Bedford Square (3 page)

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 previous 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 course 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.

“I suppose so.” She lifted one shoulder slightly. “It would account for his presence in the square.” She stood back into the hallway to allow Pitt to leave, and waited silently until he should pass.

The butler, Blisset, a middle-aged man of stiff-backed, military bearing, was standing at the foot of the stairs. Very probably he was an old soldier Balantyne had employed, knowing his service. Indeed, when he moved he did so with a pronounced limp, and Pitt guessed it was a battle injury which had caused it.

“If you will come with me, sir,” he said gravely, and as soon as he was sure Pitt was behind him, he went across the hallway to the baize door and through to the servants’ quarters.

Tellman was standing by the long table in the dining hall where the servants took their meals. It was laid for breakfast, but obviously no one had yet eaten. A housemaid was standing in a gray stuff dress, white apron crisp and clean, lace cap a trifle crooked on her head as if she had placed it there hastily. She was looking at Tellman with considerable dislike. A footman of about nineteen or twenty was standing by the door to the kitchen, and the bootboy was staring round-eyed at Pitt.

“Nothing so far,” Tellman said, biting his lip. He had a
pencil and an open notebook in his hands, but there was very little written on the page. “Lot of very sound sleepers here.” His tone was bordering on the sarcastic.

Pitt thought that if he had to get up at five in the morning as a matter of habit, and work with little respite until nine or ten in the evening, he would probably be tired enough to sleep soundly too, but he did not bother to say so.

“I’d like to speak to the housemaids,” he said to Blisset. “May I use the housekeeper’s sitting room?”

The butler agreed reluctantly and insisted on remaining present, to protect his staff, as was his responsibility.

But two hours’ diligent enquiry and a thorough search of the main part of the house produced nothing of value. The housemaids had both seen the snuffbox but could not remember how recently. Nothing else was missing. There was quite definitely no sign whatever of a break-in or of any unauthorized person in any room upstairs or downstairs.

No one had heard anything in the street outside.

There had been no caller or tradesman other than those who had dealt with the household for years, no vagrants, no followers after the female servants that anyone would acknowledge, no beggars, peddlers or new deliverymen.

Pitt and Tellman left Bedford Square at half past nine and caught a hansom back towards the Bow Street Station, stopping just short of it to buy a hot cup of tea and a ham sandwich from a stall on the pavement.

“Separate bedrooms,” Tellman said with his mouth full.

“People of that social status usually have,” Pitt replied, sipping his tea and finding it too hot.