entrances where coal and kitchen goods were delivered and rubbish was taken away.
So why was he at the front door, and with Balantyne’s snuffbox in his pocket?
Tellman walked along the footpath with his head down, deep in thought. He could not formulate a satisfactory answer, but he felt sure that somehow the Balantyne house had something to do with it. It was not chance. There was a reason.
He needed to know more about General Brandon Balantyne, and also about Lady Augusta.
He did not really suspect her of anything, certainly not alone, and he had very little idea of how to go about investigating her. He was not a cowardly man and held no innate respect for anyone because of their position or wealth, but he still quaked at the thought of addressing Augusta.
The General was different. Tellman understood men far better, and it would be a relatively easy business to check the General’s military career. Much of that would be public knowledge through the army. Similarly, he could find and check Albert Cole’s record of service.
“Albert Cole?” the military clerk repeated. “Middle name, Sergeant?”
“No idea.”
“Where was ’e born?”
“Don’t know.”
“Don’t know much, do you!” He was a middle-aged man who was bored by his job and made as much of it as possible, particularly in this instance of its complication and its inconvenience. Tellman was civil only with difficulty, but he needed the information.
“Only that he’s been murdered,” he replied.
“I’ll see what I can do.” The man’s face tightened and he went away to search, leaving Tellman sitting on a wooden bench in the outer office.
It was the best part of an hour before he returned, but he had the information.
“Albert Milton Cole,” he said with great importance. “This’ll be your man. Born May 26, 1838, in Battersea. Served in the 33rd Foot, it says here.” He looked up at Tellman. “That’s the Duke of Wellington’s regiment! Got a bullet wound in 1875. Left leg, ’igh up. Broke the bone. Sent ’orne and pensioned off. Nothing after that. Nothing against him though. Never married, according ter this. Any ’elp?”
“Not yet. What can you tell me about General Brandon Balantyne?”
The man’s eyebrows shot up. “Generals now, is it? That’s a different kettle o’ fish altogether. You got some authority for that?”
“Yes. I’m investigating the murder of a soldier who was found with his skull broken … on General Balantyne’s doorstep!”
The clerk hesitated, then decided he was curious himself. He had no particular love for generals. If he had to do this, and he thought he probably did, then he would look less unimportant if he did it willingly.
He went away again and came back fifteen minutes later with several sheets of paper and presented them to Tellman.
Tellman took them and read.
Brandon Peverell Balantyne had been born on March 21, 1830, the eldest son of Brandon Ellwood Balantyne of Bishop Auckland, County Durham. Educated at Addiscombe, graduated at sixteen. When he was eighteen, his father had purchased him a commission and he had sailed for India as a lieutenant in the Bengal Engineers, and was immediately involved in the Second Sikh War, where he was present at the siege of Multan and served with distinction, although wounded, at the battle of Gujrat. In 1852 he had led a column in the First Black Mountain Hazara Expedition on the Northwest Frontier, and the year after he was with an expedition against the Jowaki Afridis in Peshawar.
During the Indian Mutiny he had been with Outram and Havelock in the first relief of Lucknow, and then in its final capture. There he had served brilliantly, chasing rebel bands in Oudh and Gwalior in ’58 and ’59. He had gone on to command a division in the China War of 1860, where he had been decorated for valor.
He was in the Bombay army with General Robert Napier when Napier had been ordered to command the expedition to Abyssinia in ’67. Balantyne had gone with him.
After that Balantyne had been promoted to command himself, and remained in Africa, fighting with continued distinction in Ashantiland in ’73 and ’74, then in the Zulu Wars of ’78 and ’79. After that he retired and returned home to England permanently.
It was a career of apparent distinction and honor, and undeserved privilege, paid for in the first place by his father.
That was a deep offense to Tellman, an injustice inherent in a social system he despised. On the surface, he was more angered that apparently Balantyne’s path had never crossed that of Albert Cole.
He thanked the clerk for his assistance and left.
The following morning Tellman began the task of learning about Balantyne in earnest. He waited outside the house in Bedford Square, standing across from it on the pavement under the trees, alternatively kicking his heels or pacing back and forth, always swinging around to look at the front door or the main entrance. He had little hope that any of the servants would talk. In that sort of establishment, he knew, they had loyalties, and it was more than a servant’s job was worth to gossip about his or her employers. No one could afford to be dismissed without a reference. It was ruin.
General Balantyne emerged from the front door a little after half past ten and walked uprightly along the pavement along Bayley Street and turned left into the Tottenham Court Road down towards Oxford Street, where he turned right and walked westward. He was dressed formally in dark trousers and a beautifully tailored coat. Tellman had vivid opinions about anyone who required a servant to dress him satisfactorily.
The General spoke to no one and appeared not to look either to right or left as he went.
What was he thinking about the crowds he passed through? That they were the civilian equivalent of foot soldiers, people it was not necessary to make way for, even to regard at all? Certainly he barely seemed to be aware of them, and he spoke to no one, nor raised his hat. He passed two or three soldiers actually in uniform, but ignored them, and they him.
At Argyll Street he turned sharply right, and Tellman almost missed him climbing the steps of a handsome house and going inside.
Tellman went to the door after him and saw the brass plate on which was engraved the words THE JESSOP CLUB FOR GENTLEMEN. He hesitated. There would be a steward of some sort in the vestibule. He would no doubt know all the members. He would therefore be an excellent source of information, but again, one whose livelihood depended upon his discretion.
He must be inventive. He was serving no purpose standing in the street. People would think him a peddler! He jerked his lapels straighter, squared his shoulders and pulled the doorbell.
It was answered by a middle-aged steward in well-cut, slightly faded livery.
“Yes sir?” He regarded Tellman blankly, summing up his social status in a glance.
Tellman felt the blood burn in his face. He would have liked to tell the man his opinion of gentlemen who spent their days with their feet up or playing games of cards or billiards with each other. Parasites on decent people, the lot of them. He could also have added his contempt for those who earned their living by pandering to such leeches.
“Good morning,” he said stiffly. “I’m Sergeant Tellman of the Bow Street police station.” He held out his card as proof of it.
The steward looked at it without touching it, as if it had been unclean.
“Indeed,” he said expressionlessly.
Tellman gritted his teeth. “We are looking for a man who is pretending to be a retired army officer, of distinguished service, in order to defraud people out of considerable sums of money.”
The steward’s face darkened with disapproval. Tellman had his attention at least. “I hope you catch him!” he said vehemently.
“Doing everything we can,” Tellman replied with feeling. “This man is tall, broad-shouldered, very upright, military looking in his bearing. Dresses well.”
The steward frowned. “That describes a few that I can think of. Can you tell me anything else about him? I
