Bedford Square Read online

  He was relieved to be able to go out into the sun again, and the relatively fresh air of the street with its smell of smoke, horse dung and dry gutters, and the sound of hooves on the cobbles, peddlers’ cries, the clatter of wheels, and somewhere in the distance a barrel organ and an errand boy whistling off-key.

  He caught a horse-drawn omnibus, running after it the last few paces as it drew away from the curb and swinging himself onto the step to the great disapproval of a fat woman in gray bombazine.

  “Yer’ll get yerself killed like that, young man!” she said critically.

  “I hope not, but thank you for the warning,” he replied with politeness, which surprised both of them. He paid his fare to the conductor and looked without success for a seat, being obliged to remain standing, holding on to the post in the center of the aisle.

  He got off again at High Holborn and walked the two blocks to Red Lion Square. He found the haberdasher’s shop easily and went inside with the receipt in his hand.

  “Mornin’, sir,” the young man behind the counter said helpfully. “Can I show you anything? We have excellent gentlemen’s shirts at very agreeable prices.”

  “Socks,” Tellman answered, wondering if he could afford a new shirt. Those on display looked very clean and crisp.

  “Yes sir. What color, sir? We have ’em all.”

  Tellman remembered the socks the dead man had been wearing. “Gray,” he answered.

  “Certainly, sir. What size would you be requiring?”

  “Nine.” If the dead man could afford socks, so could he.

  The young man bent to a drawer behind him and produced three different pairs of gray socks in size nine.

  Tellman selected the pair he liked best, glanced quickly at the price, and produced the money, leaving himself sufficient for his bus fare back to Bow Street but unfortunately not enough for lunch.

  “Thank you, sir. Will that be all?”

  “No.” Tellman held out the receipt. “I’m a policeman. Can you tell me who bought these gray socks five days ago?”

  The man took the receipt. “Oh, dear. We sell a lot of socks, sir. And gray is a popular color this time o’ year. Lighter than black, you see, and better looking than brown. Always look a bit country, brown, if you know what I mean?”

  “Yes. Think hard, if you please. It’s very important.”

  “Done something wrong, has he? They were paid for, that I can swear to.”

  “I can see that. Don’t know what he did, but he’s dead.”

  The young man paled. Perhaps it had been a tactical error to have told him that.

  “Gray socks,” Tellman repeated grimly.

  “Yes sir. What did he look like, do you know?”

  “About my height,” Tellman said, thinking with an unpleasant chill how much he resembled the man on the step. “Thin, wiry, fairish hair receding a little.” That at least was different. Tellman had dark hair, straight and still thick. “And mid-fifties, I would guess. Lived or worked outdoors, but not with his hands.”

  “Sounds like two or three what come here often enough,” the young man said thoughtfully. “Could be George Mason or Willie Strong, or could be someone as never came but the once. Don’t know everybody’s name. Can’t you tell me anything else about him?”

  Tellman thought hard. This might be their only chance to identify him.

  “He had a long knife or bayonet scar on his chest.” He indicated on himself the place where it had been, then realized the futility of telling the salesman such a thing. “Could have been a soldier,” he added, more to defend his remark than anything else.

  The salesman’s face brightened. “There was one gentleman come in, and I think he did buy several pairs, thinking on it. Had a bit of a conversation, ’cos he spoke about being a soldier, and how important it was to keep your feet right. I remember he said, ‘Soldier with sore feet is use to neither man nor beast.’ That’s why he sold bootlaces himself, now he’s fallen on hard times. But I can’t tell you his name or where he lives. Don’t recall as I ever saw him before. An’ didn’t see him that well this time. It were a fine evenin’, but he was muffled up, said he had a chill. But he was thinnish and about your height. Couldn’t say dark or fair.”

  “Where did he sell his bootlaces?” Tellman asked quickly. “Did he say?”

  “Yes, yes, he did. Corner of Lincoln’s Inn and Great Queen Street.”

  “Thank you.”

  It took Tellman the rest of the day, but he found George Mason and Willie Strong, the two men the salesclerk had named, and they were both quite definitely alive.

  Then he made enquiries about the peddlers in Lincoln’s Inn Fields and learned that there was normally an old soldier named Albert Cole on the northwest corner near Great Queen Street. However, no one recalled seeing him for five or six days. Several barristers from the Inns of Court habitually bought their bootlaces from him and described him passably well. One of them offered to come to the mortuary the next day and identify the body if he could.

  “Yes,” the barrister said unhappily. “I am afraid that looks very much like Cole.”

  “Can you say for sure that it’s him?” Tellman pressed. “Don’t say if you aren’t happy about it.”

  “I’m not exactly happy about it!” the barrister snapped. “But yes, I am quite certain. Poor devil.” He fished in his pocket and brought out four guineas. He put them on the table. “Put this towards a decent burial for him. He used to be a soldier. Served his Queen and country. He shouldn’t end up in a pauper’s grave.”

  “Thank you,” Tellman said with surprise. He had not expected such generosity towards a stranger, and a peddler at that, from a class of man for whom he had an innate contempt.

  The barrister gave him a chilly look and turned to leave.

  “Do you know anything else about him, sir?” Tellman said as he followed him into the street. “It’s extremely important.”

  The barrister slowed unwillingly, but his training in the law was deeply implanted.

  “He was a soldier. Invalided out, I think. I don’t know what regiment, I never asked.”

  “I can probably find that out,” Tellman said, keeping step. “Anything else, sir? Don’t know where he lived or if he had any other place except Lincoln’s Inn Fields?”

  “I don’t think so. He was usually there, any weather.”

  “Ever mention where he got his bootlaces?”

  The barrister looked at him with surprise. “No! I merely purchased the odd pair from him, Sergeant. I did not indulge in long conversations. I am sorry this man is dead, but I cannot be of further assistance.” He pulled his gold watch out of his pocket and opened it. “Now, I have spared as much time as I can afford—in fact, rather more. I must take a cab back to my office. I wish you Godspeed in finding his killer. Good day to you.”

  Tellman watched him disappear into the crowd. At least he now knew the identity of the dead man, and from as good a witness as he was likely to find—certainly one who would stand up in court.

  But what had Albert Cole, ex-soldier, present seller of bootlaces, been doing in the middle of the night in Bedford Square? It was less than a mile away, but peddlers rarely moved even a couple of blocks. If they did they were on somebody else’s patch, and that was a mortal offense and likely to bring them considerable unpleasantness. Peddlers were very seldom violent people, but even if they were, it would be cause for a severe fight, but not murder, except by accident.

  But one did not peddle bootlaces at midnight.

  Obviously, something quite different had taken him to General Balantyne’s front doorstep. He could not have been courting a maid. That would have taken him to the back. The last thing he would want would be to go to the front door, exposed to the street, the beat constable, any passerby. And certainly no maid keeping an assignation would let him in at the front.

  For that matter, why would anyone intending burglary be a moment longer at the front than necessary? Surely he would slip from o
ne back alley to another, through the mews if possible, backyards and tradesmen’s entrances where coal and kitchen goods were delivered and rubbish was taken away.

  So why was he at the front door, and with Balantyne’s snuffbox in his pocket?

  Tellman walked along the footpath with his head down, deep in thought. He could not formulate a satisfactory answer, but he felt sure that somehow the Balantyne house had something to do with it. It was not chance. There was a reason.

  He needed to know more about General Brandon Balantyne, and also about Lady Augusta.

  He did not really suspect her of anything, certainly not alone, and he had very little idea of how to go about investigating her. He was not a cowardly man and held no innate respect for anyone because of their position or wealth, but he still quaked at the thought of addressing Augusta.

  The General was different. Tellman understood men far better, and it would be a relatively easy business to check the General’s military career. Much of that would be public knowledge through the army. Similarly, he could find and check Albert Cole’s record of service.

  “Albert Cole?” the military clerk repeated. “Middle name, Sergeant?”

  “No idea.”

  “Where was ’e born?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Don’t know much, do you!” He was a middle-aged man who was bored by his job and made as much of it as possible, particularly in this instance of its complication and its inconvenience. Tellman was civil only with difficulty, but he needed the information.

  “Only that he’s been murdered,” he replied.

  “I’ll see what I can do.” The man’s face tightened and he went away to search, leaving Tellman sitting on a wooden bench in the outer office.

  It was the best part of an hour before he returned, but he had the information.

  “Albert Milton Cole,” he said with great importance. “This’ll be your man. Born May 26, 1838, in Battersea. Served in the 33rd Foot, it says here.” He looked up at Tellman. “That’s the Duke of Wellington’s regiment! Got a bullet wound in 1875. Left leg, ’igh up. Broke the bone. Sent ’orne and pensioned off. Nothing after that. Nothing against him though. Never married, according ter this. Any ’elp?”

  “Not yet. What can you tell me about General Brandon Balantyne?”

  The man’s eyebrows shot up. “Generals now, is it? That’s a different kettle o’ fish altogether. You got some authority for that?”

  “Yes. I’m investigating the murder of a soldier who was found with his skull broken … on General Balantyne’s doorstep!”

  The clerk hesitated, then decided he was curious himself. He had no particular love for generals. If he had to do this, and he thought he probably did, then he would look less unimportant if he did it willingly.

  He went away again and came back fifteen minutes later with several sheets of paper and presented them to Tellman.

  Tellman took them and read.

  Brandon Peverell Balantyne had been born on March 21, 1830, the eldest son of Brandon Ellwood Balantyne of Bishop Auckland, County Durham. Educated at Addiscombe, graduated at sixteen. When he was eighteen, his father had purchased him a commission and he had sailed for India as a lieutenant in the Bengal Engineers, and was immediately involved in the Second Sikh War, where he was present at the siege of Multan and served with distinction, although wounded, at the battle of Gujrat. In 1852 he had led a column in the First Black Mountain Hazara Expedition on the Northwest Frontier, and the year after he was with an expedition against the Jowaki Afridis in Peshawar.

  During the Indian Mutiny he had been with Outram and Havelock in the first relief of Lucknow, and then in its final capture. There he had served brilliantly, chasing rebel bands in Oudh and Gwalior in ’58 and ’59. He had gone on to command a division in the China War of 1860, where he had been decorated for valor.

  He was in the Bombay army with General Robert Napier when Napier had been ordered to command the expedition to Abyssinia in ’67. Balantyne had gone with him.

  After that Balantyne had been promoted to command himself, and remained in Africa, fighting with continued distinction in Ashantiland in ’73 and ’74, then in the Zulu Wars of ’78 and ’79. After that he retired and returned home to England permanently.

  It was a career of apparent distinction and honor, and undeserved privilege, paid for in the first place by his father.

  That was a deep offense to Tellman, an injustice inherent in a social system he despised. On the surface, he was more angered that apparently Balantyne’s path had never crossed that of Albert Cole.

  He thanked the clerk for his assistance and left.

  The following morning Tellman began the task of learning about Balantyne in earnest. He waited outside the house in Bedford Square, standing across from it on the pavement under the trees, alternatively kicking his heels or pacing back and forth, always swinging around to look at the front door or the main entrance. He had little hope that any of the servants would talk. In that sort of establishment, he knew, they had loyalties, and it was more than a servant’s job was worth to gossip about his or her employers. No one could afford to be dismissed without a reference. It was ruin.

  General Balantyne emerged from the front door a little after half past ten and walked uprightly along the pavement along Bayley Street and turned left into the Tottenham Court Road down towards Oxford Street, where he turned right and walked westward. He was dressed formally in dark trousers and a beautifully tailored coat. Tellman had vivid opinions about anyone who required a servant to dress him satisfactorily.

  The General spoke to no one and appeared not to look either to right or left as he went. Marched would have been the appropriate word. He looked stiff, as if he were going into battle. A cold, rigid man, Tellman thought as he walked behind him. Probably proud as Lucifer.

  What was he thinking about the crowds he passed through? That they were the civilian equivalent of foot soldiers, people it was not necessary to make way for, even to regard at all? Certainly he barely seemed to be aware of them, and he spoke to no one, nor raised his hat. He passed two or three soldiers actually in uniform, but ignored them, and they him.

  At Argyll Street he turned sharply right, and Tellman almost missed him climbing the steps of a handsome house and going inside.

  Tellman went to the door after him and saw the brass plate on which was engraved the words THE JESSOP CLUB FOR GENTLEMEN. He hesitated. There would be a steward of some sort in the vestibule. He would no doubt know all the members. He would therefore be an excellent source of information, but again, one whose livelihood depended upon his discretion.

  He must be inventive. He was serving no purpose standing in the street. People would think him a peddler! He jerked his lapels straighter, squared his shoulders and pulled the doorbell.

  It was answered by a middle-aged steward in well-cut, slightly faded livery.

  “Yes sir?” He regarded Tellman blankly, summing up his social status in a glance.

  Tellman felt the blood burn in his face. He would have liked to tell the man his opinion of gentlemen who spent their days with their feet up or playing games of cards or billiards with each other. Parasites on decent people, the lot of them. He could also have added his contempt for those who earned their living by pandering to such leeches.

  “Good morning,” he said stiffly. “I’m Sergeant Tellman of the Bow Street police station.” He held out his card as proof of it.

  The steward looked at it without touching it, as if it had been unclean.

  “Indeed,” he said expressionlessly.

  Tellman gritted his teeth. “We are looking for a man who is pretending to be a retired army officer, of distinguished service, in order to defraud people out of considerable sums of money.”

  The steward’s face darkened with disapproval. Tellman had his attention at least. “I hope you catch him!” he said vehemently.

  “Doing everything we can,” Tellman replied with feeling. “This man is t
all, broad-shouldered, very upright, military looking in his bearing. Dresses well.”

  The steward frowned. “That describes a few that I can think of. Can you tell me anything else about him? I know all our members, of course, but sometimes gentlemen bring in guests.”

  “So far as we know, he’s clean shaven,” Tellman went on. “Although of course that can change. Fairish hair, thinning a bit, gray at the temples. Aquiline features. Blue eyes.”

  “Can’t say as I’ve seen him.”

  “I followed a man here just this moment.”

  The steward’s face cleared.

  “Oh! That’s General Balantyne. Known him for years.” His expression suggested something close to amusement.

  “Are you certain?” Tellman persisted. “This devil uses other people’s names pretty freely. Was General … Balantyne? Yes … did General Balantyne seem his usual self to you?”

  “Well … hard to say.” The steward hesitated.

  Tellman had a stroke of genius. “You see, sir,” he said confidentially, leaning forward a little, “I think this bounder may be using General Balantyne’s name … running up bills, even borrowing money …”

  The steward’s face blanched. “I must warn the General!”

  “No! No sir. That would not be a good idea … just yet.” Tellman swallowed hard. “He would be extremely angry. He might unintentionally warn this man, and we need to catch him before he does the same thing to someone else. If you would be so good as to tell me a little about the real General, then I can make sure that the other places he frequents are not taken in by the impostor.”

  “Oh.” The steward nodded his understanding. “Yes, I see. Well, he belongs to one or two services clubs, I believe. And White’s, although I don’t think he goes there so often as here.” This last was added with pride, a slight straightening of the shoulders.