Bedford Square Read online

  He went into the kitchen expecting to see Pitt sitting at the table, then realized his mistake. He would be in the parlor, naturally. Gracie would fetch him in here to see Tellman, not at the front of the house. It was not a social call.

  He stood stiffly in the middle of the room, smelling the warmth, the flour from baking, the clean linen, the steam from the kettle on the stove, the faint grit of coal. The early-evening sun shone through the window onto the blue-and-white-ringed china on the dresser. Two cats lay by the fire, one ginger and white, one black as the coal in the scuttle.

  “Don’t just stand there like a lamppost,” Gracie said sharply. “Sit down.” She pointed to one of the wooden chairs. “D’yer want a cup o’tea?”

  “I’ve come to report some very important information to Mr. Pitt,” he said stiffly. “Not to sit in your kitchen drinking cups of tea. You’d better go and tell him I’m here.” He did not sit.

  “ ’e in’t ’ere,” she told him, moving the kettle onto the center of the hob. “If it’s that important then yer’d best leave a message wif me. I’ll see as ’e gets it as soon as ’e comes in.”

  He hesitated. It was important. The kettle was steaming nicely. It was a long time since he had sat down, let alone had anything to eat or drink. His feet were hot and aching.

  The black cat stretched, yawned, and went back to sleep.

  “I made some cake, if yer like?” Gracie offered, moving quickly around the kitchen, fetching the teapot down and then trying hard to reach the tea caddy, which had been pushed to the back of the shelf. She stretched, then tried jumping. She really was very small.

  He went over, reaching it effortlessly. He handed it to her.

  “I can get it meself!” she said tartly, taking it from him. “Wot d’yer fink I do w’en yer in’t ’ere?”

  “Drink water,” he replied.

  She shot him a razor-sharp look, but took the caddy in her hand and went over to the stove. “Yer’d best get some plates down too, then,” she instructed. “T want some cake, whether you do or not.”

  He obeyed. He might as well leave the message with her. It would get to Pitt the fastest way.

  They sat on opposite sides of the kitchen table, stiff and very formal, sipping tea that was too hot and eating the cake, which was excellent.

  He told her about Albert Cole and the 33rd Foot Regiment, and the Abyssinian Expedition, and that Balantyne had been there too, seconded from India.

  She looked very serious indeed, as if the news upset her.

  “I’ll tell ’im,” she promised. “D’yer think as General Balantyne did this feller in, then?”

  “Could have.” He would not commit himself too far. If he said yes, and was then proved mistaken, she would lose respect for him.

  “Wot’ll yer do next?” she asked gravely, her eyes steady on his face.

  “Learn everything else I can about Cole,” he told her. “He must have had a reason for finding Balantyne again after all this time. It’s nearly a quarter of a century since then.”

  She leaned forward. “It must be summink terrible important. If yer find it, yer’ll ’ave ter tell Mr. Pitt … w’erever ’e is or whatever ’e’s doin’. Yer’d best come ’ere an’ leave a message wif Mrs. Pitt or me. It can get real serious w’en it’s quality, like generals. Don’t you go doin’ nothin’ by yerself.” She looked at him with deep anxiety. “In fact … yer’d better let Mrs. Pitt know afore yer tell anyone else, ’cos she’s quality ’erself, so she can ’elp. She’d stop you an’ the Master from goin’ about it wrong, jus’ ’cos yer in’t the same kind o’ persons.” She looked at him with deep concern that he should understand.

  She was just a maid, she had only very recently learned to read and write and she came from the back street of … he did not know where. Probably the same sort of place as he had himself, somewhere like Wandsworth or Billingsgate, or any of a hundred other downtrodden, overcrowded warrens of the poor. But she was a girl, and therefore not given even the rudiments of an education. Tellman, on the other hand, had definitely bettered himself.

  But her suggestion did make a certain amount of sense.

  She refilled his cup and cut him another slice of cake.

  He accepted both with pleasure. She was a good cook, which surprised him. She looked too small and thin to know anything about food.

  “You come an’ tell me,” she repeated. “An’ I’ll make sure the Mistress keeps the Master from gettin’ inter trouble ’cos o’ folks wot ’ave influence an’ could ’urt ’im, if it in’t done right.”

  He was getting more and more comfortable in the kitchen. He disagreed with Gracie about all sorts of things. She had a great deal to learn, especially about social issues and fairness, and justice for people, but she was well-meaning, and no one could say she wasn’t brave and prepared to fight for her beliefs.

  “I suppose that would be quite a good idea,” he conceded. He did not want Pitt to get into political trouble if it could be avoided, not necessarily entirely from loyalty to Pitt, about whom he told himself he was still ambivalent. But there was the matter of justice. If General Balantyne thought himself above the law, it would take skill, as well as good detective work, to catch him and prove it.

  “Good,” Gracie said with satisfaction, taking a large piece of cake. “So yer’ll come ’ere an’ tell me, or the Mistress, wot yer know, an’ she’ll tell the Master, an’ at the same time ’elp ’im ter not go chargin’ in an’ mebbe the real truth’ll never get told. Back stairs and front stairs is different, yer know.” She watched him carefully to make sure he understood.

  “Of course I know!” he said. “But they shouldn’t be. Rich men don’t make any better soldiers than poor men. In fact, worse!”

  She squinted at him. “Wot yer talkin’ about?”

  “General Balantyne is only a general because his father bought his commission for him,” he explained patiently. Perhaps he was expecting her to grasp too much. “He probably never did any real fighting, only ordering others around.”

  Gracie jiggled in her seat as if she were making such a mighty effort at self-control that she could not keep still.

  “If ’e’s got enough money ter do that, then we gotta be very careful,” she said crossly, and without looking at him. Then she raised her head, her eyes blazing. “Are yer sure yer can buy bein’ a general? An’ if anybody were that rich, why’d ’e buy bein’ a soldier? That’s daft.”

  “You wouldn’t understand,” he said loftily. “People like that are different from us.”

  “They’re not any different if they get shot,” she said instantly. “Blood’s blood, ’ooever’s it is.”

  “I know that, and you know that,” he agreed. “But they think theirs is different, and better.”

  She sighed very patiently, as she did with Daniel when he was obstructive and deliberately disobedient just to see how far he could push her.

  “I daresay yer know more about it than I do, Mr. Tellman. I spec’ Mr. Pitt’s very lucky ter ’ave someone like you ter ’elp keep ’im straight an’ out o’ mistakes.”

  “I do my best,” he agreed, accepting a third piece of cake and allowing her to refill his cup yet again. “Thank you, Gracie.”

  She grunted.

  But when he left half an hour later, without having seen either Pitt or Charlotte, he was overtaken by acute anxiety as to exactly what he had promised. It had been a long and very busy day. It was hot. His feet ached. He had walked miles and not had more to eat than a cheese-and-pickle sandwich and Gracie’s cake. She had made him welcome, and without realizing it, he had given his word that he would tell her what he uncovered in the Albert Cole case before he told Pitt. He must be losing his wits! He had never done anything so totally foolish in his life before. It was contrary to everything he had been taught.

  Not that that was normally a reason. He was not a man to follow anyone’s commands against his own judgment.

  He was too tired to think clearly, he just
had a terrible feeling of being out of his depth, of following impulse more than his own nature and habit, all the path he was used to.

  But he had given his word … and to Gracie Phipps, of all people.

  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 respo
nse 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?