Belgrave Square

by Anne Perry

  Drummond rose to his feet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Good day, Mr. Drummond.”

  “Good day, Lady Byam.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Byam pulled a rueful face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Unless the second list was blackmail,” Byam said, looking up at him, his face pale. “You said they were men of means. Why should such people borrow from a petty usurer like Weems? If I wanted extra money I wouldn’t go to the back streets of Clerkenwell, I’d go to a bank, or at worst I’d sell one of the pictures or something of that sort.�
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  “I don’t know,” Drummond confessed, feeling inadequate, angry with himself for such a futile answer. “Perhaps they had no possessions to sell, they may be in trust, or possibly they did not wish their families to be aware of their difficulties. Men need money for many things, not all of them they wish to have known.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Please God,” he said quietly.

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

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

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

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

  “No—but we found the shot.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “You are right. It makes no sense.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Byam smiled bleakly.

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

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

  Byam smiled and offered his hand.

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

  4

  SINCE THE FIRST LIST had yielded nothing, Pitt was faced with the necessity of pursuing the names on Weems’s second list. He wanted to put off as long as possible the burden of investigating his fellow police officer, therefore he began with Addison Carswell. He already had his address so beginning was not difficult; it was merely a matter of choosing which aspect of his life to examine first.

  The sensible place seemed to be his home. One may learn a great deal about a man by seeing how he lives, what his domestic tastes are, how much money he appears to have at his disposal, and upon what he chooses to spend it. Perhaps even more may be learned about his financial circumstances by meeting his wife and estimating his family responsibilities.

  Accordingly Pitt set off for Mayfair. The hansom sped through warm, busy streets, passing broughams, landaus and carriages with ladies about errands. It was far too early for morning calls, which anyway were paid in the afternoon; this was the hour for visiting dressmakers and the like. There were delivery carts with all manner of goods, other hansoms with gentlemen beginning the business day, and here and there the occasional public omnibus, packed with men, women and children sitting upright or squeezed together, scrupulously ignoring each other and waiting for their own stop at which to dismount.

  At Curzon Street, Pitt paid the cabby and alighted. It was a gracious way, and looking up and down it, he judged it to have been expensive and discreet for most of its history. If Addison Carswell was in financial difficulty he would find it a serious drain on his resources to maintain a residence here for long.

  He went to the front door, hesitated a moment, rearranging in his mind what he planned to say, then pulled the bell, a fine brass affair with engraved numbers beneath it.

  The door was opened by a parlormaid in a dark dress and crisp, lace-edged cap and apron. She was a handsome girl, tall and with a clear, country complexion, shining hair—everything a parlormaid should be. Addison Car
swell would seem to pay attention to appearances—or perhaps it was Mrs. Carswell who cared. Very often it was women to whom such things mattered most.

  “Yes sir?” she said with well-concealed surprise. Whoever she had expected, it was not Pitt.

  He smiled with as much charm as he could, which was considerable, more than he was aware.

  “Good morning. Mrs. Carswell is not expecting me, but I have a rather delicate errand with which she may be able to assist me. I would be most obliged if you would ask her if she would receive me.” With a feeling of considerable satisfaction he pulled his card out of his inner pocket and presented it to her. It stated his name but not his police rank. It was an extravagance he had indulged in a few years ago, and it still gave him inordinate pleasure.

  The parlormaid looked at it doubtfully, but in spite of his less than elegant appearance, his voice was beautiful, well modulated, and his diction excellent. She made a rapid judgment of her own, and smiled back.

  “Certainly sir. If you will wait in the morning room I will inform Mrs. Carswell you are here.”

  “Thank you.” Pitt had no time to look around the entrance hallway, but when he was left in the morning room he spent the ten minutes she kept him waiting in close scrutiny of everything in the room. This was his primary purpose in coming, and if she refused to see him, might well be all he would achieve.

  The furniture was very traditional, showing far more comfort than imagination in its style. It was mostly of heavy oak, overornamented for Pitt’s taste, but of good quality. Nothing was scratched or marred as if it had been carelessly used, or cheaply purchased. The sofa and chairs had been recently upholstered, there were no worn patches, and the antimacassars were embroidered and without blemish.