Bedford Square tp-19

by Anne Perry

  Cornwallis was fairly new to his position. He had spent most of his career in the navy and was well accustomed to command, but the natures of crime and of politics were both new to him, and politics in particular he found at times beyond his comprehension. There was no deviousness to his mind. He was unaccustomed to vanity and circular thinking. The sea did not permit such indulgences. It sorted the skilled from the clumsy, the coward from the brave, with a ruthlessness quite different from the impulses of ambition in the worlds of government and society.

  Cornwallis was of no more than average height, lean, as if physical occupation were more natural to him than sitting behind a desk. When he moved it was with grace and control. He was not handsome-his nose was too long, too prominent-but there was balance in his face, and an honesty. The fact that he was entirely bald became him. Pitt found it difficult to think of him any other way.

  “What is it?” He looked up from his desk as Pitt came into his room. It was a sultry day outside, and the windows were open, allowing in the noise of traffic from the street below, the rattle of carriage wheels, the occasional cry of a coachman or hansom driver, the heavy rumble of brewers’ drays, the sharper treble of crossing sweepers hoping for a penny, peddlers calling their wares: bootlaces, flowers, sandwaches, matches.

  Pitt closed the door behind him.

  “Found a body in Bedford Square early yesterday morning,” he answered. “Hoped it might be nothing to do with any of the houses there, but he had a snuffbox in his hand which belonged to General Brandon Balantyne, and it was actually on Balantyne’s doorstep that he was lying.”

  “Burglary?” Cornwallis asked, the assumption in his voice. There was a slight pucker between his brows, as if he were waiting for Pitt to explain why he had bothered to mention it, let alone to come in person.

  “Possibly he was burgling one of the houses and was caught in the act by a servant or the owner, there was a fight, and the thief was killed,” Pitt said. “Then, in fear of the consequences, they put him outside Balantyne’s door instead of leaving him where he was and sending for the police.”

  “All right.” Cornwallis bit his lip. “I take your point, Pitt. Not the actions of innocent people, even in panic. How was he killed?”

  “A blow to the head with a poker, or something like it, but there was a fight beforehand, to judge by his knuckles.” Pitt sat down in the chair opposite Cornwallis’s desk. He was comfortable in this room with its watercolor seascapes on the walls, the polished brass sextant on the shelf next to the books, not only on police matters but also a Jane Austen novel and a copy of the Bible, and several volumes of poetry: Shelley, Keats and Tennyson.

  “Do you know who he is?” Cornwallis asked, placing his elbows on the desk and making a steeple of his fingers.

  “Not yet, but Tellman is working on it,” Pitt answered. “There was a receipt for three pair of socks in his pocket. There’s a chance it might help. They were bought only two days before he was killed.”

  “Good.” Cornwallis seemed to be unconcerned over the matter, or perhaps he was occupied with something else.

  “The snuffbox in his pocket belonged to General Balantyne,” Pitt repeated.

  Cornwallis frowned. “Presumably he stole it. Doesn’t mean he met his death in Balantyne’s home. I imagine-” He stopped. “Yes, I see what you mean. Unpleasant … and puzzling. I … know Balantyne, slightly. A good man. Can’t imagine him doing anything so … stupid.”

  Pitt had a strong sense of Cornwallis’s anxiety, but it seemed to have been present since before Pitt had come in, as if something else held his attention so strongly he was unable to put his mind fully to what Pitt was saying.

  “Nor I,” Pitt agreed.

  Cornwallis jerked his head up. “What?”

  “I can’t imagine General Balantyne doing anything so stupid as putting a corpse outside his own front door rather than simply calling the police,” Pitt said patiently.

  “Do you know him?” Cornwallis looked at Pitt as if he had walked into the middle of a conversation and was aware he had missed the beginning.

  “Yes. I investigated two previous cases in which he was concerned … indirectly. As a witness.”

  “Oh. I didn’t know that.”

  “Is there something troubling you?” Pitt liked Cornwallis, and while aware of his lack of political knowledge, he had a profound respect for his honesty and his moral courage. “It’s not this Tranby Croft business, is it?”

  “What? Good heavens, no!” For the first time since Pitt had come in, Cornwallis relaxed, on the verge of outright laughter. “I’m sorry for them all. I’ve no idea whether Gordon-Cumming was cheating or not, but the poor devil will be ruined now, either way. And my opinion of the Prince of Wales, or anyone else who spends his time drifting from one house party to another, doing nothing more useful than playing cards, is better unexpressed, even in private.”

  Pitt was uncertain whether to ask again, or if that had been a polite way of evading the issue. Yet he was certain that Cornwallis was worried to a degree that it intruded into his thoughts even when he wished to put his entire mind to a present issue.

  Cornwallis pushed back his chair and stood up. He walked over to the window and pulled it closed sharply.

  “Terrible noise out there!” he said with irritation. “Keep me informed how you progress with this Bedford Square case.”

  It was dismissal. Pitt stood up. “Yes sir.” He walked towards the door.

  Cornwallis cleared his throat.

  Pitt stopped.

  “I …” Cornwallis began, then hesitated.

  Pitt turned around to look at him.

  There was a faint flush of color in Cornwallis’s lean cheeks. He was profoundly unhappy. He made the decision.

  “I’ve … I’ve received a blackmail letter ….”

  Pitt was astonished. Of all the possibilities that had come to his mind, this seemed the most outlandish.

  “Words cut out from the Times,” Cornwallis went on in the prickling silence. “Pasted on a piece of paper.”

  Pitt scrambled his thoughts together with difficulty.

  “What do they want?”

  “That’s it.” Cornwallis’s body was rigid, his muscles locked. He stared at Pitt. “Nothing! They don’t ask for anything at all! Just the threat.”

  Pitt loathed asking, but not to would be to walk away from a man whose friendship he valued and who was obviously in profound need of uncritical help.

  “Do you have the letter?”

  Cornwallis took it out of his pocket and passed it over. Pitt read the pasted-on letters, most of them cut out singly, some in twos and threes or where a whole word had been found as the writer wished to use it.

  I know all about you, Captain Cornwallis. Others think you are a hero, but I know differently. It was not you who was so brave on the HMS Venture, it was Able Seaman Beckwith, but you took the credit. He’s dead now and he cannot tell the truth. That is all wrong. People should know. I know.

  Pitt read it again. There was no explicit threat, no request for money or any other form of payment. And yet the sense of power was so strong it leapt off the creased paper as if the thing had a malign life of its own.

  He looked across at Cornwallis’s pale face and saw the muscles clenched in his jaw and the faint, visible pulse in his temple.

  “I suppose you have no idea who it is?”

  “None at all,” Cornwallis replied. “I lay awake half last night trying to think.” His voice was dry, as if he had held himself rigid so long his throat ached. He breathed in deeply. His eyes did not waver from Pitt’s. “I’ve gone over and over the incident I think he’s referring to, to remember who was there, who could have misinterpreted it to believe it that way, and I don’t know the answer.” He hesitated, acute embarrassment naked in his face. He was a private man who found emotion difficult to express; he vastly preferred the tacit understanding of action. He bit his lip. He wanted to look away, so he forced himself not t
o. He was obviously sensitive to Pitt’s discomfort and unintentionally made it worse. He was aware of foundering, of being indecisive, the very sorts of things he had meant to avoid.

  “Perhaps you had better tell me about the incident,” Pitt said quietly. He moved to sit down, indicating his intention to stay.

  “Yes,” Cornwallis agreed. “Oh … yes, of course.” He turned away at last, his face towards the window. The sharp daylight emphasized the depth of the lines about his eyes and mouth. “It happened eighteen years ago … eighteen and a half. It was winter. Bay of Biscay. Weather was appalling. I was a second lieutenant then. Man went up to shorten the mizzen royal-”

  “The what?” Pitt interrupted. He needed to understand.

  Cornwallis glanced at him. “Oh … three-masted ship.” He moved his arms to illustrate what he was saying. “Middle mast, middle sail … square-rigger, of course. Injured by a loose rope. His hand. Got it jammed somehow.” He frowned, turning towards the window again, away from Pitt. “I went up after him. Should have sent a seaman, of course, but the only man near me was Beckwith, and he froze. Happens sometimes.” He spoke jerkily. “No time to look for someone else. Weather was getting worse. Ship pitching around. Afraid the injured man up on the mast would lose his grasp, tear his arm out of its socket. Heights never bothered me in particular. Didn’t really think about it. Been up often enough as a midshipman.” His mouth tightened. “Got him free. Had to cut the line. He was almost dead weight. Managed to get him back along the yard as far as the mast, but he was damn heavy and the wind was rising all the time, ship pitching around like a mad thing.”

  Pitt tried to imagine it, Cornwallis desperate, frozen, trying to hang on to a swaying mast forty or fifty feet over a wild sea, one minute above the heaving deck, the next, as the ship keeled, out over the water, and carrying another man’s helpless body. He found his own hands were knotted and he was holding his breath.

  “I was trying to readjust his weight to start down the mast,” Cornwallis went on, “when Beckwith must have unfrozen and I found him just below me. He helped take the man’s weight, and we got down together.

  “By that time there were half a dozen other men on deck, including the captain, and it must have looked to them as if Beckwith had rescued me. The captain said as much, but Beckwith was an honest man, and he told the truth.” He turned back to meet Pitt’s eyes, the light behind him now. “But I can’t prove it. Beckwith died a few years after that, and the man up the mast hadn’t the faintest idea who else was there, let alone what happened.”

  “I see,” Pitt said quietly. Cornwallis was staring at him, and in the misery that was in his face Pitt glimpsed some perception of fear that he was trying to hold inside himself. He had lived a life of discipline against an element that gave no quarter, no mercy to man or ship. He had obeyed its rules and seen the deaths of those who had not, or whom misfortune had overtaken. He knew as few men can, who spend their lives in the safety of the land, the value of loyalty, honor and sheer, overwhelming physical courage, instant and absolute obedience, and total trust in those with whom you serve. The hierarchy within a ship was absolute. To have taken credit for another man’s act of courage was unforgivable.

  In what Pitt knew of Cornwallis, it was also unthinkable. He smiled at him, meeting his gaze frankly. “I’ll look into it. We need to know who is doing this, and most of all what he wants. Once there is a specific demand, then there’s a crime.”

  Cornwallis hesitated, still keeping his hand on the letter, as if already he feared the result of any action. Then suddenly he realized what he was doing. He thrust the paper at Pitt.

  Pitt took it and put it in his pocket without looking at it again.

  “I’ll be discreet,” he promised.

  “Yes,” Cornwallis said with an effort. “Yes, of course.”

  Pitt took his leave and went out of the room, along the corridor, downstairs and out onto the pavement. He had gone barely a dozen yards, his mind consumed with Cornwallis’s distress, when he was forcibly stopped by almost colliding with a man who moved across in front of him.

  “Mr. Pitt, sir …?” he said, looking up at him, but although his words were framed as a question, there was a certainty in his face.

  “Yes?” Pitt replied a trifle sharply. He did not like being accosted so physically, and he was too concerned about the ugliness of Cornwallis’s situation to wish interruption in his thought. He felt frustrated and helpless to protect a man he cared about from a danger he feared was very real.

  “My name is Lyndon Remus, from the Times,” the man said quickly, still standing directly in front of Pitt. He produced a card out of his inside coat pocket and held it out.

  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.”