Bedford Square - Anne Perry [10]
Cornwallis was of no more than average height, lean, as if physical occupation were more natural to him than sitting behind a desk. When he moved it was with grace and control. He was not handsome—his nose was too long, too prominent—but there was balance in his face, and an honesty. The fact that he was entirely bald became him. Pitt found it difficult to think of him any other way.
“What is it?” He looked up from his desk as Pitt came into his room. It was a sultry day outside, and the windows were open, allowing in the noise of traffic from the street below, the rattle of carriage wheels, the occasional cry of a coachman or hansom driver, the heavy rumble of brewers’ drays, the sharper treble of crossing sweepers hoping for a penny, peddlers calling their wares: bootlaces, flowers, sandwaches, matches.
Pitt closed the door behind him.
“Found a body in Bedford Square early yesterday morning,” he answered. “Hoped it might be nothing to do with any of the houses there, but he had a snuffbox in his hand which belonged to General Brandon Balantyne, and it was actually on Balantyne’s doorstep that he was lying.”
“Burglary?” Cornwallis asked, the assumption in his voice. There was a slight pucker between his brows, as if he were waiting for Pitt to explain why he had bothered to mention it, let alone to come in person.
“Possibly he was burgling one of the houses and was caught in the act by a servant or the owner, there was a fight, and the thief was killed,” Pitt said. “Then, in fear of the consequences, they put him outside Balantyne’s door instead of leaving him where he was and sending for the police.”
“All right.” Cornwallis bit his lip. “I take your point, Pitt. Not the actions of innocent people, even in panic. How was he killed?”
“A blow to the head with a poker, or something like it, but there was a fight beforehand, to judge by his knuckles.” Pitt sat down in the chair opposite Cornwallis’s desk. He was comfortable in this room with its watercolor seascapes on the walls, the polished brass sextant on the shelf next to the books, not only on police matters but also a Jane Austen novel and a copy of the Bible, and several volumes of poetry: Shelley, Keats and Tennyson.
“Do you know who he is?” Cornwallis asked, placing his elbows on the desk and making a steeple of his fingers.
“Not yet, but Tellman is working on it,” Pitt answered. “There was a receipt for three pair of socks in his pocket. There’s a chance it might help. They were bought only two days before he was killed.”
“Good.” Cornwallis seemed to be unconcerned over the matter, or perhaps he was occupied with something else.
“The snuffbox in his pocket belonged to General Balantyne,” Pitt repeated.
Cornwallis frowned. “Presumably he stole it. Doesn’t mean he met his death in Balantyne’s home. I imagine—” He stopped. “Yes, I see what you mean. Unpleasant … and puzzling. I … know Balantyne, slightly. A good man. Can’t imagine him doing anything so … stupid.”
Pitt had a strong sense of Cornwallis’s anxiety, but it seemed to have been present since before Pitt had come in, as if something else held his attention so strongly he was unable to put his mind fully to what Pitt was saying.
“Nor I,” Pitt agreed.
Cornwallis jerked his head up. “What?”
“I can’t imagine General Balantyne doing anything so stupid as putting a corpse outside his own front door rather than simply calling the police,” Pitt said patiently.
“Do you know him?” Cornwallis looked at Pitt as if he had walked into the middle of a conversation and was aware he had missed the beginning.
“Yes. I investigated two previous cases in which he was concerned … indirectly. As a witness.”
“Oh. I didn’t know that.”
“Is there something troubling you?” Pitt liked Cornwallis, and while aware of his lack of political knowledge, he had a profound respect for his honesty and his moral courage. “It’s not this Tranby Croft business, is it?”
“What? Good heavens, no!” For the first time since Pitt had