Bedford Square - Anne Perry [39]
“Then we must find someone who was there and can disprove the story,” she said with more anger and hope than conviction. “You must have friends, connections, who can tell you where to find these people.” She indicated the list. “Let us begin now!”
He did not argue, but the misery in his face and the weariness in the angles of his body betrayed the fact that he did not hope to succeed. He was doing it simply because it was not in his nature to surrender, even when he knew he was beaten.
Tellman was convinced that in some way Albert Cole was connected with General Balantyne, and he was determined that he would discover what it was. Having exhausted the immediate avenues of knowledge regarding Balantyne, he returned to Cole’s military career. That was the most obvious possibility.
It was in reviewing the history of Cole’s regiment, the 33rd Foot, that he saw that it had served in the Abyssinian Campaign of 1867-68. That was where it crossed Balantyne’s Indian service, when he, too, had been briefly sent to Africa. That was it! Suddenly it made sense. They had served together. It was something in that campaign which had brought Cole to Bedford Square, and led to his murder.
He could feel his pulse quicken and a thin thread of excitement stir inside him. He must go to Keppel Street to report this vital piece of news to Pitt.
He took the omnibus and got off at Tottenham Court Road and walked across the few hundred yards to Pitt’s house.
He rang the bell and stepped back. Of course it would be Gracie who would answer. Unconsciously, he ran his fingers around inside his collar, as if it were too tight, then ran his hands over his hair, pushing it back quite unnecessarily. His mouth was a little dry.
The door opened. Gracie looked surprised. She smoothed her apron over her hips while looking at him very directly.
“I’ve come to report to Mr. Pitt,” he said rather too abruptly.
“I s’pose yer’d better come in,” she said before he had a chance to explain himself more graciously. She moved to allow him past her.
He accepted, hearing his boots clattering over the linoleum all along the corridor to the kitchen. Gracie’s feet behind him sounded light, tapping, feminine. But she was as small as a child.
He went into the kitchen expecting to see Pitt sitting at the table, then realized his mistake. He would be in the parlor, naturally. Gracie would fetch him in here to see Tellman, not at the front of the house. It was not a social call.
He stood stiffly in the middle of the room, smelling the warmth, the flour from baking, the clean linen, the steam from the kettle on the stove, the faint grit of coal. The early-evening sun shone through the window onto the blue-and-white-ringed china on the dresser. Two cats lay by the fire, one ginger and white, one black as the coal in the scuttle.
“Don’t just stand there like a lamppost,” Gracie said sharply. “Sit down.” She pointed to one of the wooden chairs. “D’yer want a cup o’tea?”
“I’ve come to report some very important information to Mr. Pitt,” he said stiffly. “Not to sit in your kitchen drinking cups of tea. You’d better go and tell him I’m here.” He did not sit.
“ ’e in’t ’ere,” she told him, moving the kettle onto the center of the hob. “If it’s that important then yer’d best leave a message wif me. I’ll see as ’e gets it as soon as ’e comes in.”
He hesitated. It was important. The kettle was steaming nicely. It was a long time since he had sat down, let alone had anything to eat or drink. His feet were hot and aching.
The black cat stretched, yawned, and went back to sleep.
“I made some cake, if yer like?” Gracie offered, moving quickly around the kitchen, fetching the teapot down and then trying hard to reach the tea caddy, which had been pushed to the back of the shelf. She stretched, then tried jumping. She really was very small.
He went over, reaching it effortlessly. He handed it to her.
“I can get it meself!” she said tartly, taking it from him. “Wot d’yer fink