Authors: Anne Perry
He was smiling broadly now. “Unfortunately, he was quite mad. He wrote a letter to the Queen—”
“Our Queen, or his own queen?” she interrupted.
“Our Queen! Victoria. He wished to send a delegation to England to see her, in order to let her know that his Muslim neighbors were oppressing him and other good Christians in Abyssinia. He asked her to form an alliance with him to deal with them.”
“And she wouldn’t?” she asked. They were now in front of a magnificent stone carved with hieroglyphics.
“We will never know,” he answered. “Because the letter reached London in 1863 but someone in the Foreign Office mislaid it. Or else they could not think what to say in reply. So Theodore became very angry indeed, and imprisoned the British consul in Abyssinia, one Captain Charles Cameron. They stretched him on a rack and flogged him with a hippopotamus hide whip.”
She stared at him, uncertain if he was absolutely serious. She saw from his eyes that he was.
“So what happened then? Did they send the army to rescue him?”
“No … the Foreign Office looked very hastily for the letter, and found it,” he answered. “They wrote a reply requesting Cameron’s release and gave it to a Turkish Assyriologist named Rassam and asked him to deliver it. The letter was written in May of 1864, but it did not reach the Emperor in Abyssinia until January nearly two years later, when Theodore welcomed Rassam warmly … and then threw the poor man into prison with Cameron.”
“Then we sent in the army?” she said.
“No. Theodore wrote to the Queen again, this time asking for workmen, machinery and a munitions manufacturer.” The corners of his lips twitched with wry humor.
“And we sent the army?” she concluded.
He glanced sideways at her. “No, we sent a civil engineer and six workmen.”
In spite of herself, her voice rose. “I don’t believe it!”
He nodded. “They got as far as Massawa, waited there for half a year, and were finally sent home again.” Then his expression became serious again. “But in July of that year, 1867, the Secretary of State for India telegraphed the Governor of Bombay asking how long it would take to mount an expedition, and in August the cabinet decided on war. In September they sent Theodore an ultimatum. And we set sail. I came from India and joined General Napier’s forces: Bengal Cavalry, Madras sappers and miners, Bombay native infantry and a regiment of Sind horse. We were joined by a British regiment, the 33rd Foot, although actually half of them were Irish and there were almost a hundred Germans, and when we landed near Zula, there were Turks and Arabs and all kinds of Africans. I remember a young war correspondent named Henry Stanley writing about it. He loved Africa, fascinated by it.” He stopped. He was looking at the exhibit in front of them now, an alabaster carving of a cat. It was exquisite, but there was no pleasure in Balantyne’s face, only embarrassment and pain.
“You fought in Abyssinia?” she asked quietly.
“Yes.”
“Was it very bad?”
He moved slightly, with just a flinch of the body, a gesture of denial. “No worse than any fighting. There is always fear, mutilation, death. You care about people and see them reduced to the least—and rise to the most—a man can be: terror and courage, selfishness in some, nobility in others, hunger, thirst, pain … fearful pain.” He kept his face away from her, as if to meet her eyes would make him incapable of saying what he felt. “It strips away all pretense … from others and from yourself.”
She was not sure whether to interrupt or not. She tightened her fingers on his arm a little. He stood silently.
She waited. People moved past them, some of them turning to stare for a moment. She wondered fleetingly what they thought, and did not care.
He took a deep breath and let it out silently.
“I did not wish to talk about battle. I’m sorry.”
“What did you wish to say?” she asked gently.
“I … perhaps …” He faltered again.
“I can forget it afterwards if you would rather I did,” she promised.
He smiled, a harsh curling of the lips. He remained facing forward, not looking at her. “There was one action in that campaign where we were ambushed. Thirty men were injured, my commanding officer among them. It was something of a fiasco. I was shot in the arm, but not badly.”
She waited for him to continue without prompting him.
“I have received a letter.” He said it with great difficulty, his words coming as if forced out of him, his face stiff. “It accuses me of being the cause of that rout … of—of cowardice in the face of the enemy, of being responsible for the injuries of those men. It says … that I panicked and was rescued by a private soldier, but that that fact was covered up to save the honor of the regiment, and for morale. It is not true, but I cannot prove that.” He did not tell her that such a charge, if known, would ruin him. He expected her to know.
And she did. Anyone would, especially just at the moment, with the Tranby Croft affair all over the newspapers and on everyone’s tongue. Even those who would not normally take the slightest interest in such people were now talking about them and awaiting the next development, eager for disaster.
She must answer with intelligence. Sympathy was fine, but it was of no practical use, and he needed help.
“What did they ask for?” she said quietly.
“A snuffbox,” he answered. “Just as a token of good faith.”
She was surprised. “A snuffbox? Is it valuable?”
He gave a sharp bark of laughter, raw, self-mocking. “No … a few guineas. It’s pinchbeck, but it is beautiful. Highly individual. Anyone would know it was mine. It is a token of my willingness to pay. Some would say it is a sign of guilt.” His hands clenched, and she could feel the muscles of his arm hard under her fingers. “But it’s only a mark of my panic … exactly what he accused me of.” The bitterness in his voice was close to despair. “But I never turned my back on the enemy of the body … only of the mind. Odd … I had not imagined I lacked moral courage.”
“You don’t,” she said without a moment’s hesitation. “It is a delaying tactic … until we know the strength of the enemy and a little more of his nature. Blackmail is a cowardly thing … perhaps the most cowardly.” Her anger was so burning hot, she had not even been aware of using a plural that included herself.
He moved his other hand and very gently, just for a moment, touched her fingers where they lay on his arm, then turned away and began to walk towards the next exhibit, several pieces of ancient glass in a case.
She followed after him swiftly. “You cannot become involved in this,” he said. “I told you simply because … because I needed to share it with someone, and I knew I could trust you.”
“You can trust me!” she said urgently. “But not to stand by and watch you tortured for something you did not do. Not that I would stand by even if you had. We all make mistakes, are weak or frightened or stupid sometimes, and that in itself is usually punishment enough.” She stood next to him but did
not link her arm in his this time. He was not looking at her. “We are going to fight!”
Now he did face her. “How? I have no idea who he is.”
“Then we must find out,” she retorted. “Or else we must contact someone who was there and can disprove what this person is saying. Make a list of everyone who even knows about it.”
“The army,” he said with the ghost of a smile.
She was determined. “Come, now! It was a skirmish in Abyssinia … it was hardly Waterloo! And it was twenty-three years ago. They will not all even be alive.”
“Twenty-five,” he corrected with a sudden softness in his eyes. “Shall we begin over luncheon? This is not the most convenient place for writing anything.”
“Certainly,” she agreed. “Thank you.” She took his arm again. “That would be an excellent beginning.”
They ate together at a most agreeable small restaurant, and were she less preoccupied with the problem, she would have luxuriated in delicious food in whose preparation she had taken no part. But the matter in hand was far too serious, and it had her entire attention.
Balantyne struggled to remember the names of all the men he knew who had been involved in the action in Abyssinia. With a little effort he managed all the officers, but when it came to the private soldiers he could bring to mind only about half.
“There will be military records,” he said somewhat glumly. “Although I doubt they will be able to help. It was so long ago.”
“Somebody remembers,” she pointed out. “Whoever sent that letter is connected one way or another. We’ll find these people.” She looked down the page from the small notebook he had purchased before coming to dine. There were fifteen names. “The army will know where they live, won’t it?”
He looked deeply unhappy. “After this length of time they may well have settled anywhere in the country—or the world,
for that matter. Or, as you pointed out, they may no longer be alive.”
She felt his misery and understood his fear. She had certainly felt it herself several times, not the sharp, sick terror of physical pain or destruction, but the cold, creeping fear of loss, hurt to the mind and the heart, loneliness, shame, guilt, the desert of being unloved. She was not threatened by this. She must be strong for both of them.
“Well, the person we are looking for is definitely alive, and I imagine living here in London,” she said firmly. “Where did you send the snuffbox to?”
His eyes widened. “A messenger called for it, a boy on a bicycle. I spoke to him, but he had no idea where it was going, except that a gentleman had paid him and would meet him in the park at dusk. He couldn’t describe this gentleman at all, except that he was wearing a checked coat and a cloth cap, also with checks. It is presumably a disguise. No one would dress like that for any other reason. Whether he was the blackmailer or not, I don’t know. He might have been passing it on again.” He took a deep breath. “But you are quite right. He is here in London. There is something I did not tell you … the man who was found dead on my doorstep had my snuffbox in his pocket.”
“Oh …” She realized with a drenching coldness how that could be read by any investigating police, even Pitt. “Oh … I see.” Now Balantyne’s fear was better explained.
He was watching her, waiting for the anger, the blame, the changed perception.
“Do you know who he is?” she asked, meeting his eyes.
“No. I expected to, when I went to the mortuary to look at him for Pitt, but so far as I know I have never seen him before.”
“Could he have been a soldier?”
“Certainly.”
“Could he have been the blackmailer?”
“I don’t know. I half wish he were, and then he would be dead.” His fingers on the tablecloth were stiff. It took him a deliberate effort of will not to clench them. She could see it in
the knotting and then relaxing of his hand. “But I did not kill him … and who else would … on my doorstep? Except the real blackmailer—to draw police attention to me!” He was shaking now, very slightly. “I watch every delivery of the post for another letter, telling me what he wants. I shall not give it to him. And then he will spread the story—perhaps to the police as well.”
“Then we must find someone who was there and can disprove the story,” she said with more anger and hope than conviction. “You must have friends, connections, who can tell you where to find these people.” She indicated the list. “Let us begin now!”
He did not argue, but the misery in his face and the weariness in the angles of his body betrayed the fact that he did not hope to succeed. He was doing it simply because it was not in his nature to surrender, even when he knew he was beaten.
Tellman was convinced that in some way Albert Cole was connected with General Balantyne, and he was determined that he would discover what it was. Having exhausted the immediate avenues of knowledge regarding Balantyne, he returned to Cole’s military career. That was the most obvious possibility.
It was in reviewing the history of Cole’s regiment, the 33rd Foot, that he saw that it had served in the Abyssinian Campaign of 1867-68. That was where it crossed Balantyne’s Indian service, when he, too, had been briefly sent to Africa. That was it! Suddenly it made sense. They had served together. It was something in that campaign which had brought Cole to Bedford Square, and led to his murder.
He could feel his pulse quicken and a thin thread of excitement stir inside him. He must go to Keppel Street to report this vital piece of news to Pitt.
He took the omnibus and got off at Tottenham Court Road and walked across the few hundred yards to Pitt’s house.
He rang the bell and stepped back. Of course it would be Gracie who would answer. Unconsciously, he ran his fingers around inside his collar, as if it were too tight, then ran his
hands over his hair, pushing it back quite unnecessarily. His mouth was a little dry.
The door opened. Gracie looked surprised. She smoothed her apron over her hips while looking at him very directly.
“I’ve come to report to Mr. Pitt,” he said rather too abruptly.
“I s’pose yer’d better come in,” she said before he had a chance to explain himself more graciously. She moved to allow him past her.
He accepted, hearing his boots clattering over the linoleum all along the corridor to the kitchen. Gracie’s feet behind him sounded light, tapping, feminine. But she was as small as a child.
He went into the kitchen expecting to see Pitt sitting at the table, then realized his mistake. He would be in the parlor, naturally. Gracie would fetch him in here to see Tellman, not at the front of the house. It was not a social call.
He stood stiffly in the middle of the room, smelling the warmth, the flour from baking, the clean linen, the steam from the kettle on the stove, the faint grit of coal. The early-evening sun shone through the window onto the blue-and-white-ringed china on the dresser. Two cats lay by the fire, one ginger and white, one black as the coal in the scuttle.
“Don’t just stand there like a lamppost,” Gracie said sharply. “Sit down.” She pointed to one of the wooden chairs. “D’yer want a cup o’tea?”
“I’ve come to report some very important information to Mr. Pitt,” he said stiffly. “Not to sit in your kitchen drinking cups of tea. You’d better go and tell him I’m here.” He did not sit.