Bedford Square Page 13

  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 contradicto
ry 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.

  5

  CHARLOTTE KNEW that Gracie had had something to report to Pitt from Tellman’s visit the previous evening, but it was one of those mornings when nothing seemed to be straightforward, and she was not in the kitchen at the time, at least only dashing in and out. The day before had been mild and sunny, but now the wind had a sharp edge and it was threatening rain. The clothes she had put out for Jemima to go to school in were now not warm enough. Jemima was very serious and did not complain about her pinafore as usual. That meant something else was worrying her, which was more urgent.

  It took patient and careful questioning to elicit exactly what the difficulty was, and the answer, most solemnly given, reminded Charlotte how intensely important social questions were even at the age of nine. The precise way of dealing with a matter of accepting favors from the acknowledged leader of the twenty or so little girls in the classroom was a matter of great consequence. Debts were incurred and must be lived up to. Refusals must be explained without offense or one would be placed outside the magic circle of those who were favored.

  She treated the problem with appropriate gravity. She had not gone to school herself. Having two sisters, she was taught by a governess in the classroom at home. But the principles were the same as in adult society, and sometimes the pattern of hierarchy lasted as long. Certainly the wounds of exclusion were as deep.

  All of which meant that Daniel, two years younger, felt that something of importance was going on and he was not part of it. He knocked and banged around, dropping things and making loud comments, ostensibly to himself but really to take Charlotte’s attention.

  So when she had finished with Jemima she decided she would walk to school with Daniel, instead of sending Gracie. The result was that by the time she had returned, dealt with the laundry, decided exactly how much longer the socks would last, which shirts needed their collars and cuffs turned (a job she hated), it was late morning when she sat down at the kitchen table for a cup of tea and Gracie told her what Tellman had said about Albert Cole’s strange, contradictory character.

  “You did very well,” she said sincerely.

  “I give ’im dinner, jus’ cold mutton an’ bubble an’ squeak. I ’ope that’s all right?” Gracie answered, blushing with satisfaction.

  “Of course it’s all right,” Charlotte assured her. “In return for information, he can have the best food in the house. I’d even buy in for him.” She thought privately that the food was incidental; it was Gracie’s company which brought him. She had seen the slight flush in his face, the way, in spite of all his intentions to the contrary, his eyes softened when he looked at her. Above all, she had felt for his awkwardness and his grief for Gracie when she had had to face the loss of her dreams in Ashworth Hall.

  But she did not say so. It would embarrass Gracie and perhaps make her feel as if her most personal affairs were the subject of other people’s thoughts and plans.

  “That in’t necessary,” Gracie dismissed it. “Give ’im airs above ’is station. Jus’ so’s it’s all right ter give ’im suffink.”

  “Most certainly. Use your own judgment.” What Tellman had said about Cole weighed heavily on Charlotte’s mind. She believed Balantyne, both as to his innocence of the original cowardice in Abyssinia, and certainly of the murder of Cole, but the more she learned the less chance did she see of proving it. So far she had not told Pitt about the blackmail, but it would strain her conscience to withhold it a great deal longer, and he must surely already have considered the possibility, in view of Cornwallis’s similar plight.

  She needed to be able to discuss it with someone whom she could trust absolutely, not only for her discretion but also for an understanding of the sort of men both Cornwallis and Balantyne were, and of the world in which they moved. Great-Aunt Vespasia was perfect in both respects. She was in her mid-eighties, of an unassailable position in society, and in her day had been the most beautiful woman in London, if not in England. She had excellent judgment of people, and as sharp a tongue to express it as Charlotte had ever known, coupled with the wit to do so with very little unkindness. She also had the courage to follow her own conscience and to fight for the causes she believed in, regardless of other people’s tastes. Charlotte had never liked anyone more.

  “I shall go and visit Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould,” she announced to Gracie as she stood up from the table. “I think we need her view of this matter.”

  “She couldn’t know about the likes o’ Albert Cole, ma’am,” Gracie said with surprise. “At ’is best ’e were an ordinary soldier, an’ from what Mr. Tellman says, ’e were a thief. Looks like ’e fell out wif ’is mate over wot they took, an’ ’e came orff worst. Mr. Pitt said as ’e looked like ’e bin in a fight.”

  Charlotte felt considerably comforted by that thought. It did seem to make sense. However, it still left the uneasy knowledge that he had had the snuffbox.

  “Mebbe more was took,” Gracie went on, as if sensing Charlotte’s thoughts. She stood by the sink with the dishcloth in her hand. “An’ the other feller ’as ’em. ’e just missed the box ’cos ’e were in an ’urry. P’raps the lamplighter were comin’, an’ ’e scarpered?”

  “Yes, perhaps,” Charlotte agreed. She could not tell Gracie, or anyone, that Balantyne had given the box to the blackmailer. Did that make Cole the blackmailer, or not? Or his messenger? Or h
ad he stolen it from the blackmailer … by an extraordinary chance? “I still think I shall go and see Lady Vespasia,” she stated. “I shall probably take luncheon out.”

  Gracie looked at her keenly, but she made no remark other than to acknowledge that she had heard.

  Charlotte went upstairs and took several minutes to select an appropriate gown. On past occasions when she had needed to look more glamorous or impressive than her own very limited wardrobe allowed, she had been given clothes by Aunt Vespasia: dresses and sometimes capes or hats which she no longer used. Vespasia’s maid had altered them to fit Charlotte’s rather fuller figure, and changed the style a little, usually bringing it both up-to-date and making it a trifle more practical and less formal than it had been when Vespasia had worn it. Vespasia had always loved clothes and had every intention of leading fashion, not following it.

  The only problem was that Vespasia was in her eighties, a trifle thin; her hair was silver and her tastes extravagant, to go with her station in life. Charlotte was in her thirties and dark with a rich tint of chestnut in her hair, her skin a warm honey tone. Some adjustments needed to be made.

  She chose a pale blue muslin. It had gorgeous sleeves, a very slight bustle gathered from an overskirt of green which took from it the delicacy which on her looked not sophisticated, as it had on Vespasia, but rather insipid. She had a pale blue hat, which complemented the gown. She was reasonably satisfied with the result, and left at a quarter to twelve. The only way to travel dressed like this was by hansom—unless, of course, one had one’s own carriage.

  She arrived at Vespasia’s house shortly after noon, and was admitted by the maid, who by now knew her very well.

  Vespasia was sitting in her favorite room, opening onto the garden. She was dressed in her favorite ivory lace gown with ropes of soft, gleaming pearls. The sunlight made a pool around her, and her black-and-white dog was lying on the floor beside her feet. It rose and greeted Charlotte with enthusiasm. Vespasia remained where she was, but her face lit with pleasure.