Belgrave Square - Anne Perry [149]
“Nevertheless you know that he is a brother?” Drummond pressed.
“I do. Surely you don’t wish something from him? The man is disgraced. Not openly, I grant, but we all know perfectly well he was guilty of behaving like a fool, and of being caught at it.”
“And of asking the brotherhood to exercise favor in extricating him, and attempting to impugn the police in the process.”
“That was unnecessary,” Byam said with irritation. “He got out of the charge. He should have left it at that. Accusing the police of perjury was gratuitous. The man is a complete outsider.”
“Indeed,” Drummond agreed with feeling. “Nevertheless, the brotherhood assisted him in bringing the charge. Questions were raised in the House, and the Home Secretary himself set certain wheels in motion.”
“I am aware of that. I was in the House at the time. I thought he was a fool then, but there was nothing I could do about it.”
“Of course not.” Drummond was watching him closely. The subject did not distress him, but the underlying fear was only too apparent. His whole body was so stiff Drummond ached watching him. And he was abominably tired, as if he had not slept with any ease for weeks.
“Well?” Byam said with rising impatience. “What is it you want of me? It is not my concern.”
“If the brotherhood will respond to Osmar’s trivial and tedious case by raising questions in the House,” Drummond answered, “and impugning the honesty of the police as they have done, what latitude do they have in matters of individual honor and integrity where more serious matters are involved?”
“I don’t understand you.” Byam’s voice was getting sharper. “For heaven’s sake, man, be plain!”
Drummond took a breath and met Byam’s hollow eyes.
“If I discover incriminating evidence against you, will the brotherhood defend you against the police, and will it expect me to do the same?”
Byam was white as a ghost. He stared at Drummond as if he could scarcely believe him.
Drummond waited.
Byam spoke with difficulty, his voice catching in his throat.
“I—I have never thought in the matter. It will not arise—dangerous evidence perhaps, but not incriminating. I did not kill Weems.” He seemed about to add something, then changed his mind and stood silently facing Drummond.
“Then why have you changed your decision about African financing?” Drummond asked.
Byam seemed so stunned, so deathly white, Drummond was afraid for a moment he was going to pass out. The dusk was growing in the room. The last of the sun’s rays had faded away from the ceiling and now the faintly luminous air had gone. A bird sang in the branches beyond the window.
“How do you know that?” Byam said at last.
“I heard of it through a young man called Valerius.” It was not a lie exactly, even if it was by intent.
Byam was too shocked for surprise or interest.
“Peter Valerius? He came and told you? Why, for God’s sake? It is of no concern to you.”
“Not directly,” Drummond answered. “He told someone, who told me.”
“Who?”
“I am not at liberty to say.”
Byam turned away, weary, hiding his face and staring at the shelf of books and the corner.
“I suppose it hardly matters. It involves issues you are not aware of—trade, money …”
“Blackmail?”
Byam froze. The relief that had been in his face an instant before fled utterly. His body jerked as if he had been struck.
“Was it?” Drummond said very quietly, almost gently. “Has someone else found the papers Weems left? Byam, do you know who killed Weems?”
“No! No I don’t!” It was a cry full of pain and despair. “Dear God I don’t know. I have no idea at all.”
“But whoever it is has Weems’s notes, and is blackmailing you still?”
Byam’s shoulders relaxed a fraction and he turned around, his eyes black in the last light through the window, a wraith of a smile on his lips, a smile of pain and self-mockery, as if he knew some terrible joke against himself.
“No—no. Weems’s notes seem to have vanished into the air. I am beginning to think he never actually made any, he simply said he had to protect himself. Unnecessarily—I would never have attacked him physically,