Anne Perry - [Thomas Pitt 10] Page 2

  “No, it would appear not—unless he carried something we don’t know of. He still had his money, watch and chain, and cuff links. Of course, the thief may have been interrupted before he could take anything. But that does not seem likely.”

  “Why—” Her voice broke; she swallowed. “Why not?”

  Pitt hesitated.

  “Why not?” she repeated.

  She would have to know; if he did not tell her, someone else would, even if she refused to read the newspapers. By tomorrow it would be all over London. He did not know whether to look at her or away, but to avoid her eyes seemed cowardly.

  “He was propped up against a lamppost and tied to it by his neck scarf. No one who was interrupted would have had time to do such a thing.”

  She stared at him speechlessly.

  He pressed on because he had no choice. “I must ask you, ma’am, if Sir Lockwood had received any threats that you were aware of. Had he any rivals in office, or business that might have wished him harm? This may have been done by a lunatic, but it’s possible that it was someone who knew him.”

  “No!” The denial was instinctive, and Pitt had expected it. No one wished to think such an atrocity could be anything but random fate, an accident of mischance in time and place.

  “Did he often walk home after a late sitting?”

  She collected herself with difficulty. He could see from her eyes that her inner vision was on the bridge in the darkness, imagining the horrific act. “Yes—yes, if the weather was pleasant. It takes only a few minutes. It is well lit—and—”

  “Yes, I know, I walked it myself. So many people might well have expected that sooner or later he would do so.”

  “I suppose they might, but only a madman would ...”

  “Jealousy,” Pitt said, “fear, greed can strip away the normal restraints and leave naked something that is not unlike a kind of madness.”

  She made no reply.

  “Is there anyone you would like me to inform?” he asked gently. “Any other relatives? If we could save you distress ...”

  “No—no thank you. I have already had Huggins call my brothers.” Her face tightened, a strange, bleak, wounded look. “And Mr. Barclay Hamilton—my husband’s son by his first marriage.”

  “Call ... ?”

  She blinked, then realized the meaning of his question. “Yes, we have one of those telephones. I don’t care for it much myself. I think it is a little uncivil to be speaking to people when you cannot see their faces. I prefer to write if a visit is not possible. But Sir Lockwood finds—found it convenient,” she corrected herself.

  “Did he keep any business papers here in the house?”

  “Yes, in the library. I cannot see that they would be of any use to you. There is nothing of a confidential nature. He did not bring those home.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Quite certain. He told me so on several occasions. He was Parliamentary Private Secretary to the Home Secretary, you know. He knew how to be discreet.”

  At that moment there was a noise in the hallway. The front door opened and closed, and two men’s voices were plainly audible above the butler’s murmured protestations. Then the withdrawing room door swung wide and one of the men stood in the entrance, his silver hair gleaming in the lamplight, his handsome face with its powerful nose and sweeping brow now strained and bleak with shock.

  “Amethyst, my dear.” He came in, ignoring Pitt, and placed his arm round his sister. “This is appalling! I cannot tell you how I grieve for you. We shall do everything we can to protect you, of course. We must avoid a lot of stupid speculations. It might be less disagreeable for you if you were to leave London for a little while. You are welcome to stay at my home in Aldeburgh if you wish. You will have privacy there. A change, a little sea air.” He swung round. “Jasper, for heaven’s sake, don’t stand there! Come in. You’ve brought your bag with you; haven’t you anything to help?”

  “I don’t want anything, thank you,” Lady Hamilton replied, hunching her shoulders a little and turning away from him. “Lockwood is dead—nothing any of us do will alter that. And thank you, Garnet, but I won’t go away yet. Later perhaps.”

  Garnet Royce turned finally to Pitt.

  “I assume you are from the police? I am Sir Garnet Royce, Lady Hamilton’s brother. Do you require her to remain in London?”

  “No sir,” Pitt said levelly. “But I imagine Lady Hamilton is anxious to assist us as much as possible in catching whoever is responsible for this tragedy.”

  Garnet regarded him with cold, clear eyes. “I cannot imagine how. She is hardly likely to know anything about whatever lunatic did this. If I can persuade her to leave London, can I assume you will not make yourself objectionable?” There was a plain warning in his voice, the voice of a man used to having not only his orders but his wishes obeyed.

  Pitt met his gaze without a flicker. “It is a murder inquiry, Sir Garnet. So far I have no idea at all who is responsible, or what motive there can have been. But as Sir Lockwood was a public figure of some note, it is possible someone bore him an enmity for whatever reason, real or imagined. It would be irresponsible to come to any conclusions so soon.”

  Jasper came forward, a younger, less forceful version of his brother, with darker eyes and hair and with none of the magnetism. “He’s quite right, Garnet.” He put his hand on his sister’s arm. “You’d best go back to bed, my dear. Have your maid make a tisane of this.” He proffered a small packet of dried herbs. “I’ll come by again in the morning.”

  She took the packet. “Thank you, but you need not neglect your usual patients. I shall be quite well. There will be much to do here: arrangements to make, people to inform, letters and other business to see to. I have no intention of leaving town now. I suppose later—afterwards—I may be glad to go to Aldeburgh. It is considerate of you, Garnet, but now, if there is nothing more ... ?” She looked questioningly at Pitt.

  “Inspector Pitt, ma’am.”

  “Inspector Pitt, if you would excuse me, I would prefer to retire.”

  “Of course. Will you permit me to speak again to your butler tomorrow?”

  “Naturally, if you feel it necessary.” She turned and was on her way out when there was another sound in the hall and another man appeared in the doorway, slender and dark, very tall, perhaps ten years younger than she. His face was pinched with shock and his eyes had the wide, white-rimmed staring look of someone under a great strain.

  Amethyst Hamilton froze, swaying a little, and every vestige of color left her skin. Garnet, a step behind her, put out his arms, and she made an ineffectual brushing movement to get rid of him, but her strength failed.

  The young man also stood rigid, struggling to control some deep emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. There was pain in the set of his mouth; his face had a numb, almost broken look. He tried to form some sentence appropriate to the situation and could not.

  It was she who commanded herself first.

  “Good evening, Barclay,” she said with a supreme effort. “No doubt Huggins has told you about your father’s death. It was considerate of you to come, especially at this hour. I am afraid there is nothing to be done tonight, but I thank you for your presence.”

  “Accept my condolences,” he said stiffly. “If there is any assistance I can give, please allow me. People to inform, business affairs—”

  “I shall make all the arrangements,” Garnet put in. Either he was unaware of the young man’s emotion, or he wished to ignore it. “Thank you. Naturally I shall keep you informed.”

  For a long moment no one moved or spoke. Jasper looked helpless, Garnet perplexed and impatient, Amethyst close to collapse, and Barclay Hamilton so tortured by anguish that he had no idea what to say or do.

  Then at last Amethyst inclined her head with a courtesy so chill, in other circumstances it would have been blatantly rude.

  “Thank you, Barclay. I am sure you must be cold. Huggins will bring some brandy, but i
f 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 tol
d 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.