by Anne Perry
“Did he tell you that he is being blackmailed?” he asked quickly.
“No. Charlotte did. She is most concerned about it. She is very fond of him. And that is an entirely different problem.”
He did not understand that either; she saw it plainly in his eyes.
“No,” she said with the ghost of a smile. “That is not what I mean at all,” she answered the question he was only thinking. “But she has little perception that he may be fonder of her than either of them realizes.” She moved her other hand slightly, dismissing the idea for the moment. “But I am deeply afraid, Theloneus. What does this blackmailer want? If he exercises his power with sufficient skill, the damage he may do is incalculable. Who else may be affected?”
He was very pale. “I don’t know, my dear. But I think we must face the possibility that there are more, and that we may not be able to find them, or even to guess who they are. Vespasia, this may be very serious indeed. Far more than the reputation of any one person may rest on it, important as that is. Is it possible that Brandon Balantyne may be persuaded to stand out against the pressure?”
“Perhaps.” She thought of all she knew of Balantyne, the fleeting memories, his face as a young man, the grief that had come to him since. “The accusation against him is cowardice in the face of the enemy ….”
Theloneus winced. He was not a military man, but he knew enough of war and honor to grasp at least something of what such a thing meant.
“He has already been hurt so much …” she said quietly. “But perhaps with having endured that, he can face public ignominy again with more courage than others. I pray that it will not be necessary.”
“And Cornwallis?” he asked.
“Taking credit for another man’s act of courage at sea,” she replied. “In each case the charge is the most painful that particular man could face. We are dealing with someone who knows his victims well and can hurt with a unique skill.”
“Indeed,” he said grimly. “We shall need as much skill if we are to beat him, and I think a great deal of luck as well.”
“A great deal,” she agreed. “Perhaps we should not go into battle on an empty stomach. Would you care for a little late supper? I believe Cook has asparagus, brown bread and butter, and I expect there is champagne.”
“Knowing you, my dear, I am quite sure there is,” he accepted.
Cornwallis paced along the pavement outside the Royal Academy of Art. He was suffering a kind of pain he had never experienced before. He was long familiar with loneliness, the physical discomfort of coldness, exhaustion, miserable food, stale sea biscuit and salt bacon, brackish water. He had been seasick, feverish, injured. He had certainly been frightened, ashamed, torn with pity he did not know how to bear.
Only since he had met Isadora Underhill, the wife of Bishop Underhill, had he understood what it was to think of a woman with a pleasure and a pain which were inextricably bound together, to long to be in her company, and to be so terrified of hurting or disappointing her that the thought of it made him sick.
Nothing in the world was as sweet as the thought that she also cared for him. In what way he had not dared to contemplate. It was sufficient that she thought well of him, that she believed him to be a man of honor and compassion, of courage and that inner integrity which no outside circumstance can tarnish or bend.
The last time they had met, she had mentioned that she would attend the exhibition of paintings by Tissot at the Royal Academy. If he did not go, she would believe he did not wish to see her. Their relationship was far too delicate for him to offer any explanation, as if she had expected him. And yet if he did go, and they were to meet, and they would, and fall into conversation, as they must, would she see the fear in him caused by the letter? She was so perceptive; in some ways she understood emotions in him no one else had even guessed at. If he could agonize as he was doing, and she were to walk and talk with him, and be unaware of it, then what was their affection worth?
And yet if she did see it, how could he explain it?
Even as he was saying this to himself, he was mounting the steps and going in. The room of the exhibition was posted. He walked past the grave, delicate beauty of a Fra Angelico Madonna, which normally would have stirred a unique joy in him. Today he barely noticed it. He would not go to the room with the Turners. Their passion would overwhelm him.
Without realizing it he was already at the exhibition of Tissot. There was Isadora. He could always see her at a glance, her dark head held at just such an angle. Her hat had a sweeping brim, very plain. She was alone, regarding the paintings as if she took great pleasure in them. They were not really her taste, he knew that, too stylized. She preferred landscape, vision and dream.
He walked across to her as if drawn by a power beyond him to resist.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Underhill,” he said quietly.
She smiled at him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Cornwallis. How are you?”
“Very well, thank you. And you, Mrs. Underhill?” He wanted to say how lovely she looked, but that would have been far too familiar. There was a perfect grace in her bearing, a beauty in her far deeper and more pleasing to the mind than simple perfection of line or coloring. It was in the expression of her eyes and her lips. He wished he could tell her that. “A fine exhibition,” he said instead.
“Indeed,” she answered without enthusiasm, a very slight smile touching her lips. “But I prefer the watercolors in the next room.”
“I too,” he agreed immediately. “Shall we look at them instead?”
“I should like that,” she accepted, taking his arm and walking beside him past a small group of gentlemen admiring a portrait of a young woman in a striped gown.
In the room beyond they were almost alone. As one, they stopped in front of a small seascape. “He has caught the effect of light on water very well, don’t you think?” he said with fierce admiration.
“I do,” she agreed, turning to glance at him momentarily. “The touch of green is exactly right. It makes it look so cold and translucent. It is difficult to make water look liquid.” There was concern in her eyes, as if she saw in his face the marks of sleeplessness, fear, the mistrust which was beginning to creep into every waking thought, and last night, even into his dreams.
What would she think if she knew? Would she believe that he was innocent? Would she understand why he was afraid? Might she even be afraid herself, in case others believed it and she would want to distance herself from the shame of it, the embarrassment of having to say she did not believe it, explain why, see the looks of polite amusement and wonder … and then afterwards be abashed?
“Mr. Cornwallis?” There was a lift of concern in her voice.
“Yes!” he said too quickly. He felt a slight warmth in his cheeks. “I’m sorry, my thoughts were wandering. Shall we move to the next picture? I always find pastoral scenes most agreeable.” How stilted he sounded, as if they were strangers forcing a meaningless conversation, and how cold. Agreeable. What a lukewarm word to use for beauty of such deep and abiding peace. He looked at the black-and-white cows grazing in dappled sunlight and the rolling countryside glimpsed through summer trees. It was land he loved with a passion. Why could he not say so to her?
What is love without trust, forgiveness, patience, and gentleness? Mere hunger and need, joy in another’s company, shared pleasures, even laughter and perceptions, are merely the things of good acquaintance. To be more than that must be giving as well as taking, cost as well as gain.
“You look a little concerned, Mr. Cornwallis,” she said gently. “Have you a troublesome case?”
He made a decision. “Yes, but I intend to leave it behind for half an hour.” He forced himself to smile and linked his arm through hers, something he had never done before. “I shall look at this perfect loveliness which nothing shall fade or destroy, and it will be doubled from now because I shall share it with you. The rest of the world can wait. I shall return to it soon enough.”
She s
miled back at him, as if she had understood far more than he had said. “How very wise of you. I shall do exactly the same.” And she walked close to his side, keeping her arm through his.
6
Tellman needed to know more about Albert Cole, most particularly his comings and goings in the last few days of his life. So far every additional fact had only added to the confusion. He must go back to the beginning and start again. The best place for that was Cole’s lodgings in Theobald’s Road.
The house was shabby, more so in the clear morning sunlight than it had seemed the first time he had been there. But it was clean, and there were neat rag rugs on the board floors and the landlady was busy with pail and scrubbing brush. Her faded blond hair was tied up in a cloth cap to keep it off her face, and her red-knuckled hands were covered in suds.
“Good morning, Mrs. Hampson,” he said pleasantly. “Sorry to bother you again when you’re busy.” He glanced at the half-scrubbed floor of the passage. The smell of lye and vinegar reminded him of the rooms where he had grown up, of his mother kneeling just like this with a brush in her hand, her sleeves rolled high. He could have been a small boy again with bare knees and holes in his boots.
Mrs. Hampson stood up stiffly, smoothing her apron. “S’you again, is it? I dunno any more ’bout your Mr. Cole now than I did w’en yer first come. ’e were a quiet, decent sort o’ man. Always got a civil word. I dunno w’y anybody’d wanter go an’ kill ’im for.”
“Can you think back to the last few days of his life, Mrs. Hampson?” he asked patiently. “What time of the morning did he get up? Did he have breakfast? When did he go out? When did he come back? Did he have anybody call on him here?”
“Nob’dy I ever seen,” she answered, shaking her head. “Don’t encourage callers. In’t room, an’ yer never knows wot they’ll get up ter. Anyway, decent man, ’e were. If ’e ever did anythink like … natural … ’e din’t do it ’ere.”
Tellman did not think Cole’s death had had anything to do with women. He did not bother to pursue that path.
“When did he come and go during the last few days of his life, Mrs. Hampson?”
She thought for a moment. “Well, the last day I saw ’im, which were the Tuesday, like, ’e went out abaht seven in the mornin’. Catch them as would buy laces on their way ter work. Can’t afford ter miss ’em.” She pursed her lips. “Next lot’d be later, more nine or ten, so ’e said ter me. The lawyers start later, bein’ gents, like. An’ o’ course there’s casuals all the time.”
“And the day before? Can you remember?”
“Some.” She ignored the brush in her hand, still dripping water onto the floor. “Can’t remember partic’lar, but I’d a’ remembered if it a’ bin different. Same every day. Gruel fer breakfast, an’ a piece o’ bread. Look, mister, I got work ter do. If yer wants more’n this, yer’ll ’ave ter come inside an’ let me get on.” She knelt and wiped up the drips and then the last few inches of soap and water and he picked up the pail to carry it for her, their palms meeting on the wooden spool of the handle.
She was so startled she nearly dropped it, but she said nothing.
In the kitchen she left the pail in the corner and began to mix white brick dust into a paste with linseed oil to scour the tabletops. She mixed some more with water to polish the knife blades and the large brass-handled poker by the stove.
Tellman sat in the corner out of her way. He watched her work. He asked her everything he could think of about Albert Cole. An hour later she had finished cleaning the kitchen, and he followed her as she took the besom brush made of coarse twigs to sweep the landing floor and give the mats a hefty beating and return them. By the time Tellman left he had a fairly good idea of Cole’s domestic life, ordinary, decent, and comfortably monotonous. As far as she knew, he spent every night alone in his bed, presumably asleep.
Tellman’s next stop was the corner of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, to ask passersby and local tradesmen if they remembered seeing Cole in his usual spot. It was hard to disentangle memory of one day from that of another.
The flower seller diagonally across leading to New Square was a little more help.
“ ’e weren’t there Sunday, ’cos folks don’t buy on Sunday any’ow. Most of ’em in’t ’ere,” she said, scratching her head and pushing her bonnet a trifle crooked. “ ’e were ’ere Monday, ’cos I seen ’im. ’Ad a word wif ’im. ’e said summink abaht gettin’ a bit o’ money soon. I laughed at ’im, ’cos I thought as ’e were ‘avin’ me on, like. But ’e said as ’e were serious. ’e wouldn’t say as ’ow ’e were gonner get it. An’ I never see’d ’im again.”
“That would be Tuesday,” he corrected.
“No, Monday,” she assured him. “I always know me days, ’cos o’ wot’s ’appenin’ in the Fields. Beanpole, ’e’s the patterer, ’e tells us everythink. It were Monday. Tuesday ’e weren’t ’ere. An’ then on Thursday mornin’ the police found ’is corpse in Bedford Square. Poor soul. ’e were or’right, ’e were.”
“So where was he on Tuesday?” Tellman asked, puzzled.
“Dunno. I took it as ’e were sick or summink.”
Tellman learned nothing more in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, nor with close questioning at the Bull and Gate either.
In the afternoon he returned again to the mortuary. He loathed the place. On a warm day like this the smells seemed to be heavier, more claustrophobic, sticking in the back of his throat. It was a strange mixture of sharp and sour. But on a cold day the damp seemed to run from the walls and the chill of it ate into his bones, as if the whole place were like some scrubbed and artificial sort of public grave, only waiting to be closed over. He always half expected to find himself locked in.
“Nobody new for you,” the attendant said with surprise.
“I want to see Albert Cole again.” Tellman forced himself to say the words. It was the last thing on earth he really wanted, but where Cole had been on the day before he was killed could be the only clue as to what had happened to him. “Please.”
“ ’Course,” the attendant agreed. “We got ’im in the ice ’ouse, all tucked up safe. Be with you in a trice.”
Tellman’s footsteps echoed as he followed obediently to the small, bitterly cold room where corpses were kept when the police still needed to be able to examine them in connection with crime.
Tellman felt his stomach clench, but he lifted back the sheet with an almost steady hand. The body was naked, and he felt intrusive. He knew so much and so little about this man when he had been alive. His skin was very pale over his torso and upper legs, but there was an ingrained grayness of dirt as well, and the stale odor was not entirely due to carbolic and dead flesh.
“What are you looking for?” the attendant asked helpfully.
Tellman was not sure. “Wounds, for a start,” he answered. “He was a soldier in the 33rd. He saw a lot of action. He was invalided out. Shot in the leg.”
“No, ’e weren’t,” the attendant said with certainty. “Might a’ broke a bone or two. Couldn’t tell that without cutting ’im open. But shot goes through the skin, leaves a scar. There’s a knife scar on ’is arm, an’ another on ’is chest, down the side of ’is ribs. In’t nuthink on ’is legs, but look for yerself.”
“It was on his military record,” Tellman argued. “I saw it. He was wounded very badly.”
“Look for yerself!” the attendant repeated.
Tellman did so. The legs of the corpse were cold, the flesh slack when he touched it. But there were no scars, no marks where a bullet or musket ball had smashed in. This man had certainly not been shot, in the legs or anywhere else.
The attendant was watching him curiously.
“Wrong records?” he asked, twisting up his face. “Or wrong corpse?”
“I don’t know,” Tellman replied. He bit his lip. “I suppose any records could be wrong, but it doesn’t seem likely. But if this isn’t Albert Cole, who is it? And why did he have Albert Cole’s socks receipt on him? Why would a
nybody steal a receipt for three pairs of socks?”
“Beats me.” The attendant shrugged. “ ’ow are yer gonner find out OO this poor devil is, then? Could be anyone.”
Tellman thought furiously. “Well, it’s someone who spends a lot of time out on the streets, in boots that don’t fit very well. Look at the calluses on his feet. And he’s dirty, but he’s not a manual worker. His hands are too soft, but his nails are broken, and they were before he fought off his attacker because the dirt is in them. He’s thin … and he looks a lot like Albert Cole … enough that the lawyer who passed Cole regularly and bought bootlaces from him thought it was him.”
“Lawyer?” The attendant shrugged. “Don’ suppose ’e looked at ’is face much. More like looked at the laces an’jus’ passed a word or two.”
Tellman thought that was very probably true.
“So where yer gonner start lookin’, then?” The attendant was eager, almost proprietorial about the matter.
“With people who said Albert Cole was a thief,” Tellman replied with sudden decision. “Beginning with the pawnbroker. Maybe it was this man who took the stolen things to him.”
“Good thinking,” the attendant said respectfully. “Drop in when yer passin’ by. ’Ave a cup o’ tea and tell me wot ’appens.”
“Thank you,” Tellman answered with no intention whatever of coming back if he were not driven by inescapable duty. He would write a letter!
The pawnbroker was anything but pleased to see him. His face registered his disgust when Tellman was barely through the door.
“I told yer! I get nothin’ ’ere as is stolen, far as I know. Get orff me back and leave me alone!”
Tellman stood exactly where he was. He stared at the man, seeing his anger and discomfort with pleasure.
