Bedford Square Read online

  Pitt turned as he heard more footsteps, and saw the constable coming with a highly nervous lamplighter, a thin, fair-haired man dwarfed by his pole. In the dawn light through the trees he looked like some outlandish knight-at-arms with a jousting lance beyond his strength to wield.

  “I din’t see nuffink,” he said before Pitt could ask him.

  “You passed this way” Pitt reaffirmed. “This is your patch?”

  There was no escaping that. “Yeah …”

  “When?”

  “S’mornin’,” he replied as if it should have been obvious. “ ’Bout first light. Like I always do.”

  “Do you know what time that was?” Pitt said patiently.

  “First light … like I said!” He sent a nervous, sideways look at the body, half obscured by the surgeon as he bent over it. “ ’e weren’t ’ere then. I din’t see ’im!”

  “Do you have a watch?” Pitt pursued, with little hope.

  “Wo’for? Gets light different time every day,” the lamplighter said reasonably.

  Pitt realized he was not going to get more exact than that. The answer, from the lamplighter’s point of view, was sensible enough.

  “Did you see anyone else in the square?” he said instead.

  “Not this side.” The lamplighter shook his head. “There were an ’ansom on t’other side, takin’ a gennelman ’ome. Bit the worse fer wear, ’e were, but not fallin’ down, like. Din’t come ’round ’ere.”

  “No one else?”

  “No. Too late fer most folks from parties, an’ too early fer maids an’ deliveries an’ like.”

  That was true. At least it narrowed it down a little more. It had been dark when the constable had been on his previous round, and barely light when he had found the body. The lamplighter could not have been around long before. Which meant the body had been put there within the space of fifteen or twenty minutes. It was just possible, if they were very lucky, that someone had awoken in one of the houses on this side and heard footsteps or shouting, even a single cry. It was a forlorn hope.

  “Thank you,” Pitt accepted. The sky was pale now beyond the heavy trees in the center of the square, the light shining on the far rooftops and reflecting mirrorlike in the top-story windows above them. He turned to the surgeon, who seemed to have completed at least his superficial examination.

  “A fight,” he pronounced. “Short one, I’d guess. Know more when I see him without his clothes. Could be other abrasions, but his coat isn’t torn or stained. Ground was dry, if he fell over or was knocked. Wasn’t on the street, anyway. There’s no mud on him that I can see. No trace of manure or anything else. And the gutters are pretty wet.” He glanced around. “Rained yesterday evening.”

  “I know,” Pitt retorted, looking at the glistening cobbles.

  “’Course you do,” the surgeon agreed, nodding at him. “Don’t suppose I can tell you anything you don’t! Have to try. What I’m paid for. One very heavy blow to the side of the head. Killed him. Probably a length of lead pipe or a candlestick or a poker. Something of that sort. I’d guess metal rather than wood to do that much damage. Heavy.”

  “Likely to be marks on the person who did it?” Pitt asked.

  The surgeon pursed his lips thoughtfully. “A few bruises. Perhaps where the fist connected. Judging by the splits on his knuckles, most likely a jaw or head. Clothes or soft flesh wouldn’t do that. Face would be bruised, hand wouldn’t show. Other fellow had a weapon, this one didn’t, or he wouldn’t have had to use his fists. Nasty.”

  “I’m not arguing,” Pitt said dryly. He shivered. He was getting cold. “Can you say anything about time?”

  “Nothing you can’t deduce for yourself,” the surgeon replied. “Or about the poor devil here,” he added. “If I can improve on that, I’ll send you a message. Bow Street good enough?”

  “Certainly. Thank you.”

  The surgeon shrugged slightly, inclined his head in a salute and went back to the mortuary wagon to instruct his men in the removal of the body.

  Pitt looked at his pocket watch again. It was just after quarter to five.

  “I suppose it is time we started waking people,” he said to Tellman. “Come on.”

  Tellman sighed heavily, but he had no option but to obey. Together they walked up the steps of the house where the body had been found, and Pitt pulled the brass doorbell. Tellman rather liked Pitt’s refusal to go to the tradesmen’s entrance, as someone of the social order of policemen should do, but while he approved the principle, he also loathed the practice. Let Pitt do it when Tellman was not with him.

  It was several long, uncomfortable minutes before they heard the bolts slide and the lock turn. The door swung inward and an extremely hastily dressed footman, not in livery but in ordinary dark trousers and jacket, stood blinking at them.

  “Yes sir?” he said with alarm. He was not yet practiced enough to have the really superior footman’s supercilious air.

  “Good morning,” Pitt replied. “I am sorry to disturb the household so early, but I am afraid there has been an incident which necessitates my making enquiries of both the staff and the family.” He held out his card. “Superintendent Pitt, of the Bow Street Station. Would you present it to your master and ask him if he will spare me a few moments of his time. I am afraid it concerns a very serious crime, and I cannot afford the pleasantries of waiting until a more civilized hour.”

  “A crime?” The footman looked startled. “We haven’t been burgled, sir. There’s been no crime here. You must have made a mistake.” He started to close the door again, relieved to shut the whole matter outside on the street. It was somebody else’s problem after all.

  Tellman moved forward as if to put his foot in the doorway, then resisted. It was undignified. He hated this. Give him ordinary people to deal with any day. The whole notion of being in service to someone else was abomination to him. It was no way for a decent man, or woman, to make a living.

  “The burglary is incidental, if indeed there was one,” Pitt said firmly. “The murder is my concern.”

  That stopped the footman as if frozen. The blood fled from his face.

  “The … the what?”

  “Murder,” Pitt repeated quietly. “Unfortunately, we found the body of a man on your doorstep about an hour ago. Now, would you please be good enough to waken your master and inform him that I need to speak to everyone in the house, and I would like his permission to do so.”

  The footman swallowed, his throat jerking. “Yes … yes sir. If … I mean …” His voice trailed off. He had no idea where one left policemen to wait at five o’clock in the morning. Normally one would not permit them on the premises at all. If one had to, it would be the local constable, perhaps for a hot cup of tea on a cold day, and that in the kitchen, where such people belonged.

  “I’ll wait in the morning room,” Pitt said to assist him, and because he had no intention of being left shivering on the step.

  “Yes sir … I’ll tell the General.” The footman backed in, and Pitt and Tellman followed him.

  “General?” Pitt asked.

  “Yes sir. This is General Brandon Balantyne’s home.”

  The name was familiar. It took Pitt a moment to place it. It must be the same General Balantyne who had previously lived in Callander Square when Pitt was investigating the deaths of the babies, nearly a decade before, and who had also been involved in the tragedies in the Devil’s Acre three to four years later.

  “I didn’t know that.” It was a foolish remark, and he realized it the moment it had crossed his lips. He saw Tellman turn to look at him with surprise. He would have preferred not to discuss the past with Tellman. If he did not have to, he would let it lie. He walked smartly across the hall after the footman and followed him into the morning room, leaving the door open for Tellman.

  Inside was so exactly what Pitt expected it jerked him back sharply, and for a moment the intervening years disappeared. The shelf of books was the same, as in the previo
us house, the dark brown and green-leather furniture, polished with use. On the mellow wood of the small table was the brass replica of the cannon at Waterloo, gleaming in the gaslight the footman had lit and turned up for them. On the wall over the mantelpiece hung the picture Pitt remembered of the charge of the Royal Scots Greys, again from Waterloo. The Zulu assegai was on the wall next to the fireplace and the paintings of the African veld, pale colors bleached by sun, red earth, flat-topped acacia trees.

  He had not meant to look at Tellman, but he turned and caught the sergeant’s eye accidentally. Tellman was staring, his face a mask of disapproval. Tellman had not even met the man, but he knew he was a general, he knew that at the time of his service officers had purchased their commissions rather than earned them. They came from a few wealthy military families, all educated at the best schools, Eton, Rugby, Harrow, and then possibly a year or two at Oxford or Cambridge, more probably straight into the army—and at a rank no working-class man could hope to achieve even after a lifetime’s service, risking his life on the battlefield and his health in foreign climes for no more recompense than the king’s shilling.

  Pitt knew Balantyne, and liked him, but there was no point in saying that to Tellman. Tellman had seen too much injustice and had felt it too keenly among his own people to hear anything Pitt would say. So he kept silence, and waited, standing by the window watching the light broaden across the square outside and the shade deepen under the trees in the center. The birds were loud, starlings and sparrows. A delivery cart rattled by, stopping regularly. An errand boy on a bicycle came around the corner rather too sharply and steadied himself with an effort, his cap falling over his ears.

  The morning room door opened, and Pitt and Tellman both turned to face it. In the entranceway stood a tall man with broad shoulders. His fair brown hair was graying at the temples and beginning to thin. His features were powerful, with an aquiline nose, high cheekbones and a broad mouth. He was leaner than when Pitt had last seen him, as if time and grief had worn down the reserves of his strength, but he still stood very upright—in fact, stiffly, his shoulders squared. He was wearing a white shirt and a plain, dark smoking jacket, but it was easy for the mind’s eye to see him in uniform.

  “Good morning, Pitt,” he said quietly. “Should I congratulate you on your promotion? My footman said you are now in charge of the Bow Street Station.”

  “Thank you, General Balantyne,” Pitt acknowledged, feeling a faintly self-conscious flush in his cheeks. “This is Sergeant Tellman. I am sorry to disturb you so early, sir, but I am afraid the beat constable found a dead body in the square at about quarter to four this morning. He was on the doorstep just outside this house.” He saw the distaste on Balantyne’s face, and perhaps shock, although of course the footman had told him, so he was not taken by surprise now.

  “Who is it?” Balantyne asked, closing the door behind him.

  “We don’t know yet,” Pitt replied. “But he had papers and other belongings on him, so we shall almost certainly be able to identify him quite soon.” He watched Balantyne’s face but saw no discernible change, certainly no tightening of lips or shadow across the eyes.

  “Do you know how he died?” Balantyne asked. He waved one hand at the chairs to invite Pitt to be seated, and included Tellman in a general way.

  “Thank you, sir,” Pitt accepted. “But I should like your permission for Sergeant Tellman to speak to your household staff. Someone may have heard an altercation or disturbance.”

  Balantyne’s face was bleak. “I understand that the man did not meet a natural death?”

  “I am afraid so. He was struck across the head, most likely after a fight, not long, but very fierce.”

  Balantyne’s eyes widened. “And you think it happened on my doorstep?”

  “That I don’t yet know.”

  “By all means have the sergeant speak to my staff.”

  Pitt nodded at Tellman, who left eagerly, closing the door behind him. Pitt sat down in one of the large, green-leather-covered armchairs, and Balantyne sat a little stiffly in the one opposite.

  “There is nothing I can tell you,” Balantyne went on. “My bedroom is at the front of the house, but I heard nothing. A street robbery of such violence would be extraordinary in this area.” A fleeting anxiety puckered his face, a sadness.

  “He wasn’t robbed,” Pitt answered, disliking what he must do next. “At least not in any usual sense. He still had money.” He saw Balantyne’s surprise. “And this.” He pulled the snuffbox out of his pocket and held it out in the palm of his hand.

  Balantyne’s expression did not change. His face was unnaturally motionless; there was no admiration for the beauty of the piece, no amazement that a murdered man involved in a fight should be in possession of such a thing. But all the self-mastery in the world could not control the blood draining from his skin and leaving him ashen.

  “Extraordinary …” He breathed out very slowly. “One would think …” He swallowed. “One would think a thief could hardly miss such a thing.” Pitt knew he was speaking to fill the emptiness of the moments between them while he decided whether to admit owning it or not. What explanation could he give?

  Pitt stared at him, holding his eyes in an unwavering gaze. “It raises many questions,” he agreed aloud. “Have you seen it before, General?”

  Balantyne’s voice was a little husky, as if his mouth were dry. “Yes … yes, it is mine.” He seemed to be about to add something, then changed his mind.

  Pitt asked the question he had to. “When did you last see it?”

  “I … don’t think I remember. One gets used to seeing things. I’m not sure I would have noticed its absence.” He looked profoundly uncomfortable, but he did not evade Pitt’s eyes. He anticipated the next question. “It’s kept in a cabinet in the library.”

  Was there any point in pursuing it? Not yet.

  “Have you missed anything else, General Balantyne?”

  “Not so far as I am aware.”

  “Perhaps you would be good enough to check, sir? And I’ll see if any of the servants have noticed anything moved, signs of a burglar in the house.”

  “Of course.”

  “It sometimes happens that burglars have called at the house earlier, to make an assessment or to—”

  “I understand,” Balantyne cut across him. “You think one of us may recognize him.”

  “Yes. If you, and perhaps your butler and one of your footmen, would come to the mortuary and see if he is known to you, it may help.”

  “If you wish,” Balantyne agreed. He obviously disliked the idea, but he accepted the inevitability of it.

  There was a sharp knock on the door, and before Balantyne could answer, it opened and a woman came in. Pitt remembered her immediately. Lady Augusta Balantyne was handsome in a dark, cold way. There was strength in her face, but it was inward, self-contained. She, too, must have remembered him, because there was instantly a chill in her when she saw him, more than could be accounted for by the fact that he had disturbed the household so early in the morning. But then, after their two previous encounters she could hardly think of him with any memory except that of pain.

  She was dressed in a dark silk gown of formal cut, suitable for making morning calls, fashionable but subdued, as befitted her age and dignity. Her dark hair was streaked with white at the temples, and grief had faded her skin but not the intelligence or the iron will in her eyes.

  Pitt rose to his feet. “I apologize for waking you so early, Lady Augusta,” he said quietly. “Unfortunately, there has been a death in the street outside your home, and it is necessary that I enquire if anyone here was aware of the disturbance.” He wished to spare her feelings as much as possible. He did not like her, and it made him even more careful than he would have been otherwise.

  “I assumed it was some such duty that brought you, Inspector,” she answered, at once dismissing any possible social contact between them. This was her home. He could only have come in the c
ourse of his trade.

  Ridiculously, he found himself clenching inside, as aware of an insult as if she had slapped him. And he should have expected it. After all that had passed between them, the tragedy and the guilt, what would he have presumed differently? He tried to make himself relax his body, and failed.

  Balantyne was on his feet also, looking from one to the other of them, as if he, too, should apologize—to Pitt for his wife’s condescension, to her for Pitt’s presence and for another tragedy.

  “Some unfortunate man was attacked and killed,” he said bluntly.

  She took a deep breath, but her composure did not crack.

  “Was it someone we knew?”

  “No,” Balantyne said immediately. “At least …” He turned to Pitt.

  “It is most unlikely.” Pitt looked at Augusta. “He appeared to have fallen on hard times and to have been involved in a fight. He was not apparently robbed.”

  The tension slipped away from her.

  “Then I suggest, Inspector, that you question the servants to see if they heard anything, and if they did not, then I regret we cannot assist you. Good day.” She did not move. She was dismissing him, not herself leaving.

  Balantyne looked uncomfortable. He had no desire whatever to prolong the interview, but then neither did he wish to avail himself of a rescue by his wife. He had never retreated from battle. He was not about to do so now. He stood his ground painfully.

  “If you would inform me when it would be convenient to go to the mortuary, I shall do so,” he said to Pitt. “In the meantime, Blisset will show you whatever you wish to see, and no doubt he will know if anything has been moved or is missing.”

  “Missing?” Augusta queried.

  Balantyne’s face tightened. “The man may have been a thief,” he said curtly, without explaining further.