natured too, agreeable. She had married Billy Tomkinson. At the time that had hurt. He was surprised that he could think of it so easily now, even with a smile.
What would Gracie have made of Ethel? His smile widened. He could hear her voice in his mind. “Great useless article!” she’d have said. He could imagine the tolerant scorn on her face with its wide eyes and thin, strong features. She was strong. She had all the courage and determination in the world. She’d never let you down, never run away from anything. Like a little terrier, face anyone. And she knew right from wrong. Conscience like iron. No, maybe more like steel, sharp … and bright. Funny how much that sort ofthing could matter when you really thought about it.
Not that Gracie wasn’t pretty, in her own way. She had a beautiful neck, very smooth, and the daintiest ears he had ever seen. And nice fingernails, oval-shaped and always pink and clean.
This was ridiculous. He should stop daydreaming and get on with his job. He needed to find out a great deal more about Albert Cole. He bought another pint of ale and struck up a conversation with a large man standing at the bar.
He left an hour later, having heard nothing but good of Cole. In the opinion of the barman and other regulars he had spoken to, Cole was a decent, cheerful, hardworking man as honest as the day, careful with his money but always ready to stand a friend a drink when it was his turn.
And occasionally, on a wet evening when the weather was too harsh to expect anyone to buy bootlaces, he would take three or four pints and make them last several hours, and then he would tell tales of his military career. Sometimes there were past war stories of Europe, sometimes heroic deeds of his regiment, which had been the Duke of Wellington’s own and had fought brilliantly against the French in the Napoleonic Wars. And sometimes, if thoroughly pressed-and it needed that because he was a modest man, even shy when it came to his own deeds-he would talk of the Abyssinian Campaign. He reckoned General Napier was the equal of any soldier on earth, and was immensely proud of having served under his command.
Tellman left thoroughly angry and confused. The conflicting views of Cole made no sense. He presented two faces: one honest, ordinary, a man like ten thousand others, who had served his country and now lived in a boardinghouse and sold bootlaces on a street corner, patronized by the well-to-do of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, drinking at the Bull and Gate among friends. The other was a thief who sold his takings to a pawnshop, presumably broke into houses in places like Bedford Square, and was murdered for his pains.
And he had had the snuffbox in his pocket.
But if he was killed because he was trying to rob someone, what was he doing outside the house, not inside it?
Could he have been struck somewhere else and left for dead, and then crawled away? Was he attempting to get help when he dragged himself up General Balantyne’s step?
Tellman walked smartly east along High Holborn and turned north up Southampton Row towards Theobald’s Road. He would make more enquiries.
But they elicited nothing that clarified the situation. A running patterer, chanting the latest news and gossip for the entertainment of the public, recounted Cole’s death in doggerel verse. Tellman paid him handsomely and learned that Cole was an ordinary man, a trifle sober but a good enough seller of bootlaces, and well liked by the people of the area. He was known for the odd kindness, a hot cup of soup for the flower seller, bootlaces for nothing as a present to an old man, always a cheerful word.
A constable at the local police station who had seen his sketched picture in the newspaper said he recognized him as a petty thief of a particularly quarrelsome nature who lived around Shoreditch, to the east of there, where he had last been posted. The man had an odd gap in his left eyebrow where a childhood scar ran across it. He was vicious, given to sudden outbursts of temper, and had running feuds with at least one of the local fencers of stolen goods in Shoreditch and Clerkenwell.
A prostitute said he was funny and extravagant, and she was sorry he was dead.
By the time Tellman left the neighborhood of Lincoln’s Inn Fields and High Holborn, it was too late to go to Bow Street, but the contradictions in Albert Cole’s character weighed too heavily on him not to report them to Pitt as soon as possible.
He thought about it for several minutes. It was still light, but it was nearly eight o’clock. The sandwich in the Bull and Gate was a long time ago. He was thirsty and tired. His legs ached. A really hot, fresh cup of tea would be marvelous, and time to sit down-for at least half an hour, if not an hour.
But duty must prevail!
He would go and report all this at Keppel Street. That was the proper answer. He could walk it in twenty minutes, easily.
But when he got there, his feet hot, his legs aching, Pitt was not at home; neither was Mrs. Pitt. Gracie answered the door looking cool and fresh in a starched apron.
He was dismayed.
“Oh …” he said, his heart racing as he stood on the front step. “That’s a shame, because I really should tell him what I’ve learned today.”
“Well, if it’s important yer’d better come in,” she answered, pulling the door wider and staring at him with a mixture of satisfaction and defiance. She must really want to know about Albert Cole very much.
“Thank you,” he said stiffly, following her inside and waiting while she closed the door, then walking behind her along the passage back to the kitchen. It had the same warm comfortable smell it always did: scrubbed boards, clean linen, steam.
“Well, sit down then,” she ordered. “I can’t be getting’ on wif anything wif you standin’ in the middle o’ the floor. Spec’ me ter walk ’round yer?”
He sat down obediently. His mouth felt as dry as the pavements he had been walking.
Gracie surveyed him critically from his slicked-back hair to his dusty boots.
“Look like a fourpenny rabbit, you do. I s’pose you in’t ’ad nuffink ter eat in hours? I got some good cold mutton an’ mashed potatoes an’ greens. I can make you bubble an’ squeak, if yer like?” She did not wait for him to answer but bent down and pulled the skillet out of the cupboard and set it on the top of the stove. Automatically, she pulled the kettle over as well.
“If you’ve got it to spare,” he said, breathing in deeply.
“ ’Course I ’ave,” she answered without looking at him. “So wot is it yer come ter say as is so important? Yer found out summink?”
“Of course I have.” He mimicked her tone. “I’ve been looking into Albert Cole’s life. Something of a mystery, he is.” He leaned back in the chair and folded his arms, making himself more comfortable. He watched as she moved about the kitchen swiftly. She cut an onion off the string hanging by the scullery door and took it to the chopping board. She melted a lump of lard in the skillet and then with swift, light movements began to chop the onion into tiny cubes and drop them into the hissing fat. It smelled and sounded good. It was nice to watch a woman busy.
“So wot’s the mystery?” she said. “ ’Ceptin’ ’oo killed ’im or why, an’ why did they leave ’im on the General’s doorstep.”
“Because he’s a decent soldier who served his Queen and country in a crack regiment, then, when he was wounded, came home and sold bootlaces in the street,” he replied. “And by night he’s a quarrelsome thief who picked the wrong house to burgle in Bedford Square.”
She swiveled around to look at him. “So yer got it all solved then?” she said with wide eyes.
“No, of course I haven’t,” he retorted rather sharply. He wished he could have presented her with some brilliant answer, maybe even before Pitt did. But all he had were pieces, and they did not make sense.
She remained staring at him. Her face softened.
He thought in her own way that she really was pretty, but with character; not all peaches and cream, with no taste.
“Some people said ’e was good an’ said ’e was a thief too?” she asked.
“No. Different people,” he answered. “Seems to have had two quite opposite sides to his life. But I don’t know why. It’s not as if he had any family, or any job where he had to impress people.”
“Oh!” She whisked around as the fat in the pan sputtered loudly. She pushed the onions around with a spoon, then stirred the cabbage in with the mashed potato and spooned the whole lot into the skillet. While it was heating and browning nicely, she carved three generous pieces off the cold mutton joint and set them on one of the blue-
