Bedford Square - Anne Perry [50]
Outside in the street, Charlotte could hardly wait to turn to Balantyne and see his relief.
“That proves it!” she said exultantly. “Mr. Holt was there. He can make nonsense of the whole charge.”
“No he can’t, my dear,” Balantyne answered quietly, controlling his emotions with such difficulty he would not look at her. “We lost no men at Magdala. In fact, there were only two men killed in the entire campaign. Many wounded, of course, but only two dead.”
She was astounded, confused. “But the stench,” she protested, still trying to force away what he was saying. “He remembered it.”
“Abyssinians … seven hundred at Arogee with the baggage train. God knows how many at Magdala. They slew their prisoners. Hurled them over the walls. It was one of the worst things I ever knew.”
“But Holt … s-said …” she stammered.
“His mind is gone … poor creature.” He walked quickly, his body tight. “He is lucid in moments. I think when I left he actually did remember me. Most of the time he was simply lonely … and wanted to please.” He kept his face straight ahead, and she saw the pain in it, heard the thick huskiness in his voice. She knew it was not for himself. The hollowness of failure would come later.
She did not know what to do, whether touching him would be an intrusion. He was walking very rapidly. She had to pick up her skirts and stride to keep up with him, but he was unaware of it. She moved beside him in silence, every now and again giving a little skip not to be left behind. Loyalty was all she could offer.
Tellman was very fully occupied learning more about the recent life of Albert Cole. He began at Lincoln’s Inn Fields with a pair of bootlaces. He found the corner where Cole had stood, and already there was someone else there, a thin man with an unusually long nose but a cheerful expression.
“Laces, sir?” He held out a pair in a fairly clean hand.
Tellman took them and examined them closely.
“Best you’ll find,” the man assured him.
“You get them the same place as the fellow who was here before you?” Tellman said casually.
The man hesitated, not sure which was the best answer. He looked at Tellman’s face and learned nothing.
“Yeah,” he said eventually.
“Who was that?”
“You buy ’em from me, guv. I got the best laces in London.”
Tellman held out the appropriate money; it was little enough. “I still want to know where you get them. Police business.”
“They ain’t nicked!” The man’s face paled.
“I know that. I want to learn all I can about Albert Cole, who had this patch before you.”
“ ’im wot was croaked?”
“Yes. Did you know him?”
“Yeah. That’s ’ow I got the patch. Poor sod. ’e were a decent bloke. Soldier, ’e were. Got shot somew’ere out in Africa, or somew’ere like that. Don’t know wot the ’ell ’e were doin’ in Bedford Square.”
“Thieving?” Tellman suggested dourly.
The peddler’s body stiffened. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but yer din’t oughter say that, ’less you can prove it, like. Albert Cole were an ’onest man wot served ’is country. An’ I ’ope as yer find the bastard wot topped ’im.”
“We will,” Tellman promised. “Now, where’d he get the bootlaces?”
“Good man,” the bootlace stockist said when Tellman found him. He nodded his head sadly. “London ain’t safe no more. When a quiet fellow doin’ nobody ’arm can get killed like that, the p’lice ain’t doin’ their jobs.”
“Did he have any money trouble?” Tellman ignored the criticism.
“ ’Course ’e did. Anyone wot peddles bootlaces on a street corner’s got money troubles,” the man said dryly. “You work fer a livin’, or wot? You just do this ’cos yer like it, mister?”
Tellman held his temper with difficulty. He thought of his father, who had left their two rooms in Billingsgate at five in the morning and worked carrying bales and boxes in the fish market all day. In the evening he had relieved a friend driving hansom cabs, often until midnight, all seasons of the year: in the swelter of summer when the traffic was jammed head to tail and the smell of manure filled the air; when the rain made