Belgrave Square

3

CHARLOTTE NATURALLY SLEPT at Ashworth House for what little remained of the night, so Pitt had not seen her when he left for the Clerkenwell police station the following morning. Nor, of course, had he mentioned the murder of William Weems to her. Not that he would have. Apart from the connection with Lord Byam, which was highly confidential, it was a singularly uninteresting case. Charlotte cared why people did things, not how. The fact that the hackbut did not work, or that no other weapon had been found, would be incidental to her. She might well wonder how a person, especially of Lord Byam’s standing, could wander around unnoticed with a gun large enough to cause such destruction to Weems’s head, but it would be quickly forgotten, because she would not find Weems sympathetic, and his debtors would engage her feelings only too much.

As well as an occasional laundress and a woman who came in twice a week to do the heavy work, the Pitts had a maid, Gracie, who lived in the house, and she cared for the children. Jemima was now a bright and extremely talkative seven-year-old of an endlessly inquiring mind and rather disturbing logic. Her brother Daniel, two years younger, was less voluble and far more patient, but very nearly as determined in his own way.

Gracie made breakfast for Pitt, busying herself discreetly about the kitchen, which seemed oddly empty without Charlotte, even though everything else was there as usual. The cooking range was blacked and cleaned and stoked, but in this summer weather damped down to do no more than boil a kettle and heat one pan to fry Pitt’s eggs. Promotion to handling the more sensitive cases had brought its rewards, a new winter coat for Charlotte, new boots for the children, eggs every day if they wished them, and mutton for dinner two or three times a week, fires stoked higher in the winter, and a small raise for Gracie, with which she was delighted, not only for the money but as a matter of pride. She regarded herself as a cut above other housemaids in the area because she worked for such interesting people, and from time to time had a hand in affairs of mighty importance. Only a few months ago she had herself actually gone with Charlotte in pursuit of a murderer and seen some sights she could never forget for their pathos and their fear. Other girls scrubbed and swept and dusted and carried coal buckets and ran errands. She did all of these, but she also had adventures. That made her the equal of any woman in the land, and she never forgot it.

She placed Pitt’s breakfast before him, without meeting his eyes. She was acutely conscious that she was standing in for her mistress, and she did not want to spoil it by presuming.

He thanked her, began to eat, and thanked her again. She really was quite a good cook and she had obviously tried very hard. The kitchen was warm in the sun, the light reflected off the china on the dresser and winked on the polished surfaces of the pans. The room smelled of bread, hot coals and clean linen.

When he had finished he rose, thanked Gracie again, and went out into the passage and to the front door. He put his boots on and collected his jacket. A button came off in his hand as he fastened it. He put it in his pocket along with a small penknife, a ball of string, a piece of sealing wax, several coins, two handkerchiefs and a box of matches, and went outside into the sun.

At the Clerkenwell station he was met by Innes, looking bright and very keen, which surprised him since he knew of nothing to pursue today but the people whose names appeared on Weems’s list of debtors. Perhaps Innes thought he was going to work on the men like the magistrate Addison Carswell, or Mr. Latimer, whoever he was, and the policeman Samuel Urban. He could not have looked forward with anything but dread to investigating Urban, but the other two might be more interesting. If that were so, Pitt would have to disabuse him very quickly. Handling such delicate areas was presumably also why Drummond had taken Pitt from his fraud case and put him onto this. There were not only Lord Byam’s feelings to be considered, but other people’s, especially if a member of the force was involved.

However before Pitt could approach the subject Innes made it unnecessary.

“Mornin’ sir,” he said, straightening to attention, his eyes wide, his face keen. “Doctor sent a message for us to come to the morgue. ’e’s found something as ’e’s never seen in ’is life before. Says it makes this a poetic kind of a murder.”

“Poetic,” Pitt said incredulously. “A grubby little usurer has his head shot off in Clerkenwell, and he thinks it’s poetic! Probably some poor debtor driven to despair couldn’t take it any more and his mind snapped, nothing more to lose. I don’t think I could face a doctor who sees poetry in that.”

Innes’s face fell.

“Oh I’m coming,” Pitt assured him quickly. “Then we’ll have to start going through the list and finding these poor devils. At least we can weed out those who can prove they were elsewhere.” As he was speaking he turned around and went out into the street again, Innes matching him pace for pace, stretching his legs to keep up.

“Would you take family’s word for it, sir?” he said doubtfully. “They’d stick together, natural. Wife’s word’s not much good. Any woman worth anythin’d say ’er man were at ’ome. an’ that’s where ’e’s most likely to be at that time o’ night. Unless ’E ’as night work.”

“Well that’d be something,” Pitt conceded. He knew he was going to hate this. It was painful enough to see the despair of poverty, the thin faces, the cramped, ill-drained houses, the undersized, sickly children, without having to pry into their fears and embarrassment, and maybe leave them terrified of a yet worse evil. “We’ll exclude some of them.”

“What about the big debtors, sir?” Innes asked, skipping off the pavement onto the roadway, dodging a dray cart and making a leap back onto the curb at the far side. “Are you goin’ ter see them?”

Pitt ducked under the huge dray horse’s head as it shied upward, and made a dive at the curb himself.

“Yes, when we’ve got a start on the others,” he replied, out of breath.

Innes grinned. “I guess as you in’t lookin’ forward to that much, askin’ nobs if they’re in debt ter a back street usurer, an’ please sir did yer shoot ’is ’ead orf?”

Pitt smiled in spite of himself. “No,” he said wryly. “I’m still hoping it won’t be necessary.”

Innes was saved from replying by the fact that they had reached the steps of the morgue. He fell behind Pitt and followed him up and inside. Again the smell of carbolic, wet stone and death met them, and involuntarily they both tightened their muscles and flared their nostrils very slightly, as if somehow one could close one’s nose against it, stop it from reaching the back of the throat.

The doctor was in a small room off the main hall, sitting behind a wooden table which was covered with odd sheets of paper.

“Ah!” he said as soon as he saw them. “You on the Clerkenwell shooting? Got something for you. Very rummy, this corpse of yours. Most poetic thing I ever saw, I swear.”

Innes pulled a face.

“Shot,” the doctor said unnecessarily. He was wearing a scruffy coat splashed with blood and acid, and his shirt was obviously laundered, but no one had bothered trying to remove the deep ingrained stains from it. Apparently he had recently left some more grisly work for this meeting. He was sitting facing them, a goose-quill pen in his hand.

“I know.” Pitt was confused. “We know he was shot. What we don’t know is with what gun. The only gun in his office was a hackbut, and it was broken.”

“Ah!” The doctor was increasingly pleased with himself. “What kind of bullets though-you don’t know that, now do you, eh?”

“We didn’t see any,” Pitt conceded. “Whatever it was made a terrible mess of him. But it was pretty close range. The hackbut could have done it, only the pin was filed down.”

“Wouldn’t have recognized it if you had,” the doctor said, now positively oozing satisfaction. “Wouldn’t have thought a thing of it. Most natural event in the world.”

“Would you be good enough to explain yourself?” Pitt said very levelly, sounding each word. “What have you got?”

“Oh-” The doctor caught his exaggerated patience and realized he had tempted them long enough. “This!” He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out his handkerchief, and very carefully unfolded it to show a bright gold guinea.

For a moment Pitt did not understand.

“So you have a gold guinea-”

“I found it in your Mr. Weems’s brain,” the doctor said with relish. “Got another, pretty bent. That one must have hit a lot of bone. Gold isn’t very hard, you know. But this one’s in good shape. Queen Victoria, 1876, thirteen years old.” He pulled a face. “Your usurer, gentleman, was shot by a gun loaded with gold coin. Someone has a nice sense of irony.”

The room they were in was bare and functional. Their voices echoed slightly.

“Poetry,” Pitt agreed with a humor that had a dark chill to it, a crawling on the skin, and a clamminess.

“Shot with ’is own money?” Innes said with amazement. “Oh that’s black, that’s very black.”

“Wouldn’t have thought any of those poor beggars would have that much imagination,” the doctor said with a shrug. “But there it is. Straight out of his brain-with a pair of forceps. Swear to it on the Bible.”

Pitt imagined it with a shiver: the quiet room above Cyrus Street, the lamps burning, gas hissing gently in the brackets, the sound of hooves from the street below, Weems sitting at his desk implacable, yielding nothing, the shadowy figure with a huge barreled weapon loading it with gold-and the explosion of the shot, the side of Weems’s head blown apart.

“What happened to the other pieces?” he asked. “You aren’t saying two gold coins did all that damage, are you?”

“No-not possible,” the doctor agreed. “Must have been four or five at least. I can only think the man, whoever he was, picked up those that weren’t embedded too deep in flesh-if you can imagine that. Cold-blooded devil.”

Innes shuddered, and swore under his breath.

“But the gun,” Pitt persisted, forcing the picture out of his mind. “It would take a wide-barreled gun, a big gun, to shoot gold pieces like that.”

“Well it couldn’t ’ave bin the ’ackbut,” Innes reasoned. “There was no way the devil ’imself could’ve fired that. ’E must ’ave brought it with ’im-and taken it away again. Although ’ow no one noticed a feller carryin’ a great thing like that I don’t know.” He pushed out his lip. “O’ course maybe they did notice it, and no one’s sayin’. Could be a sort o’ silent conspiracy. No one loves a usurer, especially not Weems. ’E were ’ard, very ’ard.”

“Even if the entire neighborhood was against him,” Pitt agreed, “that doesn’t account for why he himself sat there while this maniac scooped up the gold, filled the pan with powder, put the coin into the barrel, rammed it, leveled it and fired. Why did Weems remain sitting in his seat staring at him all the time?”

“I don’t know,” Innes said candidly. “It don’t make sense.”

“Only the facts.” The doctor shrugged expansively. “I just find the facts for you, gentlemen. You have to put them together. I can tell you he was shot with a terrible blast, close to his head, not more than four or five feet away-but maybe you know that from the size of the room anyway. And I picked two gold guinea pieces out of his brains-or what was left of them.”

“Thank you,” Pitt answered. “If there’s anything else please let us know immediately.”

“Can’t imagine what else there could be. But of course I’ll tell you.”

“I’m obliged. Good day.” And Pitt turned around and left, Innes close behind him.

Out in the street in the sun Innes sniffed hard and shook his head. “What now, sir? The list?”

“Yes,” Pitt said grimly. “I’m afraid so-poor devils.”

And it was even harder and more painful than he had foreseen. They spent the next three days going from one sparse uncarpeted worn-out house to another where frightened women answered the door, children clinging to their skirts, pale faced and barefooted.

“Yes?” the first woman said nervously. She was frightened of him because she was frightened of everyone who came to the door.

“Mrs. Colley?” he asked quietly, aware of the passersby, already curious, turning to stare.

She hesitated, then saw no way of escape, and she accepted defeat.

“Yes.” Her voice was flat and without hope. She still stood on the step, apparently it was better to her in spite of her neighbors’ stares. To allow him inside would leave her even more vulnerable, and her desperate poverty more exposed.

He did not know how to tell her who he was without frightening her even more.

“I’m Inspector Pitt, from Bow Street. This is Sergeant Innes-”

“I ’aven’t done nuffink!” Her voice shook. “Wot’s ’appened? W’y are you ’ere?”

The quickest answer was the least cruel.

“Someone your husband knows has been killed. You may be able to help us learn something about it…”

“I dunno nuffink.” Her white face and dull eyes held no guilt, no duplicity, only resignation to misery.

A rag and bone man pushed his cart past, his face turned towards her with interest.

“Is your husband in work, Mrs. Colley?” Pitt went on.

Her chin came up. “Yes ’E is. At Billingsgate, at the fish market. ’E don’t know nuffink about anyone bein’ dead.”

Innes glared at the rag and bone man, who increased his pace and disappeared around the corner into an alley.

“What did he do on Tuesday, Mrs. Colley?” Pitt pursued. “All day, please?”

Haltingly she told him, the child at her knees catching the fear in her voice and in her body and beginning to cry.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “If that’s true then there’s no need to concern yourself. I shall not be back.” He wished he could tell her that Weems was dead, and perhaps her debts would be forgotten, but that would be precipitate, and only raise hopes that might not be realized.

The next small, weary woman was different only in trivial ways; her eyes were brown, her hair grayer, her dress the same colorless cloth, washed and rewashed, patched in places, so thin it hung lank about her body. There was a dark bruise on her cheek. She did not know where her husband had been. His pleasures were few, and she thought he had been down the road at the Goat and Compasses public house. He had come home drunk and slept the night on the kitchen floor where he had fallen when he came home around midnight.

And so it went on, the cycle of wretchedness, born in poverty where there was little food, crowded houses with no drains and no water except from a standpipe down the street, sickness, no education and so the meanest work, and more poverty. And for many the only escape was in alcohol, where present pain was drowned into oblivion. And in drunkenness came violence, loss of work, the pawnshop or moneylender, and another slow step downward.

Pitt hated the men like Weems not because they could have changed it-no one knew how to do that-but because they made a profit out of it. He was going to find it very difficult to care who had killed him. Perhaps a few of his victims would find their cancerous debts wiped clean. There would be no one to claim them, to watch the interest accrue and collect someone’s last few pence every week to pay off a burden that never decreased.

There was nothing to report to Micah Drummond, so Pitt went home to Charlotte and his clean, warm house where everything smelled sweet and he had no fear of the knock on the door. She would tell him all about the ball at Emily’s, the clothes, the food, the chatter. He could watch her face and hear the excitement in her voice, and imagine her playing the society hostess for one night and getting more pleasure out of it than all the duchesses put together, because it was a game, a fancy dress parade. She could come home to sanity at the end, to her children, comfort that had some sort of proportion with the lot of others, the ordinary, sane things like baking bread, mending the children’s clothes, taking the dead heads off the roses, sitting by the open window in the evening and watching the moths in the summer garden.

The following day he and Innes resumed working their way through the list, this time with the genteel poor, those who struggled to maintain the appearance of respectability and would rather sit in the cold all winter than forgo having a maid because quality always had a maid; people who would eat bread and gravy when they were alone, so that when callers came they could present better fare. These were people who had only one outfit of clothes that were not threadbare, out of fashion, boots that leaked and no coat, but they walked to church every Sunday with heads high and polite smiles and nods to neighbors, and made fantastic excuses why they did not accept invitations, because they could not return the hospitality. He ached for them also, and knew why the doors were answered with fear, and why he was offered tea which was served with shaking hands. He felt a hard, compulsive satisfaction when they could prove where they were when William Weems was shot. It was one advantage the poor had over Lord Byam; privacy was a luxury they tasted very seldom indeed. Almost all of them were crowded with others at that time in the evening, and all night. Few had any space alone, even to wash or to sleep. Many of the very poor shared a single room and they would not do more than dream of a time when they could do otherwise. One loan piled upon another, and the interest swallowed all they had, the capital was never paid off. Debt was a way of life.

Pitt heartily wished whoever had murdered Weems had destroyed all his records. Pitt hated him for that omission far more than for having blown the man’s brains out with half a dozen of his own gold coins.

On the fifth day Pitt took a hansom back to Bow Street to tell Micah Drummond that he had learned nothing so far either to implicate Lord Byam or to exonerate him. It was a little after five in the afternoon and the sun was still high and warm. The trees in the square were in full leaf, and music floated across from the band in Lincoln Inn Fields as he peered out of his cab. Children in bright clothes played with hoops and sticks painted like horses’ heads, and a solemn man with his sleeves rolled up flew a red kite for a small boy whose upturned face was full of wonder. A courting couple strolled by arm in arm, the girl giggling with pleasure, the man swaggering very slightly as if he had something worth showing off to the world. A nursemaid passed going in the opposite direction, wheeling a perambulator, her head high, her starched apron dazzling white in the sun. Two old gentlemen sat on a wooden seat in the sun, looking faintly dusty in the bright light, their faces benign.

By the time Pitt reached Bow Street he had almost forgotten the all-pervading want he had seen all day, tasting it in the air as if it were a kind of grit.

He paid the cabby and went up the steps of the police station. He was barely inside when he heard a commotion outside. The door flew open again and a uniformed constable came in backwards, stumbling as he tried to restrain a portly gentleman with bristling whiskers and a scarlet face, who was obviously in a monumental rage and determined that no one should put a hand on him. He flung his body about like a fish on the end of a line, and the constable, with both his youth and length of reach on his side, was fast losing the battle.

Pitt went to his assistance and between them they overcame the man when he realized the futility of fighting against such odds. Quite suddenly they all stopped, the constable with his jacket pulled crooked, two buttons missing, and his helmet over one ear. Pitt had a pocket torn and dust over his trousers where the man had scraped his boots in his efforts to get free. He himself was in worse condition yet; his fine head of hair was on end, his jacket was hitched up under his armpits and wildly crooked, his shirt was torn, his collar had sprung loose from its studs and his tie looked in danger of strangling him. His trousers were twisted around his body and torn open at the top button at his waist.

“Are you all right, Constable?” Pitt asked as soberly as the ridiculousness of the situation allowed.

The constable pulled his uniform back to position with one hand, keeping the other firmly on his prisoner.

“Yes, thank you sir. I’m obliged to you.”

“How dare you,” the prisoner demanded furiously. “I don’t think you know who I am, sir. I am Horatio Osmar!” This last was addressed to Pitt, whom he had realized to be the senior officer and thus worthy of his attention.

It was a name Pitt recognized although it took him a moment to place it. Horatio Osmar had been a junior minister in the government until about two years before when he had retired.

“Indeed sir?” Pitt said with some surprise, looking over Osmar’s head at the discomfited constable.

“I am prepared to accept an apology and let the matter go,” Osmar said stiffly, adjusting his jacket to cover the disarray of clothes at his waist. His hands hesitated a moment as if to do up his trousers, then he changed his mind. His face was still very red from his exertion.

“I can’t do that, sir,” the constable said before Pitt had time to ask him. “I’ve got to charge you.”

“That’s preposterous,” Osmar exploded, yanking his arm away from the constable and glaring at Pitt. “You look like a reasonable fellow. For God’s sake explain to this-this overzealous young person who I am.”

Pitt looked at the constable, who was now pink faced and unhappy, but standing stiffly to attention, his eyes unwavering.

“What is the charge, Constable?”

“Behavior likely to cause an affront to public decency, sir.”

“Balderdash,” Osmar said loudly. “Complete balderdash. Nothing of the sort!”

“Are you quite sure, Constable?” Pitt said dubiously.

“Yes sir. Constable Crombie has the young lady.”

“What young lady?”

“The young lady with whom Mr. Osmar was-was sitting in the park, sir.” The constable looked straight ahead of him, his eyes unhappy, his face hot.

“That’s it,” Osmar shouted. “Sitting!” He was quivering with indignation. “It is not an offense, sir, for a gentleman and a young lady to sit together on a seat in the park and enjoy a summer day.” He yanked his jacket straighter. “It is an outrage when they are disturbed and insulted in their pleasure by two young jackanapes policemen.”

“Two?” Pitt raised his eyebrows.

“Indeed. Two sir! The other one arrested my friend, Miss Giles. What a fearful experience for a young lady of gentle birth.” The man’s face was highly expressive with round eyes and shapeless nose. “I am mortified it should happen to her in my company, where she must surely have considered herself safe from such assault. I shall not forgive it!”

“Where is Miss-Miss Giles, Constable?” Pitt said with some concern. This looked like being a serious mistake, and one which could become very ugly indeed if Horatio Osmar chose to press it.

“Right be’ind me, sir.” The constable kept his eyes on Pitt’s and in spite of his embarrassment, there was no flinching in him.

At that moment the door opened again and the second constable came in with a young woman held firmly by both hands. She was very handsome in a bold and buxom fashion. Her fair brown hair was falling forward uncoiled out if its pins and her dress was crooked and open at the top. It was not possible to tell if this had happened in her struggle with the constable, or whether he had found her in this disarray.

“Constable Crombie, I presume?” Pitt said dryly.

“Yes sir.” The constable was out of breath and out of countenance. He was not accustomed to having to struggle with young women of any birth or gentility, even of the most general sort, and the episode embarrassed him. It showed in his earnest young face.

“Is the lady under arrest?” Pitt asked.

“Yes sir. She was in the park with that gentleman.” He indicated Horatio Osmar, who was glaring ferociously at them and about to burst into indignant speech again. “They were be’aving in a manner likely to offend any decent people,” the constable went on suddenly. “Doin’ things best done in their own bedrooms, sir, or in their own sitting rooms at worst.”

“How dare you.” Osmar could contain himself no longer. “That’s a scandalous slander, sir.” He struggled to free himself and failed. “We were nothing of the kind. You insult Miss Giles, and I will not stand for it-be warned!”

“We saw what we saw, sir,” the constable said stolidly.

“You saw what you imagine you saw, sir.” Osmar’s voice was raised very considerably and by now the nearer occupants of the station were also aware of the commotion. One of the inner doors opened and a uniformed inspector came out into the room. He was a tall man, almost as tall as Pitt, fair haired with a strong, blunt face.

“What’s the problem, Constable?” He addressed Crombie directly, not immediately realizing that Pitt, not in uniform, was also an officer.

Crombie was visibly relieved.

“Oh Mr. Urban, sir; I’m glad as you’re ’ere. Allardyce and me arrested this lady and gentleman for improper be’avior in the park. They was bein’ indecently familiar with each other on one o’ the park benches, sir; disarrangin’ each other’s clothes, and ’ands where they shouldn’t ’a bin, ’cept in private.”

“That is untrue,” Osmar said angrily. “Quite untrue. You are apparently unaware who I am, sir.” He jerked his jacket down with both hands, now suddenly free. “I am Horatio Osmar, late a minister in Her Majesty’s government.”

Urban’s eyes opened only a fraction wider; the remainder of his expression did not change at all.

“Indeed sir. And the lady?”

The young woman opened her mouth to speak, but Osmar answered before she could.

“Miss Beulah Giles, a totally respectable young acquaintance of mine. A lady of irreproachable reputation and unquestioned virtue.”

Urban looked at Pitt. “And you, sir?”

“Thomas Pitt, inspector of detectives; but this case is nothing to do with me. I came to report an entirely different matter to Mr. Drummond.”

This time Urban’s expression did change. Politeness turned into undisguised interest. “So you’re Thomas Pitt. I’ve only just moved to Bow Street, but I’ve heard of you. Samuel Urban-” He held out his hand.

Pitt took it and was held in a firm, warm grip.

“I’ll leave you to sort this out,” he said with a smile. “It looks like a difficult affair.” And with that he turned and went past the duty desk and up the stairs to tell Drummond that he had still learned nothing to implicate, nor to clear, Lord Sholto Byam. It was not until he was at the top of the stairs that he stopped, almost tripping over the step, a cold chill inside him. Samuel Urban. That was the name on Weems’s list for a huge amount of money.

He went on along the wide corridor towards Drummond’s room.

Horatio Osmar and Beulah Giles were kept in police cells overnight and the next day taken before the police court. Micah Drummond did not attend, but he told Urban that he wished to be kept informed at all points. It was not a light thing to charge an ex-minister of the government with indecent behavior in a public place.

It was nearly noon when Urban knocked on his door.

“Come in,” he said quickly, looking up from his desk. He half hoped it would be Pitt to say he had learned something in the Weems case, but perhaps that was too optimistic.

When Urban came in it was a different anxiety that touched him, but he could not blame the man. It was in a way unfortunate the two constables had been at that precise spot at that time. But given that they were, he would not have had them ignore the matter simply because the man was a public figure.

“Well?” he asked.

Urban stood to attention, not obviously, but there was both formality and respect in his attitude.

“Mr. Osmar was charged, sir, and pleaded not guilty, with some heat and indignation.”

Drummond smiled ruefully. “I should have been amazed had he not.”

“I thought a night in the cells might have cooled his temper a trifle,” Urban said regretfully. “And perhaps made him consider a plea of guilty would cause less publicity than fighting it.” He was standing in a broad splash of sunlight on the bright carpet and the radiance of it picked out the freckles on his skin and cast the shadow of his eyelashes on his cheek. “Miss Giles said very little. Seems to take her cue from him, which I suppose is natural.”

“Any newspapermen here?” Drummond asked.

“Not that I know, but I expect they’ll get hold of it pretty quickly.”

“Not if Osmar’s lucky. They may have looked through the docket of crimes and found nothing worth their time. After all a trivial indecency is hardly worthy of comment in ordinary circumstances.”

Urban pulled his mobile face into an expression of rueful contempt. “No sir, but Osmar hasn’t that much sense, it seems. He insisted on putting a personal call through to the home secretary.”

“What?” Drummond nearly dropped his pen in disbelief. He stared at Urban. “What do you mean, a call? He found a messenger?”

“No sir.” Urban’s eyes were bright with humor. “He used one of those new telephone instruments. That caused a stir in itself.”

“And he got through?” Drummond was not only amazed but beginning to feel some alarm. The story was getting uglier by the minute.

Urban ironed all the amusement out of his face. “Yes sir, apparently he did. Although I’m not sure what difference it made to anything, except that it delayed proceedings for quite a while, and thus also his getting bail. Which considering the nature of the charge was bound to be granted.”

“And the girl, Miss-?”

“Miss Giles. She got bail also, both on their own recognizance.” He shrugged. “All of which we could have taken for granted, except his choosing to contact the home secretary. Maybe if we’d charged him with theft he’d have called the prime minister-and if it had been assault he’d have called the Queen.”

“Don’t,” Drummond said grimly. “The man’s a menace. What on earth’s going to happen when he comes to trial?”

“Heaven knows,” Urban confessed. “Perhaps he’ll have taken decent advice by then and have decided to keep quiet. Oh-we returned his case to him.”

“His case?” Drummond had no idea what Urban was talking about.

Urban relaxed a little, putting one hand in his pocket.

“Yes sir. A man came to the station about half an hour after Crombie and Allardyce arrested Mr. Osmar, and said he had been in the park at the time, and Osmar had left a small attaché case on the seat where he and Miss Giles had been… sitting. He picked it up and brought it along. Apparently he had some appointment which he had to keep, someone he was waiting for, and he half expected the constables to come back for it anyway. But when no one did, and he had met his friend, he brought it to the station. At least Osmar cannot accuse us of having caused him to lose it.”

“He got it back again?”

“Yes sir. He had it in his hand when he left the police court.”

“Well that’s something, I suppose.” Drummond sighed. “What a mess. Why couldn’t the old fool behave himself on a public bench?”

Urban smiled, a bright, easy gesture full of humor.

“Heat of the moment? Spring in the air?”

“It’s summer,” Drummond said dryly.

“Perhaps we’re lucky. He might have been worse in spring.”

“Get out!”

Urban grinned.

Drummond put the pen down and stood up. “Keep an eye on it, Urban,” he said seriously. “I’ve got more to worry about with real cases. I’ve got a very ugly murder we’ve been called in to help with.”

Urban looked puzzled. “Called in, sir?”

“Not on our patch. I’m going now to see someone touched by it.” He crossed over to the stand by the door and took his hat and put it on. It was far too warm for a coat above his ordinary jacket, but he straightened his tie automatically and eased his shoulders and set his lapels a little more evenly.

Urban did not appear to notice anything unusual. Gentlemen like Micah Drummond might be expected to dress immaculately wherever they were going, not in deference to whom they visited, but because it was in their own nature.

Outside Drummond hailed a hansom and set out for Belgravia.

He sat back in the smooth upright interior and thought about Lord Byam, and the obligation which had drawn him into this affair. For some ten years now he had been one of an exclusive group known as the Inner Circle, a brotherhood whose membership was unknown except to each other, and even then only to the closest few to each man, and it was sworn with profound oaths to remain so. In secret they did many good works, helped those in misfortune, fought to right certain injustices, and gave generously to many charities.

They had also covenanted to assist each other, when called upon and identified with the signs of the Circle, and to do so without questioning the matter or counting the personal cost. Sholto Byam had appealed to him under such a covenant. As a fellow member Drummond had no option but to do all he could, and without telling Pitt anything of the brotherhood in any way, even by implication. He could explain nothing. It was a situation which embarrassed him unaccountably. London was full of societies of one sort or another, some of them charitable, many of them secret. He had thought little of it at the time he joined. It was something that many of his peers had done, and it seemed both a wise and an admirable step, for friendship and for his career. It had never caused him unease until now.

It was not that he feared Byam was guilty, or that had he been he would do anything whatever to protect him from the consequences of his act. It was simply that he could not explain his behavior to Pitt, nor tell him why he was so easily able to have him put in charge of a case which rightly belonged in Clerkenwell. There were other members of the Inner Circle he could appeal to, men in positions to have a case investigated here, or there, by whomsoever they chose, and he had but to identify himself as a brother and it was done, without explanation asked or given.

Now he would do all that was required by honor to help Byam, and do it with the necessary grace.

He arrived at Belgrave Square, alighted, and paid the cabby. As the horse drew away, he straightened his tie one more time. He walked up the steps under the portico and reached out his hand to pull the bell. But the footman on duty was alert, and the door opened in front of him.

“Good morning, Mr. Drummond,” the footman said courteously, remembering his master’s eagerness to see this gentleman on his previous call. “I regret to say, sir, that Lord Byam is away from home at the moment, but if you care to see Lady Byam, I shall inform her you are here.”

Drummond felt dismay, and a stirring of confusion half mixed with pleasure. His immediate thought was that Lady Byam might be able to give him some insight into her husband’s personality, his habits and perhaps some fact he had overlooked or forgotten which might point towards his innocence. His memory brought back the grace with which she had moved, the gentleness of her smile when he had come that first night he had been sent for.

“Thank you,” he accepted. “That would be excellent.”

“If you will wait in the morning room, sir.” The footman led the way and opened the door for Drummond, showing him into a room furnished in cool greens and filled with sunlight. There was a large fireplace of polished marble; Drummond guessed it to be an Adam design from the previous century, simple and unadulterated of line. The pictures on the walls to either side were seascapes, and when he turned around, behind him were Dutch pastoral scenes with cows. He had never realized before how pleasing to the mind were the awkward, gentle angles of a cow’s body. It was uniquely restful.

The long green velvet curtains were splayed out on the floor and s wagged with braided sashes, the only thing in the room which jarred on him. He had no idea why, but he disliked the display of overlength curtains, even though he knew it was customary in houses of wealth. It was a conventional sign of plenty, that one had enough velvet to waste.

There was a large cut-glass bowl of roses on the low mahogany table between the chairs.

He walked over to the window and stood in the sun waiting for the footman to return.

However when the door opened it was Lady Byam herself who came in, closing it behind her, making it apparent she intended to speak with him in this room rather than conducting him elsewhere. She was taller than he had remembered, and in this sharp, hard light he could see she was also older, perhaps within a few years of his own age. Her skin was pale and clear and there was light color in her cheeks, and he could see a few very fine lines about her eyes. It made her seem more approachable, more vulnerable, and more capable of laughter.

“Good morning, Mr. Drummond,” she said with a faint smile. “I am afraid Lord Byam is out at the minute, but I expect he will return soon. May I offer you some refreshment until then?”

He had no need of either food or drink, but he heard himself accepting without hesitation.

She reached for the bell cord and pulled it. The footman appeared almost immediately and she sent him for tea and savories.

“Forgive me, Mr. Drummond,” she said as soon as the footman was gone. “But I cannot help but ask you if you have any information regarding the death of Mr. Weems?”

He noticed that in spite of the blackness of her hair, her eyes were not brown but dark gray.

“Very little, ma’am,” he answered apologetically. “But I thought Lord Byam would wish to hear how we have progressed, regardless that it is so slightly, and all of it merely a matter of elimination.”

“Elimination?” Her cool, level voice lifted with a moment of hope. “You mean reason why it was not my husband?”

He wished he could have told her it was. “No, I am afraid not. I mean people whom we had reason to suspect, people who had borrowed money from Weems, but whom we find can account for their whereabouts at the time of his death.”

“Is that how you do it?” Her brow was furrowed; there was anxiety in her eyes and something he thought was disappointment.

“No,” he said quickly. “No-it is merely a way of ruling out certain possibilities so we do not waste time pursuing them. When someone like Weems is killed it is difficult to know where to begin, he had so many potential enemies. Anyone who owed him money is at least a possibility.” He found himself talking too quickly, saying too much. He was aware of doing it and yet his tongue went on. “We have to establish who had a reason for wishing him dead and then who had an opportunity to commit the crime, and would have the means at their disposal. There will not be many who had all three. When we have thus narrowed it down we will try to establish from the evidence which of those people, assuming there are more than one, actually is guilty.” He looked at her to see if she understood not only his bare words, but all the meaning behind them; if it was of any reassurance to her that they knew their profession.

He was rewarded to see her doubt lessen, and her shoulders relax a trifle under the soft fabric of her gown, which was dark green like the room, reminding him of deep shade under trees in summer. But the anxiety was still there.

“It sounds extremely difficult, Mr. Drummond. Surely people must lie to you? Not only whoever is guilty, but other people as well?” Her brows furrowed. “Even if we have no part in it, and no knowledge of the murder, most of us have things we would rather were not known, albeit petty sins and uglinesses by comparison. How do you know what to believe?”

Before he could answer, the footman returned with tea and the requested small savories. Eleanor thanked him absently and he withdrew. She invited Drummond to partake of the food, and poured tea for him and herself.

The savories were delicious, tiny delicate pastries, merely a mouthful, and small crisp fingers of toast spread with pâté or cheeses. The tea was hot and clean in the mouth. He sat opposite her, trying to balance himself and eat at the same time, feeling clumsy compared with her grace.

“It is difficult,” he said, taking up the conversation as if there had been no interruption. “And of course from time to time we make mistakes, and have to begin again. But Inspector Pitt is an excellent man and not easily confused.”

She smiled fully for the first time. “Such a curious man,” she said, looking down at the roses in their exquisite bowl. “At first I wondered who in heaven’s name you had brought.” She smiled apologetically. “His pockets must have been stuffed with papers, his jacket hung at such an odd angle, and I cannot believe he has seen a good barber in months. Then I looked at his face more closely. He has the clearest eyes I have ever seen. Have you noticed?”

Drummond was taken aback, unsure how to answer.

She smiled at herself.

“No, of course you haven’t,” she answered her own question. “It is not a thing a man would remark. I should feel ashamed if your Mr. Pitt caught me in an untruth. And I don’t find it hard to believe he would know. I hope he has a similar effect on other people he questions-” She stopped as she saw the doubt in his face. “You think I am fanciful? Perhaps. Or maybe I hope too much-”

“Oh no!” he said quickly, leaning forward without realizing it until he found he had nowhere to place the cup still in his hand. He put it down on the table self-consciously. “Pitt is extremely good at his job, I assure you. I would not have assigned him to this case did I not have fall confidence in him. He has solved some remarkably difficult murders in the past. And he is a man of both compassion and discretion. He will not seek his own fame, or to cause hurt by scandal.”

“He sounds a paragon,” she said quietly, looking not at Drummond but at her plate.

He was aware of having overpainted it.

“Not at all. He is perfectly human,” he said rather too quickly. “Frequently insubordinate, he detests being patronized and is the scruffiest man I know. But he is a man of both integrity and imagination, and he will find out who murdered Weems if anyone can.”

For the first time she looked directly at him with a candid smile full of warmth. “You like him, don’t you?”

“Yes I do,” he confessed. And it was a confession. A woman of Lady Byam’s social position would not expect a gentleman like Drummond to have personal feelings for a subordinate such as Pitt.

She said nothing in reply to that, but he had a sharp awareness that she was pleased, although he was uncertain as to why: whether it was simply that if Pitt was liked it made the whole unpleasantness a little more bearable, and she might also trust him not to be clumsy; or whether it had anything to do with her approval of him.

That was a rather ridiculous thought, and he dismissed it hastily. He drew in his breath to speak, but at the same moment she pushed the serving plate a fraction forward.

“Please take another savory, Mr. Drummond?” she offered. She seemed to search for something to say, and found it in a triviality, her voice losing the low-pitched melody it had had before. “I was at a ball the evening before last, given by Mr. and Mrs. Radley. She used to be Lady Ashworth, and has recently remarried. Her husband wishes to stand for Parliament and this was in the nature of introducing his campaign. But Mrs. Radley herself was unwell, and her sister, a Mrs. Pitt, was standing in her place for the evening. You know for a moment I could not think where I had heard the name recently.” Her voice was growing higher as if it were tight in her throat. “I wonder what those people would have thought had they known that today I should be sitting in my own home discussing a police investigation and hoping to clear my husband of suspicion of the murder of a usurer. I wonder how many of them would have spoken to me so civilly and been happy to court my company.”

A multitude of answers rose to his lips, the instinct to tell her who Charlotte was, which he dismissed reluctantly. It would be unfair to Charlotte, and possibly close an avenue of acquiring knowledge. Charlotte had certainly been acute enough in her judgment in the past. He wanted to assure Eleanor Byam that any friend who abandoned her because of such a thing was not worthy of her association, let alone her affection. Then he realized that she knew it as well as he, but she still needed the comfort of being accepted. She was afraid of scandal, of the unpleasantness of being cut, of the cruel whispers, the speculations, the unjust thoughts. Courage did not prevent the hurt, only helped one to endure it with dignity. Even the knowledge that those one had thought friends were shallow and cruel was no balm for the disillusion. She would prefer they were not put to the test. She did not want to see their faults.

“Pitt is discreet,” he said seriously. “He is pursuing the notion that many people borrowed money from Weems, and it is probably a debtor grown desperate who killed him.”

Her face was instantly touched with pity, and self-mockery.

“I wish it were not necessary to learn who is guilty in order to prove that it was not Sholto,” she said earnestly. “I expect it is inexcusable of me, but I cannot entirely blame someone in desperate financial straits, if Weems threatened to foreclose, and they had nowhere else to turn.” She bit her lip. “I know murder is no answer to anything, but I cannot help imagining the poor creature’s feelings.”

“So will Pitt,” Drummond said before he thought, and because he felt somewhat the same himself. If ever a victim was unmissed it was William Weems.

She looked up at him again and saw his own reaction mirrored in his eyes.

He found himself blushing.

She looked away. “Sholto is taking it very well,” she said, forcing a lightness into her voice. “If he is afraid, he masks it with a confidence that in time you will be able to learn who is responsible. The whole tragedy of Lady Anstiss’s death was so long ago, it is ridiculous it should shadow our lives today. What a grubby thing it is to be so greedy!”

He pulled a wry face at such an understatement.

“Did you know her?”

“No, not at all. It was some years before Sholto and I met.” She looked across at the window and the leaves moving in the wind and the sun. “I believe she was very beautiful, not just the usual regularity of feature and clarity of complexion which one sees very often, but a vulnerable, passionate and haunting beauty that one could not forget. I have seen a painting of her in Lord Anstiss’s home, and I admit I could not put it from my mind myself.” She turned to him with puzzlement in her gray eyes. “Not because of her tragic death, simply because her face was so individual, so full of intensity, so very unlike the traditional English lady I had expected.” She blinked. “When we speak of vulnerability I had thought to see a fragile face with fair hair, very young, very soft. She was not like that at all. She was dark, with a proud nose, high cheekbones and such a marvelous mouth. I admit, I find it dreadful to think someone who looked so alive should have taken her own life. But I had no difficulty believing she would have loved fiercely enough to die for it.”

“I’m sorry,” he said awkwardly, acutely aware it was Eleanor’s husband for whom Laura Anstiss had felt such a passion. He admired her deeply that she could speak of it with gentleness, and without a shadow of resentment. She must be very sure that Sholto Byam now loved her, whatever his foolishness, his error of judgment or his embarrassment in the past.

She looked down at the carpet and the patterns of sunlight creeping slowly across the floor.

“I have always admired Lord Anstiss for holding no grudge against Sholto.” Her voice was very quiet and low. “It would have been so easy to descend into bitterness and blame, and no one could have held him unjust for it or failed to understand. And yet after the first shock and bewilderment, it seems he never did. He allowed his grief to be untainted by hatred. I suppose he knew how dreadfully Sholto felt, and that he would have gone to any lengths to have undone his thoughtlessness.” She sighed. “But of course it was too late when he realized how violently she felt.” She bit her lip and looked up at him. “It seems Laura had never been refused anything before. No man had failed to fall under her spell, and it seemed to her as if all her power was stripped from her. She was confused and terribly hurt. Suddenly she doubted everything.”

She stopped for a moment, but he said nothing.

“It must be strange to be so lovely no one can help gazing at you,” she went on, as much to herself as to him. “I had never thought before what a doubtful blessing it is. Perhaps everyone is so spellbound by your face they fail to see the person behind it, and realize you have dreams and fears just like everyone, and that you can be every bit as lonely, as unsure of yourself, of your worth or of anyone else’s love for you.” Her voice sank even lower. “Poor Laura.”

“And poor Lord Anstiss.” Drummond meant it profoundly. “He must be a man of very great spirit to have overcome anger and bitterness and kept his friendship for Lord Byam intact. It is a quality I admire above almost any other, such a generosity of spirit, and an ability to forgive.”

“I too,” she agreed quickly, lifting her eyes again and staring at him with intense emotion. “It is beauty far greater than that of face or form, don’t you think? It is one of the qualities that brings a sweetness to everything it touches, in men or women. As long as there are such people, we can bear the men like Weems, and whichever poor soul was driven to shoot him.”

He was about to answer when he heard the sound of footsteps in the hall and low voices, then the door opened and Byam came in. At first he looked vigorous and in good heart, but when he crossed the bar of sunlight from the window Drummond could see the faint lines of tiredness around his eyes, and there was a tension in him, almost disguised but not quite. He showed no surprise at seeing Drummond; obviously the footman had forewarned him in the hallway.

Drummond rose to his feet.

“Good morning, my lord. I came to acquaint you with the progress we have made so far, and what we intend doing next.”

He nodded. “Morning, Drummond. Good of you. I appreciate it. Good morning, Eleanor, my dear.” He touched her shoulder lightly, a mere brush of the fingertips. The delicacy of the gesture, and the fact that he removed his hand, she took as a dismissal, subtle and gentle, but allowing her to know he wished to speak to Drummond alone. Possibly he believed the detail of the matter offensive to her, and unnecessary for her to hear.

She rose to her feet and with her back to her husband, but close to him, she faced Drummond.

“If you will excuse me, Mr. Drummond, I have domestic responsibilities to attend. We have guests to dine this evening, and I must go over the menu with Cook.”

“Of course.” He bowed very slightly. “I appreciate your generosity in remaining with me and giving me so much of your time.”

She smiled at him politely. It was a formal speech he had made, precisely what he would have said to anyone in the circumstances; she could not know how honestly he meant it.

“Good day, Mr. Drummond.”

“Good day, Lady Byam.”

And she turned and walked out of the room, closing the door softly behind her.

Byam glanced at the empty tray, and refrained from offering any further refreshment. Drummond could see the anxiety in the tightness of his movements, the lack of ease and the way he stood, and he did not oblige him to ask what news he had come to bring.

“I am afraid most of our progress so far is merely a matter of excluding some of the more obvious possibilities,” he said without preamble.

Byam’s eyes widened a fraction; it was far less than a question, he simply waited for Drummond to continue.

“There were two lists of debtors in Weems’s office,” Drummond went on. “A long one, of very ordinary unfortunates who had borrowed fairly small sums at regular intervals and were paying back similarly. Most of the poor devils will never repay all the capital at his rate of usury, but be scraping the bottom for the rest of their lives. It is a despicable way to profit from other people’s wretchedness!” As soon as the words were said he realized they were out of place. He should not have allowed his own feelings to intrude.

But Byam’s face twisted in sympathy and harsh humor.

“He was a despicable man,” he said in a hard voice. “Blackmail is not an attractive manner in which to acquire money either. If my own life were not at stake I should not give you the slightest encouragement to find out who killed Mr. Weems, I assure you. But since it is, I am obliged to pursue the matter with all the vigor I have.”

It was an invitation, even a request, to continue more relevantly. Drummond took it.

“So far we have eliminated a great number on account of their having been in company at the time Weems was shot-”

Byam pulled a rueful face.

“I wish I could say as much. Unfortunately even my servants did not disturb me that evening.”

Drummond smiled back at him. “That is a small advantage to poverty; they live in such cramped quarters allowing of almost no privacy at all, they have a number of witnesses to swear they were here or there, well observed, at the time. Many of them share one room with an entire family, or were working, or in a public house.”

Byam’s face quickened with hope. “But not all?”

“No, not all,” Drummond agreed. “Pitt and his men are pursuing those who were alone, or only with their wives, whose testimony cannot be relied upon. It would be most natural for a wife to say her husband was with her, as soon as she understood the meaning of the questions.” Drummond shifted his position a fraction. “And of course word of Weems’s murder spread very quickly. Some who lived outside the Clerkenwell area had not heard. But the very fact that the police are inquiring is a warning to them that something serious is amiss. They have the arts of survival.”

“Not very promising.” Byam attempted to sound light-hearted, but there was a catch in his voice; the smoothness of it was gone, the timbre thin, and the knuckles of his hands on the chair back were white.

“There is another list,” Drummond said quickly. “Of people who have borrowed considerably more heavily.”

“Why did you not try them first?” Byam asked, not abruptly, but with obvious failure to understand what seemed to him so plain a point.

“Because they are gentlemen,” Drummond replied, and phrased that way he disliked the sound of it himself. “Because they were borrowing equally according to their means,” he added. “Perhaps less. And probably they have a better likelihood of coming by the extra to repay, should their ordinary income not stretch to it. They would have possessions to sell, if that were a last resort.”

“Perhaps he was blackmailing them also,” Byam suggested.

“We had thought of that.” Drummond nodded fractionally. “Pitt will investigate that also, but it must be done with discretion, and some care, simply in order to learn the truth. Men do not usually admit easily to such things.” He met Byam’s wide, dark eyes and saw the flicker of humor in them, self-mocking. “And other secrets may not be as merely tragic as yours. They may be something for which one would have to prosecute.”

“I suppose that is true,” Byam conceded. Suddenly he became aware that Drummond was still standing. “I’m sorry! Please sit-I cannot, I simply find it too difficult to relax myself. Does it discomfit you?”

“Not at all,” Drummond lied. As a matter of courtesy he could not admit that it did. Accordingly he resumed the seat he had occupied while talking to Eleanor, and stared up at Byam still standing behind the other chair, his fingers grasping its back.

“What surprised me,” Drummond went on, “is that whoever murdered Weems did not take his list of names. It would seem such an obvious thing to do.”

Byam hesitated, looked down, and then up again facing Drummond.

“What did you do with his record of my payments to him? Does your man Pitt have it?” He swallowed painfully. “And the letter?”

“We didn’t find either of them,” Drummond replied, watching him closely.

Byam’s eyes darkened; it was almost imperceptible, a tightening of the muscles of the face, a stiffening of the body under the fine wool of his coat. It was too quick and too subtle to be assumed. It was fear, mastered almost as soon as it was there.

“Did he search properly?” Byam demanded. His voice was very slightly altered in pitch, just a fraction higher, as if his throat was tight. “Where else would Weems keep such things? Isn’t that where he lived? You said you found his other records there.”

“Yes we did,” Drummond agreed. “And that is where he lived. I can only presume the murderer either took them or destroyed them, although we found no evidence of anything having been burned or torn up. Or else Weems lied to you, and there never was any account of your dealings. Why should he keep a record of such things? It was not a debt.”

“Presumably to safeguard himself from my taking any action against him,” Byam said sharply. “He was not a fool. He must have been threatened with retaliation before.” He closed his eyes and leaned forward a little, dropping his head. “Dear God. If whoever murdered him took it, what will they do with it?” His hands curled on the back of the chair, his fingers white with the pressure he was exerting in his grip. His voice was husky with strain. “And the letter?”

“If it was a desperate man, like yourself,” Drummond said quietly, “he will most likely destroy them both, along with the evidence that implicates him. We found no evidence of other blackmail, just simple debts-”

“Unless the second list was blackmail,” Byam said, looking up at him, his face pale. “You said they were men of means. Why should such people borrow from a petty usurer like Weems? If I wanted extra money I wouldn’t go to the back streets of Clerkenwell, I’d go to a bank, or at worst I’d sell one of the pictures or something of that sort.”

“I don’t know,” Drummond confessed, feeling inadequate, angry with himself for such a futile answer. “Perhaps they had no possessions to sell, they may be in trust, or possibly they did not wish their families to be aware of their difficulties. Men need money for many things, not all of them they wish to have known.”

Byam’s mouth tightened; again the bleak humor was there.

“Well, falling into the hands of a usurer is no way out. Every week just digs you in the deeper. Anyone but a fool knows that.”

“It is possible he bought someone else’s debts,” Drummond said slowly.

Byam laughed, a low, gentle sound utterly without pleasure.

“You are trying to comfort me, but you are reaching for straws. It must have been whoever killed him who took both the list and Laura’s letter to me, and I can only pray it was because all Weems’s records were together and he had no time or inclination to look through them and find his own, and that he will not use it for gain.”

“If he does, he will betray himself as having killed Weems,” Drummond reasoned. “That would be a very dangerous thing to do.”

Byam took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh.

“Please God,” he said quietly.

“At least it tends to vindicate you,” Drummond pointed out, seeing something to encourage him. “Had you known the evidence implicating you had been taken away, or destroyed, you would not have called me and told me of your involvement. You had no need to say anything at all.”

Byam smiled thinly. “Something to cling to,” he agreed. “Do you think your man Pitt will see it that way?”

“Pitt is a better detective than I am,” Drummond said frankly. “He will think of anything I do, and more.”

“But what can he do?” Byam’s face furrowed. “He can’t arrest a man simply because he cannot prove he was elsewhere. Did you find the gun?”

“No-but we found the shot.”

“Not a great achievement,” Byam said dryly. “Presumably it was still in Weems’s body. How does that help?”

“It was gold,” Drummond answered, watching Byam’s face.

“It was what?” Byam was incredulous. “You mean golden bullets? A nice touch, but who on earth would be bothered to do that, let alone have the gold to use? That doesn’t make sense!”

“Not gold bullets,” Drummond explained. “Gold coin. It may have been Weems’s own money. The trouble is there was no gun in the room capable of firing it. There was a hackbut on the wall, a beautiful thing, a collector’s piece, which is presumably why he had it, but the firing pin had been filed down. There was no way anyone fired it in years.”

“Then he brought his own gun,” Byam reasoned. “And took it with him when he left, along with whatever papers he wanted. Perhaps he brought his own ammunition, then preferred the gold, as a touch of irony.”

Drummond raised his eyebrows. “And Weems sat in his chair and watched him load, take aim and fire?”

Byam sighed and turned away, walking slowly to the window.

“You are right. It makes no sense.”

“Can you tell me anything about Weems?” Drummond asked quietly. “You went to his office several times, you said. Did anyone else call while you were there? Did he say anything about anyone else, mention any other debtors, or victims of blackmail?” He put his hands in his pockets and stood looking at Byam’s back, his hunched shoulders. “What kind of a man was he? Was he cruel, did he enjoy the power he had over you? Was he afraid? Careful? Did he take any precautions against visitors?”

Byam bent his head in thought for several moments, then finally spoke in a quiet, concentrated voice.

“He made no mention of anyone else that I can recall, certainly not that he blackmailed anyone other than me. Of course I never went during his ordinary hours of business, so it is hardly surprising I saw no one. I insisted on its being organized that way. It would defeat my purpose in paying him for silence if I ran the risk of meeting anyone else there.”

He shrugged. “What kind of man was he? Greedy. Above all else he was greedy. He liked the power money gave him, but I felt it was only to get more money.” He turned around and looked at Drummond again. “I didn’t notice that he was overtly cruel. He did not blackmail for the pleasure it gave him to torment, at least I got no impression that he did. He wanted the money. I can picture quite clearly how his eyes lit up when he saw money on the table in front of him. He had rather a pallid skin, and greenish brown eyes.” He smiled sourly. “He put me in mind of a frog that has been kept in the dark. And to answer your other questions, I never saw him afraid. I cannot tell what he thought, but he did not behave as if he had the slightest fear. He acted as though he thought money gave him a kind of invulnerability.”

He walked over towards the fireplace and turned again. “I’m glad he was proved so dramatically wrong. I would like to have seen the expression on his face when he saw that gun pointing at him and looked at the eyes of the man who held it, and knew he was going to shoot.” He regarded Drummond steadily. “Does that sound offensively vindictive? I’m sorry. The man has cost me dearly in peace of mind. And I imagine will continue to do so for some time to come.”

“I’ll do everything I can,” Drummond promised. He could think of nothing else to ask and he had discharged his commitment both to a man he was feeling increasing sympathy for and to a brother in the Inner Circle.

Byam smiled bleakly.

“I’m sure you will, and I do not wish to sound either ungrateful for your discretion or unbelieving of your man’s abilities. It is hard when you cannot see a solution yourself to realize that someone else whom you do not know can solve it for you. I am not used to feeling so helpless. I am obliged to you, Drummond.”

“We’ll find him,” Drummond said rashly, perhaps Eleanor Byam more in his mind than her husband. “Pitt won’t rest until he finds the truth-I promise you that.”

Byam smiled and offered his hand.

Drummond took it, held it a moment, then walked to the door.