The surgeon shrugged slightly, inclined his head in a salute and went back to the mortuary wagon to instruct his men in the removal of the body.
Pitt looked at his pocket watch again. It was just after quarter to five.
“I suppose it is time we started waking people,” he said to Tellman. “Come on.”
Tellman sighed heavily, but he had no option but to obey. Together they walked up the steps of the house where the body had been found, and Pitt pulled the brass doorbell. Tellman rather liked Pitt’s refusal to go to the tradesmen’s entrance, as someone of the social order of policemen should do, but while he approved the principle, he also loathed the practice. Let Pitt do it when Tellman was not with him.
It was several long, uncomfortable minutes before they heard the bolts slide and the lock turn. The door swung inward and an extremely hastily dressed footman, not in livery but in ordinary dark trousers and jacket, stood blinking at them.
“Yes sir?” he said with alarm. He was not yet practiced enough to have the really superior footman’s supercilious air.
“Good morning,” Pitt replied. “I am sorry to disturb the household so early, but I am afraid there has been an incident which necessitates my making enquiries of both the staff and the family.” He held out his card. “Superintendent Pitt, of the Bow Street Station. Would you present it to your master and ask him if he will spare me a few moments of his time. I am afraid it concerns a very serious crime, and I cannot afford the pleasantries of waiting until a more civilized hour.”
“A crime?” The footman looked startled. “We haven’t been burgled, sir. There’s been no crime here. You must have made a mistake.” He started to close the door again, relieved to shut the whole matter outside on the street. It was somebody else’s problem after all.
Tellman moved forward as if to put his foot in the doorway, then resisted. It was undignified. He hated this. Give him ordinary people to deal with any day. The whole notion of being in service to someone else was abomination to him. It was no way for a decent man, or woman, to make a living.
“The burglary is incidental, if indeed there was one,” Pitt said firmly. “The murder is my concern.”
That stopped the footman as if frozen. The blood fled from his face.
“The … the what?”
“Murder,” Pitt repeated quietly. “Unfortunately, we found the body of a man on your doorstep about an hour ago. Now, would you please be good enough to waken your master and inform him that I need to speak to everyone in the house, and I would like his permission to do so.”
The footman swallowed, his throat jerking. “Yes … yes sir. If … I mean …” His voice trailed off. He had no idea where one left policemen to wait at five o’clock in the morning. Normally one would not permit them on the premises at all. If one had to, it would be the local constable, perhaps for a hot cup of tea on a cold day, and that in the kitchen, where such people belonged.
“I’ll wait in the morning room,” Pitt said to assist him, and because he had no intention of being left shivering on the step.
“Yes sir … I’ll tell the General.” The footman backed in, and Pitt and Tellman followed him.
“General?” Pitt asked.
“Yes sir. This is General Brandon Balantyne’s home.”
The name was familiar. It took Pitt a moment to place it. It must be the same General Balantyne who had previously lived in Callander Square when Pitt was investigating the deaths of the babies, nearly a decade before, and who had also been involved in the tragedies in the Devil’s Acre three to four years later.
“I didn’t know that.” It was a foolish remark, and he realized it the moment it had crossed his lips. He saw Tellman turn to look at him with surprise. He would have preferred not to discuss the past with Tellman. If he did not have to, he would let it lie. He walked smartly across the hall after the footman and followed him into the morning room, leaving the door open for Tellman.
Inside was so exactly what Pitt expected it jerked him back sharply, and for a moment the intervening years disappeared. The shelf of books was the same, as in the previous house, the dark brown and green-leather furniture, polished with use. On the mellow wood of the small table was the brass replica of the cannon at Waterloo, gleaming in the gaslight the footman had lit and turned up for them. On the wall over the mantelpiece hung the picture Pitt remembered of the charge of the Royal Scots Greys, again from Waterloo. The Zulu assegai was on the wall next to the fireplace and the paintings of the African veld, pale colors bleached by sun, red earth, flat-topped acacia trees.
He had not meant to look at Tellman, but he turned and caught the sergeant’s eye accidentally. Tellman was staring, his face a mask of disapproval. Tellman had not even met the man, but he knew he was a general, he knew that at the time of his service officers had purchased their commissions rather than earned them. They came from a few wealthy military families, all educated at the best schools, Eton, Rugby, Harrow, and then possibly a year or two at Oxford or Cambridge, more probably straight into the army-and at a rank no working-class man could hope to achieve even after a lifetime’s service, risking his life on the battlefield and his health in foreign climes for no more recompense than the king’s shilling.
Pitt knew Balantyne, and liked him, but there was no point in saying that to Tellman. Tellman had seen too much injustice and had felt it too keenly among his own people to hear anything Pitt would say. So he kept silence, and waited, standing by the window watching the light broaden across the square outside and the shade deepen under the trees in the center. The birds were loud, starlings and sparrows. A delivery cart rattled by, stopping regularly. An errand boy on a bicycle came around the corner rather too sharply and steadied himself with an effort, his cap falling over his ears.
The morning room door opened, and Pitt and Tellman both turned to face it. In the entranceway stood a tall man with broad shoulders. His fair brown hair was graying at the temples and beginning to thin. His features were powerful, with an aquiline nose, high cheekbones and a broad mouth. He was leaner than when Pitt had last seen him, as if time and grief had worn down the reserves of his strength, but he still stood very upright-in fact, stiffly, his shoulders squared. He was wearing a white shirt and a plain, dark smoking jacket, but it was easy for the mind’s eye to see him in uniform.
“Good morning, Pitt,” he said quietly. “Should I congratulate you on your promotion? My footman said you are now in charge of the Bow Street Station.”
“Thank you, General Balantyne,” Pitt acknowledged, feeling a faintly self-conscious flush in his cheeks. “This is Sergeant Tellman. I am sorry to disturb you so early, sir, but I am afraid the beat constable found a dead body in the square at about quarter to four this morning. He was on the doorstep just outside this house.” He saw the distaste on Balantyne’s face, and perhaps shock, although of course the footman had told him, so he was not taken by surprise now.
“Who is it?” Balantyne asked, closing the door behind him.
“We don’t know yet,” Pitt replied. “But he had papers and other belongings on him, so we shall almost certainly be able to identify him quite soon.” He watched Balantyne’s face but saw no discernible change, certainly no tightening of lips or shadow across the eyes.
“Do you know how he died?” Balantyne asked. He waved one hand at the chairs to invite Pitt to be seated, and included Tellman in a general way.
“Thank you, sir,” Pitt accepted. “But I should like your permission for Sergeant Tellman to speak to your household staff. Someone may have heard an altercation or disturbance.”
Balantyne’s face was bleak. “I understand that the man did not meet a natural death?”
“I am afraid so. He was struck across the head, most likely after a fight, not long, but very fierce.”
Balantyne’s eyes widened. “And you think it happened on my doorstep?”
“That I don’t yet know.”
“By all means have the sergeant speak to my staff.”
Pitt nodded at Tellman, who left eagerly, closing the door behind him. Pitt sat down in one of the large, green-leather-covered armchairs, and Balantyne sat a little stiffly in the one opposite.
“There is nothing I can tell you,” Balantyne went on. “My bedroom is at the front of the house, but I heard nothing. A street robbery of such violence would be extraordinary in this area.” A fleeting anxiety puckered his face, a sadness.
“He wasn’t robbed,” Pitt answered, disliking what he must do next. “At least not in any usual sense. He still had money.” He saw Balantyne’s surprise. “And this.” He pulled the snuffbox out of his pocket and held it out in the
