Anne Perry - Bedford Square

Pitt leaned out of the bedroom window in his nightshirt and looked down into the street below. The police constable was standing on the pavement staring up at him. The constable’s face, yellow in the gaslight from the street lamps, was tense and unhappy, and it was for more reason than simply having woken the commander of the Bow Street police station at four o’clock in the morning.

“Dead, sir,” he answered Pitt’s question. “An’ I can’t see as ’ow it could a’ bin an accident, not ’ow ’e is, an’ w’ere I found ’im. An’ I oughta be gettin’ back, sir. I darsen’t leave ’im there by ’isself, sir. Someone might move ’im, like … mess wif evidence.”

“Yes, of course,” Pitt agreed. “Go back, Constable. You did the right thing. I’ll get dressed and I’ll be there. I presume you haven’t had a chance to call the surgeon or the mortuary van?”

“No sir, I come straight ’ere, seein’ as w’ere ’e is.”

“I’ll call them. You go back and stand guard.”

“Yes sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

“Don’t be. You did the right thing,” Pitt repeated, pulling his head in and shivering involuntarily. It was June-at least nominally summer-but in London the nights were still chilly, and there was a faint mist hanging over the city.

“What is it?” Charlotte sat up in bed and fumbled for a match. He heard it scrape and then saw the flame as it caught the wick of the candle. It lit her face softly, gleaming on the warm, dark color of her hair, which was falling out of its long braid. She looked worried.

“They’ve found a body in Bedford Square,” he answered. “It seems as if he was murdered.”

“Do they really need you for that?” she protested. “Is it somebody important?”

Since his promotion Pitt had been asked to concentrate on those cases which were of political significance or threatened scandal.

“Maybe not,” he replied, closing the window and walking over to where his clothes were hanging across the back of the chair. He took off his nightshirt and began to dress, not bothering with collar or cravat. There was water in the ewer, and he poured it into the basin. It was cold, but there was certainly no time to light the kitchen stove and heat it so he could shave. Unfortunately, there was also no time for a cup of tea, which he would have liked even more. He splashed his face and felt the sharp tingle of coldness, then with his eyes shut, felt for the towel.

“Thank you.” He took it from Charlotte’s outstretched hand. He rubbed his face vigorously, feeling the rough cotton stir the blood and warm him. “Because apparently he was on the front doorstep of one of the big houses,” he replied.

“Oh.” She understood the implications. London was peculiarly sensitive to scandal just now. In the previous year, 1890, a scandal had occurred at Tranby Croft. Now the trial was rocking the entire country. It was all very regrettable, a matter of gambling at a country house party, an accusation of cheating at baccarat, an illegal game, and of course an indignant denial. But what could not be hidden or excused was that the Prince of Wales had been involved and was now to be called to the witness stand to give evidence. Half of London opened the daily newspapers with bated breath.

Pitt finished dressing. He put his arms around Charlotte and kissed her, feeling the warmth of her skin and pushing back the heavy hair with his fingers, enjoying its softness with an all-too-fleeting pleasure.

“Go back to bed,” he said gently. “I’ll be home when I can, but I doubt it’ll be for breakfast.” He tiptoed across the floor and opened the door quietly, not to waken the children and Gracie, the maid, asleep up on the top floor. The landing gaslight was always left on very low, and it was sufficient for him to see his way downstairs. In the hall he picked up the telephone-a fairly recent acquisition in his home-and asked the operator to connect him with the Bow Street Station. When the sergeant answered, Pitt instructed him to send the police surgeon and mortuary van to Bedford Square. He replaced the receiver, put on his boots and took his jacket from the hook by the front door. He slid back the latch and stepped outside.

The air was damp and chilly but it was already beginning to get light, and he walked quickly along the glistening pavement towards the corner of Gower Street and turned left. It was only a few yards into Bedford Square, and even from that distance he saw the unhappy figure of the constable standing alone about halfway along the pavement. He looked immensely relieved to see Pitt striding towards him out of the gloom. His expression brightened visibly and he waved his bull’s-eye lantern.

“Over ’ere, sir!” he called out.

Pitt neared him and glanced where he was pointing. The dark figure was easy to see lying sprawled on the front steps of the large house immediately to their left. It seemed almost as if he must have been reaching for the doorbell when he fell. The cause of death was apparent. There was a deep and bloody wound on the side of his head. It was difficult to imagine how he could have come by it in any accident. Nothing that could have occurred in the roadway would have thrown him so far, nor was there another wound visible.

“Hold the light for me,” Pitt requested, kneeling down beside the body and looking at it more closely. He touched his hand gently to the man’s throat. There was no pulse, but the flesh was still just warm. “What time did you find him?” he asked.

“Sixteen minutes afore four, sir.”

Pitt glanced at his pocket watch. It was now thirteen minutes past. “What time did you come this way before that?”

“Abaht quarter afore three, sir. ’e weren’t ’ere then.”

Pitt turned around to look up at the street lamps. They were off. “Find the lamplighter,” he ordered. “He can’t have been here long ago. They’re still lit on Keppel Street, and it’s barely daylight enough to see anywhere. He’s a bit sharp as it is.”

“Yessir!” the constable agreed with alacrity.

“Anyone else?” Pitt asked as the constable took a step away.

“No sir. Too early for deliveries. They don’ start till five at the soonest. No maids up yet. ’Nother ’alf hour at least. Bit late fer partyers. Most o’ them’s ’orne by three. Though yer never know yer chances, like. Yer could ask ….”

Pitt smiled wryly. He noticed that the constable had abandoned doing it himself and considered Pitt the one to work the gentry of Bedford Square and ask them if they had happened to notice a corpse on the doorstep, or even a fight in the street, as they returned from their revels.

“If I have to,” Pitt said dourly. “Did you look in his pockets?”

“No sir. I left that fer you, sir.”

“I don’t suppose you have any idea who he is? Not a local servant or tradesman, suitor to one of the maids around here?”

“No sir, I in’t never seen ’im afore. I don’t reckon as ’e belongs ’ere. Shall I go an’ find the lamplighter, sir, afore ’e goes too far?”

“Yes, go and find him. Bring him back here.”

“Yessir!” And before Pitt could think of any more questions for him, he put his bull’s-eye down on the step, turned on his heel and strode off into the broadening dawn light.

Pitt picked up the lantern and examined the dead man. His face was lean, the skin weathered, as if he spent much of his time outside. There was a faint stubble of beard across his cheeks. His hair had little color, a dark mousy brown that had probably been fair in his youth. His features were pleasant enough, a trifle pinched, upper lip too short, eyebrows wispy, the left one with a pronounced break in it as if from an old scar. It was a face easy to see and forget, like thousands of others. Pitt used his finger to ease the collarless shirt back an inch or two. The skin under it was fair, almost white.