Bedford Square Page 4

  Pitt ignored it. “What is it, Mr. Remus?”

  “What can you tell me about the dead man found in Bedford Square yesterday morning?”

  “Nothing, except what you already know,” Pitt replied.

  “Then you are baffled?” Remus concluded without hesitation.

  “That is not what I said!” Pitt was annoyed. The man presumed without justification, and Pitt hated trickery with words. “I said I can tell you nothing beyond what you know … that he is dead and where he was found.”

  “On the front doorstep of General Brandon Balantyne’s house,” Remus said. “Then there is something you know but cannot tell us. Is General Balantyne involved, or someone in his household?”

  Pitt realized, now with considerable anger, that he must be a good deal more careful how he phrased his replies.

  “Mr. Remus, a body was found in Bedford Square,” he said grimly. “We do not yet know who he was or how he died, except that it seems extremely unlikely it was an accident. Speculation would be irresponsible and might severely damage the reputation of an innocent person. When we know something for certain, the press will be told. Now, will you please get out of my way, sir, and allow me to go about my business!”

  Remus did not move. “Will you be investigating General Balantyne, Mr. Pitt?”

  He was caught. He could not say no without both lying and appearing to be prejudiced or inefficient, and if he said yes, then Remus would take it to imply suspicion of Balantyne. If he evaded the question Remus could put any complexion on it that he wished.

  Remus smiled. “Mr. Pitt?”

  “I shall begin by investigating the dead man,” Pitt replied awkwardly, aware of inadequacy in the face of questions he should have foreseen. He took a breath. “Then, of course, I shall follow that lead wherever it takes me.”

  Remus smiled bleakly. “Isn’t this the same General Balantyne whose daughter, Christina, was involved in the murders in the Devil’s Acre in about ’87?”

  “Don’t expect me to do your work for you, Mr. Remus!” Pitt snapped, and slipped around him smartly. “Good day.” He strode off, leaving Remus looking satisfied.

  Pitt arrived home at the end of the day tired and unhappy. They had the full information about the death of the man in Bedford Square. The written report added nothing to what the surgeon had told him in the beginning. Tellman was busy pursuing the bill for the socks and further questioning all the residents around the square. Nobody had seen or heard anything of value.

  Actually, Pitt was more troubled over the letter Cornwallis had received. Although the two matters were not dissimilar, insofar as each could cause harm to the reputation of a good man by whisper, suspicion and innuendo before any facts were known. Suggestions could ruin a person if they were believed even by a few. Both men were vulnerable, but Pitt knew and liked Cornwallis, and he believed him totally innocent. It was odd that he had received what was clearly a threatening letter, yet with no request or demand. Presumably it would follow soon.

  He went in through the front door, hung up his coat, then bent and unlaced his boots and took them off. He walked in stocking feet along to the kitchen, where he guessed Charlotte would be. They had an excellent maid, Gracie, but Charlotte still did most of the cooking herself. A maid-of-all-work came in four days a week to do the heavy linen laundry, scrubbing and so on. At least that was what he thought. It was not his concern.

  Charlotte was at the stove, as he had expected, and there was a savory aroma coming from the oven. Everything was clean, smelling of scrubbed wood and fresh linen. He glanced up and saw sheets hanging on the airing rail across the ceiling, ropes to the winch that held it up on the wall. Blue-and-white china on the dresser gleamed in the sun from the windows. Charlotte had flour on the front of her dress, her apron was caught up at the corner and her hair was coming out of its pins.

  He put his arms around her and kissed her, ignoring the long spoon in her hand which trailed egg yolk across the top of the stove and onto the floor.

  She kissed him back with considerable enthusiasm, then told him off.

  “Look what you have made me do!” She indicated the egg. “It’s all over the place!” She went to the sink, wrung out a cloth and came back and wiped it up. On the stove it was burnt and smelling slightly.

  He stood still, Cornwallis’s face sharp in his mind’s eye. Cornwallis had none of Pitt’s safety protecting him; no one Cornwallis knew would believe in him regardless of what anyone said, not even someone with whom he could share the tension of waiting for the next letter to come or explain why it mattered so much.

  “What is it?” Charlotte asked, watching him more closely now. Automatically, she pulled the dish with the egg away from the heat. “Is it the body in Bedford Square? Is it going to involve one of the houses there?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered, sitting down on one of the hard-backed chairs by the kitchen table. “It’s possible. I was stopped by a newspaper writer this afternoon. He wanted to know if I was going to investigate General Balantyne.”

  She stiffened. “Balantyne? He lives in Callander Square. Why would you investigate him?”

  “He must have moved,” he replied, still unable to rid himself of his fear for Cornwallis. “I’m sorry … it was on his doorstep that the body was found. I don’t suppose it was more than mischance.”

  It was only towards the end of dinner, when he was eating the baked egg custard, that he even thought of the snuffbox and realized that he had told her a good deal less than the truth. But there was no point in distressing her by adding that now. It would worry her for nothing. She could not help.

  He was too absorbed in his own thoughts to notice her silence as anything but companionable. Where should he begin with Cornwallis’s letter? How could he protect him?

  2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Yes …”

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

  She had no choice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  She remembered how very much she had liked him.

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

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