by Anne Perry
Tellman squared his shoulders and increased his pace along the footpath. He was absolutely certain there was a great deal more to learn, more that was actually relevant to the blackmail and whoever had moved the body of Josiah Slingsby and left it on the General’s doorstep. Perhaps as far as the law was concerned it did not matter a great deal. Tellman had arrested and charged Wallace with the murder. But blackmail was also a crime, whoever the victim was.
He did not want to speak to officers, men of Balantyne’s own background and situation in life, who also had purchased their commissions and would close ranks against enquiry as naturally as against any other enemy attacking the quality of their comfortable, privileged lives. He wanted to speak to ordinary soldiers, who would not be too arrogant to answer him man to man and to praise or criticize with honesty. He could speak to them as equals and press them for detail, opinion, and names.
It took him three hours to find Billy Treadwell, who had until five years before been a private in the Indian army. Now he kept a public house down by the river. He was a thin man with a large beak of a nose and a ready smile with crooked, very white teeth, the middle two of which were chipped.
“General Balantyne?” he said cheerfully, leaning on a barrel in the yard of the Red Bull. “Well, Major Balantyne as ’e were then. ’Course, it’s goin’ back a fair bit, but yeah, I remember ’im. ’Course I do. Wot about it?” It was not said aggressively but with curiosity. Years in India had burned his skin a deep brown, and he seemed not to find this extraordinary heat wave in the least uncomfortable. He narrowed his eyes against the reflection of the sun on the water, but he did not look for shade.
Tellman sat down on the low edge of the brick wall that divided the yard from the small vegetable garden. The sound of the river was a pleasant background just out of sight. But the heat burned his skin, and his feet were on fire.
“You served with him, didn’t you? In India?” he asked.
Treadwell looked at him with his head a little on one side. “You know that, or you wouldn’t be ’ere askin’ me. Wot about it? Why fer d’yer wanna know?”
Tellman had weighed in his mind how to answer this question all the way there on the steamer he had taken up the river. He was still uncertain. He did not want to prejudice the man’s answer.
“That’s hard to say without breaking confidences,” he said slowly. “I think there’s a crime going on, and I think the General might be one of the intended victims. I want to stop it happening.”
“So why don’t you just warn ’im?” Treadwell said reasonably, glancing over his shoulder at a steamer as it passed close to shore, wondering if it might be likely custom.
“It isn’t that simple.” Tellman had prepared himself for that. “We want to catch the criminal as well. Believe me, if the General could help, he would.”
Treadwell turned back to him. “Oh, I believe that!” he said with feeling. “Straight as a die, ’e were. Always knew where you stood with ’im … not like some as I could name.”
“Strict for law and order, was he?” Tellman asked.
“Not special.” He gave his full attention now, business forgotten. “ ’E’d bend the rules if ’e could see the reason. ’e understood that men ’ave got ter believe in a cause if yer asking ’em ter die for it. Just like they gotter believe in a commanding officer if they’re gonna obey ’im w’en they don’t see the reason why ’e gives an order.”
“You don’t question an order?” Tellman said with disbelief.
“No, ’course not,” Treadwell answered disdainfully. “But some yer obeys slow, like, an’ some yer trusts.”
“Which was Balantyne?”
“Trust ’im.” The reply was unhesitating. “ ’e knew ’is job. Never sent men ter do summink as ’e couldn’t do ’isself. Some men leads from the back … not ’im.” He moved over and sat on the barrel top, settling to reminisce, squinting a little in the sun but ignoring its heat. “I ’member once when we was up on the Northwest Frontier …” There was a faraway look in his eyes. “Yer’d ’ave ter see them mountains ter believe ’em, yer would. Great shining white peaks ’anging over us in the sky, they was. Reckon as they was scrapin” oles in the floor of ’eaven.”
He took a deep breath. “Anyway, Major Balantyne was told by the Colonel ter take a couple o’ score of us an’ go up the pass an’ come down be’ind the Pathans. ’e were kind o’ new at the Northwest. Didn’t reckon much ter the Pathans … Major Balantyne tried ter put ’im right. Told ’im they was some o’ the best soldiers in the world. Clever, tough, an’ din’t run away from nuffink on God’s earth.” He shook his head and sighed wearily. “But the Colonel, ’e wouldn’t listen. One o’ them daft bleeders wot won’t be told nuffink.” He looked at Tellman for a moment to make sure that he was following the story.
“And …” Tellman prompted, shifting his feet uncomfortably. He could feel the sweat trickling down his body.
“So the Major stood ter attention,” Treadwell resumed. “ ‘Yes sir,’ ‘No sir,’ an’ took ’is orders. Then as soon as we was well out o’ sight o’ the post, ’e said in a loud voice as ’is compass was broke, an’ gave orders to go about-face, an’ followed ’is plan ter come at the Pathans from two sides at once, an’ instead o’ standin’ our ground, ter keep movin’… just a couple o’ rounds o’ shot, an’ then, while they was still workin’ out which way we was comin’, we was gone again.” He looked at Tellman narrowly.
“Did you win?” Tellman was caught up in spite of himself.
“ ’Course we did,” Treadwell said with a grin. “An’ the Colonel took the credit for it. Was as mad as all ’ell, but couldn’t do nuffink abaht it. Stood an’ listened ter them say wot an ’ell of a clever feller ’e was, an’ thanked them fer it. ’Ad ter, didn’t’e?”
“But it was the Major’s idea!” Tellman protested. “Didn’t he tell them, whoever was in charge?”
Treadwell shook his head. “Yer never bin army, ’ave yer?” There was pity in his tone, and a certain kind of protective-ness, as of the world’s innocents. “Yer don’ show up one o’ yer own, even if ’e looks for it. Loyalty. The Major’d never a’ done that. One o’ the old sort, ’e were. Take wot comes ter ’im an’ never complain. I seen ’im so wore out ’e were near droppin’ ter the ground, but ’e jus’ kep’ goin’. Wouldn’t let the men down, yer see? That’s wot bein’ an officer is abaht, them wot’s any good. Yer always gotta be that bit better’n others, or ’ow could they foller yer?”
There was a bellow of laughter from the open door of the public tearoom.
Tellman frowned. “Did you like him?” he asked.
To Treadwell it was an incomprehensible question.
“Wot d’yer mean … ‘like ’im’? ’e were the Major. Yer don’ ‘like’ officers. Yer either love ’em or ’ate ’em. Yer like’ friends, fellers wot yer marches beside, not them as yer follers.”
Tellman knew the answer before he asked; still, he needed to hear it in words.
“Did you love or hate the Major?”
Treadwell shook his head. “If I din’t see yer face, I’d reckon you was simple! In’t I just bin tellin’ yer, ’e were one o’the best?”
Tellman was confused. He could not disbelieve Treadwell; the light in his eyes was too clear, and the amusement at an outsider’s failure to grasp what was so plain to him.
Tellman thanked him and took his leave. What had happened to Balantyne in the intervening years which had made him the stiff and solitary man he was now? Why was Treadwell’s view of him so … unrecognizable?
The next soldier he found was one William Sturton, another ordinary man, who had risen through long service to the rank of sergeant and was immensely proud of it. He was stiff with rheumatism now, and his white hair and whiskers shone in the dappled shade as he sat on the park bench, eager to talk, remembering the glories of the past with this young man who knew nothing and was so happy to listen.
“ ’Course I remember Colonel Balan
tyne,” he said with a lift of his chin, after Tellman had introduced himself. “It were ’im as led us w’en we rode inter Lucknow after the Mutiny. Never seen anyfink like it.” His face was set hard as he strove to control the anguish of memory that tore him even now. Tellman could not imagine what lay in his inward vision. He knew poverty, crime and disease; he knew the ravages of cholera in the slums, and freezing corpses of the beggars and the old and the children who lived in the streets. He knew all the agony inflicted by helplessness and indifference. But he had never seen war. Individual murders were one thing; the carnage of mass destruction was beyond his knowledge. He could only guess, and watch the sergeant’s face.
“You went in …” he prompted.
“Yeah.” Sturton was looking beyond him, his eyes misted over. “It was seein’ the women and children that got me. I’m used ter seein’ men cut ter pieces.”
“Colonel Balantyne,” Tellman said, forcing him back to the issue. He did not want to hear the other details. He had read about it, been told in school, enough to know he dreaded it.
A thread of breeze stirred the leaves, making a sound like waves on a shore. Away in the distance a woman laughed.
“Never forget the Colonel’s face.” Sturton was lost in the past. He was in India, not the milder heat of an English summer afternoon. “Looked like death ’isself, ’e did. Thought ’e were gonna fall orff ’is horse. Stumbled w’en ’e got orff. Knees fair wobbled w’en ’e walked over ter the first pile o’ corpses. ’E’d seen plenty o’ death on the battlefield, but this were different.”
In spite of himself, Tellman tried to imagine it, and felt sick. He wondered what Balantyne’s emotions had been, how deep? He looked like such a stiff, cold man now.
“What did he do?” he asked.
Sturton did not look at him. His mind was still in Lucknow thirty-four years before.
“We was all took bad at it,” he said quietly. “The Colonel took charge. ’e was white as death an “is voice were shakin’, but ’e told us all wot ter do, ’ow ter search the buildings ter make sure there weren’t no ambushes. Ter see if there were anyone ’iding, like.” There was fierce pride in his voice, faraway things remembered, and the fact that he had done his duty and survived into these softer times. “Secure the bounds, put a watch in case they returned,” he went on, not looking at Tellman beside him. “ ’e sent the youngest fer that … keep ’em out o’ the way o’ the dead. Some of us was took pretty ’ard by it. Like I said, it were the women, some of ’em wi’ babes even. ’e went ’round ’isself to see if any of ’em was still alive, like. Gawd knows ’ow ’e did it. I couldn’t a’. But then that’s w’y ’e’s a colonel an’ I in’t.”
“He was a colonel because his father bought his commission,” Tellman said, then instantly and without knowing why, wished he hadn’t.
Sturton looked at him with patient contempt. His face was eloquent that he considered Tellman beneath explaining to.
“You dunno nuffink about duty or loyalty or nuffink else, or yer wouldn’t say such a damn stupid thing,” he retorted. “Colonel Balantyne were the sort o’ man we’d a’ followed any place ’e’d a’ gorn, an’ proud ter do it. ’e ’elped us bury the dead, and stood over the graves and said the prayers for ’em. Even on ’ot nights if I shut me eyes I can still ’ear ’is voice sayin’ them words. Never wept, ’course ’e wouldn’t, but it were all there in his face, all that ’orror.” He sighed deeply and remained silent for several moments.
This time Tellman did not venture to interrupt. He was full of strange and troubling emotions. He tried to imagine the General as a younger man, a man with an inner life of emotions, anger, pain, pity, all masked with a mighty effort because it was his duty, and he must lead the men, never let them doubt him or see weakness, for their sakes. It was not the Balantyne he had believed he knew.
“So wot d’yer want ter know about the Colonel for, then?” Sturton burst across his thoughts. “I in’t gonna tell yer nuffink agin ’im. In’t nothing ter tell. If yer think as ’e done suffink wrong, yer daft … even dafter an’ more iggerant than I took yer for, an that’s saying a lot.”
Tellman took the reproach without argument, because he was too confused to justify himself.
“No …” he said slowly. “No, I don’t think so. I’m looking for someone who is trying to hurt him … an enemy.” He saw the look of anger on Sturton’s face. “Possibly from the Abyssinian Campaign, perhaps not.”
“Yer got any idea wot yer doin’?” Sturton said disgustedly. “Wot kind o’enemy?”
“Someone vicious enough to try to attempt blackmail with a false story,” Tellman answered, then was afraid perhaps he had betrayed too much. He felt as if any step he took he was on uncertain ground. Suddenly everything was shifting beneath his feet.
“Then yer’d better find ’im!” Sturton said furiously. “An’ soon! I’ll ’elp yer!” He stiffened as if to move and begin straightaway.
Tellman hesitated. Why not? He could use any expert help he could obtain. “All right,” he accepted. “I need to know anything you find out about the attack on the supply train at Arogee. That’s the event that’s being lied about.”
“Right!” Sturton agreed. “Bow Street, yer said. I’ll be there.”
Tellman spent the next two days discreetly following Balantyne himself. It was not difficult, since Balantyne went out very little and was so deep in thought as never to look to either side of himself, far less behind. Tellman could have been striding step by step with him and probably not have been noticed.
The first time the General went out in a carriage with his wife, a dark, handsome woman Tellman found intimidating. He was very careful not to catch her eye, even by accident. He wondered what had made Balantyne choose her … and then realized that perhaps he had not. Maybe it was an arranged marriage, family links, or money. She was certainly elegant enough as she walked across the pavement past the General, barely looking at him, and accepted the coachman’s hand up into the open carriage.
She arranged her skirts with a single, expert movement and stared straight ahead. She did not turn as Balantyne got in beside her. He spoke to her. She replied, again without looking at him. She told the coachman to proceed before he moved to do so.
Tellman felt vaguely embarrassed for the General, as if he had been somehow rebuffed. It was a curious sensation, and one that took him entirely by surprise.
He followed them to an art exhibition where he was not permitted inside. He waited until they emerged a little over an hour later. Lady Augusta looked bright and hard—and impatient. Balantyne was speaking with a white-haired man, and they seemed deep in conversation. They regarded each other with respect which bordered on affection. Tellman remembered that the General painted in watercolors himself.
Lady Augusta tapped her foot.
Balantyne was some minutes more before he joined her. All the way home she ignored him, and back in Bedford Square she alighted from the carriage and went to the front door without waiting for him or looking back.
On the second occasion he went out alone, pale-faced and very tired. He walked quickly. He gave a threepenny piece to the urchin who swept the crossing over Great Russell Street, and a shilling to the beggar on the corner of Oxford Street.
He walked to the Jessop Club and disappeared inside, but he came out less than an hour later. Tellman followed him back to Bedford Square.
Then Tellman returned to Bow Street and went to Pitt’s old files to read the case of the murders in the Devil’s Acre and the startling tragedy of Christina Balantyne. It left him with a feeling of horror so intense the helplessness to affect it knotted inside his stomach, the anger at the pain he could not reach, the willful destruction and the loss.
He ate a brief supper without any pleasure in it, his imagination in the dark alleys of the Devil’s Acre, the blood on the cobbles, but every now and then worse scenes intruded into his imagination: frightened little girls, children no older than Pitt’s Jemi
ma, screaming … unheard, except by other little girls, cowering and just as helpless.
He wondered about Christina Balantyne and the General. Perhaps in his place he might have chosen solitary pursuits as well. Please God he would never be in such a place to know!
* * *
It was with a very different feeling that he followed Balantyne the next morning, when to Tellman’s amazement he met Charlotte Pitt on the steps of the British Museum.
Tellman felt like an intruder, a voyeur, as he saw the joy in Balantyne’s face when he caught sight of her. There was an acute vulnerability in him, as if he cared intensely and dared not acknowledge it even to himself, far less to her.
And watching her quick concern, the direct way she met his gaze, her complete candor, Tellman was suddenly aware that she had no idea of the nature or the depth of the General’s feelings. She was frightened for him. It was clear in her face. Even had Tellman not known that from Gracie, he could have guessed it watching her now.
They turned to go inside, and without even considering any other possibility, he followed them in. Then, as Charlotte glanced at a woman almost on her heels, he realized with a sudden chill, a feeling of almost nakedness, that if she saw him she would recognize him instantly.
He dropped to one knee and bent his head as if to tie his bootlace, causing the man behind him to trip and only regain his balance with difficulty, and some ill temper. The whole incident drew far more attention to him than if he had simply followed at a more discreet distance. He was furious with himself.
From now on he must remain at the far side of any room and observe them by reflection in any of the glass cases that housed certain of the exhibits. Balantyne disregarded him, he was interested only in Charlotte, but she would recognize Tellman in profile, perhaps even entirely from the back.
