she would have luxuriated in delicious food in whose preparation she had taken no part. But the matter in hand was far too serious, and it had her entire attention.
Balantyne struggled to remember the names of all the men he knew who had been involved in the action in Abyssinia. With a little effort he managed all the officers, but when it came to the private soldiers he could bring to mind only about half.
“There will be military records,” he said somewhat glumly. “Although I doubt they will be able to help. It was so long ago.”
“Somebody remembers,” she pointed out. “Whoever sent that letter is connected one way or another. We’ll find these people.” She looked down the page from the small notebook he had purchased before coming to dine. There were fifteen names. “The army will know where they live, won’t it?”
He looked deeply unhappy. “After this length of time they may well have settled anywhere in the country-or the world, for that matter. Or, as you pointed out, they may no longer be alive.”
She felt his misery and understood his fear. She had certainly felt it herself several times, not the sharp, sick terror of physical pain or destruction, but the cold, creeping fear of loss, hurt to the mind and the heart, loneliness, shame, guilt, the desert of being unloved. She was not threatened by this. She must be strong for both of them.
“Well, the person we are looking for is definitely alive, and I imagine living here in London,” she said firmly. “Where did you send the snuffbox to?”
His eyes widened. “A messenger called for it, a boy on a bicycle. I spoke to him, but he had no idea where it was going, except that a gentleman had paid him and would meet him in the park at dusk. He couldn’t describe this gentleman at all, except that he was wearing a checked coat and a cloth cap, also with checks. It is presumably a disguise. No one would dress like that for any other reason. Whether he was the blackmailer or not, I don’t know. He might have been passing it on again.” He took a deep breath. “But you are quite right. He is here in London. There is something I did not tell you … the man who was found dead on my doorstep had my snuffbox in his pocket.”
“Oh …” She realized with a drenching coldness how that could be read by any investigating police, even Pitt. “Oh … I see.” Now Balantyne’s fear was better explained.
He was watching her, waiting for the anger, the blame, the changed perception.
“Do you know who he is?” she asked, meeting his eyes.
“No. I expected to, when I went to the mortuary to look at him for Pitt, but so far as I know I have never seen him before.”
“Could he have been a soldier?”
“Certainly.”
“Could he have been the blackmailer?”
“I don’t know. I half wish he were, and then he would be dead.” His fingers on the tablecloth were stiff. It took him a deliberate effort of will not to clench them. She could see it in the knotting and then relaxing of his hand. “But I did not kill him … and who else would … on my doorstep? Except the real blackmailer-to draw police attention to me!” He was shaking now, very slightly. “I watch every delivery of the post for another letter, telling me what he wants. I shall not give it to him. And then he will spread the story-perhaps to the police as well.”
“Then we must find someone who was there and can disprove the story,” she said with more anger and hope than conviction. “You must have friends, connections, who can tell you where to find these people.” She indicated the list. “Let us begin now!”
He did not argue, but the misery in his face and the weariness in the angles of his body betrayed the fact that he did not hope to succeed. He was doing it simply because it was not in his nature to surrender, even when he knew he was beaten.
Tellman was convinced that in some way Albert Cole was connected with General Balantyne, and he was determined that he would discover what it was. Having exhausted the immediate avenues of knowledge regarding Balantyne, he returned to Cole’s military career. That was the most obvious possibility.
It was in reviewing the history of Cole’s regiment, the 33rd Foot, that he saw that it had served in the Abyssinian Campaign of 1867-68. That was where it crossed Balantyne’s Indian service, when he, too, had been briefly sent to Africa. That was it! Suddenly it made sense. They had served together. It was something in that campaign which had brought Cole to Bedford Square, and led to his murder.
He could feel his pulse quicken and a thin thread of excitement stir inside him. He must go to Keppel Street to report this vital piece of news to Pitt.
He took the omnibus and got off at Tottenham Court Road and walked across the few hundred yards to Pitt’s house.
He rang the bell and stepped back. Of course it would be Gracie who would answer. Unconsciously, he ran his fingers around inside his collar, as if it were too tight, then ran his hands over his hair, pushing it back quite unnecessarily. His mouth was a little dry.
The door opened. Gracie looked surprised. She smoothed her apron over her hips while looking at him very directly.
“I’ve come to report to Mr. Pitt,” he said rather too abruptly.
“I s’pose yer’d better come in,” she said before he had a chance to explain himself more graciously. She moved to allow him past her.
He accepted, hearing his boots clattering over the linoleum all along the corridor to the kitchen. Gracie’s feet behind him sounded light, tapping, feminine. But she was as small as a child.
He went into the kitchen expecting to see Pitt sitting at the table, then realized his mistake. He would be in the parlor, naturally. Gracie would fetch him in here to see Tellman, not at the front of the house. It was not a social call.
He stood stiffly in the middle of the room, smelling the warmth, the flour from baking, the clean linen, the steam from the kettle on the stove, the faint grit of coal. The early-evening sun shone through the window onto the blue-and-white-ringed china on the dresser. Two cats lay by the fire, one ginger and white, one black as the coal in the scuttle.
“Don’t just stand there like a lamppost,” Gracie said sharply. “Sit down.” She pointed to one of the wooden chairs. “D’yer want a cup o’tea?”
“I’ve come to report some very important information to Mr. Pitt,” he said stiffly. “Not to sit in your kitchen drinking cups of tea. You’d better go and tell him I’m here.” He did not sit.
“ ’e in’t ’ere,” she told him, moving the kettle onto the center of the hob. “If it’s that important then yer’d best leave a message wif me. I’ll see as ’e gets it as soon as ’e comes in.”
He hesitated. It was important. The kettle was steaming nicely. It was a long time since he had sat down, let alone had anything to eat or drink. His feet were hot and aching.
The black cat stretched, yawned, and went back to sleep.
“I made some cake, if yer like?” Gracie offered, moving quickly around the kitchen, fetching the teapot down and then trying hard to reach the tea caddy, which had been pushed to the back of the shelf. She stretched, then tried jumping. She really was very small.
He went over, reaching it effortlessly. He handed it to her.
“I can get it meself!” she said tartly, taking it from him. “Wot d’yer fink I do w’en yer in’t ’ere?”
“Drink water,” he replied.
She shot him a razor-sharp look, but took the caddy in her hand and went over to the stove. “Yer’d best get some plates down too, then,” she instructed. “T want some cake, whether you do or not.”
He obeyed. He might as well leave the message with her. It would get to Pitt the fastest way.
They sat on opposite sides of the kitchen table, stiff and very formal, sipping tea that was too hot and eating the cake, which was excellent.
He told her about Albert Cole and the 33rd Foot Regiment, and the Abyssinian Expedition, and that Balantyne had been there too, seconded from India.
She looked very serious indeed, as if the news upset her.
“I’ll tell ’im,” she promised. “D’yer think as General Balantyne did this feller in, then?”
“Could have.” He would not commit himself too far. If he said yes, and was then proved mistaken, she would lose respect for him.
