Bethlehem Road

BETHLEHEM ROAD by Anne Perry

Scanned by Aristotle

Hetty stood at the edge of Westminster Bridge and stared across the dark roadway at the man lounging rather awkwardly against the beautiful three-headed lamppost on the far side. A hansom cab passed between them_? clattering northwards over the great span towards the Houses of Parliament on the far side, and the newly installed electric lights like a row of golden moons along the Victoria Embankment.

The man had made no move since she had come. It was after midnight. Such a well-dressed gentleman, with his silk hat and white evening scarf and the fresh flowers in his buttonhole, would hardly be lounging around here waiting for an acquaintance! He must be a likely customer. What else would he stand here for?

Hetty sauntered over to him, swishing her gold skirts elegantly and cocking her head a little to one side.

"Evenin' ducky! Lookin' fer a little comp'ny, are yer?" she asked invitingly.

The man made no move at all. He could have been asleep on his feet, for all the notice he took of her.

' 'Shy, are yer?'' she said helpfully-some gentlemen found 1

themselves tongue-tied when it came to the point, especially if it was not their habit. "Don' need ter be," she went on. "Nothin' wrong in a spot o' friendship on a cold night. My name's 'Etty. Why don't yer come along wiv me. 'Ave a nice tot o' gin, an' get ter know each other, eh? Don' corst much!''

Still the man neither moved nor spoke.

" 'Ere! Wot's wrong wiv yer?" She peered at him, noticing for the first time that he was leaning back in rather a strained position, and that his hands were not in his pockets, as she would have expected at this time of a spring night in such chill, but were hanging by his sides. "Are yer sick?" she said with concern.

He remained motionless.

He was older than he had looked from the far side of the road, probably into his fifties; silver-gray hair caught the lamplight, and his face had a blank, rather wild stare.

"You're soused as an 'erring!" she exclaimed with a mixture of pity and disgust. She understood drunkenness well enough, but one did not expect it from the gentry, not in so public a street. "You better go 'ome, before the rozzers get yer. Go on! Yer can't spend all night 'ere!" No custom after all! Still, she had not done badly. The gentlemen on the Lambeth Walk had paid handsomely. "Silly ol' fool!" she added under her breath to the figure against the lamppost.

Then she noticed that the white scarf was round not only his neck but round the wrought iron decorative fork of the lamppost as well. Dear God-he was tied up to it-by his neck! Then the hideous truth struck her: that glassy stare was not stupor, it was . . . death.

She let out a shriek that cut through the night air and the deserted road with its beautiful lamps and triple pools of light and shot up into the empty void of the sky above. She shrieked again, and again, as if now she had started she must continue on and on until there were some answer to the horror in front of her.

At the far side of the bridge dim figures turned; another 2

voice shouted and someone began to run, footsteps clattering hollowly towards her.

Hetty stepped back away from the lamppost and its burden and tripped over the curb, falling clumsily into the road. She lay stunned and angry for a moment. Then someone bent over her, and she felt her shoulders lifted.

"You all right, luv?" The voice was gruff but not ungentle, and she could smell damp wool close to her face.

Why had she been so stupid? She should have kept quiet and gone on her way, left some other fool to find the corpse! Now a little knot of people was gathering round her.

"Gawd!" someone squealed in sudden horror. " 'E's dead! Dead as a mackerel, poor beggar!"

"You'd better not touch him." This was an authoritative voice, quite different in tone, educated and self-confident. "Someone send for the police. Here, you go, there's a good chap. There should be a constable along the Embankment."

There was the sound of running feet again, fading as they drew farther off.

Hetty struggled to stand up, and the man holding her hoisted her with good-natured concern. There were five of them, standing shivering and awed. She wanted to get away, most particularly before the rozzers arrived. Really, she had not used the wits she was born with, yelling out like that! She could have held her tongue and been half a mile away, and no one the wiser.

She looked round the ring of faces, all shadows and eerie highlights from the yellow lamps, breath making faint wisps of vapor in the cold. They were kindly, concerned-and there was no chance whatsoever she could escape. But she might, at least, get a free drink out of it.

"I've 'ad an 'orrible shock," she said shakily and with a certain dignity. "I feel all cold an' wobbly like."

Someone pulled out a silver flask, the light catching on its scrolled sides. It was a beautiful thing. "Have a sip of brandy?"

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' 'Thank you, I fai sure.'' Hetty took it without protestation and drank every drop. She ran her fingers over it, tracing the engraving, before reluctantly handing it back.

Inspector Thomas Pitt was called from his home at five minutes past one in the morning, and by half past he found himself standing at the south end of Westminster Bridge in the shivering cold looking at the corpse of a middle-aged man dressed in an expensive black overcoat and a silk hat. He was tied by a white evening scarf round his neck to the lamppost behind him. His throat had been deeply cut; the right jugular vein was severed and his shirt was soaked in blood. The overcoat had hidden it almost entirely; and the folded scarf, as well as holding him up and a trifle backwards so the stanchion of the lamp took some of his weight, had also covered the wound.

There was a group of half a dozen people standing on the far side of the bridge, across the road from the body. The constable on duty stood beside Pitt with his bull's-eye lantern in his hand, although the streetiamps provided sufficient light for all that they could do now.

"Miss 'Etty Milner found 'im, sir," the constable said helpfully. "She said as she thought 'e were ill, an' inquired after 'is 'ealth. Reckon more like she were toutin' fer 'is business, but don't suppose it makes no difference, poor devil. 'E's still got money in 'is pockets, an' 'is gold watch 'n chain, so it don't look as if 'e were robbed."

Pitt looked again at the body. Tentatively he felt the lapels of the coat, taking off his own gloves to ascertain the texture of the cloth. It was soft and firm, quality wool. There were fresh primroses in his buttonhole, looking ghostly in the lamplight, with the faint wisps of fog that drifted like chiffon scarves up off the dark swirling river below. The man's gloves were leather, probably pigskin; not knitted, like Pitt's. He looked at the gold-mounted carnelian cuff links. He moved

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the scarf aside, revealing the blood-soaked shirt, studs still in place, and then let it fail again.

"Do we know who he is?" he asked quietly.

"Yes sir." The constable's voice lost some of its businesslike clarity. "I knows 'im meself, from bein' on duty round 'ere. 'E's Sir Lockwood 'Amilton, member o' Parliament. 'E lives somewhere souf o' the river, so I reckon as 'e was goin' 'ome after a late sittin', like usual. Some o' the gennelmen walks of a fine night, if they lives close, an' a lot o' them do, wherever they're a member for.'' He cleared his throat of some impediment, perhaps cold, perhaps a mixture of pity and horror. "Could be some town the other end of the country. They 'as to 'ave a place in town w'en the 'ouse is in session. And o' course them as is 'igh in government 'as ter be 'ere all the time, 'cept fer 'olidays and the like."

"Yes," Pitt smiled bleakly. He already knew the customs of Parliament, but the man was trying to be helpful. It was easier to talk; it filled the silence and drew one's mind from the corpse. "Thank you. Which one is Hetty Milner?"

" 'Er over there, with the light-colored 'air, sir. T'other girl's in the same line o' business, but she isn't got nothin' ter do with this. Just nosy."

Pitt crossed the road and approached the group of people. He looked at Hetty, noted the painted face, hollow in this harsh lamplight, the low neckline of her dress, the fair skin which would be coarse in a handful of years, and the cheap, gaudy skirts. They were torn from when she had stumbled off the curb, showing slender ankles and a fine leg.

"I'm Inspector Pitt," he introduced himself. "You found the body tied up to the lamppost?"

"Yeah!" Hetty did not like the police; it was an occupational hazard that her associations with them had all been to her disadvantage. She had nothing against this one in particular, but she must do what she could to rectify her earlier stupidity by saying as little as possible now.

"Did you see anyone else on the bridge?" he asked. 5

"No."

"Which way were you going?"

" 'Ome. From the souf."

"Over towards the Palace of Westminster?"

She had a suspicion he was laughing at her.' 'That's right!''

' 'Where do you live?''

"Near the Millbank Prison." Her chin came up. "That's close on to Westminster, in case as you dunno!"

' 'I know. And you were walking home alone?'' There was nothing sardonic in his face, but she looked at him disbe-lievingly.

"Wot's the matter wiv yer? You daft or suffink? Course I was alone!"

"What did you say to him?"

She was about to say who? and realized it would be pointless. She had just virtually admitted she was there plying her trade. Bleedin' rozzer had led her into saying that!

"Asked 'im if 'e was ill." She was pleased with that answer. Even a lady might ask after someone's health.

"So he looked ill?"

"Yeah-no!" She swore under her breath. "All right, so I asked 'im if 'e wanted a spot o' comp'ny." She twisted her face in an attempt at sarcasm. " 'E didn't say nuffin'!"

' 'Did you touch him?''

"No!Iin'tnothief!"

"And you're sure you saw no one else? Nobody 'going home'? No tradespeople?"

"At this time o' night? Sellin' wot?"

"Hot pies, flowers, sandwiches."

"No I didn't; just a cab as passed wivout stoppin'. But I didn't kill 'im. I swear by Gawd, 'e were dead w'en I got 'ere. Why would I kill 'im? I in't crazy!"

Pitt believed her. She was an ordinary prostitute, like countless thousands of others in London in this year of grace, 1888. She might or might not be a petty thief, she would

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probably unwittingly spread disease and herself die young. But she would not kill a potential customer in the street.

"Give your name and address to the constable," he said to her. "And make it the truth, Hetty, or we'll have to come looking for you, which would not be good for trade.''

She glared at him, then swung round and walked over to the constable, tripping again on the curb but this time catching herself before she fell and continuing with her chin even higher.

Pitt went over to the other people and spoke to them, but none had seen anything, having come only when they heard Hetty's screams. There was nothing more he could do there, and he signaled to the mortuary carriage waiting at the far end of the bridge that it could come and remove the body. He had looked carefully at the scarf: the knot was such as anyone would tie without thinking, one end over the other, and then again. The man's weight had pulled it so tight it could not be undone. He watched them cut it with a knife and lower the corpse, then put it gently in the carriage, which drove away, a black shadow against the lights, clattering across the bridge and turning under the great statue of Boadicea in her chariot with the magnificent horses, and right along the Embankment till it disappeared. Pitt went back to the constable and the second uniformed man who had arrived.

Now came the duty that Pitt hated more than almost any other, except perhaps the final unwinding of the solution, the understanding of the passions and the pain that produced tragedy. He must go and inform the family, watch their shock and their grief and try to disentangle from their words, their gestures, the fleeting emotions on their faces any thread that might tell him something. So often it was some other pain or darkness, some other secret that had nothing to do with the crime, some ugly act or weakness that they would lie to protect.

It was not difficult to discover that Sir Lockwood Hamilton

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had lived at number seventeen Royal Street, about half a mile away, overlooking the garden of Lambeth Palace, the official London residence of the Archbishop of Canterbury.

It was hardly worth seeking a cab; it would be a short walk, and on a clear night very pleasant-no doubt that was what Lockwood Hamilton himself had thought when he left the House. And it would give Pitt time to think.

Ten minutes later he was standing on the step rapping with the brass knob on the fine mahogany door. He waited several moments, then rapped again. Somewhere in the attics a light came on, then one on the second floor, and finally one in the hallway. The door opened, and a sleepy butler in hastily donned jacket blinked at him, realized he was a stranger, and drew breath to be indignant.

"Inspector Thomas Pitt, of the Bow Street Station," Pitt said quickly. "May I come in?"

The butler sensed a certain gravity, perhaps a shadow of pity either in Pitt's face or voice, and his irritation dissolved.

"Is something wrong? Has there been an accident?"

"I'm sorry-it is more distressing than that," Pitt replied, following him in. "Sir Lockwood Hamilton is dead. I would omit the circumstances if I could, but it will be in the morning newspapers, and it would be better if Lady Hamilton were prepared for it, and any other members of the family."

"Oh-" The butler gulped, took a moment to gain his composure while all sorts of horrors raced through his mind, scandals and disgrace. Then he straightened himself and faced Pitt. ' 'What happened?'' he said levelly, his voice very nearly normal.

"I am afraid he was murdered. On Westminster Bridge."

"You mean . . . pushed over?" The man's face registered disbelief, as though the idea were too ludicrous to credit.

' 'No.'' Pitt drew a breath.''He was attacked with a razor, or a knife. I'm sorry. It will have been very quick, all over in a moment, and he will have felt very little. I think you had

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better have her maid call Lady Hamilton, and prepare some restorative; a tisane, or whatever you think best."

' 'Yes-yes sir, of course.'' The butler showed Pitt into the withdrawing room, where the embers of the fire were still glowing, and left him to turn up the gas lamps and find a seat for himself while he set about his unhappy task.

Pitt looked round the room; it would tell him something of the people who lived here and made it their home while Parliament was sitting. It was spacious, far less cluttered with furniture than was the fashion. There was less fringing on couches and chairs, fewer hanging crystals on the light fixtures, no antimacassars or samplers, no family portraits or photographs, except one rather severe sepia tint of an elderly woman in a widow's white cap, framed in silver. It was at odds with the rest of the room, a relic of another age. If this was Lady Hamilton's choice of decor, then the woman might be Sir Lockwood's relative, perhaps his mother.

The pictures on the walls were cool, romantic, after the style of the Pre-Raphaelites; women with enigmatic faces and lovely hair, knights in armor, and twined flowers. On the decorative tables by the wall there were pewter ornaments of considerable age.

It was ten minutes before the door opened and Lady Hamilton came in. She was of above average height, with interesting, intelligent features which in her youth had probably had a certain loveliness. Now she was in her middle forties, and time had taken the first bloom from her skin and replaced it with marks of character which to Pitt were far more appealing. Her dark hair was coiled in the hastiest of knots at the nape of her neck, and she wore a dressing robe of royal blue.

She made an immense effort to remain dignified. "I understand you have come to tell me that my husband has been killed," she said quietly.

"Yes, Lady Hamilton," Pitt answered. "I am extremely sorry. I apologize for distressing you with the details, but I

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believe you would prefer to hear them from me, rather than from the newspapers or from other people."

She paled so markedly he was afraid for a moment she might collapse, but she drew in her breath and let it out very slowly, managing to retain her composure.

"Perhaps you should sit down?" he suggested. He held out his hand, but she ignored it and made her way to the couch, indicating that he be seated as well. Her fists were clenched and shaking where she held them in her lap, to hide them from him, and perhaps from herself.

"Pray proceed," she instructed him.

He felt her pain and was powerless to do anything but add to it.

"It appears that Sir Lockwood was walking home after a late sitting of the House of Commons," he continued. "When he reached the south end of Westminster Bridge he was attacked by someone with either a knife or a razor. He sustained only one injury, in the neck, but it was fatal. If it can be of any comfort to you, he will have felt only the briefest instant's pain. It was extremely rapid."

"He was robbed?" She spoke only to maintain the show of composure she was fighting so hard to keep.

"No, it would appear not-unless he carried something we don't know of. He still had his money, watch and chain, and cufflinks. 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 10

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

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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 hi 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, 12

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 hi 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 question-ingly at Pitt.

"Inspector Pitt, ma'am."

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

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"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 14

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 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, 1 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."

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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

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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.

* * *

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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 hi Knightsbridge, where the spring sun was clear and sharp on the paving stones and the

18

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 con-

19

diments 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-

20

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 21

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."

charlotte pitt 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.

Now Charlotte sat in the back row of a crowded meeting hall and watched the first speaker, a stout young woman with a strong, blunt face and red hands, as she got to her feet and the muttering gradually fell to silence.

"Sisters!" The word stuck oddly on such a mixed company. In front of Charlotte a well-dressed woman in green silk hunched her shoulders a little, withdrawing from the touch and the association of those she was forced to be so

23

close to. "We're all 'ere for the same reason!" the young woman on the platform continued, her voice rich, and hardened with a strong northern accent. ' 'We all believe as 'ow we should 'ave some say in the way our lives is run, wot laws is made an' oo makes 'em! All kinds o' men get a chance to choose their members o' Parliament, an' if 'e wants to get elected, that Member 'as to answer to the people. 'Alf the people, sisters, just 'alf the people-the 'alf that's men!"

She went on speaking for another ten minutes, and Charlotte only half listened. She had heard the arguments before, and in her mind they were already irrefutable. What she had come for was to see what support there was, and the kind of women who were prepared to come from conviction rather than curiosity. Gazing round at them as discreetly as she could, she saw that a large number were soberly dressed in browns and muted tones, and the cut of their coats and skirts were serviceable but not smart, designed to last through many changes of fashion. Several wore shawls pulled round their shoulders for warmth, not decoration. They were ordinary women whose husbands were clerks or tradesmen, struggling to make ends meet, perhaps striving after a little gentility, perhaps not.

Here and there were a few who were smarter; some young with a touch of elegance, others matronly, ample bosoms draped with furs and beads, hats sprouting feathers.

But it was their faces that interested Charlotte most, the fleeting expressions chasing across them as they listened to the ideas that almost all society found revolutionary, unnatural, and either ridiculous or dangerous, depending on their perception of any real change awakening from them.

In some she saw interest, even the glimmer of belief. In others there was confusion: the thought was too big to accept, required too great a break with the inbred teaching of mother and grandmother, a way of life not always comfortable but whose hardships were at least familiar. In some there was already derision and dislike, and the fear of change.

24

One face held Charlotte's attention particularly, round and yet delicately boned, intelligent, curious, very feminine, and with a strong, stubborn jaw. It was the expression which drew Charlotte, a mixture of wonder and doubt, as though new thoughts were entering the woman's mind and enormous questions arose out of them instantly. Her eyes were intent on the speaker, afraid lest she lose a word. She seemed oblivious of the women packed close to her; indeed, when one jostled against her and a feather from a rakish hat brushed her cheek she did no more than blink without turning to see who the offender might be.

With the third speaker, a thin, overearnest woman of indeterminate age, the hecklers began. Their voices were still moderately good-natured, but their questions were sharp.

"Yer sayin' as women knows as much abaht business as men? That don't say much fer yer man, then, do it?"

"That is if yer 'as one!" There was a roar of laughter, half raucous, half pitying: a single woman was in most eyes a sad object, a creature who had failed in her prime objective.

The woman on the platform winced so very slightly that it might even have been Charlotte's imagination. She was used to this particular taunt and had grown to expect it.

''You have one?" she flung back with certainty blazing in her face. "And children, do you?"

"Sure I 'ave! Ten of 'em!"

There were more shouts of laughter.

"Do you have a maid, and a cook, and other servants?" the woman on the platform asked.

"Course I don't! Wotcher think I am? I 'ave one girl as scrubs."

"Then you manage the household yourself?"

There was silence, and Charlotte glanced at the woman with the remarkable face and saw that already she understood what the speaker was intending. Her face was keen with appreciation.

"Course I do!"

25

"Accounts, budgeting, the purchase of clothes, the use of fuel, the discipline of your ten children? Seems to me you know a great deal about business-and people. I daresay you are a pretty good judge of character too. You know when you are being lied to, when someone is trying to give you short change or sell you shoddy goods, don't you?"

"Yeah ..." the woman agreed slowly. She was not yet ready to concede, not in front of so many. "Don't mean I know 'ow ter run a country!"

"Does your husband? Could he run a country? Could he even run your house?"

"Isn't the same!"

"Does he have a vote?"

"Yeah, but-"

"Isn't your judgment as good as his?"

' 'My dear good woman!'' another voice burst in, rich and piled with scorn, and heads turned towards the wearer of a plum-colored hat. "You may be very proficient at buying enough potatoes to feed your family and assessing the cost any given week; I don't doubt you are. But that is hardly on the same level as choosing a Prime Minister!"

There were giggles of stifled mirth, and someone called out, "Hear, hear," in agreement.

' 'Our place is in the home,'' the woman with the plum hat continued, gathering momentum. "Domestic duties are among our natural gifts, and as mothers, of course we know how to discipline our children-such instincts awake in us when we bear our young. It is God's order of the world. But our judgments on matters of high finance, foreign affairs, and concerns of state are utterly hopeless. Neither nature nor the Lord designed us to meddle in such things, and we rob ourselves and our daughters of our proper place, and the respect and protection due us from men, if we try to go contrary to it!"

There were more murmurs of approval, and a sprinkling of tentative applause.

26

The woman on the platform was exasperated at the irrelevance of the argument. There were spots of color high on her thin cheeks.' 'I am not suggesting you become a Minister of State!" she said sharply. "Only that you have as much right as your butler or your poulterer has to choose who shall represent you in the Parliament of your country! And that your judgment of character is probably just as competent as theirs!"

' 'Oh! You impertinent creature!'' The woman in plum was quite outraged; her face colored darkly and her rather heavy jowls shook as she raced through her mind for words scalding enough to satisfy the occasion.

"You are quite right!" Suddenly the woman who had drawn Charlotte's attention broke the silence. Her voice was husky and pleasant; both her diction and her poise revealed she was of considerable breeding. "Women's judgment of character is quite as good as men's; on the whole, I think very often rather better. And that is all that is required to have a useful opinion as to who should represent one in Parliament!"

Everyone in the cramped hall swung round to look at her, and she blushed with slight self-consciousness, but it did not prevent her continuing.

"We are bound by the laws; I think it is only proper that we should have some say as to what they shall be. I-"

"You are quite wrong, madame!" A deeper voice cut across her, the rich contralto of a very large woman with jet beads across her bosom and a fine mourning brooch on her lapel. "The law, framed by men whom you so despise, is our finest protection! As a woman you are guarded by your husband, or should you be single, your father; he provides for your needs both spiritual and temporal; he exercises his wisdom to gain what is best for you, without the least exertion on your part; he undertakes your well-being; should you transgress or fall into debt, it is he, not you, who answers

27

the magistrates and must satisfy your creditors. It is only just that he should also frame the laws, or elect those who do!"

"Stuff and nonsense!" Charlotte said loudly. She could contain herself no longer. "If my husband falls into debt, I shall be just as hungry as he is; if I commit a crime, the general public may look down upon him, but it is assuredly I who shall go to prison, not he! And if I kill someone, it is I who will hang!"

There was a sharp collective intake of breath and a little hiss of surprise at such unnecessary coarseness of reference.

Charlotte was not deterred: she had intended to shock, and the feeling of success was quite exhilarating.

"I agree with Miss Wutherspoon-women's judgment of character is easily as good as men's. What could be more important in your life than who you marry? And upon what basis does a man choose, if left to himself?"

"A pretty face!" someone answered sourly.

Someone else gave a reply a good deal less refined, and raised a loud laugh.

"Beauty, charm, a winning way," Charlotte answered her own question before the purpose of it was lost. ' 'Often upon flattery, and the color of her eyes, or the way she has of laughing. A woman chooses a man who can provide for her and her children.'' Here she winced at her duplicity, she who had chosen Pitt entirely because he intrigued her, charmed her, frightened her with his directness, made her laugh, fired her with his anger at injustice, and because she both loved and trusted him. The fact that he was socially and financially a disaster, and likely to remain so, had not weighed an ounce with her. But she knew unquestionably that most women had more sense. She sailed on regardless both of that, and of her earlier infatuation with her brother-in-law Dominic, for which she did blush, but it was lost under the high color of her zeal. The principle was right.

"Men may go on all manner of adventures and brave the result, come what may, but most women will look to the

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outcome of a thing, knowing that their children must eat and be clothed, that there must be a safe home for them not only today and tomorrow, but next year and ten years from now! Women are less reckless." She thought of all the wise and brave women she had known, discounting the idiotic tilings she had done herself, and the risks both she and Emily had taken. "When all the shouting and the heroics are over, who is it that will tend the sick, bury the dead and start over? Women! Our opinions should count, our judgment of a man's honesty and worth to represent us should weigh in the balance too."

"You're right!" Miss Wutherspoon cried from the platform. "You're absolutely right! And if Members of Parliament had to account to women as well as men to get elected, there wouldn't be the injustices there are now!"

"What injustices?" someone demanded. "What does a good woman need that she does not have?"

"No natural woman wants to expose herself to ridicule," the woman in the plum-colored hat said loudly, her voice rising with increasing indignation, "by parading for people to accept or reject her, pleading with them to listen to her, choose her, believe in her opinions or trust her judgment in affairs she knows nothing about! Miss Taylor is a laughingstock, and far from being a friend to women, she is our worst enemy. Not even Dr. Pankhurst would be seen in public with her! Standing for Parliament, indeed! Next thing you know we'll become harridans, like that miserable Ivory woman, who has abandoned all semblance of decency and restraint which is essential to a woman and all that is precious to society-indeed to civilization!"

There were several cries of approval and even louder hisses and expostulations of outrage. Some even demanded that the traitors to the cause should leave and go back to their nurseries, or whatever other confining place they usually inhabited.

A stout woman in bombazine raised an umbrella, unfor-29

tunately catching the ferrule of it in an elderly housemaid's skirts. There was a hiccup and a shriek of alarm. The housemaid, thinking she was being assaulted for her abuse of the lady in the plum hat, whisked her handbag round and landed it soundly on the head of the woman in bombazine, and the resulting melee had very little to do with the exercise of privilege or responsibility, and even less to do with Parliament.

Having no wish to become involved in a brawl, Charlotte withdrew. She was only a few yards outside the hall via the rear exit when she saw the woman whose face had drawn her attention. She was standing quite close, unaware of Charlotte, her attention caught by a hansom drawn up at the curb. The woman had her back to Charlotte and was arguing fiercely with a slim, elegantly dressed man whose fair hair shone almost white in the sun. He was obviously extremely annoyed.

"My dear Parthenope, this is both unseemly, and to be frank, a trifle ridiculous. You are letting me down by even being seen in such a place, and I am distressed that you should not have realized it!"

Charlotte could not see the woman's face, but her voice was thick with a confusion of emotions.

"I am tempted to make the obvious answer to excuse myself, Cuthbert, and say that no one there knew who I was. But that is irrelevant."

"Indeed it is! The risk-"

But she cut him short. "I am not talking about the risk! What if I am known to care that women should be represented in Parliament?"

"Women are represented!" He was exasperated now, and there was a flash of impatience in his face. "You are excellently represented by the present members of the House! For heaven's sake, we don't legislate simply for ourselves! Who on earth have you been listening to? Have you seen that wretched Ivory woman again? I most specifically told you

30

that I did not wish it! Why do you insist on disobeying me? The woman is a virago, a miserable, unbalanced creature who embodies everything that is most to be deplored in a woman."

"No I have not seen her!" Parthenope's voice was low, but it now held an intensity of anger. "I told you I would not, and I have not! But I shall not stop listening to what people have to say about women one day obtaining the franchise."

"Then listen at home; read articles, if you must-although it will never happen. It is quite unnecessary and unsuitable. Women's interests are very well cared for now, and all women with any sense are fully aware of it!"

' 'Indeed!'' Her voice grew harder, and high with sarcasm. "Then I have little sense! Only that which is required to govern a household of eight servants, see to the accounting, maintain discipline and good order and fellowship, raise and teach and nurse my children, entertain our business and parliamentary friends and provide them with fine meals in charming surroundings, and always see that no one is offended, embarrassed, excluded, or paired with someone unsuitable, and to keep the conversation charming, witty but never offensive, and never, never boring! And naturally always to look beautiful while doing all of this! I am sure that does not make me competent to decide which of two or three candidates should represent me in Parliament!"

The fair-haired man's face was tight and his blue eyes blazed.' 'Parthenope! You are becoming absurd!'' he hissed. "I forbid you to stand out here and argue this in public any longer. We are going home, where you should have been all the time!"

' 'Of course.'' Still she did not shout, but her whole body was rigid with fury. ' 'Perhaps once you have me there you would care to lock the door."

He put out both his hands and held her arms, but she did not yield in the slightest.

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"Parthenope, I have no desire to curtail your pleasures or to be harsh with you. For heaven's sake, you know that! And you are excellent-no, brilliant-at running the house. I have always said so, and I am profoundly grateful for all you do. You are a perfect wife in every way-" He could see he was still losing; she did not want flattery, not even acknowledgment. "Damn it, madame, you are not selecting a housemaid! At that you are unequaled, but choosing a member of Parliament is utterly different!"

"Indeed?" Her eyebrows rose sharply. "Pray how? Would you not wish your Member of Parliament to be honest above question, of sound moral character, discreet about what he knows that is confidential, loyal to his cause, and competent in the skills of his job?''

"I don't want him to dust the furniture or peel the potatoes!"

' 'Oh Cuthbert!'' She knew she had won the argument, and lost the issue. He had not changed his mind in the slightest, nor was he likely to. His urgency was still all bent on getting her to climb into the cab and leave the areaway before someone came who might recognize one of them. Reluctantly she yielded and allowed him to hand her up. Charlotte saw her sensitive, stubborn face for a moment as she turned on the step, and the confusion in it; the new ideas could not be extinguished, nor could the old loyalties be denied. Parthenope looked at her husband with a sharp, unresolved anxiety.

Then he climbed up beside her and pulled the door shut, leaving Charlotte to come out of the shadows and walk along the footpath as if she had only this moment come out of the exit.

3

J3y midafternoon pitt was back in Bow Street. It was one of those vivid spring days when the air is sharp and the sun falls clean and pale on the pavement stones, and there was still a tingle of coldness in the wind, keen-edged and bringing a smell of dampness up from the river. A string of carriages clattered by along the Strand, harnesses polished and jingling, horses stepping high, and the crossing boys swept up behind them, cleaning away the droppings. A barrel organ churned out a popular music hall song. Somewhere out of sight a street vendor called his wares-"Hot plum duff, hot plum!"-and gradually his voice faded away as he moved towards the embankment. A newspaper boy was shouting his "extra"-" ' 'Orrible Murder on Westminster Bridge! M.P. Dead-Throat Cut!' "

Pitt climbed the steps and went into the station. It was a different sergeant on duty, but he had obviously been fully caught up on the case.

"Arternoon, Mr. Pitt," he said cheerfully. "Mr. Drum-mond's in 'is office. Reckon there's a bit in-not much. Found a cab or two, for wot it's worth.''

33

"Thank you." Pitt strode past him and into the corridor, which smelled of clean linoleum, a comparatively new invention. He went up the stairs two at a time and knocked on the door to Drummond's office. His memory went back to a few months ago, when Dudley Athelstan had occupied it. Pitt had found Athelstan pompous and, with the insecurity of the socially ambitious, never sure which master to serve. Athelstan had resented Pitt's impertinence, his untidiness- but above all his impudence in marrying Charlotte Ellison, so much his social superior.

Drummond was a totally different man, having sufficient family background and private means not to care about either. He called his permission to enter.

"Good afternoon, sir." Pitt looked round the room, full of mementos of past cases, many of which he had worked on himself; tragedies and resolutions, darkness and light.

"Come in, Pitt.'' Drummond waved him towards the fire. He fished among papers on his desk, all handwritten in copperplate of varying degrees of legibility. "Got a few reports, nothing very helpful so far; a cabby crossing the bridge who noticed nothing at a quarter past midnight, except perhaps a prostitute at the north side, and a group of gentlemen coming up from the House of Commons. Hamilton could have been one of them; we'll have to ask around tonight when the House rises. No good looking now. We'll find out which members live on the south side of the river and might have gone home that way. Got a man on it now."

Pitt stood by the fire, the warmth delicious up the backs of his legs. Athelstan always used to monopolize it.

' 'I suppose we have to face the remote possibility it was one of his colleagues?" he said with regret.

Drummond looked up sharply, instant disagreement on his face. Then reason overtook distaste. ' 'Not yet, but it may have to be considered," he conceded. "First we'll look at personal or business enemies and-God help us-the possibility it was some lunatic."

34

"Or anarchists," Pitt added glumly, rubbing his hands down the back of his coat where the fire warmed it.

Drummond regarded him, a bleak and not unsympathetic humor in his eyes.' 'Or anarchists,'' he agreed.' 'Unpleasant as it is, we had better pray it is personal. Which is the line you must pursue today."

' 'What have we so far?'' Pitt asked.

"Two cabbies, the one at a quarter past midnight who noticed nothing, one at approximately twenty past, seen by Hetty Milner, who also says he saw nothing; but since Hetty saw him immediately before she spoke to Hamilton, that doesn't mean much. Poor devil must have been there then, possibly before. But it shouldn't be hard to establish what time he left the House, so we have a space of twenty minutes or so. Might help with determining where suspects were, but I doubt it: if it was family they may well not have committed the crime personally." He sighed. "We'll probably be looking at movement of money, bank withdrawals, sales of jewelry or pictures, acquaintances of unusual nature." He rubbed his hands over his face wearily, only too aware of the closing of ranks that scandal inspired among the upper classes. "Look into his business affairs, will you, Pitt? Then you'd better see what political matter he was involved with. There's always Irish Home Rule, slum clearance, poor law reform-heaven knows what else someone might feel violent about."

"Yes sir." It was what he would have done anyway. "I suppose we've got someone checking on all the known agitators?"

"Yes, all that is being done. At least we've got only a narrow space of time to cover. Might get something from the other people who came running when Hetty Milner screamed. So far they've given us nothing useful, but memory does sometimes dredge up a face or a sound afterwards, something seen out of the corner of the eye." Drummond pushed forward a sheet of paper with a name and address on

35

it. "That's Hamilton's business partner. You could start with him. And Pitt. . ."

Pitt waited.

"For heaven's sake be tactful!"

Pitt smiled. "I assume that is why you chose me for the case-sir."

Drummond's mouth quivered. "Get out," he said quietly.

Pitt took a hansom along the Strand, Fleet Street and Lud-gate Hill past St. Paul's and up to Cheapside, along Cheap-side and down Threadneedle Street past the Bank of England to Bishopsgate Street Within and the offices of Hamilton and Verdun. He presented his card, an extravagance he had indulged in a while ago and indeed found useful.

" 'Inspector Thomas Pitt, Bow Street,' " the clerk read with patent surprise. Policemen did not carry calling cards, any more than did the ratcatcher or the drain man. Standards had declined appallingly lately! What was the world coming to?

"I would like to speak with Mr. Charles Verdun, if I may," Pitt continued. "About the death of Sir Lockwood Hamilton."

"Oh!" The clerk was considerably sobered-and a little elated, in spite of himself. There was a certain grisly glamor in being connected with a famous murder. He would tell Miss Laetitia Morris all about it this evening, over a glass of stout at the Grinning Rat. That should make her sit up and take notice! She would not find him boring after this. Harry Parsons would not seem half so interesting with his common bit of embezzlement. He looked at Pitt.

"Well if you wait 'ere, I'll see what Mr. Verdun says. 'E don't see people just for the askin', you know. Perhaps I could tell you somethin'? I saw Sir Lockwood reg'lar. I 'ope you're well on your way to catchin' the criminal what done this. Per'aps I saw 'im-without knowin', like?"

Pitt read him like one of the clerk's own copperplate led-36

gers. "I shall know better what to ask you after I've seen Mr. Verdun."

"Course. Well I'll go and see wot 'e says." And dutifully the clerk retired, to come back hi a few moments and usher Pitt into a large untidy room with a good fire, which was smoking a little, and several armchairs in green leather, comfortable and polished to a shine by use. Behind an antique and battered desk piled with papers sat a man of anything between fifty and seventy, with a long face, tufted gray eyebrows, and a benign and whimsical expression. He composed his features into an expression of suitable gravity and waved his hand towards a chair, inviting Pitt to sit down. Then he wandered over himself, took a look at the fire, and swung his arms round as if to dispel the smoke.

"Damn thing!" He glared at it. "Can't think what's the matter with it! Maybe I'd better open a window?"

Pitt prevented himself from coughing with difficulty and nodded his head. "Yes sir. A good idea."

Verdun strolled back behind the desk and yanked on the lower half of the sash window. It shot up with a thump, letting in a gust of cool air.

"Ah," he said with satisfaction. "Now, what can I do for you? Police fellow, eh? About poor Lockwood's death. Shocking thing to happen. I suppose you Ve no idea who did it? No, you wouldn't have-too soon, eh?"

' 'Yes sir. I understand Sir Lockwood was in business partnership with you?"

"Yes, in a manner of speaking." Verdun reached for a humidor and took out a cigar. He lit it with a spill from the fire and blew out a smoke so pungent it made Pitt gasp.

Verdun mistook his expression entirely.

"Turkish," he said with satisfaction. "Have one?"

Camel dung, Pitt thought. "Very kind of you, but no thank you, sir," he replied. "In what manner of speaking, sir?"

"Ah." Verdun shook his head. "Wasn't in here much. 37

Keener on his politics-had to be. Parliamentary Private Secretary, and all that. One has a duty."

"But he had a financial interest in the company?" Pitt persisted.

"Oh yes, yes. You could say that."

Pitt was puzzled. "Was he not an equal partner?" His name had been first on the plate outside the door.

"Certainly!" Verdun agreed. "But he didn't come here more than once a week at most, often less.'' He said it without the slightest resentment.

"So you do most of the work?" Pitt asked. He wanted to be tactful, but with this man it was difficult. Obliqueness seemed to be misunderstood altogether.

Verdun's eyebrows shot up. "Work? Well, yes, I suppose so. Never thought of looking at it like that. Fellow's got to do something, you know! Don't like hanging around clubs with a lot of old fools talking about cads, the weather, who said what, and how everybody dresses-and who's having an affair with whose mistress. I always find it too easy to see the other chap's point of view to get heated about it.''

Pitt hid a smile with difficulty.' 'So you deal in property?'' he prompted.

"Yes, that's right," Verdun agreed. He puffed at his cigar. Pitt was profoundly glad the window was open; it really smelled appalling. "What's this got to do with poor old Lockwood being killed on Westminster Bridge?" Verdun went on, puckering up his face. "Don't think it was over some property deal, do you? Hardly seems likely. Why should anybody do that?"

Pitt could think of several reasons. He would not be the first slum landlord to charge exorbitant rents and cram fifteen or twenty people into one damp and rat-infested room. Nor would he be the first to use his properties as brothels, sweatshops, and thieves' kitchens. There was the possibility Hamilton had been doing this and had been killed for revenge or from outrage-or that Verdun had done it, and when

38

Hamilton found out and threatened to expose him, Verdun killed him to keep him silent.

Or it might simply have been someone acting out of fury at having been evicted from a home, undersold, or beaten to a lucrative deal. However, Pitt did not speak any of these thoughts aloud.

"I imagine there's a good deal of money involved," he said instead, as innocently as he could.

"Not a lot," Verdun replied candidly. "Do it to keep busy, you know. Wife dead twenty years ago. Never felt like marrying again. Couldn't ever care for anyone as I did for her. ..." For a moment his eyes were gentle, faraway, seeing some past happiness that still charmed him. Then he recalled himself. "Children all grown up. Got to do something!"

"But it brings a good income?" Pitt looked at the quality of Verdun's clothing. It was shabby, worn into comfort, but his boots were excellent, and the cut of his jacket Savile Row, his shirts probably Gieves and Son. He did not look fashionable; he looked as if he was sufficiently sure of himself and his place in society that he did not need to. His was old money, quiet money.

"Not terribly," Verdun interrupted Pitt's thoughts. "No need. Hamilton made his income from something to do with railway carriages, in Birmingham or somewhere like that."

"And you, sir?"

' 'Me?'' Again the wispy, tufted eyebrows shot up, and the round gray eyes beneath were bright with irony and suppressed humor. "Don't need it; got enough. Family, you know."

Pitt had already known it; in fact he would not have been surprised had there been an honorary title Verdun declined to use.

There was a rattling outside, a steady arrhythmical clatter.

"You can hear it!" Verdun said quickly. "Horrible contraption! A typewriter, if you please! Got it for my junior

cleric-boy can't write so anyone but an apothecary can read it. Hideous thing. Sounds like twenty horses sliding round a cobbled yard."

"Would you mind giving the police a list of your property deals in the last twelve months, Mr. Verdun?" Pitt requested, biting his lip. He was predisposed to like this man, but his mild, slightly vague manner might hide far uglier passions. Pitt had liked people before and discovered them to be capable of killing. "And anything proposed for the future," he added. "It will be treated with as much confidence as possible."

"My dear fellow, you'll find it excessively tedious. But if you like. Can't imagine you'll catch Lockwood's killer in the list of semidetached houses hi Primrose Hill, Kentish Town, or Highgate, but I suppose you know what you're doing."

The neighborhoods he mentioned were all respectable suburban areas. "What about the East End?" Pitt asked. "No properties there?"

Verdun was quicker than Pitt had thought. "Slum landlords? Suppose you were bound to think of that. No. But you can look through the books if you feel it's your duty."

Pitt knew it would be pointless, but a clever auditor might find some discrepancy that would point to other books, other deals-even embezzlement? He profoundly hoped not. He would like Verdun to be exactly what he seemed.

"Thank you, sir. Are you acquainted with Lady Hamilton?"

"Amethyst? Yes, slightly. Fine woman. Very quiet. Imagine there's some sadness there; no family, you know. Not that Lockwood ever mentioned it-very fond of her. Didn't say much, but it was there. Knew that. Do, if you've ever cared for a woman yourself.''

Pitt thought briefly of Charlotte at home, the warmth and the heart of his own life. "Indeed." He seized the opportunity the subject of family offered him.' 'But there is a son by Sir Lockwood's first marriage?"

40

"Oh, Barclay, yes. Nice fellow. Didn't see much of him. Never married-no idea why.''

"Was he close to his mother?"

"Beatrice? No idea. Didn't get on with Amethyst, if that's what you mean."

"Do you know why?"

"No idea. Might have resented his father marrying again, I suppose. Bit silly, I always think. Should have been pleased for him he was happy, and Amethyst certainly made him an excellent wife. Supported him in his career, entertained his friends with skill and tact, and kept an excellent house. In fact I would say he was happier with her than with Beatrice.''

"Maybe Mr. Barclay knew that, and resented it on his mother's behalf," Pitt suggested.

Verdun's face dropped. "Good heaven's, man, you're not going to suggest he waited twenty years, then suddenly one night crept up behind his father on Westminster Bridge and cut his throat for it, are you?"

"No, of course not." It was preposterous. "Is Mr. Barclay Hamilton reasonably well provided for financially?"

' 'Happen to know that: inherited from his maternal grandfather. Not a lot, but comfortable. Nice house in Chelsea-very nice. Near the Albert Bridge."

"I suppose you have no idea if there's any rival or enemy who might have wished Sir Lockwood harm? Any threats you know of?"

Verdun smiled. "I'm sorry. If I did I should have mentioned it, distasteful as it is. After all, you can't have chaps running around killing people, can you!"

"No sir." Pitt stood up. "Thank you for your help. If I may look at those records of yours? The last year or so should be sufficient."

''Of course. I'll have Telford make a copy for you on that awful contraption, if you like. Might as well do something

useful on it. Sounds like a hundred urchins in hobnail boots!''

* * *

41

It was quarter past six when Pitt was finally ushered into the Home Secretary's office in Whitehall. It was very large and very formal, and the officials in their frock coats and wing collars made it plain that it was a considerable favor granted in extraordinary circumstances that Pitt was even allowed across the threshold, let alone into a Cabinet Minister's private office. Pitt attempted to straighten his tie, making it worse, and ran his fingers through his hair, which was no improvement either.

"Yes, Inspector?" the Home Secretary said courteously. "I can give you ten minutes. Lockwood Hamilton was my Parliamentary Private Secretary, and very good at it, efficient and discreet. I am deeply sorrowed by his death."

"Was he ambitious, sir?"

"Naturally. I should not promote a man who was indifferent to his career."

"How long had he held the position?"

"About six months."

"And before that?"

"A backbencher, on various committees. Why?" He frowned. "Surely you don't think this was political?"

"I don't know, sir. Has Sir Lockwood been involved in any issues or legislation that might arouse strong feelings?"

"He hasn't proposed anything. For Heaven's sake, he's a Parliamentary Private Secretary, not a minister!"

Pitt realized he had made a tactical error. "Before you appointed him to this position, sir," he went on, "you must have known a considerable amount about him: his past career, his stand on important issues, his private life, reputation, business and financial affairs ..."

' 'Of course,'' the Home Secretary agreed somewhat tartly. Then he realized Pitt's purpose. "I don't think I can tell you anything of use. I don't appoint men I consider likely to be murdered for their private lives, and he wasn't important enough to be a political target."

"Probably not, sir," Pitt was forced to agree. "However, 42

I would be neglecting my duty if I didn't look at all the possibilities. Someone unbalanced enough to think of murder as a solution to their problems may not be as rational as you or I."

The Home Secretary gave him a sharp glance, suspecting sarcasm, and he did not like the impertinence of Pitt's equating a Cabinet Minister with a policeman in an estimate of rationality, but he met Pitt's bland blue stare and decided the matter was not worth pursuing.

"We may be dealing with the irrational," he said coldly. "I hope so most profoundly. Any society may be subject to the occasional lunatic. A family or business crime would be unpleasant, but it would be a nine-day scandal, forgotten afterwards. Immeasurably worse would be some conspiracy of anarchists or revolutionaries who were not after poor Hamilton in particular but bent on generally destabilizing the government and causing alarm and public outcry." His hands tightened imperceptibly. "We must clear up this matter as soon as possible. I assume you have all available men on it?"

Pitt could see his reasoning-and yet there was a coldness in him that Pitt found himself disliking as he stood there in the elegant and well-ordered office, which smelled faintly of beeswax and leather. The Home Secretary would prefer a private tragedy with all its pain and ruined lives to an impersonal plot hatched by hotheads dreaming of power and change in some back room, and he felt no compunction about saying so.

' 'Well?'' the Home Secretary demanded irritably. "Speak up, man!"

"Yes sir, we have. You must have considered other men for the position of your Parliamentary Private Secretary, as well as Sir Lockwood?"

"Naturally."

"Perhaps your secretary would give me their names." It was not a question.

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"If you think it necessary." He was reluctant, but he took the point. "Hardly a position a sane man kills to achieve."

' 'What sort of position would a sane man kill to achieve, sir?'' Pitt asked, his voice as devoid of expression as he could manage.

The Home Secretary shot him a look of chill dislike. "I think you must look outside Her Majesty's government for your suspect, Inspector!" he said acidly.

Pitt was unruffled: it was faintly satisfying that their dislike was mutual. "Can you tell me Sir Lockwood's views on the most contentious current issues, sir? For example, Home Rule for Ireland?"

The Home Secretary pushed out his lower lip thoughtfully, his irritation submerged. "I suppose it could be something to do with that, not directed at poor Hamilton so much as at the government in general. Always an issue that raises heated emotions. He was for it, and fairly outspoken. Though if people were going to murder each other because they disagreed over the Irish question, the streets of London would look like the aftermath of Waterloo."

"What about other issues, sir? Penal reform, the poor laws, factory conditions, slum clearance, women's suffrage?"

"What?"

"Women's suffrage," Pitt repeated.

"Good God, man, we've got some strident and misguided women who don't know where their best interests lie, but they'd hardly cut a man's throat just to make a plea for the franchise to be extended!"

' 'Probably not. But what were Sir Lockwood's opinions?''

The Home Secretary was about to dismiss the subject but seemed grudgingly to realize that it was as valid as any other possibility so far raised.' 'He wasn't a reformer,'' he replied. "Except in the most moderate terms. He was a very sane man! I wouldn't have had him as my P.P.S. if I didn't trust his judgments."

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"And his reputation in his personal life?"

"Impeccable.'' The briefest of smiles flickered across the Home Secretary's face. "And that is not a diplomatic answer. He was extremely fond of his wife, a very fine woman, and he was not a man to seek . . . diversions. He had little art of flattery or trivial conversation, and I never observed him to admire another woman."

Having met Amethyst Hamilton, Pitt did not find it hard to believe. Charles Verdun had said the same.

"The more I hear of him, the less does he sound like a man to have inspired a personal hatred violent enough to incite murder." Pitt had a faint satisfaction in seeing the Home Secretary's appreciation of the turn of his argument, little as he liked it.

"Then you had better pursue whatever evidence you have and look into all the agitators and political groups we know of," he said grimly. "Keep me informed."

"Yes sir. Thank you."

"Good day to you." He was dismissed.

The House of Commons was still sitting; it was too early to attempt to retrace Hamilton's steps the night before. Pitt was cold and hungry and knew little more than when he had left his home that afternoon after a snatched few hours of sleep. He would go back to Bow Street and have a sandwich and a mug of tea and see if there was any news from the constables out pursuing witnesses.

But when he reached the station the duty sergeant told him that Sir Garnet Royce, M.P., had called to see him.

"Bring him to my office," Pitt replied. He doubted it would be a helpful visit, but he owed the man the courtesy of seeing him. He pushed some papers off the second chair to make room for Royce to sit down if he wished and went behind his desk, glancing to see if there were any messages or new reports. There was nothing except the pile of house transactions from Verdun, with a note from one of the offi-

45

cers specializing in fraud, saying that as far as he could see they were exactly what they appeared to be; there was nothing to be deduced from them except that the firm conducted fairly efficient dealings in domestic property in several agreeable suburbs.

There was a knock on the door, and a constable showed in Garnet Royce. He was smartly dressed in a velvet-collared coat and carried a silk hat, which he put on the table. He was an imposing figure in this very ordinary gaslit office.

"Good evening, sir," Pitt said curiously.

"Evening, Inspector." He declined the chair. He was still holding a silver-headed cane, and he turned it restlessly in his strong hands as he spoke. "I see the newspapers have made headlines of poor Lockwood. Suppose it was to be expected. Distressing for the family. Makes it hard to manage affairs with any dignity; lot of idle people hanging around like ghouls, people one barely knows trying to scrape an acquaintance. Disgusting! Brings out the best and the worst in people. You'll understand my distress for my sister."

"Of course, sir." Pitt meant it.

Royce leaned forward a little. "If it was some random madman, as seems much the likeliest thing, what are your chances of apprehending him, Inspector? Answer me hon- I estly, man to man."

Pitt looked at his face: the power in the sweep of nose and cheek, the wide mouth and sloping brow. It was not a sensitive face, but there was strength and intelligence in it. |

"With luck, sir, quite fair; without a witness of any sort, I and if the man doesn't attack anyone else, not great. But then P if he is a madman, he will continue to behave in a way to draw attention to himself, and we will find him.'' k

"Yes. Yes of course." Sir Garnet's hands closed on the * cane. "I suppose you have no ideas as yet?"

"No sir. We're working through the obvious possibilities: business rivalry, political enemies."

' 'Lockwood was hardly important enough to earn political 46

enemies." Royce frowned. "Of course, there were a few people who lost promotions because he gained them, but that's what one expects, for heaven's sake. It's true of anyone in public life."

"Was there anyone who might have taken it especially hard?"

Royce thought for a moment, searching his memory. "Hanbury was pretty upset over the chairmanship of a parliamentary committee several years ago and seems to have held something of a grudge. And they quarreled over Home Rule-Hanbury was very much against it, and Lockwood was in favor. Rather felt he'd let the side down. But one doesn't commit murder over such things."

Pitt regarded the other man's face in the lamplight. There was no shadow of double-mindedness or deception in it, no irony, no humor. He meant exactly what he said, and Pitt was obliged to agree with him. If the motive for murder was political, it lay in something far deeper than any issue they had touched on yet; it was a rivalry or a betrayal more personal, far more bitter than the question of Irish Home Rule or social reform.

Royce took his leave, and Pitt went upstairs to see Micah Drummond.

"Nothing of much use." Drummond pushed a pile of papers across his desk towards Pitt. He looked tired, and there were dark patches under his eyes where the skin was thin and delicate. This was only the first day, but already he had felt the pressure, the anger of the people as horror turned to fear, and the alarm of those in power who knew the real danger.

"We've narrowed down the time," he said. "He must have been killed between ten to midnight, when the House rose, and twenty past, when Hetty Milner found him. We ought to be able to cut it down further when we talk to the members when the House rises tonight."

"Did we find any street vendors who'd seen him?" Pitt 47

asked. "Or any who'd been around that area and hadn't seen him, which would narrow things down?"

Drummond sighed and shuffled through the papers. "Flower seller said she didn't see him. She knows him, so I presume she's fairly reliable. Chap who sells hot pies on Westminster steps, Freddie something, but he saw nothing useful: half a dozen men, any one of whom could have been Hamilton, but he can't swear it. Distinguished-looking fellow in good dark coat and silk hat with a white scarf, average height, gray at the temples-the streets round the bridge are crawling with them when the House rises!"

"Of course, it may not be Hamilton they were after," Pitt said quietly.

Drummond looked up, his eyes hollow and anxious.' 'Yes, I had thought of that. God help us, if he was after someone else where do we even begin? It could be almost anyone!"

Pitt sat down on the hard-backed chair in front of the desk, "If it is a random attack against the government, and Hamilton just happened to be the one,'' he said,' 'then it must be anarchists or revolutionaries of some sort. Don't we have some knowledge of most of these groups?''

"Yes." Drummond fished out a sheaf of papers from a' drawer in the desk. "AndI've got men looking into it, trying to trace the activities of known members of all of them. Some want to do away with the monarchy and set up a republic, others want total chaos-they're fairly easy to spot: usually just hotheaded talk in pubs and on street corners. Some are foreign-inspired, and we're chasing those as well." He t sighed. "What have you found, Pitt? Is there anything per- F sonal?"

"Not so far, sir. He seems to have been an unremarkable man, successful in business, but I can't find anything to inspire hatred, much less murder. His partner Verdun is a civilized, moderate man who deals in suburban properties, more^; for something to do than for profit.''

Drummond's face showed imminent criticism. ,

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"I've got the accounts," Pitt said quickly. "There's nothing shown except ordinary property transactions in respectable residential areas. If they're dealing in slum properties as well, they have a perfect set of alternative books."

"Likely?" Drummond asked.

"Not in my opinion."

' 'Well, have someone look up Verdun and see if he is what he says. See if he gambles, or keeps women."

Pitt smiled grimly. "I will, but I'll lay any odds you like that he doesn't."

Drummond's eyebrows rose.' 'How about your job? Would you lay that? And mine, if we don't clear this up."

"I don't think we'll do it through Charles Verdun, sir."

"What about political motive? What did the Home Secretary say?"

Pitt summed up what he'd learned from Hamilton's superior, watching Drummond's face gradually fall.

' 'A random victim?'' he mused unhappily.' 'Mistaken for someone else, someone more important? God, I hope not; that would mean the murderer might try again!"

"Back to anarchists," Pitt said, rising. "I'd better go and see what I can find out as the members leave the House of Commons-who spoke to Hamilton last, what time, and if they saw anyone approach him."

Drummond pulled out a gold watch from his waistcoat. "You might have a long wait."

Pitt stood in the cold at the north end of Westminster Bridge for over an hour and a half before he saw the first figures coming out of the House of Commons and turning towards the river. By then he had eaten two hot pies and a plum duff, watched innumerable courting couples walk arm in arm along the embankment and two drunks singing "Champagne Charlie" out of time with each other, and his fingers were numb.

"Excuse me, sir?" He stepped forward. 49

Two members stopped, scowling at being accosted by a stranger. They noted his bulging pockets and woolen muffler and made to walk on.

"Bow Street Police, sir," Pitt said sharply. "Inquiring into the murder of Sir Lockwood Hamilton.'' '

They were shaken, reminded forcibly of something they had preferred not to consider. "Fearful business," one said. "Fearful!" the other echoed him.

"Did you see him yesterday evening, sir?"

"Ah, yes, yes I did. Didn't you, Arbuthnot?" The taller turned to his companion. "Don't know what time it was. As we were leaving."

"I believe the House rose at about twenty minutes past eleven o'clock," Pitt offered.

' 'Ah yes,'' the stockier and fairer man agreed. ''Probably so. Saw Hamilton as I was leaving. Poor devil. Shocking!"

"Was he alone, sir?"

"More or less; just finished speaking to someone." The man's eyes looked blank, benign. "Sorry, don't know who. One of the other members. Said good night, or something of the sort, and walked off towards the bridge. Lives on the south side, you know."

"Did you see whether anyone followed him?" Pitt asked.

The man's face looked suddenly pinched as the reality hits him. It ceased to be an exercise in memory. A vivid picture forced itself on his inner mind; he realized he had witnessed what was about to become a murder. His years of composure and self-confidence fled, and he saw the vulnerability of the lone man on the bridge, stalked by death, as if it were his own. "Poor devil!" he said again, his throat tight, his voice constricted. "I rather think someone did, but I haven't the slightest idea who. It was just the impression of a figure, a, shadow as Hamilton started off across the bridge past the i first light. I'm afraid rather a lot of us walk home on a decent night, if we live close by. Some took carriages or cabs, of

50

course. Late sitting, rather a bore. I wanted to get home and go to bed. I'm sorry."

"Any impression of the shadow, sir? Size, manner of walking?"

"I'm sorry-I'm not even sure I saw it. Just a sort of movement across the light. . . . How frightful!"

"And you, sir?" Pitt turned to the other man. "Did you see Sir Lockwood with anyone?"

"No-no, I wish I could help, but it was all rather more an impression than anything. Don't see a chap's face under the light and you don't really know-just an idea-pretty dark between the lamps, you know. I'm sorry."

"Yes, of course. Thank you for your help, sir." Pitt inclined his head in a salute and passed on to the next group of men, already beginning to leave either in carriages or on foot.

He stopped half a dozen others, but learned nothing which enabled him to do more than narrow the time more exactly. Lockwood Hamilton had set off across Westminster Bridge at between ten and twelve minutes past midnight. At twenty-one minutes past, Hetty Milner had screamed. In those nine or eleven minutes someone had cut Hamilton's throat, tied him to the lamppost, and disappeared.

Pitt arrived home just before midnight. He let himself in with his key, and took his boots off in the hall to avoid making a noise as he crept along to the kitchen. There he found a dish of cold meat on the table, with fresh homemade bread, butter, and pickles set out, and a note from Charlotte. The kettle was to the side of the hob and only needed moving over, the water in it hot already. The teapot was on the stove, and beside it the tea caddie, enameled and painted with a picture of flowers, and a spoon.

He was halfway through his meal when the door opened and Charlotte came in, blinking in the light, her hair round her shoulders in a polished cascade like mahogany in the

51

firelight. She wore an old dressing robe of blue embroidered wool, and when she kissed him he caught the scent of soap and warm sheets. i

' 'Is it a big case?'' she asked.

He looked at her curiously: there was none of her usual sharp inquisitiveness, her scarcely masked desire to meddle-at which she had at times proved remarkably successful.

' 'Yes-murder of a Member!'' He answered, finishing the last slice of his bread and pickle. He did not feel like telling her the grim details, for tonight he wished to put it from his mind. •

She looked surprised, but far less interested than he had expected.' 'You must be very tired, and cold. Have you made any progress?" She was not even looking at him, pouring herself a cup of tea. She sat down at the kitchen table opposite. Was she being superbly devious? If so, it was not like her: she knew she was very bad at it.

"Charlotte?"

"Yes?" Her eyes were dark gray in the lamplight, and apparently quite innocent.

"No, I haven't made any progress."

"Oh." She looked distressed, but not interested.

"Is something wrong?" he asked with sudden anxiety.

"Have you forgotten Emily's wedding?" Her eyes widened, and suddenly he recognized all her emotions, the excitement, the concern that everything should be well, the loneliness at the thought of Emily's going away, the whisper of envy for the glamor and the romance of it, and the genuine happiness for her sister. They had shared much together and were closer than many sisters, their different personalities complementing each other rather than being cause for misunderstanding.

Pitt put out his hand and took hers, holding it gently. The very gesture was an admission, and she knew it before he spoke.

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"Yes I had forgotten-not the wedding, but that it was Friday already. I'm sorry."

Disappointment passed over her face like the shadow of a cloud. She mastered it almost immediately. "You are coming, aren't you, Thomas?"

He had not been sure until that moment that she really wanted him to. Emily had originally married far above even their parents' very comfortable aspiring middle-class social position, becoming Lady Ashworth, with status and very considerable wealth. Recently widowed, she now proposed marrying Jack Radley, a gentleman of undoubted good breeding but who had no money at all. Charlotte had done the unspeakable and married a policeman, socially on much the same level as the ratcatcher or the bailiff!

The Ellisons had always treated Pitt with courtesy. In spite of her sharply reduced circumstances and the loss of all her previous social circle, they knew Charlotte was happy. Emily gave her cast-off gowns, and now and again new ones, and she bought them both handsome presents as often as tact allowed and shared with Charlotte the exhilaration and the tragedy, the danger and triumph of Pitt's cases.

But still Charlotte might have been secretly relieved if he were unable to attend the wedding, fearing condescension on the one hand, his social gaffes. On the other, the differences between her former world and his were subtle but immeasurable. He was unreasonably glad that she wanted him there; he had not realized how deep his suppressed hurt had been, because he had refused to look at it.

' 'Yes-at least for a while. I may not be able to stay long.''

"But you can come!"

"Yes."

Her face relaxed and she smiled at him, putting her hand over his. "Good! It will matter so much to Emily, as well as to me. And Great-aunt Vespasia will be there. You should see my new dress-don't worry, I haven't been extravagant- but it really is special!"

53

He relaxed at last, letting go all the knots inside him as the darkness slid away. It was so ordinary, so incredibly trivial: the shade of a fabric, the arrangement of a bustle, how many flowers on a hat. It was ridiculous, immensely unimportant-and sane!

I

54

±itt left at about half past seven the next morning, and Charlotte swept into action as soon as he was out of the door. Gracie, her resident maid, took care of everything in the kitchen, including getting breakfast for Jemima, now aged six and very self-possessed, and Daniel, a little younger and desperately eager to keep up. There was a tremendous air of excitement in the house, and both children were far too aware of the importance of the day to sit still.

Charlotte had their new clothes laid out on their beds: cream frills and lace for Jemima, with a pink satin sash, and a brown velvet suit with a lace collar for Daniel. It had taken over an hour's persuasion and finally a downright bribe- that next time they rode on the omnibus he would be able to pay his own bright penny fare to the conductor- to convince him that he was going to wear this!

Charlotte's dress had been specially made for her, something she had taken for granted before her marriage. Now she usually made her gowns herself, or adapted them from ones given her by Emily or on rare occasions by Great-aunt Vespasia.

55

But this was magnificent, the softest crushed plum-colored silk, low cut at the front to show her throat and fine shoulders and just a touch of bosom, fitted at the waist, and with a bustle so exquisitely feminine she felt irresistible merely at the sight of it. It swished deliciously when she walked, and the shade was most flattering to her honey-warm skin and auburn hair, which she had polished with a silk scarf until it shone.

It took her an hour and several unsuccessful attempts to dress, curl, and pin it exactly as she wished, and to assure that her face was improved in every way possible, short of anything which could actually be called "paint." Paint was still a cardinal sin in society and only indulged in by women of the most dubious morality.

When another thirty minutes had been taken up in minor adjustments to the children's clothing and Jemima's hair ribbons, she finally put on her own gown, to the breathless squeals and sighs of the children and the intense admiration of Gracie, who could hardly contain herself for delight. She was on the edge of the most total romance; she had seen Emily many times and thought her a real lady, and she would hang on every word when her mistress returned and told her all about the wedding. It was better than all the pictures in The Illustrated London News, or even the most sentimental songs and ballads she heard cried in the street. Not even the penny dreadfuls she read by candlelight in the cupboard under the stairs could match this-after all, those were people she had never met, or cared about.

Emily sent a carriage for them on the chime often o'clock, and by twenty minutes past, Charlotte, Jemima, and Daniel alighted at St. Mary's Church, Eaton Square.

Immediately behind her, Charlotte's mother, Caroline Ellison, stepped out of her carriage and signaled her coachman . to continue and find a suitable place to wait. She was a handsome woman now in her middle fifties and wearing her widowhood with vigor and a new and rather daring sense of

56

freedom. She was dressed in golden brown, which suited her admirably, and a hat nearly as splendid as Charlotte's. Holding her hand was Emily's son Edward, now Lord Ashworth in his father's stead, wearing a dark blue velvet suit, his fair hair combed neatly. He looked nervous and very sober and held onto his grandmother's hand with small, tight fingers.

Behind them, helped discreetly by a footman, came Caroline's mother-in-law, well into her eighties, making the most of every twinge and infirmity, her bright black eyes taking in everything, and her ears with their pendulous jet earrings highly selectively deaf.

"Good morning, Mama," Charlotte kissed Caroline carefully, so as not to disarrange either of their hats. "Good morning, Grandmama."

"Think you're the bride?" the old lady said sharply, looking her up and down. "Never seen such a bustle in all my life! And you've too much color-but you always had!"

"At least I can wear yellow," Charlotte replied, looking at her grandmother's sallow skin and dark gold gown and smiling charmingly.

"Yes you can," the old lady agreed with a glare. "And it's a pity you didn't-instead of that! What do you call it? No color I ever saw before. Well, if you spill raspberry fool on it no one will ever know!"

"How comforting," Charlotte said sarcastically. "You always did know the right thing to say to make a person feel comfortable."

The old woman bent her head.' 'What? What did you say? I don't hear as well as I used to!" She picked up her ear trumpet and placed it ostentatiously near her hand so it would be ready for instant use to draw attention to her infirmity.

' 'And you were always deaf when you chose to be,'' Charlotte replied.

"What? Why can't you stop mumbling, child!"

"I said I would call it rose." Charlotte looked straight at her.

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' 'No you didn't!'' the old lady snapped.' 'You've got above yourself since you married that torn-fool policeman. Where is he, anyway? Didn't care to bring him into society, eh? | Very wise-probably blow his nose on the table napkins and not know which fork to use!''

Charlotte remembered again how intensely she disliked her grandmother. Widowhood and loneliness had made the old woman spiteful; she commanded attention either by complaining or by attempting to hurt those around her.

Charlotte ceased looking for an adequately cutting reply. I "He's working on a case, Grandmama," she said instead. "It is a murder, and Thomas is in charge of the investigation, k But he will be here for the ceremony if he can.'' 1

The old lady sniffed fiercely. "Murders! Don't know what the world's coming to-riots in the streets last year. 'Bloody Sunday' indeed! Even housemaids don't know how to behave themselves these days; lazy, uppity, and full of impertinence. You live in sad times, Charlotte; people don't know their place anymore. And you haven't helped-marrying a policeman, indeed! Can't imagine what you were thinking of! Or your mother either! Know what I'd have said if my son had wanted to marry the parlormaid!'' |

"So do I!" said Charlotte, finally letting go of her temper. "You'd have said, 'Lie with her by all means, as long as you're discreet about it, but marry someone of your own social class, or above-especially if she has money!" |

The old lady picked up her cane as if she would have rapped Charlotte across the legs with it; then, realizing her granddaughter would barely feel it through the weight of her skirts, she tried to think of a verbal equivalent-and failed.

"What did you say?" she snapped in defeat. "You mumble dreadfully, girl! Have you artificial teeth or something?"

It was so ludicrous Charlotte burst into laughter and put her arm round the old lady, astonishing her into silence.

They had just got inside the church and were being ushered to their seats when Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould ar-

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rived. She was Charlotte's height, but slender now to the point of gauntness, and stood ramrod stiff, dressed in ecru-colored lace over coffee satin, with a hat of such rakish elegance that even Caroline gasped. She was over eighty; she had stood at the top of the stairs as a girl and peeped through the banisters as the guests arrived in her father's house to dance the night away after the news of the victory of Waterloo. She had been the most startling beauty of her day, and her face, although imprinted with time and tragedy, still held the grace and proportion of loveliness that nothing would mar.

She had been the favorite aunt of Emily's late husband, and both Emily and Charlotte loved her deeply. It was an affection which she returned, even defying convention enough to include Pitt, not caring in the slightest what other people thought of her for receiving a policeman in her withdrawing room as if he had been a social entity, and not one of the less desirable tradesmen. She had always had both the rank and the beauty to disregard opinion, and as she got older she used it shamelessly. She was a keen reformer of laws and customs of which she did not approve, and she was not averse to meddling in detection whenever Charlotte and Emily provided her with the opportunity.

Church was not the place for greetings; she merely inclined her head minutely in Charlotte's direction and took her seat at the end of the pew, waiting while the other guests arrived.

The groom, Jack Radley, was already at the altar, and Charlotte was beginning to feel anxious when at last Pitt slipped into the pew beside her, looking surprisingly smart and holding a black silk hat in his hands.

' 'Where did you get that?'' Charlotte whispered under her breath, in a moment of alarm as to the expense of such a thing he would never use again.

"Micah Drummond," he answered, and she saw the appreciation in his eyes as he saw her gown. He turned and

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smiled at Great-aunt Vespasia, and she bent her head graciously and slowly dropped one eyelid.

There was a buzz of excitement, then a hush, and the organ changed tone and became magnificent, romantic and a little pompous. In spite of herself Charlotte turned to gaze backwards to see Emily framed by sunlight in the arch of the church doorway, walking slowly forwards on the arm of Dominic Corde, the widower of their elder sister Sarah. A host of memories came flooding back for Charlotte: Sarah's wedding, the turmoil of her own emotions in those early years when she had imagined herself so terribly, hopelessly in love with her brother-in-law Dominic; Charlotte herself walking up the aisle on her father's arm to stand by Pitt at the altar. She had been certain then that she was doing the right thing, despite all the mounting fears, the knowledge she would lose many friends and the security of position and money.

She was still sure it was right. There had been hardships, of course, things she would have considered drudgery eight years ago. Now her world was immeasurably wider, and she knew that even on a policeman's pay, with a little allowance of her own from her family, she was by far one of the world's most fortunate souls. She was seldom cold and never hungry, nor did she lack for any necessity. She had known a multitude of experiences, but never tedium, never the fear that she was wasting her life in useless pursuits, never the endless hours of embroidery no one cared about, the painting of different watercolors, the deadly calls, the dreadful tea parties full of gossip.

Emily looked marvelous. She was wearing her favorite water green silk, set against ivory and embroidered with pearls. Her hair was perfectly dressed, like a pale aureole in the sunlight, and her fair skin was flushed with excitement and happiness.

Jack Radley had no money and probably never would have, nor a title; Emily would cease to be Lady Ashworth, and it

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had cost her a moment's regret. But Jack had charm, wit, and a remarkable ability for companionship. And since George's death he had proved he had both courage and generosity of spirit. Emily not only loved him, she liked him enormously.

Charlotte slipped her hand into Pitt's and felt his fingers tighten over hers. She watched the ceremony with happiness for Emily and no shadow of anxiety for the future.

Pitt was obliged to leave almost as soon as the formal part of the ceremony was over. He remained only long enough to congratulate Jack, kiss Emily, and greet Caroline and Grand-mama, and Great-aunt Vespasia in the vestry.

"Good morning, Thomas," Vespasia said gravely. "I am delighted you were able to come."

Pitt clutched Micah Drummond's hat and smiled back at her.

"I am sorry for having been so late," he said sincerely, "and for having to leave in such haste."

"No doubt a pressing case." She raised her fine silver eyebrows.

"Very," he agreed, knowing she was curious. "An unpleasant murder.''

"London is full of them," she replied. "Is it of personal motive?"

"I doubt it."

' 'Then a thankless task for you, and requiring little of your peculiar skills. No social issue, I presume?"

"None so far. It looks to be merely political, or perhaps the work of a random madman.''

"An ordinary violence, then."

He knew she was vaguely disappointed that there was no opportunity for her to meddle, even vicariously through Charlotte or Emily; he knew also that she did not wish to admit it.

"Very pedestrian," he agreed soberly. "If that is what it proves to be."

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"Thomas-"

"Excuse me, ma'am." And with a little bow he smiled once more at Emily, turned, and walked briskly away, through the church gateway and down Lower Belgrave Street towards Buckingham Palace Road.

A small reception was to be given in one of the town houses in Eaton Square by a good friend of Emily's, and after a few more moments they all walked across the street in the sun, first Emily on Jack's arm followed by Caroline and Edward, then Charlotte and her children. Dominic offered his arm to Great-aunt Vespasia, and she accepted it graciously, although her mind was still on the retreating figure of Pitt. Grandmama was escorted, grumbling all the way, by a close friend of the groom.

It was the beginning of a new stage of life for Emily.

Then Charlotte suddenly thought of the women in the public meeting, some so outrageously complacent, so sure of their comfort, their unassailable positions, others risking derision and notoriety to fight for a cause that was surely hopeless. How many had once been brides like this, full of hope and uncertainty, dreaming of happiness, companionship, safety of the heart?

And how many had ended a few short years later like the woman Ivory they had spoken of with such disdain-fighting for redress, a byword for unhappiness?

She had barely mentioned that meeting to Pitt, there had been so much else to think of, but it was there at the back of her mind.

This was different, though. Emily was in love, the radiance of her face mirrored that-but she had never been naive, never lost sight of the practical in all the romance.

Charlotte smiled as she recalled their girlhood, the long hours spent talking of the futures they planned, the gallant and handsome men they would find. It was Emily who never completely let go of reality, even at twelve with her hair in pigtails and a white starched pinafore over her dress. Emily

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always kept one toe on the ground. It was Charlotte whose dreams took flight and soared from the world!

Champagne was poured, toasts were made, there were speeches and laughter, and Charlotte joined in, happy for Emily, delighted by the glamor and the romance, the lights and glasses, the flowers with their heady perfume, the rustle of taffeta and silk.

She put a few tiny pastries on a plate and took them over to her grandmother sitting on a chair in the corner.

The old lady took them, surveyed them carefully, and picked out the largest. "Where did you say they were going?" she asked. "You told me, and I forgot."

"Paris, and then a tour of Italy," Charlotte replied. She tried to keep the envy from her voice. She herself had had only a long weekend at Margate, and then Pitt had had to go back on duty, and she had spent the next month moving into the first tiny house, with rooms smaller than the maids' quarters in her family home. She had had to learn to manage for a month on money she would previously have spent on one gown, and how to cook, where she once would have instructed the kitchen staff. It did not matter, really, but she would have loved just once to sail off in a ship, to visit foreign places, dine splendidly, not so much for the food but for the romance of it! She would like to see Venice, to drift on a canal by moonlight and hear the gondoliers singing across the water; to see Florence, that city of great artists, and walk among the ruins of Rome dreaming of the grandeur and glory of great ages past.

"Very nice," Grandmama agreed, nodding her head. "Every young girl should do it some time in her life, the earlier the better. A civilizing influence, as long as it is not taken too seriously. One should learn about foreigners, but never imitate them.''

"Yes Grandmama," Charlotte said absently.

"Of course you wouldn't know that!" the old lady went 63

on. "I don't suppose you'll ever see Calais, never mind Venice or Rome!"

It was true, and this time Charlotte had no heart to answer.

"Told you that before," the old woman added vindictively. "But you never listen. Never did, even as a child. But you've made your bed, and you must lie in it."

Charlotte stood up and went to Emily. The formal part of the celebration was over, and she and Jack were preparing to leave. She looked so happy Charlotte felt tears in her eyes as the emotions churned inside her, joy for Emily at this moment and relief for the shadows that were past, the grief and the mourning, the terror as suspicion had hemmed her in, hope for the years ahead, envy for the adventures and the shared laughter, the new sights and the glamor.

She put her arms round Emily and hugged her.

"Write to me. Tell me of all the beautiful things you see, the buildings and the paintings, the canals in Venice. Tell me about the people, and if they're funny or charming or odd. Tell me about the fashions and the food, the weather- everything!"

"Of course! I'll write a letter every day and post them when I can," Emily promised, tightening her own arms round Charlotte. "Don't get into any adventures while I'm gone, or if you do, be careful!" She held her sister a little tighter. "I love you, Charlotte. And thank you for being there, all the time, ever since we were little." Then she was on her way, clinging to Jack's arm and smiling at everyone, her eyes full of tears, her gorgeous dress sweeping and rustling.

Several days passed by, with Pitt pursuing every avenue in the investigation of the murder of Sir Lockwood Hamilton. The details of his business were checked more thoroughly, but the accounts of the firm's property purchases and sales yielded nothing more than they had at first glance. Not one of them was out of the ordinary with regard either to unfair

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acquisition through pressure of any kind, or to any advantage being taken of others' misfortune, nor had any holding been sold at unreasonable profit. It appeared that it was exactly as Charles Verdun had said, a business in which Hamilton took some share of the profit but little in the conduct, and in which Verdun himself employed his time because he enjoyed it.

The business in Birmingham from which Hamilton drew most of his income was merely a matter of inherited shares, and unremarkable in any way Pitt could discover.

Barclay Hamilton owned a very pleasant house in Chelsea and was reputed to be quiet, a little melancholy, but perfectly respectable. No one had ill to speak of him, and his financial affairs were in excellent order. He was a highly eligible young man at whom many young ladies of fine family had set their caps, without success. But nothing was said, even in a whisper, to his discredit.

Nor had the cold breath of scandal ever touched Amethyst Hamilton. She did not overspend on gowns or jewelry, she ran her house with skill but without extravagance, she entertained generously in her husband's interest. She had many friendships, but none of a closeness that caused even the most critical to make comment that was worth Pitt's time to consider.

A more thorough investigation of Hamilton's political career, the account of which Pitt spent many hours reading and rereading, produced no injustices so glaring as to have provoked anything like murder. He had been the object of envy perhaps, of resentment that favors had been unequally given, but all this was a part of a hundred other political lives as well. He appeared to have taken no remarkable stand on any issue that could single him out as the object of violent feeling. He was a competent man, both liked and respected, but not marked for that greatness which inspires passion.

In the meantime Micah Drummond had as many of his force as he could spare in pursuit of every known band of anarchists or pseudo-revolutionaries who might have used

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such a means to further their cause. He spoke to senior officers in many other police districts of London, and even to the Foreign Office to see if they were acquainted with any other nation or power who might have had an interest in the death of a member of Parliament. Eventually he gave what he had to Pitt and told him to try his own sources in the underworld and its fringes, to see if he could pick up any whispers.

Pitt read the reports and discarded three quarters of them. The constables had done their job thoroughly, and their own informant had exhausted everything likely to produce any information of use. Of the last quarter he chose the few he could follow through fences, petty thieves, or small-time forgers who owed him a favor, or who were seeking some advantage.

He changed out of his own clothes, removed the beautiful boots Emily had given him, and got into some shapeless trousers and a jacket so old and rimed with dirt he could pass without comment in the poorest of tenements or rookeries, the grimmest of East End docks or public houses. Then he went out, took a cab for two miles eastward and got out just short of the Whitechapel Road.

In the next three hours he spoke to half a dozen petty criminals, always moving eastward towards Mile End, and then south to the river and Wapping. He had a thick sandwich and glass of rough cider in a public house overlooking the water and then set off again deeper into the slums and narrow, fetid streets within sound and smell of the Thames, looking towards Limehouse Reach. At last, in the late afternoon, he had enough information to trade for what he wanted.

He found the right man up crooked stairs, damp with the rot of ages, a thousand yards from the pier stakes where once they had tied pirates and let the tide rise to drown them. He stopped at a doorway and knocked on the warped panels.

After several minutes it was opened a crack and there was a rumbling growl with a high-pitched menace at the back of

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I

it-a dog who would attack at the slightest misstep. Pitt looked down and saw the beast's head, a white blur in the shadows, a piglike cross between a bull terrier and a setter.

The door swung a little wider to show yellow oil light behind and a squat man with a thick neck and pale bristly hair cut in the "terrier crop" of one recently in prison. His face was ruddy and his eyebrows so pale they seemed colorless, almost translucent. It was not until he pulled the door fully open that Pitt saw he had a wooden leg below a fat thigh cut off above the knee. He knew he had the right man.

Pitt eyed the dog which stood between them. "Deacon Stafford? "he asked.

''Yeah-'oo're yer? Wotcher want? I dunno yer.'' He surveyed Pitt up and down, then looked at his hands. "Yer a crusher out o' twig!"

So his disguise was far less effective than he had thought. He must remember his fingernails next time.

"Thin Jimmy said you might be helpful," Pitt said quietly. "I have certain information you would find useful."

"Thin Jimmy . . . Well, come in. I in't standin' 'ere; I got a bad leg."

Pitt had heard Deacon's story. His father had "got the boat'' to Australia back when deportation was still a common punishment for petty robbery, and his mother had been sent with her three children to the workhouse. Young William Stafford had been set to work "picking oakum"-unraveling old rope-at the age of three. At six he had run away, and after begging and stealing till he was on the point of starvation, he had been picked up by a kidsman, a man who trained and ran a bunch of child thieves and pick-pockets, taking the largest portion of their profits, fencing them, and in return giving them food and protection. William had picked pockets successfully "cly faking," then progressed to a higher form of the art, specializing in stealing from women- "fine-wiring." After a spell in the Coldbath Fields jail, the damp had got into his bones and bis fingers lost their nimble-

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ness. He took to "flying the blue pigeon"-stealing roofing lead, most particularly from churches, which earned him his nickname. A bad fall on a freezing night had resulted in a splintered thigh, which became gangrenous, costing him his leg. Now he sat in this narrow room piled with furniture by the embers of a smoky fire and traded information and power.

Deacon offered Pitt a seat in the huge overstuffed chair opposite his own, a yard from the fire, and the dog waddled in and lay between them, watching Pitt with its pink piggy eyes.

' 'So wotcher got?'' Deacon asked curiously.' "Thin Jimmy knows me, 'e's a downy little swine, but 'e don' give me no flam-so don' you neither, or yer'll get a right dew-skitch afore yer leaves Lime'ouse."

Pitt had no doubt that indeed he would be thrashed soundly if he gave Deacon any "flam." Word for word, he passed on the information he had gleaned so carefully all day. Deacon looked satisfied; the light of a deep inner jubilation spread over his broad face, and his lips parted in a gummy smile.

"Right. So wotcher want from me, then? This in't fer nuffin'!"

"Westminster Bridge murder," Pitt replied candidly. "Anarchists? Irish Fenians? Revolutionaries? What do you hear?"

Deacon was surprised. "Nuffink! Least, o' course I 'card a bit! Ten years ago I'd 'a said 'Arry Parkin. Great one fer the anarchists, 'e were, but 'e were crapped in 'eighty-three. Three week in the saltbox, then the long drop fer 'im. 'E were never good fer nuffink but bug 'unting anyway, poor bastard."

' 'They don't hang people for robbing drunks,'' Pitt pointed out.

"Killed some shofulman," Deacon explained. "Paid 'im in fakement, an Parkin cracked 'is 'aed open. Stupid bastard!"

"Not much help," Pitt said dryly. "Try a little harder." 68

' 'I'll ask Mary Murphy,'' Deacon offered.' 'She's an 'ore. Sails on 'er bottom-no pimp. She'll 'ave 'card if it's the Fenians, but I reckon it in't."

"Anarchists?" Pitt pressed.

Deacon shook his head. "Nan! That in't the way their minds goes. Stick a shiv hi some geezer on Westminster Bridge! Wot good'd that do 'em? They'd go fer a bomb, summink showy. Loves bombs, they do. All talk, they are-never do nuffink so quiet."

"Then what is the word down here?"

"Croaked by someone as 'ated 'im, personal like." Deacon opened his little eyes wide. "In't no flam-I makes me livin' by blowin', I'd be a muck snipe in a munf if I done that! In't quick enough to thieve no more. I'd 'ave ter try a scaldrum dodge, an that in't no way ter live!"

No, begging by fake or self-inflicted wounds would hardly fit Deacon's sense of his own dignity.

"No," Pitt agreed, standing slowly, keeping his eye on the dog. ' 'Nor is sitting in lavender in some deadlurk the rest of your days." It was a cant term for hiding from the police in an empty house.

Deacon understood the threat perfectly, nor did he appear to resent it: it was an expected part of trade.

' 'That murder in't nuffink ter do wiv us in the East End,'' he said with total candor. "Don' do us no good. An' we knows abaht anarchists and the like, because it pays us ter. I'll keep an ear for yer, seein' as yer gave me wot I wanted. But me best word to you is that it in't nuflink revolutionary, yer'd best look to 'is own sort."

"Or a random lunatic," Pitt said grimly.

' 'Oh.'' Deacon sighed deeply. ' 'Well, there's some o' vem an' all, but not from 'ere. We takes care o' vem our own way. Look to 'is own sort, mister, vat's wot I says. 'Is own sort."

* * *

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It was five days after Emily's wedding and departure on the boat train for Paris that Pitt was awakened from his first early night since the murder by a loud and urgent knocking on his front door. He emerged slowly from the soft, sweet darkness of sleep into a realization that the thumping was no part of a dream but persisted into reality, demanding his attention.

"What is it?" Charlotte asked drowsily at his side. Funny how she could sleep through this noise, and yet if one of the children but whispered she was wide awake and up on her feet getting into her robe before he had struggled to consciousness.

"Door," he said blearily, reaching in the dark to find his jacket and trousers. It could only be for him, and he would be required to go somewhere out into the sharp night. He fumbled for his socks and found only one.

Charlotte sat up and felt around for a match to light the gas.

"Don't," he said softly. "It's around here somewhere."

She did not ask who it was at the door; she knew from experience it could only be a constable with some urgent news. She did not like it, but she accepted the fact that it was a part of his life. What she dreaded was the knock that might come when he was not here, and that the news would be that which she could not bear.

Pitt found his other sock, put it on, and stood up. He leaned over and kissed her, then tiptoed to the bedroom door and downstairs to find his boots and answer the summons.

He unlocked the front door and swung it open. There was a constable on the step, the streetlamp beyond lighting one side of his face.

"There's been another one!" His words came out in a rush, relief that Pitt was there easing his lonely horror. "Mr. Drummond says as you're to come right away. I got a cab, sir, if you're ready."

Pitt noticed the hansom standing a few doors along, horse restless, cabby sitting on his box with the reins in his hands,

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a blanket round his knees. The horse's breath formed a thin cloud of vapor in the air.

"Another what?" Pitt was confused for a moment.

"Another Member of Parliament, sir, with 'is throat cut an' tied up to the lamppost on Westminster Bridge-just like the last one."

For a moment Pitt was stunned. He had not expected it; he had been convinced by Deacon that it was a personal crime, motivated by fear or greed or some long-sought revenge. Now it seemed the only answer was the worst of all: a random lunatic was at work.

"Who is it?" he said aloud.

"Vyvyan Etheridge. Never 'eard of 'im meself," the constable answered anxiously. "But then, I don't know much abaht politicians, 'cept them as everyone knows."

"We'd better go." Pitt reached for his coat, gloves still in his pockets, and then closed the door and followed the constable along the damp pavement, the dew condensing on the walls, which gleamed in the gaslight. They climbed into the cab, and immediately it set off back towards the bridge.

Pitt wriggled round tucking in his shirttails under his coat. He should have put more clothes on; he was going to be cold.

"What else do you know?" he asked in the rattling darkness, bumping against the sides of the cab as they swung sharply round a corner. "What time is it?"

' 'It must be about quarter to midnight, sir,'' the constable replied, hitching himself back into his seat more comfortably, only to be thrown out of it again as they swung the other way. "Poor soul was found just after eleven o'clock. 'Ouse sat late again. 'E was prob'ly killed on the way 'ome, like the other one. 'E lives off the Lambeth Palace Road, south side o' the river again."

"Anything else?"

"Not as I knows, sir."

Pitt did not ask who had found the body; he preferred to make his own judgment when he got there. They careered

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through the spring night in silence, bumping against each other as the cab jolted and jarred round corners, righted itself again, and charged on.

They drew up at the far end of Westminster Bridge and Pitt scrambled out into the glare of the lamplight. A group of people stood frightened, at once fascinated and repelled. None of them was permitted to go, neither did anyone want to. Some horror kept them close to each other, as though they were unwilling to leave those who had shared the knowledge here in the pool of light, islanded amidst the shadows.

Micah Drummond's lean figure was easily distinguished, and Pitt went to him. On the ground, laid in some semblance of decency, was the body of a man of late middle age, dressed in sober clothes of excellent quality, a silk hat beside him on the pavement. A white silk scarf had been cut with a knife, and lay a little to one side of his neck. It was soaked with blood, which also drenched his shirtfront, and there was a single fearful wound in his neck from one side right across to the other.

Pitt knelt and looked more closely. The face looked calm, as if he had not seen death coming. It was a narrow patrician face, not unpleasing, with a long nose, a good brow, the mouth perhaps a little lacking in humor but without cruelty. The man's hair was silver, but still thick. There were fresh flowers pale in the buttonhole.

Pitt looked away and up at Drummond.

"Vyvyan Etheridge, M.P.," Drummond said quietly. He looked haggard, his eyes hollow, his mouth pinched. Pitt felt a quick stab of pity for him. Tomorrow all London, from the scrubwoman to the Prime Minister, would be calling for a solution to these outrages, stunned that members of the establishment, whether loved or hated, men considered safe above all others, could be killed silently and unseen within a few hundred yards of the Houses of Parliament.

Pitt stood up. ''Robbed?'' he asked, although he knew the answer.

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"No," Drummond replied, barely shaking his head. "Gold watch, very expensive, ten gold sovereigns and about ten shillings in silver and coppers, a silver brandy flask, still full. Looks in this light like an extremely fine one, solid, not plate, and scrolled and engraved with his name. Gold cuff links, and he carried a cane with a silver top-all here. Oh, and French leather gloves."

"No paper?"

"What?"

"No paper?" Pitt repeated, although he had little hope of it. He had to ask. "I wondered if perhaps whoever did it left some note, a threat, a demand. Some sort of identification."

"No. Only Etheridge's own papers: a couple of letters, calling cards, that sort of thing."

"Who found him?"

"Young fellow over there." Drummond gestured very slightly with his head. "I think he was a little drunk then, but he's certainly sober enough now, poor devil. Name's Harry Rawlins."

"Thank you, sir." Pitt stepped off the curb and crossed the road to the group of people standing under the lamp opposite. It all had a dreamlike quality, as if he were reliving the first time. The night sky was the same vast cavern overhead, the smell of the air sharp and clean here on the river, the water gleaming black and satin bright beyond the balustrade, reflecting the lights all along the Embankment, the triple globes of the lamps, the outline of the Palace of Westminster black gothic against the stars. Only the little knot of people was different; there was no Hetty Milner, with her fair skin and gaudy skirts. Instead there was an off-duty cabby, a tap-room steward on his way home, a clerk and his lady friend, frightened and embarrassed, a railway porter from Waterloo Station just across the bridge, and a young man with blond hair falling over his brow, face now pallid as marble, his eyes staring with horror. He was well dressed, obviously a young gentleman out for a night on the town.

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Every vestige of indulgence had fallen from him like a dropped garment, and he was appallingly sober.

"Mr. Rawlins." Pitt had no need to ask which he was; his experience was written in his face. "I am Inspector Pitt. Would you tell me exactly what happened, sir?"

Rawlins gulped. For a moment adequate speech eluded him. It was not some tramp he had found, but a man of his own class, tied up ludicrously, lounging against the lamp, silk hat askew, white scarf too tight under his chin, head lolling in a mockery of drunkenness.

Pitt waited patiently.

Rawlins coughed and cleared his throat. "I was coming home from a late party with a few friends, don't you know, and-"

"Where?" Pitt interrupted.

"Oh-Whitehall Club, just over there." He pointed vaguely towards the other end of the bridge beyond Boadi-cea. "Off Cannon Street."

"Where do you live, sir?"

"Charles Street, south of the river, off the Westminster Bridge Road. Thought I'd walk home. Do me good. Didn't want the pater to see me a-a little tiddly. Thought the fresh air, and all that."

"So you were walking home over the bridge?"

"Yes, that's right." For a moment he teetered a little on his feet. ' 'God! I've never seen anything so awful! Poor devil was leaning backwards against the lamppost, sort of lolling, as if he were three sheets to the wind. I took no notice until I got level with him, and then I realized who he was. Met him a couple of times, you know; friend of the pater's, in a mild sort of way. Then I thought, Vyvyan Etheridge'd never be caught like that! So I went over, thinking he must be ill, and-" He swallowed. There was a fine sweat on his face now, in spite of the cold, "-and I saw-saw he was dead. Of course, I remembered poor Hamilton then, so I walked back towards the Parliament side, pretty smartly-I think

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maybe I ran-and I shouted out something. Anyway, the constable came and I told him what. . . er, what I'd seen."

' 'Was there anyone else on the bridge, or coming from the bridge as you approached it?"

"Er ..." He blinked. "I don't rightly recall. I'm fearfully sorry. I was definitely a bit-high-until I saw Ether-idge and realized what'd happened."

"If you could search your memory, sir?" Pitt pressed, looking at the fair, earnest, rather placid face.