Authors: Anne Perry
“Thank you, Barclay. I am sure you must be cold. Huggins will bring some brandy, but if you will pardon me I will retire.”
“Of course. I—I—” he stammered.
She waited, but Barclay found nothing further to say. In silence she passed him and with Jasper at her elbow walked out into the hall. They heard her footsteps on the stairs and dying away across the landing.
Garnet turned to Pitt. “Thank you, Inspector, for your ... civility,” he said, choosing the word carefully. “Now I assume you have inquiries to make; we will not detain you. Huggins will show you out.”
Pitt remained where he was. “Yes sir, I do have inquiries to make, and the sooner they are begun the better my chances of success. Perhaps you could tell me something about your brother-in-law’s business interests?”
Garnet’s eyebrows rose in incredulity. “Good God! Now?”
Pitt held his ground. “If you please, sir. It would then make it unnecessary for me to trouble Lady Hamilton tomorrow morning.”
Garnet looked at him with growing contempt. “You cannot possibly imagine some business associate of Sir Lockwood’s would commit such an outrage! You should be combing the streets, looking for witnesses or something, not standing here warming yourself by the fire and asking damn-fool questions!”
Pitt remembered the shock and perhaps grief that must be afflicting him, even if for his sister rather than himself, and his temper dissolved. “All that has been begun, sir, but there is only a certain amount that we can do tonight. Now, can you tell me something about Sir Lockwood’s career, in business and in Parliament. It will save time, and the unpleasantness of having to ask Lady Hamilton tomorrow.”
The irritation smoothed out of Garnet’s face, leaving only tiredness and the dark, smudged shadows of exhausting emotion.
“Yes—yes, of course,” he conceded. He took a breath. “He was member of Parliament for a country constituency in Bedfordshire, but he spent nearly all his time in London; he was obliged to when Parliament was sitting, and he greatly preferred city life anyway. His business was fairly commonplace: he invested in the manufacture of railway carriages somewhere in the Midlands, I don’t know where precisely, and he was a senior partner in a firm dealing in property here in London. His chief associate is a Mr. Charles Verdun, whose address I cannot give you, but no doubt it will be simple enough for you to find.
“His Parliamentary career is a matter of record. He was successful, and all successful men make enemies, even if mainly of those less able or less fortunate, but I was unaware of Sir Lockwood’s having any of violent disposition or unbalanced mind.” He frowned, staring past Pitt towards the closed curtains at the window, as if he would see beyond them. “Of course there is a certain instability in some quarters at the moment, among a section of the community, and there are always those ready to foment dissatisfaction and attempt to gratify their desire for power by exploiting restless people with little moral sense or knowledge of their own best interests. I suppose this could be political—the work of some anarchist, either acting alone or as part of some conspiracy.” He looked at Pitt. “If it is, you must apprehend them rapidly, before we have panic in the streets, and all sorts of other elements seize their opportunity to create civil unrest. I don’t suppose you know fully how very serious this could be? But I assure you, if it is anarchists, then we have grounds for grave concern, and it is our duty, those of us with sense and responsibility, to take care of those less fortunate. They rely upon us, as they have a right to. Inquire of your superiors and they will confirm to you that I am correct. For the good of everyone, this must be stopped before it goes any further.”
These thoughts had already crossed Pitt’s mind, but he was surprised that Garnet Royce was aware of the unrest in the vast slums and docklands of the East End, and the whispers of riot and revolution over the last few months. He had thought Parliament largely blind to such things. Certainly reform was hard and slow, but perhaps that was not what was desired by the agitators Royce was referring to. There was no power to be gained from a satisfied people.
“Yes sir, I am aware of the possibilities,” he replied. “All our sources of information will be tried. Thank you for your help. Now I shall return to the police station and see if anything further has been learned, before I report the matter to Mr. Drummond.”
“Is that Micah Drummond?”
“Yes sir.”
Garnet nodded. “Good man. I’d be obliged if you would keep me informed, for Lady Hamilton’s sake as well as my own. It is a very dreadful business.”
“Yes sir. Please accept my condolences.”
“Civil of you. Huggins will show you to the door.”
It was dismissal, and there was no point in trying to pursue anything further here tonight. Barclay Hamilton, white-faced and drained of all vitality, sat on the couch as if drugged, and Jasper had come downstairs again and was in the hall waiting until he could decently leave. He could prescribe sleeping drafts, tisanes for the nerves, but he could not alleviate the grief or the inevitable pain that would come with the morning when the first numbness had worn off.
Pitt thanked them and walked out into the hall, where the butler, still with his jacket a trifle crooked and his nightshirt tucked into his trousers, gave a sigh of relief and let him out with barely a word.
There were no hansoms about at this hour, and Pitt walked briskly back, turning left down Stangate Road to Westminster Bridge Road, across the bridge itself and past the statue of Queen Boadicea, the huge tower of Big Ben to his left, and the gothic mass of the Houses of Parliament. On the Embankment he found a cab to take him to the Bow Street Police Station, just off the Strand. It was a little before three o’clock in the morning.
The duty constable looked up and his face took on an added gravity.
“Any reports?” Pitt asked.
“Yes sir, but nothin’ a lot o’ use so far. Can’t find no cabby, not yet. Street girls in’t sayin’ nothin’, ’cept ’Etty Milner, an’ she can’t ’zactly take it back now. Reckon as she would if she could. Got one gent as said ’e walked over the bridge abaht ten minutes afore ’Etty yelled, and there weren’t nobody ’angin’ on the lamppost then, as’ ’e remembers. But then o’ course ’e prob’ly weren’t lookin’. ’Nother gent abaht the same time said ’e saw a drunk, but took no notice. Don’t know if it were poor ’Amilton or not. An’ o’ course Fred sellin’ ’ot pies down by the steps to the river, but ’e ’adn’t seen no one, ’cause ’e’s the wrong end o’ the bridge.”
“Nothing else?”
“No sir. We’re still lookin’.”
“Then I’ll kip down in my office for a couple of hours,” Pitt replied wearily. There was no point in going home. “Then I’ll go and see Mr. Drummond.”
“Want a cup o’ tea, sir?”
“Yes, I’m perished.”
“Yes sir. It in’t goin’ ter get no better, sir.”
“No, I know that. Bring me the tea, will you.”
“Right you are, sir. Comin’ up!”
At half past six Pitt was in another cab, and by quarter to seven he stood in a quiet street in Knightsbridge, where the spring sun was clear and sharp on the paving stones and the only sounds were those of kitchen maids beginning their breakfast preparations and footmen collecting newspapers to be ironed and presented to their masters at table. Fire grates had long since been cleaned out, blacked, and relit and carpets sanded and swept so that they smelled fresh.
Pitt climbed the steps and knocked on the door. He was tired and cold and hungry, but this news could not wait.
A startled manservant opened the door and regarded Pitt’s lanky disheveled figure, clothes askew, knitted muffler wound twice round his neck, unruly hair too long and ill-acquainted with barbers’ skill. His boots were immaculate, soft leather, highly polished, a present from his sister-in-law, but his coat was dreadful, pockets stuffed with string, a pocketknife, five shillings and sixpence, and fifteen pieces of paper.
“Yes sir?” the man said dubiously.
“Inspector Pitt from Bow Street,” Pitt told him. “I must see Mr. Drummond as soon as possible. A member of Parliament has been murdered on Westminster Bridge.”
“Oh.” The man was startled but not incredulous. His master was a senior commander of police, and alarms and excursions were not uncommon. “Oh yes, sir. If you’ll come in I’ll tell Mr. Drummond you are here.”
Micah Drummond appeared ten minutes later, washed, shaved and dressed for breakfast, albeit somewhat hastily. He was a tall, very lean man with a cadaverous face distinguished by a handsome nose and a mouth that betrayed in its lines a quick and delicate sense of humor. He was perhaps forty-eight or forty-nine, and his hair was receding a trifle. He regarded Pitt with sympathy, ignoring his clothes and seeing only the weariness in his eyes.
“Join me for breakfast.” It was as much a command as an invitation. He led the way to a small hexagonal room with parquet flooring and a French window opening onto a garden where old roses climbed a brick wall. In the center of the room a table was set for one. Drummond swept some of the condiments aside and made room for another setting. He pointed to a chair and Pitt drew it up.
“Did Cobb have it right?” Drummond sat down and Pitt did also. “Some member of Parliament has been murdered on Westminster Bridge?”
“Yes sir. Rather macabre. Cut the poor man’s throat and then tied him up to the last lamppost on the south side.”
Drummond frowned. “What do you mean, tied him up?”
“By the neck, with an evening scarf.”
“How
the
devil can you tie somebody to a lamppost?”
“The ones on Westminster Bridge are trident-shaped,” Pitt replied. “They have ornamental prongs, a bit like the tynes of a garden fork, and they’re the right height from the ground to be level with the neck of a man of average build. It was probably fairly simple, for a person of good physical strength.”
“Not a woman, then?” Drummond concentrated on his inner vision, his face tense.
Cobb brought in a hot chafing dish of bacon, eggs, kidneys, and potatoes and set it down without speaking. He gave each man a clean plate and then left to fetch tea and toast. Drummond helped himself and offered the server to Pitt. The steam rose deliciously, savory, rich, and piping hot. Pitt took as much as he dared consistent with any kind of good manners and then replied before he began to eat.
“Not unless she was a big woman, and unusually powerful.”
“Who was he? Anyone in a sensitive position?”
“Sir Lockwood Hamilton, Parliamentary Private Secretary to the Home Secretary.”
Drummond let out his breath slowly. He ate a little more before speaking. “I’m sorry. He was a decent chap. I suppose we have no idea yet whether it was political or personal, or just a chance robbery gone wrong?”
Pitt finished his mouthful of kidney and bacon. “Not yet, but robbery seems unlikely,” he said. “Everything of value—watch and chain, keys, silk handkerchief, cuff links, some nice onyx shirt studs—was still on him, even the money in his pockets. If someone meant to rob him, why would they tie him up to a lamppost beforehand? And then leave before anyone even raised an alarm?”
“He wouldn’t,” Drummond agreed. “How was he killed?”
“Throat cut, very cleanly, so probably a razor, but we haven’t got the surgeon’s report yet.”
“How long had he been dead when he was found? Not long, I imagine.”
“A few minutes,” Pitt agreed. “Body was warm—but apart from that, if he’d been there longer, someone would have seen him sooner.”
“Who did find him?”
“Prostitute called Hetty Milner.”
Drummond smiled, a brief humor lighting his eyes, then dying immediately. “I suppose she tried to solicit a little business—and found her prospective client was a corpse.”
Pitt bit his lip to hide the shadow of a smile. “Yes—which was a good thing. If she hadn’t been so startled she wouldn’t have screamed; she’d have collected herself and walked straight on, and we might not have known about him for a lot longer.”
Drummond leaned forward, all the irony gone from his features, a thin line of anxiety between his brows. “What do we know, Pitt?” he asked.
Briefly Pitt summarized for him the events on the bridge, his visit to Royal Street, and finally his return to the station.
Drummond sat back and wiped his lips with his napkin. “What a mess,” he said grimly. “The motive could be almost anything—business or professional rivalry, political enmity, anarchist conspiracy. Or it could be the work of a random lunatic, in which case we may never find him! What do you think of a personal motive: money, jealousy, revenge?”
“Possible,” Pitt answered, remembering the widow’s stricken face and her gallant struggle to maintain composure, the cool civility between her and her stepson that might cover all manner of old wounds. “Very ugly. It seems a bizarre way to do it.”
“Smacks of madness, doesn’t it,” Drummond agreed. “But perhaps that doesn’t mean anything. Please God we can settle it soon, and without having to go into family tragedies.”
“I hope so,” Pitt agreed. He had finished his breakfast, and in the warm room he was overwhelmingly tired.
Cobb came in with the newspapers and handed them wordlessly to Drummond. Drummond opened the first and read from the headlines, “ ‘Member of Parliament Murdered on Westminster Bridge,’ ” and from the second, “ ‘Shocking Murder—Corpse on the Lamppost.’ ” He looked up at Pitt. “Go home and get some sleep, man,” he ordered. “Come back this afternoon when we have had a chance to find a few witnesses. Then you can start on the business associates, and the political ones.” He glanced at the papers on the table. “They aren’t going to give us much time.”
C
HARLOTTE
P
ITT HAD NOT
yet heard about the murder on Westminster Bridge, and at the moment her mind was totally absorbed in the meeting she was attending. It was the first time she had been part of such an assembly. Most of those gathered had little in common with each other, except an interest in the representation of women in Parliament. Most had no thought beyond the wild and previously undreamed of possibility that women might actually vote, but one or two extraordinary souls had conceived the idea of women as members of that august body. One woman had even offered herself for election. Of course, she had sunk with barely a trace, a joke in the worst taste.