Bedford Square - Anne Perry [42]
He did not bother to leave any message for Tellman. The sergeant could proceed perfectly well alone. He did not need Pitt, or anyone else, to instruct him in the pursuit of the recent life and habits of Albert Cole.
Back in the street, Pitt walked around to Drury Lane and almost immediately found a hansom. He was aware of nothing as the cab turned and went south: not the other traffic; the fine, blustery morning; two brewers’ draymen shouting at each other; or the traffic stopping for a magnificent hearse with four perfectly matched black horses, their black plumes waving. Nor did he notice, three blocks farther on, an open brougham with six pretty girls giggling and showing off, waving parasols to the imminent peril of all other horse-drawn vehicles within striking distance of them.
He was admitted to Cornwallis’s office immediately and found him standing, as so often, by the window overlooking the street. Cornwallis turned as Pitt came in. He looked pale, and there were dark shadows around his eyes and a thin tenseness in his lips.
“Good morning,” he said quickly as Pitt closed the door. “Come in.” He waved in a very general way towards the chairs in front of the desk, but remained standing, balanced as if he would begin to pace back and forth the moment he had Pitt’s total attention. “Do you know of Sigmund Tannifer?”
“No.”
Cornwallis was staring at him. His body was rigid, his hands behind his back. “He’s a banker, very prominent in the City, very powerful man in financial circles.”
Pitt waited.
As if driven by compulsion, Cornwallis began to pace: five strides one way, turn smartly, five strides the other. The office could have been the quarterdeck sailing before the wind into battle.
“He called me last night,” he began, speaking jerkily. “He sounded … distressed.” He reached the end and turned again, glancing at Pitt. “Wouldn’t say what it was, but asked me about the Bedford Square business. Asked me who was in charge of the case.” He swiveled around and came back. “When I told him you were, he asked if he could see you … privately … as soon as possible—in fact, this morning.” He started back again, hands still locked behind him. “I asked him if he had any information regarding it. Thought he might have been burgled or know someone who had … someone in Bedford Square.” He stopped, his eyes puzzled, his face almost bruised looking. “He said he didn’t know anything about it. It was another matter, private and very grave.” He reached over to the desk and passed Pitt a slip of paper. “This is his address. He is at home, waiting for you.”
Pitt took the paper and glanced at it. Tannifer lived in Chelsea.
“Yes sir. I’ll go now.”
“Good. Thank you.” Cornwallis stood still at last. “Let me know what it is. I’ll be back by the time you are … I daresay.”
“Back?” Pitt asked.
“Ah … yes.” Cornwallis let out his breath slowly. “Have to go to my club … the Jessop Club. Don’t really want to, can’t spare the time.” He smiled fleetingly, an effort to hide his reluctance. He was dreading it, as if already his friends and colleagues would somehow know what was in the letter and believe it, or at best wonder. “Have to,” he went on explaining. “On a committee for charity. Too important not to go. For children.” He looked vaguely embarrassed as he said it, and turned quickly to pick up his hat and follow Pitt out of the door.
Pitt took a hansom and rode, again deep in thought, to Queen Street, just off the Chelsea Embankment. It was a beautiful neighborhood, near the Botanical Gardens, just past the facade of the Chelsea Hospital and the wide space of Burton’s Court. The end of the street opened directly onto the river, which was blue and gray, sparkling in the sun.
He knocked on the door of the number he had been given, and when the footman answered he presented his card. He was shown across the stone-flagged hall with scattered Persian rugs. The walls were hung with an array of historical weapons, from a crusader’s two-handed sword through a Napoleonic