The only other thing that seemed relevant to the search for either his identity or that of the person who had killed him seemed to be the receipt for the three pairs of socks. Actually, he was surprised that a man in such circumstances should purchase socks from a shop which had its name on the paper. He would have expected him to buy them from a peddler or market stall. Still, the receipt was there, so he should follow it.
He was relieved to be able to go out into the sun again, and the relatively fresh air of the street with its smell of smoke, horse dung and dry gutters, and the sound of hooves on the cobbles, peddlers’ cries, the clatter of wheels, and somewhere in the distance a barrel organ and an errand boy whistling off-key.
He caught a horse-drawn omnibus, running after it the last few paces as it drew away from the curb and swinging himself onto the step to the great disapproval of a fat woman in gray bombazine.
“Yer’ll get yerself killed like that, young man!” she said critically.
“I hope not, but thank you for the warning,” he replied with politeness, which surprised both of them. He paid his fare to the conductor and looked without success for a seat, being obliged to remain standing, holding on to the post in the center of the aisle.
He got off again at High Holborn and walked the two blocks to Red Lion Square. He found the haberdasher’s shop easily and went inside with the receipt in his hand.
“Mornin’, sir,” the young man behind the counter said helpfully. “Can I show you anything? We have excellent gentlemen’s shirts at very agreeable prices.”
“Socks,” Tellman answered, wondering if he could afford a new shirt. Those on display looked very clean and crisp.
“Yes sir. What color, sir? We have ’em all.”
Tellman remembered the socks the dead man had been wearing. “Gray,” he answered.
“Certainly, sir. What size would you be requiring?”
“Nine.” If the dead man could afford socks, so could he.
The young man bent to a drawer behind him and produced three different pairs of gray socks in size nine.
Tellman selected the pair he liked best, glanced quickly at the price, and produced the money, leaving himself sufficient for his bus fare back to Bow Street but unfortunately not enough for lunch.
“Thank you, sir. Will that be all?”
“No.” Tellman held out the receipt. “I’m a policeman. Can you tell me who bought these gray socks five days ago?”
The man took the receipt. “Oh, dear. We sell a lot of socks, sir. And gray is a popular color this time o’ year. Lighter than black, you see, and better looking than brown. Always look a bit country, brown, if you know what I mean?”
“Yes. Think hard, if you please. It’s very important.”
“Done something wrong, has he? They were paid for, that I can swear to.”
“I can see that. Don’t know what he did, but he’s dead.”
The young man paled. Perhaps it had been a tactical error to have told him that.
“Gray socks,” Tellman repeated grimly.
“Yes sir. What did he look like, do you know?”
“About my height,” Tellman said, thinking with an unpleasant chill how much he resembled the man on the step. “Thin, wiry, fairish hair receding a little.” That at least was different. Tellman had dark hair, straight and still thick. “And mid-fifties, I would guess. Lived or worked outdoors, but not with his hands.”
“Sounds like two or three what come here often enough,” the young man said thoughtfully. “Could be George Mason or Willie Strong, or could be someone as never came but the once. Don’t know everybody’s name. Can’t you tell me anything else about him?”
Tellman thought hard. This might be their only chance to identify him.
“He had a long knife or bayonet scar on his chest.” He indicated on himself the place where it had been, then realized the futility of telling the salesman such a thing. “Could have been a soldier,” he added, more to defend his remark than anything else.
The salesman’s face brightened. “There was one gentleman come in, and I think he did buy several pairs, thinking on it. Had a bit of a conversation, ’cos he spoke about being a soldier, and how important it was to keep your feet right. I remember he said, ‘Soldier with sore feet is use to neither man nor beast.’ That’s why he sold bootlaces himself, now he’s fallen on hard times. But I can’t tell you his name or where he lives. Don’t recall as I ever saw him before. An’ didn’t see him that well this time. It were a fine evenin’, but he was muffled up, said he had a chill. But he was thinnish and about your height. Couldn’t say dark or fair.”
“Where did he sell his bootlaces?” Tellman asked quickly. “Did he say?”
“Yes, yes, he did. Corner of Lincoln’s Inn and Great Queen Street.”
“Thank you.”
It took Tellman the rest of the day, but he found George Mason and Willie Strong, the two men the salesclerk had named, and they were both quite definitely alive.
Then he made enquiries about the peddlers in Lincoln’s Inn Fields and learned that there was normally an old soldier named Albert Cole on the northwest corner near Great Queen Street. However, no one recalled seeing him for five or six days. Several barristers from the Inns of Court habitually bought their bootlaces from him and described him passably well. One of them offered to come to the mortuary the next day and identify the body if he could.
“Yes,” the barrister said unhappily. “I am afraid that looks very much like Cole.”
“Can you say for sure that it’s him?” Tellman pressed. “Don’t say if you aren’t happy about it.”
“I’m not exactly happy about it!” the barrister snapped. “But yes, I am quite certain. Poor devil.” He fished in his pocket and brought out four guineas. He put them on the table. “Put this towards a decent burial for him. He used to be a soldier. Served his Queen and country. He shouldn’t end up in a pauper’s grave.”
“Thank you,” Tellman said with surprise. He had not expected such generosity towards a stranger, and a peddler at that, from a class of man for whom he had an innate contempt.
The barrister gave him a chilly look and turned to leave.
“Do you know anything else about him, sir?” Tellman said as he followed him into the street. “It’s extremely important.”
The barrister slowed unwillingly, but his training in the law was deeply implanted.
“He was a soldier. Invalided out, I think. I don’t know what regiment, I never asked.”
“I can probably find that out,” Tellman said, keeping step. “Anything else, sir? Don’t know where he lived or if he had any other place except Lincoln’s Inn Fields?”
“I don’t think so. He was usually there, any weather.”
“Ever mention where he got his bootlaces?”
The barrister looked at him with surprise. “No! I merely purchased the odd pair from him, Sergeant. I did not indulge in long conversations. I am sorry this man is dead, but I cannot be of further assistance.” He pulled his gold watch out of his pocket and opened it. “Now, I have spared as much time as I can afford-in fact, rather more. I must take a cab back to my office. I wish you Godspeed in finding his killer. Good day to you.”
Tellman watched him disappear into the crowd. At least he now knew the identity of the dead man, and from as good a witness as he was likely to find-certainly one who would stand up in court.
But what had Albert Cole, ex-soldier, present seller of bootlaces, been doing in the middle of the night in Bedford Square? It was less than a mile away, but peddlers rarely moved even a couple of blocks. If they did they were on somebody else’s patch, and that was a mortal offense and likely to bring them considerable unpleasantness. Peddlers were very seldom violent people, but even if they were, it would be cause for a severe fight, but not murder, except by accident.
But one did not peddle bootlaces at midnight.
Obviously, something quite different had taken him to General Balantyne’s front doorstep. He could not have been courting a maid. That would have taken him to the back. The last thing he would want would be to go to the front door, exposed to the street, the beat constable, any passerby. And certainly no maid keeping an assignation would let him in at the front.
For that matter, why would anyone intending burglary be a moment longer at the front than necessary? Surely he would slip from one back alley to another, through the mews if possible, backyards and tradesmen’s
