to speak to Balantyne again and see if he could learn from him anything further, possibly even ask him outright if he had received a letter. But when he enquired, the footman told him the General had gone out quite early and had not said at what hour he would return. He did not expect it to be before dinner that night.

Pitt thanked him and went to see what he could learn about Sigmund Tannifer in the City, his reputation and standing as a banker, and if possible, what particular or delicate influence he might have upon the finances of others, and if there was any known connection with Cornwallis, or even Balantyne.

Charlotte had no intention whatever of abandoning General Balantyne to hunt for the blackmailer on his own. She joined forces with him the next morning. They met on the steps outside the British Museum. Again she saw him from several yards’ distance, even though there were a number of people coming and going and at least half a dozen standing around or speaking with each other. He was probably more conspicuous than he realized due to his ramrod stiffness. She thought he looked as if he were expecting to face a charge any moment, a platoon with fixed bayonets, or perhaps a band of Zulu warriors.

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 his eyes down as if studying the pavement.

Charlotte gave her mind over to the evidence such as they possessed. Cole had been found dead on Balantyne’s doorstep with the snuffbox in his pocket. He had served on the same Abyssinian campaign twenty-five years before. Somebody had sent the threatening letter to Balantyne but had not yet actually asked for anything, except the snuffbox, as a pledge of intent, and Balantyne had been too aware of the damage they could do him to refuse it.

“What else might they want, apart from money?” she said aloud.

He swung around, startled. “What?”

She repeated the question.

A slow color spread up his cheeks, and he looked away.

“Perhaps just the exercise of power,” he replied. “For some people that is a purpose in itself.”

She spoke from impulse, before she had time to question herself and perhaps lose her courage, or think better and be more tactful.

“Have you some idea who it is?”

He stopped, wide-eyed, staring at her with amazement.

“No. I wish to God I had.” He colored faintly. “I’m sorry. But that is one of the very worst aspects of it all … I think of everyone I can imagine, every man I know and have considered a friend, or at least someone I could respect, whether I liked him or not, and now I wonder. It is beginning to poison my views of everyone. I catch myself wondering if people know, if they are secretly smiling, watching me and knowing what I fear, and waiting for me to lose my nerve. And all of them but one will be totally innocent.” A bitter anger filled his eyes. “That is one of the greatest evils of secret accusation; the poison of it, how it slowly destroys your trust in all those to whom you should be able to turn with honor and regard. And how could the innocent forgive you for not having known they were innocent, for having allowed it to even enter your thoughts that they could do such a thing?” His voice dropped. “How could I ever forgive myself?” A woman walking a small dog passed them, and Balantyne was too distracted even to acknowledge her by raising his hat, a gesture so automatic to him he would normally have done it without thought.

Impulsively, Charlotte reached out her hand and rested it on his arm, holding him lightly. “You must forgive yourself,” she said earnestly. “And no one else will need to forgive you, because they will not know. This may be precisely what the blackmailer wants, to make you so demoralized that when he asks for whatever it is, you are willing to give it to him simply to be rid of the fear and the doubts, to know at last who your enemy is so you can also know your friends.”

She felt the muscles in his arm tighten as he clenched them, but his hand did not move and he stayed close to her.

“I have had a second letter,” he said, watching her face. “It was much the same as the first. Cut from the Times again and pasted onto paper. It came by first post this morning.”

“What did it say?” she asked, trying to keep perfectly steady. He must not see how alarmed she was.

He swallowed. He was very pale. It was obviously difficult for him even to repeat the words. “That my friends would shun me, cross over in the street to avoid me, if they knew I was a coward and ran from battle, and was saved by a private soldier, and then would not even own up to my shame but let him conceal it for me.” He swallowed, his throat jerking painfully. His voice was hoarse. “That my wife, who had already suffered so much, would be ruined, and my son would have to disown his name or his career would be finished.” He stared at her in helpless misery. “And not a word of it is true, I swear that in the name of God.”

“I had not doubted you,” she said quite calmly. The depth of his distress had the strange effect of setting a deep resolution in her to fight the issue in his defense to the very last iota of her strength or imagination, and not give in even after that. “You must never allow him to think he has won,” she said with utter conviction. “Unless, of course, it should be a tactical ploy, to lead him to betray himself. But I cannot see, at the moment, how that would be an advantage.”

He started to walk again. They passed half a dozen people, laughing and talking together: women with tiny waists and sweeping skirts, flowers and feathers on their hats; men in summer coats. And all the time carriages were busy along the street.

They found the house where Elliot had lived, only to be told that he had died of a kidney ailment two months previously.

They ate luncheon in a small, quiet restaurant, trying to keep each other’s spirits up, and then took the underground railway right across the city to Woolwich to find Samuel Holt. It was an extraordinary experience, and entirely new to Charlotte, although she had heard about it from Gracie. It was acutely claustrophobic, and the noise was beyond belief. The whole train shot through long, tubelike tunnels, roaring like a hundred tin trays dropped upon a paved yard. But it did achieve the journey in a remarkably short time. They emerged into the blustery, mild wind north of the river and only two streets from Holt’s house.

He received them with great pleasure, although unable to rise from his chair and apologizing for it with some embarrassment; old wounds and rheumatism had disabled him. But when asked, he said that yes, most certainly he had been on the Abyssinian Expedition and remembered it quite clearly. How could he assist?

Charlotte and Balantyne accepted the seats offered.

“Do you recall the storming of the baggage train on the Arogee Plains?” Balantyne said eagerly, unable to keep hope out of his voice.

“Arogee? Oh, yes.” Holt nodded. “Nasty.”

Balantyne leaned forward. “Do you remember a small bunch of men panicking before enemy fire?”

Holt thought for a few moments, his blue eyes misty and far away, as if he were seeing the plains of Abyssinia again, the brilliant skies, the dry earth and the colors of fighting men a quarter of a century before.

“Nasty,” he said again. “Got a lot of men killed that way. Never panic. Worst thing you can do.”

“Do you remember me?”

Holt squinted at him. “Balantyne,” he said with evident pleasure.

“Do you remember me going back for the wounded?” Balantyne said eagerly. “My horse fell. I was thrown, but I got up after a moment or two. Got Manders and helped him back. He was shot in the leg. You turned and went for Smith.”

“Oh, yes … Smith. Yes, I remember.” He looked at Balantyne with a charming, wide-eyed smile. “How can I help you, sir?”

“You remember it?”

“Of course. Dreadful business.” He shook his head, the sunlight catching his white hair. “Brave men. Too bad.”

A shadow crossed Balantyne’s face. “The Abyssinians?” he questioned.

Holt frowned. “Our men. Remember the jackals … eating the dead. Fearful! What makes you mention it now, sir?” He blinked several times. “Lose a lot of friends, did you?”

Balantyne’s face tightened; a bleakness crossed it as if in that instant some hope in him had died.

“Do you remember that attack and my going back for Manders? Do you remember how it happened?”

“Of course I do,” Holt insisted. “I said so, didn’t I? Why does it matter now?”

“Just recollections,” Balantyne replied, leaning back. “Bit of a difference of opinion with someone.”

“Ask Manders himself, sir. He’ll tell you. You rescued the poor devil. He’d have been dead for certain if you hadn’t. What any officer worth his salt would do. Who says otherwise?” Holt was puzzled; it upset him. “Terrible bloodshed. Remember the stench of bodies.” His face pinched with distress.

Charlotte looked at Balantyne. He, too, was torn with the pain of memory.

“Good men,” Holt murmured sadly. “Manders wasn’t one of them, was he?”

“Killed in India a couple of years later,” Balantyne said quietly.

“Was he? I’m sorry. Lost count, you know. So many dead.” He stopped, searching Balantyne’s face.

Balantyne took a deep breath and stood up, extending his hand.

“Thank you, Holt. Good of you to spare me your time.”

Holt remained seated in his chair. His face lit with pleasure, and he clasped Balantyne’s hand fiercely, clinging to it for several moments before he let go. His eyes shone. “Thank you, General,” he said with deep feeling. “It was a great thing that you came to see me.”

Outside in the street, Charlotte could hardly wait to turn to Balantyne and see his relief.

“That proves it!” she said exultantly. “Mr. Holt was there. He can make nonsense of the whole charge.”

“No he can’t, my dear,” Balantyne answered quietly, controlling his emotions with such difficulty he would not look at her. “We lost no men at Magdala. In fact, there were only two men killed in the entire campaign. Many wounded, of course, but only two dead.”

She was astounded, confused. “But the stench,” she protested, still trying to force away what he was saying. “He remembered it.”

“Abyssinians … seven hundred at Arogee with the baggage train. God knows how many at Magdala. They slew their prisoners. Hurled them over the walls. It was one of the worst things I ever knew.”

“But Holt … s-said …” she stammered.

“His mind is gone … poor creature.” He walked quickly, his body tight. “He is lucid in moments. I think when I left he actually did remember me. Most of the time he was simply lonely … and wanted to please.” He kept his face straight ahead, and she saw the pain in it, heard the thick huskiness in his voice. She knew it was not for himself. The hollowness of failure would come later.

She did not know what to do, whether touching him would be an intrusion. He was walking very rapidly. She had to pick up her skirts and stride to keep up with him, but he was unaware of it. She moved beside him in silence, every now and again giving a little skip not to be left behind. Loyalty was all she could offer.

Tellman was very fully occupied learning more about the recent life of Albert Cole. He began at Lincoln’s Inn Fields with a pair of bootlaces. He found the corner where Cole had stood, and already there was someone else there, a thin man with an unusually long nose but a cheerful expression.

“Laces, sir?” He held out a pair in a fairly clean hand.

Tellman took them and examined them closely.

“Best you’ll find,” the man assured him.

“You get them the same place as the fellow who was here before you?” Tellman said casually.

The man hesitated, not sure which was the best answer. He looked at Tellman’s face and learned nothing.

“Yeah,” he said eventually.

“Who was that?”

“You buy ’em from me, guv. I got the best laces in London.”

Tellman held out the appropriate money; it was little enough. “I still want to know where you get them. Police business.”

“They ain’t nicked!” The man’s face paled.

“I know that. I want to learn all I can about Albert Cole, who had this patch before you.”

“ ’im wot was croaked?”

“Yes. Did you know him?”

“Yeah. That’s ’ow I got the patch. Poor sod. ’e were a decent bloke. Soldier, ’e were. Got shot somew’ere out in Africa, or somew’ere like that. Don’t know wot the ’ell ’e were doin’ in Bedford Square.”

“Thieving?” Tellman suggested dourly.

The peddler’s body stiffened. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but yer din’t oughter say that, ’less you can prove it, like. Albert Cole were an ’onest man wot served ’is country. An’ I ’ope as yer find the bastard wot topped ’im.”

“We will,” Tellman promised. “Now, where’d he get the bootlaces?”

“Good man,” the bootlace stockist said when Tellman found him. He nodded his head sadly. “London ain’t safe no more. When a quiet fellow doin’ nobody ’arm can get killed like that, the p’lice ain’t doin’ their jobs.”

“Did he have any money trouble?” Tellman ignored the criticism.

“ ’Course ’e did. Anyone wot peddles bootlaces on a street corner’s got money troubles,” the man said dryly. “You work fer a livin’, or wot? You just do this ’cos yer like it, mister?”

Tellman held his temper with difficulty. He thought of his father, who had left their two rooms in Billingsgate at five in the morning and worked carrying bales and boxes in the fish market all day. In the evening he had relieved a friend driving hansom cabs, often until midnight, all seasons of the year: in the swelter of summer when the traffic was jammed head to tail and the smell of manure filled the air; when the rain made the gutters swim and the rubbish and effluent swilled across the road and the cobbles shone black and glistening in the lamplight; in the winter when the wind chapped the skin and the ice made the horse’s hooves slide dangerously. Even the pea soup fogs had not stopped him.

“I’ve got nothing except what I work for,” Tellman said, the anger edging his voice till it cut. “And my pa could teach you what that word means, or any man.”

The bootlace supplier backed away, frightened not by Tellman’s words but by the well of rage he had unwittingly tapped into. Tellman was mollified. The ache of memory was not healed. He could still see in his mind his father’s gaunt face, worried, cold, too tired to do anything but eat and sleep. There had been fourteen children, eight of whom lived. His mother cooked and washed, and sewed and swept, scrubbed and carried buckets of water, made soap out of lye and potash, sat up at night with sick children or sick neighbors. She laid out the dead, too many of them her own.

Most of the people he worked with now did not even imagine what exhaustion, hunger and poverty really meant; they only imagined they did. And those like General Brandon Balantyne, with his bought and paid for career, they lived in another world, as if they were more than human and Tellman and his like were less. They had more respect for their horses … come to think of it, a great deal more! And their horses had a far better life: a warm stable and good food, a kind word at the end of the day.

But alarmed as he was, the supplier could tell him nothing more about Albert Cole, except that he was absolutely honest in his dealings and worked as regularly as most men, only missing the odd few days through illness. That was until his disappearance, a day and a half before his body was found in Bedford Square. And no, he had no idea what Cole could have been doing there.

Tellman took the omnibus and rode back towards Red Lion Square. He started visiting the pawnshops and asking about Albert Cole. No one knew him by name, but the third one he visited seemed to recognize the description Tellman gave of him, particularly the break in his left eyebrow.

“ ’Ad a feller like that in ’ere fairly reg’lar,” he said with a gesture of resignation. “Always ’ad summink a bit tasty, like. Last time it were a gold ring.”

“A gold ring?” Tellman said quickly. “Where’d he get it?”

“Said ’e found it,” the pawnbroker replied, looking straight at Tellman without blinking. “Goes down the sewers sometimes. Comes up wi’ all sorts.” He scratched his ear irritably.

“Down the sewers?” Tellman said.

“Yeah.” The pawnbroker nodded. “Find gold, diamonds, all sorts down there.”

“I know that,” Tellman said. “That’s why it costs a fair penny to buy a stretch of sewer to patrol. And any tosher’ll knock your head in if you trespass.”

The pawnbroker looked uncomfortable. Apparently, he had not expected Tellman to be so familiar with the facts of scavenging.

“Well that’s wot ’e told me!” he said abruptly.

“And you believed it?” Tellman gave him a withering look.

“Yeah. Why not? ’ow was I ter know if ’e were tellin’ the truth?”

“Haven’t you got a nose on your face?”

“A … nose?” But the pawnbroker knew what he meant. The smell of a sewer scavenger was unmistakable, just like the smell of a mudlark, a man who sifted the river silt for lost treasures.

“A thief,” Tellman said scathingly. “But of course you wouldn’t know that. How often did he come here with stuff?”

The pawnbroker was now extremely uncomfortable. He scratched his ear again.

“Six or seven times, mebbe. I din’t know’e were a thief. ’e always ’ad a good tale. I thought ’e were a …”

“Yes, a tosher,” Tellman supplied for him. “You said. Always jewelry? Did he ever come with paintings, ornaments, or the like?”

“From down the sewers?” The pawnbroker’s voice rose an octave. “I may not be as clever as you are about toshers, but even I know as nobody loses paintings down the bath ’ole!”

Tellman smiled, showing his teeth. “And no pawnbroker buys gold rings from a tosher without knowing that either. No need to fence it if it was fair pickings.”

The pawnbroker glared at him. “Well, I dunno w’ere ’e got ’is things, do I? If ’e were a thief it weren’t nuthin’ ter do wif me. Now, if yer in’t got nuffink else ter ask me, will yer get out o’ me shop. Yer puttin’ orff me proper custom.”

Tellman left feeling angry and puzzled. This was a very different picture of Albert Cole from the one he had gained previously.

He went back and had a late luncheon at the Bull and Gate public house in High Holborn. It was only a few yards from the corner where Cole had had his position selling bootlaces. Perhaps on a cold day he had come in here, even if only for a mug of ale and a slice of bread.

He ordered ale for himself and a good, thick sandwich of roast beef and horseradish sauce. He sat where he hoped to fall into conversation easily with some regular of the place. He began to eat. He was hungry. He had been walking all morning and was glad to sit down. He had not cared a great deal about clothes until lately. He had bought one or two things in the last couple of months, a new coat in good dark blue, and two new shirts. A man should have some self-respect. But boots that fitted were his greatest expense, and had not been skimped on since his very first wage.

He bit into the bread, and thought of Gracie’s cake. There was something about home cooking, eaten at the kitchen table, which sat better in the stomach than the best meat eaten in some anonymous place, and paid for. Gracie was a funny mixture of a person. At times she sounded so independent, even bossy. And yet she worked for Pitt and lived in his house, without any place that was really her own. She was at his beck and call all hours, not only day but night too.

He pictured her as he sat chewing on the beef sandwich. She was very little, nothing really but skin and bone, not the sort of woman to attract most men. Nothing to put your arms around. He thought of other women he had found pleasing at one time or another. There was Ethel, all fair hair and soft skin, plenty of curves there, and nice-natured too, agreeable. She had married Billy Tomkinson. At the time that had hurt. He was surprised that he could think of it so easily now, even with a smile.

What would Gracie have made of Ethel? His smile widened. He could hear her voice in his mind. “Great useless article!” she’d have said. He could imagine the tolerant scorn on her face with its wide eyes and thin, strong features. She was strong. She had all the courage and determination in the world. She’d never let you down, never run away from anything. Like a little terrier, face anyone. And she knew right from wrong. Conscience like iron. No, maybe more like steel, sharp … and bright. Funny how much that sort ofthing could matter when you really thought about it.

Not that Gracie wasn’t pretty, in her own way. She had a beautiful neck, very smooth, and the daintiest ears he had ever seen. And nice fingernails, oval-shaped and always pink and clean.

This was ridiculous. He should stop daydreaming and get on with his job. He needed to find out a great deal more about Albert Cole. He bought another pint of ale and struck up a conversation with a large man standing at the bar.

He left an hour later, having heard nothing but good of Cole. In the opinion of the barman and other regulars he had spoken to, Cole was a decent, cheerful, hardworking man as honest as the day, careful with his money but always ready to stand a friend a drink when it was his turn.

And occasionally, on a wet evening when the weather was too harsh to expect anyone to buy bootlaces, he would take three or four pints and make them last several hours, and then he would tell tales of his military career. Sometimes there were past war stories of Europe, sometimes heroic deeds of his regiment, which had been the Duke of Wellington’s own and had fought brilliantly against the French in the Napoleonic Wars. And sometimes, if thoroughly pressed—and it needed that because he was a modest man, even shy when it came to his own deeds—he would talk of the Abyssinian Campaign. He reckoned General Napier was the equal of any soldier on earth, and was immensely proud of having served under his command.

Tellman left thoroughly angry and confused. The conflicting views of Cole made no sense. He presented two faces: one honest, ordinary, a man like ten thousand others, who had served his country and now lived in a boardinghouse and sold bootlaces on a street corner, patronized by the well-to-do of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, drinking at the Bull and Gate among friends. The other was a thief who sold his takings to a pawnshop, presumably broke into houses in places like Bedford Square, and was murdered for his pains.

And he had had the snuffbox in his pocket.

But if he was killed because he was trying to rob someone, what was he doing outside the house, not inside it?

Could he have been struck somewhere else and left for dead, and then crawled away? Was he attempting to get help when he dragged himself up General Balantyne’s step?

Tellman walked smartly east along High Holborn and turned north up Southampton Row towards Theobald’s Road. He would make more enquiries.

But they elicited nothing that clarified the situation. A running patterer, chanting the latest news and gossip for the entertainment of the public, recounted Cole’s death in doggerel verse. Tellman paid him handsomely and learned that Cole was an ordinary man, a trifle sober but a good enough seller of bootlaces, and well liked by the people of the area. He was known for the odd kindness, a hot cup of soup for the flower seller, bootlaces for nothing as a present to an old man, always a cheerful word.

A constable at the local police station who had seen his sketched picture in the newspaper said he recognized him as a petty thief of a particularly quarrelsome nature who lived around Shoreditch, to the east of there, where he had last been posted. The man had an odd gap in his left eyebrow where a childhood scar ran across it. He was vicious, given to sudden outbursts of temper, and had running feuds with at least one of the local fencers of stolen goods in Shoreditch and Clerkenwell.

A prostitute said he was funny and extravagant, and she was sorry he was dead.

By the time Tellman left the neighborhood of Lincoln’s Inn Fields and High Holborn, it was too late to go to Bow Street, but the contradictions in Albert Cole’s character weighed too heavily on him not to report them to Pitt as soon as possible.

He thought about it for several minutes. It was still light, but it was nearly eight o’clock. The sandwich in the Bull and Gate was a long time ago. He was thirsty and tired. His legs ached. A really hot, fresh cup of tea would be marvelous, and time to sit down—for at least half an hour, if not an hour.

But duty must prevail!

He would go and report all this at Keppel Street. That was the proper answer. He could walk it in twenty minutes, easily.

But when he got there, his feet hot, his legs aching, Pitt was not at home; neither was Mrs. Pitt. Gracie answered the door looking cool and fresh in a starched apron.

He was dismayed.

“Oh …” he said, his heart racing as he stood on the front step. “That’s a shame, because I really should tell him what I’ve learned today.”

“Well, if it’s important yer’d better come in,” she answered, pulling the door wider and staring at him with a mixture of satisfaction and defiance. She must really want to know about Albert Cole very much.

“Thank you,” he said stiffly, following her inside and waiting while she closed the door, then walking behind her along the passage back to the kitchen. It had the same warm comfortable smell it always did: scrubbed boards, clean linen, steam.

“Well, sit down then,” she ordered. “I can’t be getting’ on wif anything wif you standin’ in the middle o’ the floor. Spec’ me ter walk ’round yer?”

He sat down obediently. His mouth felt as dry as the pavements he had been walking.

Gracie surveyed him critically from his slicked-back hair to his dusty boots.

“Look like a fourpenny rabbit, you do. I s’pose you in’t ’ad nuffink ter eat in hours? I got some good cold mutton an’ mashed potatoes an’ greens. I can make you bubble an’ squeak, if yer like?” She did not wait for him to answer but bent down and pulled the skillet out of the cupboard and set it on the top of the stove. Automatically, she pulled the kettle over as well.

“If you’ve got it to spare,” he said, breathing in deeply.

“ ’Course I ’ave,” she answered without looking at him. “So wot is it yer come ter say as is so important? Yer found out summink?”

“Of course I have.” He mimicked her tone. “I’ve been looking into Albert Cole’s life. Something of a mystery, he is.” He leaned back in the chair and folded his arms, making himself more comfortable. He watched as she moved about the kitchen swiftly. She cut an onion off the string hanging by the scullery door and took it to the chopping board. She melted a lump of lard in the skillet and then with swift, light movements began to chop the onion into tiny cubes and drop them into the hissing fat. It smelled and sounded good. It was nice to watch a woman busy.

“So wot’s the mystery?” she said. “ ’Ceptin’ ’oo killed ’im or why, an’ why did they leave ’im on the General’s doorstep.”

“Because he’s a decent soldier who served his Queen and country in a crack regiment, then, when he was wounded, came home and sold bootlaces in the street,” he replied. “And by night he’s a quarrelsome thief who picked the wrong house to burgle in Bedford Square.”

She swiveled around to look at him. “So yer got it all solved then?” she said with wide eyes.

“No, of course I haven’t,” he retorted rather sharply. He wished he could have presented her with some brilliant answer, maybe even before Pitt did. But all he had were pieces, and they did not make sense.

She remained staring at him. Her face softened.

He thought in her own way that she really was pretty, but with character; not all peaches and cream, with no taste.

“Some people said ’e was good an’ said ’e was a thief too?” she asked.

“No. Different people,” he answered. “Seems to have had two quite opposite sides to his life. But I don’t know why. It’s not as if he had any family, or any job where he had to impress people.”

“Oh!” She whisked around as the fat in the pan sputtered loudly. She pushed the onions around with a spoon, then stirred the cabbage in with the mashed potato and spooned the whole lot into the skillet. While it was heating and browning nicely, she carved three generous pieces off the cold mutton joint and set them on one of the blue-and-white kitchen plates. She put out a knife and fork for him, then made the tea and fetched him a mug, and then brought the jug of milk back from the larder as she returned the mutton.

When it was all ready she served it up and put it in front of him, tea steaming gently in the mug. He had not meant to smile, but he found himself almost grinning. He tried to change his expression to something less enthusiastic—and less obvious.

“Thank you,” he said, lowering his eyes from hers. “Very civil of you.”

“Yer welcome, I’m sure, Mr. Tellman,” she answered, pouring herself a mug of tea and sitting opposite him. Then she remembered her apron and shot to her feet to remove it before sitting down again, this time a little more daintily. “So ’oo did yer get all this information from, then? I’d better tell Mr. Pitt proper, not just bits an’ pieces.”

Trying not to talk with his mouth full, he recounted to her all the contradictory facts and opinions he had learned over the last two days. He considered suggesting she should write it down not to forget it, but he was not totally sure she could write. He knew Mrs. Pitt had taught her to read, but writing was another thing, and he did not want to embarrass her.

“Will you remember all that?” he asked. The bubble and squeak was the best he had ever had. He had eaten rather too much.

“ ’Course I will,” she replied with great dignity. “I got a perfick memory. ’Ave ter ’ave. Only just learned to write since I come ’ere.”

He felt slightly abashed. He really should leave. He would rather Pitt did not come home and find him here with his feet under the table having eaten a thoroughly good meal. The whole room was extraordinarily comfortable, the clean smell of it, the warmth, the kettle singing faintly on the hob, Gracie with a flush on her face and her eyes bright.

It was not only Albert Cole’s life which was confusing, it was sitting here having reported to Gracie as if she were his superior, at the same time being waited upon and spoiled and made welcome.

“I’ve got to go,” he said reluctantly, pushing his chair back. “Tell Mr. Pitt I’m following up on Cole. If he used to quarrel over the spoils of his thieving, that may be what happened to him. I’ve got to find out who he worked with.”

“I’ll tell him,” she promised. “Mebbe that is wot ’appened Makes more sense’n anythin’ else.”

“Thank you for supper.”

“S’only bubble an’ squeak.”

“It was very good.”

“Yer welcome.”

“Good night, Gracie.”

“Good night, Mr. Tellman.”

That sounded so formal. Should he tell her his name was Samuel? No. Don’t be absurd! She did not care what his name was. She had been in love with that Irish servant in Ashworth Hall. Anyway, they disagreed about everything that mattered—society, politics, justice, a man’s rights and obligations in the world. She was perfectly happy being a servant, and he deplored the entire concept as beneath the dignity of any human being.

He marched over to the door.

“Your bootlace is undone,” she commented helpfully

He was obliged to bend down and retie it, or risk tripping over his own feet as he went down the hall.

“Thank you,” he mumbled furiously.

“S’all right,” she answered. “I’ll see yer ter the front door. Only manners. It’s what Mrs. Pitt would do.”

He stood upright and stared at her.

She smiled at him brightly.

He turned and went down the hall to the door, her light, quick steps after him.