“No, ’e weren’t,” the attendant said with certainty. “Might a’ broke a bone or two. Couldn’t tell that without cutting ’im open. But shot goes through the skin, leaves a scar. There’s a knife scar on ’is arm, an’ another on ’is chest, down the side of ’is ribs. In’t nuthink on ’is legs, but look for yerself.”
“It was on his military record,” Tellman argued. “I saw it. He was wounded very badly.”
“Look for yerself!” the attendant repeated.
Tellman did so. The legs of the corpse were cold, the flesh slack when he touched it. But there were no scars, no marks where a bullet or musket ball had smashed in. This man had certainly not been shot, in the legs or anywhere else.
The attendant was watching him curiously.
“Wrong records?” he asked, twisting up his face. “Or wrong corpse?”
“I don’t know,” Tellman replied. He bit his lip. “I suppose any records could be wrong, but it doesn’t seem likely. But if this isn’t Albert Cole, who is it? And why did he have Albert Cole’s socks receipt on him? Why would anybody steal a receipt for three pairs of socks?”
“Beats me.” The attendant shrugged. “ ’ow are yer gonner find out OO this poor devil is, then? Could be anyone.”
Tellman thought furiously. “Well, it’s someone who spends a lot of time out on the streets, in boots that don’t fit very well. Look at the calluses on his feet. And he’s dirty, but he’s not a manual worker. His hands are too soft, but his nails are broken, and they were before he fought off his attacker because the dirt is in them. He’s thin … and he looks a lot like Albert Cole … enough that the lawyer who passed Cole regularly and bought bootlaces from him thought it was him.”
“Lawyer?” The attendant shrugged. “Don’ suppose ’e looked at ’is face much. More like looked at the laces an’jus’ passed a word or two.”
Tellman thought that was very probably true.
“So where yer gonner start lookin’, then?” The attendant was eager, almost proprietorial about the matter.
“With people who said Albert Cole was a thief,” Tellman replied with sudden decision. “Beginning with the pawnbroker. Maybe it was this man who took the stolen things to him.”
“Good thinking,” the attendant said respectfully. “Drop in when yer passin’ by. ’Ave a cup o’ tea and tell me wot ’appens.”
“Thank you,” Tellman answered with no intention whatever of coming back if he were not driven by inescapable duty. He would write a letter!
The pawnbroker was anything but pleased to see him. His face registered his disgust when Tellman was barely through the door.
“I told yer! I get nothin’ ’ere as is stolen, far as I know. Get orff me back and leave me alone!”
Tellman stood exactly where he was. He stared at the man, seeing his anger and discomfort with pleasure.
“You said Albert Cole came in here and sold you gold rings and other bits and pieces he found in the sewers.”
“That’s right. An’ so ’e did.” The pawnbroker squared his chin.
“No, you said it was the man whose picture I showed you,” Tellman corrected. “Thinnish sort of man, fair hair going bald a bit at the front, hatchet face, break in one eyebrow …”
“An’ you said it were a geezer called Albert Cole wot was a soldier and got ’isself killed in Bedford Square,” the pawnbroker agreed. “So wot of it? I din’t kill ’im an’ dunno ’oo did.”
“Right! I told you it was Albert Cole.” Tellman hated having to admit it. “Well, it seems it wasn’t. Army records. So now I’d like to know who it was. And I’m sure you would like to be of assistance in identifying the poor devil, since you can earn the favor of the police without dropping anyone else in it. Think again … anything you can tell me about this man who claimed he was a tosher. Perhaps he really was, and not a bootlace peddler at all?”
The pawnbroker’s face twisted with contempt. “Well if ’e were a tosher ’e didn’t find much as I ever saw. Some o’ them toshers down west does real well. I’d a’ never believed rich folks was so careless with their gold an’ stuff.”
“So tell me everything you know about him,” Tellman insisted, letting his eyes wander around the shelves speculatively. “That’s a nice clock. Handsome for the kind of person who needs to pawn their things.”
The pawnbroker bristled. “We get some very classy people in ’ere. And bad times can ’it anyone. ’It you one day, mebbe, then yer’ll not look down on folks so easy.”
“Well, if they do, I won’t have a clock like that to hock,” Tellman replied. “I’d better go to the police station and make sure the owner isn’t suddenly in a position to redeem it. Like perhaps it’s on a list of missing property. Now, this man who came and sold you jewelry, what do you remember about him-everything!”
The pawnbroker leaned forward over his counter. “Look, I’ll tell yer everything I know, then will you get ant an’ leave me alone? ’e came in ’ere once an’ some woman came in. Lottie Menken; she lives up the corner about fifty yards. She come ter ’ock ’er teapot, does it reg’lar, poor cow. She knows ’im. Called ’im Joe, or summink like that. Go an’ find ’er. She’ll tell yer Oo’eis.”
“Thank you,” Tellman said gratefully. “If you’re lucky, you won’t see me again.”
The pawnbroker breathed out a prayer, or it might have been a blasphemy.
It took Tellman nearly an hour to find Lottie Menken. She was a short woman, so immensely stout that she moved with a kind of rolling gait. Her black, ringletted hair sat on her head in uncombed profusion, rather like a hat.
“Yeah?” she said when Tellman addressed her. She was busy in her scullery making soap, which she did for a living. There were tubs of animal fats and oils to mix with soda for hard soap, but far more in quantity to mix with potash to make soft soap, which was more economical to use. He saw on shelves above her, which she presumably used the kitchen stools to reach, jars of powder blue and stone blue for the final rinse which would help remove the coarse yellowish color given by starch or natural in linen of a lower quality.
He knew better than to interrupt her work. He leant against one of the benches, casually, as if he belonged in this neighborhood, as indeed he had once in one just like it.
“I believe you know a thinnish sort of fair-haired bloke called Joe who sells things to Abbott’s pawnshop now and again. That right?”
“What if I do?” she asked without looking up. Measurements must be right or the resultant soap would be no good. “Dunno ’im much, just ter see, or pass a word.”
“What’s his full name?”
“Josiah Slingsby. Why?” Still without looking up, she asked him, “ ’Oo are yer, an’ w’y d’yer care? I in’t gettin’ mixed up in any o’ Slingsby’s business, so yer can take yerself orff outa ’ere. Go on-get aht!” Her face closed in anger, and perhaps it was also fear.
“I think he may be dead,” he said without moving.
For the first time she stopped working, her hands still, the liquid almost up to her rolled sleeves. “Joe Slingsby dead? Wot makes yer say that?”
“I think he was the body found in Bedford Square, not Albert Cole.”
This time she actually turned to look at him. There was an expression in her face which Tellman thought was hope.
“Perhaps you would come and take a look at him?” he asked. “See if it is. You’d know.” He understood the cost of wasting time for her. “It would be a service to the police which naturally you would be paid for … say, a shilling?”
She looked interested, but not yet certain.
“Cold work, identifying corpses,” he added. “We’d need a good hot dinner afterwards, and a glass of porter.”
“Yeah, I suppose we would at that.” She nodded, setting her ringlets turning. “Well then, we’d best be about it. W’ere is this corpse that’s mebbe Joe Slingsby?”
The following day Tellman went straight to see Pitt at Bow Street, to catch him before he should go out and to inform him that the body was definitely not that of Albert Cole but of Josiah Slingsby, petty thief and brawler.
