Belgrave Square - Anne Perry [1]
“Inspector!” The voice was urgent and breathless and the feet loud on the steps. “Inspector Pitt—sir!” The constable lumbered down noisily, clattering his boots on the stairs. “Inspector Pitt, ah!” He stopped and gasped in satisfaction. “Mr. Drummond sent me ter find yer. ’E needs ter see yer, important like, as quick as yer can.”
Reluctantly Pitt turned around and looked at the hot and uncomfortable young man, pink-faced above his tunic with its bright buttons, his eyes filled with anxiety in case he should not have carried out his duty rapidly enough. Micah Drummond was the most senior man in Bow Street and unmistakably a gentleman, and Pitt was an inspector at last gathering some of the credit he deserved.
Pitt ate the last of the eels, stuffed the carton in his pocket and threw the crust of bread onto the water for the birds. Immediately a dozen appeared and swooped down for it, their wings flashing in the sun.
“Thank you, Constable,” he acknowledged. “Is he in his office?”
“Yes sir.” He seemed about to add something more, then changed his mind. “Yes sir,” he repeated, following Pitt up onto the Embankment.
“All right, you can go back to patrol,” Pitt directed him, and set out with a long stride towards Bow Street. It was close enough to be faster walking than looking for a cab free to pick up a fare at this unlikely spot, and on a day when the air was so mild and people were out driving for pleasure.
He strode into the station to the visible relief of the desk sergeant, and went straight up to Drummond’s office and knocked.
“Yes?” Drummond’s voice was sharp with expectation.
Pitt went in and closed the door behind him automatically. Drummond was standing by the window, as immaculately dressed as always, with the effortlessness of those born to good taste without ostentation, but his long, lean face was tense and anxiety was written in the angle of his body, and the tightness of his shoulders.
“Ah Pitt! Good.” He smiled with a flash of warmth, and then the concern replaced it instantly. “I’ve told Parfitt to take over your fraud case, I’ve got something more important. It’s delicate—” He hesitated, seemed to consider something and then discard it, which was unlike him. Pitt had found him direct, without flattery or evasion, and always without that manipulation which marked so many lesser men. It was indicative of the degree of pressure he now felt that the right words should be so difficult for him to find.
Pitt waited in silence.
Drummond came to the point. “Pitt, there is a case I want you to handle.” They had worked together with mutual respect, even friendship. He allowed that to guide his speech now. “A very important man has just called me, in the name of … friendship.” He hesitated only an instant over the word, but Pitt noticed it with surprise, and saw the faintest of color in his cheeks.
Drummond moved away from the window overlooking the street and stood behind the large, leather-topped desk.
“He has asked me to preempt the local police,” he went on, “and possibly the newspapers, by handling the investigation. You have more skill than anyone else in dealing with cases like this. In fact I have had it in mind to promote you to political cases from now on—and those that look like becoming political. I know you refused promotion before because you didn’t want to sit behind a desk …” He tailed off, looking at Pitt’s face.
Pitt would have helped him if he could, but he had no idea what the situation involved, or whom, or why it should cause Drummond to exhibit such an uncharacteristic loss of composure and obvious unease.
“I’ll tell you as we go.” Drummond shrugged and walked over, taking his hat from the stand, and opened the door. Pitt followed with a simple nod of assent.
In the street below it took only a moment to hail a hansom cab. As soon as Drummond had given the driver instructions and they were both seated he began his