Bethlehem Road (7 page)

“Did we find any street vendors who’d seen him?” Pitt 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. “And I’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 sighed. “What have you found, Pitt? Is there anything personal?”

“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.

“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.

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 hit 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 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 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 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.

“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.

“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!”

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!

P
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.

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 of ten 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 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.