Death in the Devil's Acre - Anne Perry [5]
Parkins’ face tightened. “Catch him,” he said quietly. “Catch this bastard, Mr. Pitt.”
Pitt had not been back to Callander Square since the murders three years ago. He wondered if the Balantynes still lived there. He stood in the bitter afternoon under the bare trees; the bark was wet with rain gathering on the wind. It would be dark early. He was only twenty feet away from the place where the bodies had been found that had first brought him here to question the residents of these elegant Georgian houses, with their tall windows and immaculate façades. These were people with footmen to answer doors, parlormaids to receive, and butlers to keep their pantries, guard their cellar keys, and rule with rods of iron their own domains behind the green baize doors.
He pulled his collar up higher, set his hat a trifle rakishly on his head, and plunged his hands into his pockets, which already bulged with odd bits of string, coins, a knife, three keys, two handkerchiefs, a piece of sealing wax, and innumerable scraps of paper. He refused to go to the tradesmen’s entrance, as he knew would be expected of him, but instead presented himself at the front door, like any other caller.
The footman received him coldly. “Good afternoon ... sir.” The hesitation was slight, but sufficient to imply that the title was a courtesy, and in his opinion one not warranted.
“Good afternoon,” Pitt replied with complete composure. “My name is Thomas Pitt. I would like to see General Balantyne on a matter of business that is most urgent. Otherwise I would not have called without first making sure it was convenient.”
The footman’s face twitched, but he had been forestalled in the argument he had prepared.
“General Balantyne does not receive callers merely because they happen by, Mr. Pitt,” he said, even more coldly. He looked Pitt up and down with an expert eye. Obviously, dressed like that, he was not a person of quality, in spite of his speech. Such clothes were surely the product of no tailor, and as for a valet—any valet worthy of his calling would cut his own throat rather than let his master appear in public in such total disarray. That waistcoat should not have been matched with that shirt, the jacket was a disaster, and the cravat had been tied by a blind man with two left hands.
“I am sorry,” he repeated, now quite sure of his ground. “General Balantyne does not receive callers without appointment—unless, of course, they are already of his social acquaintance. Perhaps if you were to write to him? Or get someone else to do it for you?”
The suggestion that he was illiterate was the final straw.
“I am acquainted with General Balantyne,” Pitt snapped. “And it is police business. If you prefer to discuss it on the doorstep, I shall oblige you. But I imagine the general would rather have it pursued inside! Considerably more discreet—don’t you think?”
The footman was startled, and he allowed it to show. To have police at the house—and at the front of it—was appalling. Damn the man’s impertinence! He composed his face, but was annoyed that Pitt was taller than he by some inches, so even with the advantage of the step he could not adequately look down on him.
“If you have some problem of theft or the like,” he replied, “you had better go round to the tradesmen’s entrance. No doubt the butler will see you—if it is really necessary.”
“It is not a matter of theft,” Pitt said icily. “It is a matter of murder, and it is General Balantyne I require to speak to, not the butler. I cannot imagine he will be best pleased if you oblige me to come back with a warrant!”
The footman knew when he was beaten. He retreated. “If you will come this way.” He refused to add the “sir.” “Perhaps if you wait in the morning room, the general will see you when he is able.” He walked smartly across the hall and opened the door of a large room whose grate held the embers of a fire that took the chill from the air but was not hot enough to thaw Pitt’s hands or warm