Bedford Square - Anne Perry [23]
“Thank you.”
It took Tellman the rest of the day, but he found George Mason and Willie Strong, the two men the salesclerk had named, and they were both quite definitely alive.
Then he made enquiries about the peddlers in Lincoln’s Inn Fields and learned that there was normally an old soldier named Albert Cole on the northwest corner near Great Queen Street. However, no one recalled seeing him for five or six days. Several barristers from the Inns of Court habitually bought their bootlaces from him and described him passably well. One of them offered to come to the mortuary the next day and identify the body if he could.
“Yes,” the barrister said unhappily. “I am afraid that looks very much like Cole.”
“Can you say for sure that it’s him?” Tellman pressed. “Don’t say if you aren’t happy about it.”
“I’m not exactly happy about it!” the barrister snapped. “But yes, I am quite certain. Poor devil.” He fished in his pocket and brought out four guineas. He put them on the table. “Put this towards a decent burial for him. He used to be a soldier. Served his Queen and country. He shouldn’t end up in a pauper’s grave.”
“Thank you,” Tellman said with surprise. He had not expected such generosity towards a stranger, and a peddler at that, from a class of man for whom he had an innate contempt.
The barrister gave him a chilly look and turned to leave.
“Do you know anything else about him, sir?” Tellman said as he followed him into the street. “It’s extremely important.”
The barrister slowed unwillingly, but his training in the law was deeply implanted.
“He was a soldier. Invalided out, I think. I don’t know what regiment, I never asked.”
“I can probably find that out,” Tellman said, keeping step. “Anything else, sir? Don’t know where he lived or if he had any other place except Lincoln’s Inn Fields?”
“I don’t think so. He was usually there, any weather.”
“Ever mention where he got his bootlaces?”
The barrister looked at him with surprise. “No! I merely purchased the odd pair from him, Sergeant. I did not indulge in long conversations. I am sorry this man is dead, but I cannot be of further assistance.” He pulled his gold watch out of his pocket and opened it. “Now, I have spared as much time as I can afford—in fact, rather more. I must take a cab back to my office. I wish you Godspeed in finding his killer. Good day to you.”
Tellman watched him disappear into the crowd. At least he now knew the identity of the dead man, and from as good a witness as he was likely to find—certainly one who would stand up in court.
But what had Albert Cole, ex-soldier, present seller of bootlaces, been doing in the middle of the night in Bedford Square? It was less than a mile away, but peddlers rarely moved even a couple of blocks. If they did they were on somebody else’s patch, and that was a mortal offense and likely to bring them considerable unpleasantness. Peddlers were very seldom violent people, but even if they were, it would be cause for a severe fight, but not murder, except by accident.
But one did not peddle bootlaces at midnight.
Obviously, something quite different had taken him to General Balantyne’s front doorstep. He could not have been courting a maid. That would have taken him to the back. The last thing he would want would be to go to the front door, exposed to the street, the beat constable, any passerby. And certainly no maid keeping an assignation would let him in at the front.
For that matter, why would anyone intending burglary be a moment longer at the front than necessary? Surely he would slip from one back alley to another, through the mews if possible, backyards and tradesmen’s entrances where coal and kitchen goods were delivered and rubbish was taken away.
So why was he at the front door, and with Balantyne’s snuffbox in his pocket?
Tellman walked along the footpath with his head down, deep in thought. He could not formulate a satisfactory answer, but he felt sure that somehow the Balantyne house had something to do with it. It was not chance. There