Belgrave Square - Anne Perry [143]
He was halfway facing the window when there was a sharp rap on the door. He spun around as if he had been caught in some wrongful act.
“Yes?”
The door opened and Urban came in. He was looking pleased, although there was still a shadow of irritation over his tight, amused smile.
“What is it?” Drummond said less courteously than usual.
Urban disregarded his manner; he was too full of his own news.
“We won,” he said simply.
Drummond had not the slightest idea what he meant. “Won what?” he said irritably.
Urban was crestfallen, much of the triumph drained from his face.
“The case over Osmar.”
“We can’t have.” Drummond was still confused. “It’s already been dismissed!”
“Not the prosecution,” Urban corrected with disappointed patience. “The case against the newspapers for slandering us over Latimer’s interrogation of Beulah Giles.”
“Oh!” Suddenly it came back to Drummond. He should have known straightaway; the issue had certainly been serious enough. He looked at Urban now and tried to make up for his omission. He forced his features into an expression of pleasure. “Thank heaven for that. I didn’t think it was due for trial for months yet, surely?”
“It isn’t,” Urban agreed, mollified. “They settled out of court, paid us damages—and retracted all the charges of brutality.”
“Then what was the reservation I saw in your face when you came in?” Drummond asked. “Were the damages poor?”
“No—they were excellent, and so they should be. It was a damned comprehensive slander, and they misquoted us, and even themselves,” Urban replied heatedly. “It was a hysterical and completely irresponsible piece of journalism, and the other papers that picked it up didn’t even bother to check their facts.”
Drummond waited, his eyes wide.
Urban smiled, at himself. “That swine Osmar is still free to prance around saying he is innocent and without a stain on his character.” He pushed his hands into his pockets. “Which doesn’t matter in that he’s hardly a major criminal, simply an elderly ass who fornicates in the public parks.” His face darkened and his voice took on a graver note. “But he’s also a man who uses personal influence and the obligations of past office to escape the consequences of acts he expects other people to answer to, if they are caught. He uses privilege to set the law aside when it suits him—and that is about as serious a crime against society as there can be. In some ways it’s worse than murder.” And with those passionate words he turned on his heel and went out, closing the door very quietly behind him. Drummond was left shaken so profoundly he stood in the middle of the floor with the sunlight shining around him and felt cold, the sounds of the street below like insects far away, his mind whirling.
By five o’clock he had determined what he must do, and half past nine saw him in a hansom cab on his way to Belgravia. He alighted in Belgrave Square and presented himself at number 21. The footman admitted him without question or comment except to tell him that Lord Byam had not yet returned home, but was expected.
“I’ll wait,” Drummond said without hesitation.
“Shall I inform Lady Byam you are here, sir?” the footman asked as he showed him not into the morning room, but into the library.
“It would be civil, but it is Lord Byam I wish to speak with,” Drummond replied, walking past the man into the calm room lit with the late sun reflected in dappled patterns from the leaves at the window.
“Yes sir,” the footman accepted expressionlessly.