Free Bedford Square by Anne Perry

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 was a reason.
    He needed to know more about General Brandon Balantyne, and also about Lady Augusta.
    He did not really suspect her of anything, certainly not alone, and he had very little idea of how to go about investigating her. He was not a cowardly man and held no innate respect for anyone because of their position or wealth, but he still quaked at the thought of addressing Augusta.
    The General was different. Tellman understood men far better, and it would be a relatively easy business to check the General’s military career. Much of that would be public knowledge through the army. Similarly, he could find and check Albert Cole’s record of service.
    “Albert Cole?” the military clerk repeated. “Middle name, Sergeant?”
    “No idea.”
    “Where was ’e born?”
    “Don’t know.”
    “Don’t know much, do you!” He was a middle-aged man who was bored by his job and made as much of it as possible, particularly in this instance of its complication and its inconvenience. Tellman was civil only with difficulty, but he needed the information.
    “Only that he’s been murdered,” he replied.
    “I’ll see what I can do.” The man’s face tightened and he went away to search, leaving Tellman sitting on a wooden bench in the outer office.
    It was the best part of an hour before he returned, but he had the information.
    “Albert Milton Cole,” he said with great importance. “This’ll be your man. Born May 26, 1838, in Battersea. Served in the 33rd Foot, it says here.” He looked up at Tellman. “That’s the Duke of Wellington’s regiment! Got a bullet wound in 1875. Left leg, ’igh up. Broke the bone. Sent’orne and pensioned off. Nothing after that. Nothing against him though. Never married, according ter this. Any ’elp?”
    “Not yet. What can you tell me about General Brandon Balantyne?”
    The man’s eyebrows shot up. “Generals now, is it? That’s a different kettle o’ fish altogether. You got some authority for that?”
    “Yes. I’m investigating the murder of a soldier who was found with his skull broken … on General Balantyne’s doorstep!”
    The clerk hesitated, then decided he was curious himself. He had no particular love for generals. If he had to do this, and he thought he probably did, then he would look less unimportant if he did it willingly.
    He went away again and came back fifteen minutes later with several sheets of paper and presented them to Tellman.
    Tellman took them and read.
    Brandon Peverell Balantyne had been born on March 21, 1830, the eldest son of Brandon Ellwood Balantyne of Bishop Auckland, County Durham. Educated at Addiscombe, graduated at sixteen. When he was eighteen, his father had purchased him a commission and he had sailed for India as a lieutenant in the Bengal Engineers, and was immediately involved in the Second Sikh War, where he was present at the siege of Multan and served with distinction, although wounded, at the battle of Gujrat. In 1852 he had led a column in the First Black Mountain Hazara Expedition on the Northwest Frontier, and the year after he was with an expedition