by Anne Perry
“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 anybody 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.
“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, whi
ch 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.
