by Anne Perry
“You said Albert Cole came in here and sold you gold rings and other bits and pieces he found in the sewers.”
“That’s right. An’ so ’e did.” The pawnbroker squared his chin.
“No, you said it was the man whose picture I showed you,” Tellman corrected. “Thinnish sort of man, fair hair going bald a bit at the front, hatchet face, break in one eyebrow …”
“An’ you said it were a geezer called Albert Cole wot was a soldier and got ’isself killed in Bedford Square,” the pawnbroker agreed. “So wot of it? I din’t kill ’im an’ dunno ’oo did.”
“Right! I told you it was Albert Cole.” Tellman hated having to admit it. “Well, it seems it wasn’t. Army records. So now I’d like to know who it was. And I’m sure you would like to be of assistance in identifying the poor devil, since you can earn the favor of the police without dropping anyone else in it. Think again … anything you can tell me about this man who claimed he was a tosher. Perhaps he really was, and not a bootlace peddler at all?”
The pawnbroker’s face twisted with contempt. “Well if ’e were a tosher ’e didn’t find much as I ever saw. Some o’ them toshers down west does real well. I’d a’ never believed rich folks was so careless with their gold an’ stuff.”
“So tell me everything you know about him,” Tellman insisted, letting his eyes wander around the shelves speculatively. “That’s a nice clock. Handsome for the kind of person who needs to pawn their things.”
The pawnbroker bristled. “We get some very classy people in ’ere. And bad times can ’it anyone. ’It you one day, mebbe, then yer’ll not look down on folks so easy.”
“Well, if they do, I won’t have a clock like that to hock,” Tellman replied. “I’d better go to the police station and make sure the owner isn’t suddenly in a position to redeem it. Like perhaps it’s on a list of missing property. Now, this man who came and sold you jewelry, what do you remember about him-everything!”
The pawnbroker leaned forward over his counter. “Look, I’ll tell yer everything I know, then will you get ant an’ leave me alone? ’e came in ’ere once an’ some woman came in. Lottie Menken; she lives up the corner about fifty yards. She come ter ’ock ’er teapot, does it reg’lar, poor cow. She knows ’im. Called ’im Joe, or summink like that. Go an’ find ’er. She’ll tell yer Oo’eis.”
“Thank you,” Tellman said gratefully. “If you’re lucky, you won’t see me again.”
The pawnbroker breathed out a prayer, or it might have been a blasphemy.
It took Tellman nearly an hour to find Lottie Menken. She was a short woman, so immensely stout that she moved with a kind of rolling gait. Her black, ringletted hair sat on her head in uncombed profusion, rather like a hat.
“Yeah?” she said when Tellman addressed her. She was busy in her scullery making soap, which she did for a living. There were tubs of animal fats and oils to mix with soda for hard soap, but far more in quantity to mix with potash to make soft soap, which was more economical to use. He saw on shelves above her, which she presumably used the kitchen stools to reach, jars of powder blue and stone blue for the final rinse which would help remove the coarse yellowish color given by starch or natural in linen of a lower quality.
He knew better than to interrupt her work. He leant against one of the benches, casually, as if he belonged in this neighborhood, as indeed he had once in one just like it.
“I believe you know a thinnish sort of fair-haired bloke called Joe who sells things to Abbott’s pawnshop now and again. That right?”
“What if I do?” she asked without looking up. Measurements must be right or the resultant soap would be no good. “Dunno ’im much, just ter see, or pass a word.”
“What’s his full name?”
“Josiah Slingsby. Why?” Still without looking up, she asked him, “ ’Oo are yer, an’ w’y d’yer care? I in’t gettin’ mixed up in any o’ Slingsby’s business, so yer can take yerself orff outa ’ere. Go on-get aht!” Her face closed in anger, and perhaps it was also fear.
“I think he may be dead,” he said without moving.
For the first time she stopped working, her hands still, the liquid almost up to her rolled sleeves. “Joe Slingsby dead? Wot makes yer say that?”
“I think he was the body found in Bedford Square, not Albert Cole.”
This time she actually turned to look at him. There was an expression in her face which Tellman thought was hope.
“Perhaps you would come and take a look at him?” he asked. “See if it is. You’d know.” He understood the cost of wasting time for her. “It would be a service to the police which naturally you would be paid for … say, a shilling?”
She looked interested, but not yet certain.
“Cold work, identifying corpses,” he added. “We’d need a good hot dinner afterwards, and a glass of porter.”
“Yeah, I suppose we would at that.” She nodded, setting her ringlets turning. “Well then, we’d best be about it. W’ere is this corpse that’s mebbe Joe Slingsby?”
The following day Tellman went straight to see Pitt at Bow Street, to catch him before he should go out and to inform him that the body was definitely not that of Albert Cole but of Josiah Slingsby, petty thief and brawler.
Pitt looked nonplussed.
“Slingsby? How do you know?”
Tellman stood in front of the desk as Pitt stared up at him over the scattered papers on its surface.
“Identified by someone who knew him,” he replied. “I don’t think she was mistaken or lying. She described the gap in his eyebrow and she knew about the knife wound in his chest. Remembered when it happened a couple of years ago. It certainly isn’t Albert Cole; military records make that plain, because of the shot. Cole was invalided out of the army with his leg wound. The corpse had none. Sorry, sir.” He did not elaborate. Pitt deserved an apology, but not a long story, and certainly not an excuse.
Pitt leaned back in his chair and pushed his hands into his pockets. “I suppose the barrister who identified him did his best. I daresay he wasn’t used to corpses. Most people aren’t. And we rather assumed it was Cole because of the socks. Which brings us to the interesting question of why he had Albert Cole’s receipt in his pocket. Or was it his own?”
“Don’t think so. He didn’t live anywhere near Red Lion Square; lived miles away, in Shoreditch. I checked yesterday afternoon. Nobody around Holborn had ever seen or heard of him-not on the streets, not in the pub. Far as I can see, he never met Albert Cole or had anything to do with him. The more I think of it, the less sense it makes. Slingsby was a thief, but why would anybody steal a receipt for socks? They’re only worth a few pence. Nobody keeps that sort of thing more than a day or two, if that.”
Pitt chewed his lip. “So what was Slingsby doing in Bedford Square? Thieving?”
Tellman pulled the other chair over and sat down. “Probably. But the funny thing is, nobody’s seen Cole either. He’s disappeared as well. His things were left in his room and his rent is paid up, but nobody’s seen him on his patch or in the Bull and Gate. But he was there on Monday, when Slingsby was in his usual haunts as well. We are definitely dealing with two different men who only happen to look alike.”
“And Slingsby was found dead with Cole’s receipt in his pocket,” Pitt added. “Did he take it from Cole for some reason we haven’t thought of? Or did someone else, some third party we don’t know about, take it from Cole and give it to Slingsby? And if so, why?”
“Maybe there’s some stupid little reason we haven’t thought of,” Tellman said without meaning it. He was just casting around hopefully. “Maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with why Slingsby was killed.”
“And why he had General Balantyne’s snuffbox in his pocket,” Pitt added. “General Balantyne was being blackmailed ….”
Tellman was startled. His opinion of Balantyne was poor, as it was of all privileged men like him, but it was a contempt for those who took from society more than they put in
and who assumed an authority they had not earned. It was something most people accepted, and it was certainly not a crime.
“What did he do?” he asked, tilting his chair back a little.
A quick flare of anger crossed Pitt’s face, and suddenly a gulf opened up between them. All the old hostilities and barriers were there again, just as when Pitt had first been given command of Bow Street. They were both of humble origin. Pitt was no more than a gamekeeper’s son, but he had aspirations to something more. He spoke like a gentleman and tried to behave as if he were one. Tellman was faithful to his roots and his class. He would fight the enemy, not join them.
“He did nothing,” Pitt said icily, and perhaps rashly. “But he cannot easily prove it, and the accusation would ruin him. It refers to an incident in the Abyssinian Campaign, in which, as you proved, Albert Cole was also involved. Whether Josiah Slingsby had anything to do with the blackmail is what we have yet to learn.”
“The snuffbox!” Tellman said with satisfaction. “Payment?” And the moment the words were out he regretted them. Automatically, he straightened up in his chair.
Pitt’s face was a picture of scorn. “For a pinchbeck snuffbox? Hardly worth the effort, is it? Josiah Slingsby might murder for a few guineas, but Balantyne wouldn’t.”
Tellman felt himself clench with anger, for his own stupidity. He knew it showed in his face, much as he tried to conceal it.
“The snuffbox might not be all of it,” he said sharply. “Might only be one payment. We don’t know what else he may have given him. Maybe that was the last of many, and the General just lost his temper? Perhaps he realized he was never going to be rid of him and would just be bled dry and then maybe ruined anyway?”
“And Cole’s socks?” Pitt asked.
“Makes sense.” Tellman leaned forward, eagerly now, putting one hand on the desk. “Cole and Slingsby were in it together. Cole was the one who told him, maybe he knew how he would use the information, maybe not. Maybe Slingsby killed Cole over the proceeds?”
“Except that it’s Slingsby who’s dead,” Pitt pointed out.
“All right, then Cole killed him,” Tellman argued.
“Which leaves Balantyne innocent,” Pitt said with a tight smile.
Tellman refrained from swearing only with difficulty. “That’s one thing that would be possible,” he conceded. “Don’t know enough to say yet.”
“No, we don’t,” Pitt agreed. “So you’d better find out all you can about it. See if you can discover any connection between Slingsby and Balantyne, and if Balantyne had paid out anything apart from the snuffbox, or done anything that could have been forced on him by Slingsby.”
“Yes sir.” Tellman stood up, but casually, not to attention.
“And Tellman …”
“Yes?”
“This time you’d better report direct to me, here, not at home ….”
Tellman felt the heat burn up his face, but there was nothing he could say that would not only make it worse. He refused to stoop to giving explanations that might be taken for excuses. He stood stiff and unanswering.
“I don’t want anyone else to know you are enquiring into his life,” Pitt emphasized. “Or following him. Is that clear? And ’anyone’ includes Gracie and Mrs. Pitt.”
“Yes sir. Is that all?”
“It’s enough,” Pitt replied. “At least for the present.”
The following morning’s newspapers were filled with two scandals. One was the continuing saga of the Tranby Croft affair, growing increasingly ugly with every new revelation. It now appeared that, after the initial accusation of cheating at baccarat, Gordon-Cumming had been persuaded to sign a letter promising never to refer to the matter with another soul.
Then two days after Christmas, Gordon-Cumming had received an anonymous letter from Paris mentioning the Tranby Croft affair and advising him never to touch cards if he should come to France, because there was much talk about the subject.
Naturally, he was horrified. The pledge of secrecy had very obviously been broken.
Nor had that been the end of it. Shortly after that, news had come of the story from another source, the Prince of Wales’s latest mistress, Lady Frances Brooke, an inveterate gossip nicknamed “Babbling Brooke.”
Gordon-Cumming wrote to his commanding officer. Colonel Stracey, sending in his papers and asking leave to retire from the army on half pay.
A week later General Williams and Lord Coventry, the two friends and advisers of the Prince, visited Sir Redvers Butler at the War Office and formally told him all about the events at Tranby Croft that weekend, then requested a full enquiry by the military authorities at the earliest possible moment.
Gordon-Cumming appealed to Butler to delay such an enquiry in order not to prejudice his own pending civil action for slander.
The Prince of Wales wound himself into a state of all but nervous exhaustion over the prospect of having to testify, but to no effect. The other witnesses, the Wilsons, the Lycett Greens and Levett, all refused to withdraw their charges of cheating.
Now the case was being heard before the Lord Chief Justice, Lord Coleridge, and a special jury. In the glorious sunshine of a hot, early July, the courtroom was packed, and the public hung on every word.
Pitt was interested in the case only for its reflection on the fragility of reputation, and how easily a man, any man, could be ruined by a suggestion, let alone a fact.
Lower down the page, another scandal caught his eye. It was a story printed beneath a photograph of Sir Guy Stanley, M.P., speaking with a very strikingly dressed woman named in the caption as Mrs. Robert Shaughnessy They had been caught in a moment’s close conversation. Mr. Shaughnessy was a young man with radical political ambitions, contrary to government policy. He had lately succeeded in a brilliant move towards his aims, greatly assisted by what looked like inside information. In the picture, he had his back turned to his wife and Sir Guy and was looking away.
The story below suggested that Sir Guy, a favored candidate for a ministerial position, had been far more intimate with Mrs. Shaughnessy than was consistent with morality or honor, and threaded through the ambiguous phrases was the implication that he had let slip government business in return for her favors. There was also a difference of some thirty years in their ages, which made it uglier and lent it a sordid and pathetic air.
If Sir Guy Stanley had been hoping for preferment, he would not now receive it. A blow like this to a man’s reputation, whether the suggestion was founded or not, would make him an impossible choice for the post in the government for which his name had been put forward.
Pitt sat at the breakfast table holding the newspaper in his hand, his toast and marmalade forgotten, his tea growing cold.
“What is it?” Charlotte asked anxiously.
“I’m not sure,” he said slowly. He read out the article about Guy Stanley, then lowered the paper and met her eyes. “Is it coincidence, or is this the first threat carried out as a warning to the others?” He wondered what could have precipitated it.
“Even if it isn’t,” she pointed out, “it will serve the same purpose.” She was pale faced as she put her cup down in its saucer. “As if the Tranby Croft business were not enough without this. It will reinforce the blackmailer’s message, whether this was his doing or not. Do you know anything about Guy Stanley?”
“No more than I’ve read here.”
“And this Mrs. Shaughnessy?”
“Nothing at all.” He took a deep breath and pushed away his plate. “I think I must go and see Sir Guy. I need to know if he had a letter. More than that, I need to know what he was asked to do … and had the courage to refuse.”
Charlotte remained silent. She sat with her body tense, her shoulders pulling at the rose-colored cotton of her dress, but there was nothing more to say.
He touched her lightly on the cheek as he passed, and went out to collect his boots and his hat.
The newspaper had given Guy Stanley’s address, an
d Pitt alighted from the hansom half a block away and walked briskly in the warm morning air up to the house and rang the doorbell.
It was answered by a footman who informed him that Sir Guy was not in and would not be receiving callers. He was about to close the door again, leaving Pitt on the step. Pitt produced his card and held it out.
“I am afraid it is police business about which I need to see your master and it cannot wait,” he said firmly.
The footman looked highly dubious, but it was not within the bounds of his authority to refuse the police, in spite of the orders he had been given to admit no one.
He left Pitt on the step while he went to enquire, carrying the card on his silver tray.
The slight wind was already welcome in the rising heat of this unusual July. By midday it would be sweltering. It was an uncomfortable wait, reminding Pitt sharply of his social status. A gentleman would have been asked in, even if left in the morning room.
The footman returned with a look of slight surprise and conducted Pitt into a large study, where he had only a moment to wait before the door opened and Sir Guy Stanley came in. He was a tall, thin man only barely recognizable from the newspaper photograph, which must have been taken at least two or three years previously. His white hair was markedly thinner now, and his side-whiskers shorter and neater. He walked carefully, as if uncertain of his balance, and he banged his elbow against the oak-paneled door as he closed it. His face was almost bloodless.
Pitt’s heart sank. Stanley did not look like a man who had faced the enemy down, at whatever the cost, but like someone who had received a fearful and unexpected blow. He was still reeling with the shock and barely in command of himself.
“Good morning, Mr ….” He glanced at the card in his hand. “Mr. Pitt. I am afraid this is not a fortunate morning for me, but if you tell me in what way I may be of assistance, I shall do what I can.” He indicated the overstuffed chairs, leather buttoned into complex patterns. “Please sit down.” He almost fell into the closest of them himself, as if not certain he could remain on his feet any longer.
