by Anne Perry
Pitt straightened up from the drawers where he had been sifting through papers yet again. “And what?” He frowned. “He and Weems had a quarrel and he saw the blunderbuss, went to the powder boxes, tipped the powder into the breach, picked up the gold coins from the desk, or wherever they were, loaded them, and then shot half Weems’s head off? What was Weems doing?”
Innes stood motionless.
“Well at least we know w’ere the gun came from,” he said defensively.
Pitt sighed. “We do,” he agreed. “Well done. Now we have to work out how in heaven’s name he managed to load it and fire it without Weems stopping him. What happened here, Innes? Can you think of anything—anything at ail-that would explain it?”
“No sir,” Innes said, pulling a face. “Maybe when we know who it is, we’ll understand.” He looked hopeful.
“Maybe,” Pitt agreed. “I was rather looking for it to be the other way, knowing what happened would lead us to who it is.”
Innes took a deep breath. “I don’t like to ’ave ter say this, sir, but could this nob o’ yours ’ave come ’ere, for whatever reason, an’ ’ad a quarrel with Weems, an’ ’is bein’ a nob, Weems don’t think ’e’d turn nasty, so ’E didn’t believe it when it ’appened. P’r’aps the nob—sorry sir—but not knowin’ ’is name I ’ave ter call ’im something, p’r’aps ’E admired the gun, casual like, and Weems, since ’E ’ad the upper ’and, Jus’ sat there an let ’im go on!”
Innes drew a deep breath. “An’ o’ course Weems knew ’E ’adn’t any shot for it, an’ ’E wouldn’t think o’ gold coin as bein’ ammunition. an’ the nob—sorry sir—’E quietly loads it, talking agreeable like, an’ keepin’ the gold coins in ’is pocket w’ere Weems don’t know about them—until the last moment when ’E shoved them down the barrel and lifted it up. And Weems were so surprised ’E didn’t believe it, till the gentleman fired, an’ it were too late!” He stood expectantly, waiting for Pitt’s comment.
“Doesn’t sound very probable,” Pitt said slowly. “But it’s better than anything else we’ve got so far. Pity we didn’t know Weems—only got other people’s ideas of him to know whether he was as complacent as that, or sure of having the whip hand.”
“From what I ’ear, ’E was,” Innes said with disgust. “ ’Ad a lot o’ power ’round ’ere—and liked the taste of it.”
Pitt pushed his hands into his pockets.
“Who did you get that from?” Pitt asked, realizing how little he had pressed Innes for the sources of his knowledge about the dead man. Perhaps he had been remiss. It was just conceivable the murder had been personal after all, and nothing to do with debt or blackmail, although it was so remote a possibility he did not believe it for a moment.
“We ’ad the errand chappie, Windy Miller, in again,” Innes replied, still holding the sheet of paper in his hand. “Nasty little beggar, but ’E certainly knew Weems pretty well. Got ’im summed up ter rights. Read ’im like a book, an’ ’ated ’im according.” Innes pushed out his lip. “Thought we might ’ave ’ad summink there, but ’e’s got twenty witnesses’ll swear ’E was in the Dog an’ Duck ’alf the night playin’ dominoes, and drunk under the table the other ’alf. Besides, ’E ’ad a good job wi’ Weems, and not like ter get another easy.”
Pitt sat down on the edge of the table.
“And he couldn’t tell you anything useful? Didn’t Weems have any female attachments, even just…” He hesitated, not sure how to phrase what he meant.
“No,” Innes answered for him with a wry grin. “Seems ’E ’adn’t no use fer women. Nor nobody else,” he added hastily. “Some people’s like that—not many, mind, but Weems were one of ’em. Liked money, an’ the power it give ’im. Windy said ’e’d always bin like that. ’is pa were a gambler, rich one day and dirt poor the next. died in debtors’ prison somewhere. Never knew ’is ma.”
“What did the housekeeper say about him?”
“Nothin’ much,” Innes said with a shrug. “Nasty piece o’ woik.”
“Mrs. Cairns?”
“No—although she’s no jewel, but I meant Weems. Watched every farthing, she says, wouldn’t give nobody an inch. She didn’t say it in them words, but I gather as ’E ’ad no sense o’ ’umor neither. Liked ’is food and spent money on it, but that’s about all. Oh—’E liked ter be warm. Didn’t mind spendin’ money on keepin’ the fire in ’is own room. Rest o’ the ’ouse was like an icebox in winter, she said, but always a good fire in ’is office.”
“Anyone have a good word for him?” Pitt said dryly.
“Tradesmen,” Innes replied with a meaningful look. “ ’E paid ’is bills in time, and to the penny.”
“Bravo.” Pitt was sarcastic. “No one else?”
“Not a soul.”
Pitt looked around the room. “So what happened to this blunderbuss? I suppose the murderer took it away with him. It certainly wasn’t here when you found Weems.”
“I’m sure o’ that,” Innes said decisively.
“You’d better start a search specifically for a blunderbuss,” Pitt instructed. “But don’t waste much time on it. It could be anywhere, and it wouldn’t give us much idea who used it, even if we did by some miracle come up with it. I’ve got some other ideas to follow up—and some more people on his list.”
“Nobs?”
“Yes. So far we’ve got two who could have done it, and certainly had cause, and so far as I can see, opportunity. And now it seems pretty well anyone who came that night had the means, since it was sitting here in the office.”
“Nasty one, sir,” Innes agreed.
“Yes.” Pitt knew that Innes hoped it was a “nob,” not one of his own people, some Clerkenwell debtor pressed beyond his bearing. Pitt was inclined to agree, except he did not wish it to be Carswell. He could imagine his desperation vividly; it made him real, and painfully immediate. But why on earth had Carswell dismissed the case of Horatio Osmar without even hearing Beulah Giles’s evidence? It made no sense.
And it would be almost worse if it were Urban. He could imagine the scandal, and the injury to the already unpopular police force, still suffering from the ignominy of not having caught the Whitechapel murderer known as Jack the Ripper only last autumn. He must find the last name—Clarence Latimer. It was his only escape from tragedy.
Or was it Byam after all? That thought was no better. And Drummond would take it very hard.
And that was another problem that needed to be faced. Why had Micah Drummond interfered in the case at all? Why had he been so quick to defend Byam?
Innes was busy tidying up, closing drawers to leave the place as they found it.
Pitt would have staked his career that Drummond was utterly honest and would not have altered the course of an investigation on a friend’s behalf, however close. And it had not seemed that Byam was more than an acquaintance anyway.
There was no point in asking him, trying to press. His attitude had already made it plain he did not feel free to discuss it. It must be some debt of honor; that was all that would hold a man like Drummond so obviously against his wishes. He was suffering—Pitt had known that from the beginning. He hated doing it, and yet he felt unavoidably compelled.
Why? For what?
“I’m going back to Bow Street,” Pitt said aloud. “I’ve got to look into the other people on the list. Do what you can about the blunderbuss, and anything else you can think of. Have you found all the debtors on the first list?”
“Almost sir. Poor bastards!”
“Then you’d better finish it. Sorry.”
“Yes sir.” Innes smiled lopsidedly. “Not that it’s any worse than what you’ve got ter do.”
Pitt looked at him with a sudden warmth.
“No,” he agreed. “No it isn’t.”
But when he arrived at Bow Street the immediate problem of asking Urban about Weems was temporarily put out of his mind by the news given him by the desk sergeant.
“No sir, I think Mr. Urba
n is busy with the solicitors, Mr. Pitt. Can’t interrupt ’im now.”
“Solicitors?” Pitt was taken aback. Knowing his own errand, views of prosecution flashed into his mind and he felt a chill of both apprehension and pity.
“Yes sir.” The desk sergeant’s pink face was full of confusion. “ ’E’s got a very important gennelman in there now.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “From Parkins, Parkins and Gorman.”
Pitt had heard the name and knew it to be one of the foremost firms of solicitors in London. They were certainly not the people an ordinary man would employ to organize a defense, it would be completely beyond his means. Pitt’s mind raced, trying to think of any reason for Urban’s seeking legal advice of such an order, before any investigation had begun, let alone charges brought.
“Do you know why?” he asked the desk sergeant, then immediately wished he had not.
The sergeant looked embarrassed.
“No sir. I ’eard tell as it were to do with perjury, and summink about someone in this station ’avin’ lied. I know Mr. Urban were very angry.”
Pitt turned towards the corridor that led to Urban’s office.
“You can’t go in there, sir!” the sergeant said hastily, moving from one foot to the other, not sure how he was going to stop Pitt, who was both senior to him and larger.
Pitt smiled sourly and sighed. “Let me know when Mr. Urban is free, will you? I need to see him, to do with an investigation.”
“Yessir.”
Pitt turned away and was about to leave, frustrated because he wanted to get the matter over with, when a slim dapper man in pin-striped trousers and a frock coat came out of the corridor. He nodded briefly to the desk sergeant, who leaped to attention, then with a flicker of irritation relaxed again. The man went out of the door into the street without looking behind him.
“You can go in and see Mr. Urban now, Mr. Pitt, sir,” the sergeant said quickly.
“Thank you,” Pitt acknowledged and moved smartly to Urban’s office door. He knocked and as soon as he heard the least sound inside, pushed it open and went in. The room was very like his own, similarly furnished but much tidier.
Urban was standing by his window with his back to the door, his hands in his pockets and his feet apart. He was a tall man, slender and fair haired and dressed in the police uniform of a senior inspector. He turned slowly as he heard the latch on the door.
“Hello, Pitt.” His voice was light and pleasing with a slight south country accent. “What are you doing here? Can we help with something?”
Pitt was surprised that Urban knew him so quickly. He would not have recognized Urban had he walked into Pitt’s office unannounced. He looked at Urban’s face for anxiety, even fear, and saw only a slowly clearing anger, now being overtaken by curiosity.
“No,” he said uncertainly. “I don’t think so.” Then realizing that that made no sense he hurried on. “Am I interrupting you?”
Urban laughed abruptly. “The solicitor? No. He’s gone. This is as good a time as any. What is it?”
There was no alternative but to go ahead with what he had planned to say before the desk sergeant had told him about the solicitor being there.
“Do you know William Weems, of Cyrus Street, Clerkenwell?”
“The usurer that was murdered?” Urban’s fair eyebrows rose. Obviously the question was one that he had not expected, but it seemed to cause him no alarm. “No. Know of him of course. Caused something of a stir, his death. Releases a lot of debts, it would seem. No heir so far. Why?”
Urban was not the sort of man upon whom to try trickery, and Pitt found himself oddly ashamed that he had thought of it.
“He had two lists of debtors,” he replied. “One the usual you would expect, ordinary people in financial difficulties. The second was very much smaller, only three names were indicated as still being in debt.” He watched Urban’s face and saw nothing in it but mild interest. There was no start of surprise, no anxiety, only the still-clinging remnants of anger.
“Oh? Someone I know, I presume, or you wouldn’t be here.”
Pitt bit his lip. “Yes—your own name is there.”
Urban was obviously astounded. He stared in complete disbelief. His wide blue eyes searched Pitt’s face as if he expected to find some horrid joke. Then gradually he grasped that Pitt was serious and the statement required a response.
“I don’t owe him any money,” he said slowly. “Or anyone else.” Then there was a flicker, a shadow in his clear eyes, and Pitt knew he was suddenly less than honest, in thought if not in word. A chill touched him inside. He tried to keep the knowledge of it from his expression.
“But you have encountered him?” he said with conviction.
“I’ve never met him,” Urban denied. He had chosen his words carefully, but his face was open and he met Pitt’s gaze easily. “Cyrus Street is out of my area—yours too, for that matter.” His eyebrows rose. “Why are you concerned anyway?”
Pitt told all the truth that he could. “Because of the people who may be involved.”
“Not on my account. Who else is on the list?” Urban asked, pointing to the chair near Pitt, and sitting down in his own chair behind the desk.
Pitt smiled ruefully. “Confidential,” he apologized.
“But important people,” Urban pressed. “Weems was killed several days ago now. I’m not the first you’ve come to see—and you’ve been handling the political cases this last year or so. There’s someone of considerable influence involved in this.” He was watching Pitt’s face and he knew he was right. It was beyond Pitt’s ability, or his desire, to conceal it.
“It was a large amount of money,” Pitt said instead.
“What? That Weems has me down for?” Urban looked puzzled. “But it’s irrelevant—I didn’t owe him anything. I never had anything to do with him.” He took in a breath as if to add something, then changed his mind.
“Why was the solicitor here?” Pitt asked abruptly.
“What?” Urban’s mouth tightened in irritation again. “Oh—that damned Osmar!” He shook his head. “They not only threw the case out of the magistrate’s court, you know, now the wretched man is charging that Crombie and Allardyce committed perjury in saying he behaved indecently in the park, and he wants them prosecuted for it. Can you credit it? I had the best solicitor I could find to see if we can reopen the case and try him again.”
“Osmar?”
“Yes. Why not? Parkins thinks there’s a good chance.”
Pitt smiled. “Good. At least save Crombie and Allardyce from charges.”
“I intend to. And I’d like to know why the magistrate threw it out.” This time it was Urban who saw the momentary evasion in Pitt’s eyes. He hesitated on the edge of asking him, then some professional instinct asserted itself and he remained silent.
“You have no idea why?” Pitt asked.
“None at all,” Urban replied, and Pitt knew he was lying.
“Thank you for your time,” he said. “I’ll have to go back to the list and see what else I can find.”
“Sorry I can’t help you,” Urban apologized again, and smiled courteously as Pitt took his leave.
Investigating Urban proved to be both as difficult and as distasteful as Pitt had expected. He began by going to Urban’s home. This time he took the public omnibus, as the route took him to within five hundred yards of the street, and he was in no particular hurry. Indeed the hot, noisy ride on the bus, sitting squashed between a thin woman in blue with a cold in her head and a large man smelling of beer, gave him an opportunity to let his thoughts roam. Not that it accomplished anything. He had liked Urban and the thought of prying into his private life was increasingly unpleasant. And because he was intelligent and forewarned, this would prove very difficult to accomplish without his becoming aware of it.
By asking him openly about Weems he had forewarned him that Pitt knew he was connected with the case. He was still feeling angry and miserable about Charlotte, furious
with her for behaving as if she were a lady with leisure and money to do as she pleased, and for not making better use of her time than entertaining herself. And he was miserable because that was what she had been born to expect, and she was so easily and naturally enjoying the chance that Emily had given her and Pitt never could. And it hurt that she should still find these things so important. He had enjoyed the spectacle of the occasion himself. People had always interested him, people of every sort, and he had been enthralled watching the faces, and observing the ritual games they played with one another, and the passions behind the masks.
But this investigation he was carrying out alone. For once Charlotte knew almost nothing about it, and her concern was not engaged. It was a curiously lonely thing and he missed her sharing it, even if she did not know the people and could contribute nothing but her interest.
What should he learn about Urban? His reputation among his fellows? His home, his life, the money he spent? His professional integrity? He was lying about something, even if only by omission. Could he possibly know why Addison Carswell had dismissed the case against Osmar? Carswell’s name was on Weems’s list as well—but what had Osmar to do with it? And if it was blackmail, why was Byam’s name not there?
He got off the omnibus and walked the last distance along the narrow pavement in the heat, passing women with children, old men gossiping, a tradesman sweeping his shop’s front step, a rag and bone man shouting in a singsong voice, and a housemaid in a crisp cap arguing with a butcher’s boy standing in the areaway wiping his hands on his blue-and-white apron. It was not far from where he lived himself, and not unlike his street. He pushed the thought of Charlotte out of his mind; that was another hurt, for another time.
Urban’s house was quite small and ordinary from the outside, exactly like its neighbors. The front step was scrubbed clean, the door recently painted, the garden was small and neat with a few roses around and a pocket handkerchief lawn. He had already debated with himself what he was going to say. There was little point in duplicity. It would be too easily discovered, and then would create an ill feeling that would be hard, if not impossible, to repair. And if Urban was innocent, that would be an impediment to future work.