Belgrave Square - Anne Perry [2]
“Today I received a call on the telephone from Lord Sholto Byam, whom I know slightly. We have friends in common.” His voice was curiously on edge. “He was in some distress because he had just heard of the murder of a man of his acquaintance, a most unsavory man.” He breathed in and out slowly, still without looking at Pitt. “And for reasons he will explain to us, he fears he himself may come under suspicion for the crime.”
Questions leaped to Pitt’s mind. How had Lord Byam heard of the murder? It could not yet be in the newspapers. How did he know a man of such a nature? And why should he be suspected? But more powerful than these was his awareness of Drummond’s acute discomfort, almost embarrassment. The conciseness of his account suggested a prepared speech, and he had gone straight through it without deviation or a glance at Pitt to see his response.
“Who is the victim, sir?” he said aloud.
“A man called William Weems, a petty usurer from Clerkenwell,” Drummond replied.
“Where was he found?”
“In his home, in Cyrus Street, shot through the head.” Drummond winced as he said it. He hated guns and Pitt knew it.
“We’re going west,” Pitt pointed out. Clerkenwell was to the east.
“We’re going to see Lord Byam,” Drummond answered. “In Belgravia. I want you to know all you can about it before you go to Clerkenwell. It will be hard enough to take over another man’s investigation without going in ignorant of what you face or why you are there.”
Pitt felt his first really sharp misgiving. Now he could no longer put off the questions.
“Who is Lord Sholto Byam, sir, apart from being one of your acquaintances?”
Drummond looked less uncomfortable. Now he was in the realm of ordinary fact.
“The Byams are a very distinguished family, generations of service to the Board of Trade and in the Foreign Office. Money, of course. The present Lord Byam is in the Treasury, especially concerned with foreign loans and trade alliances. A brilliant man.”
“How does he come to know a petty usurer in Clerkenwell?” Pitt asked with as much tact in his voice as he could manage. The question sounded ridiculous even so.
A bleak smile flickered across Drummond’s face and died again.
“I don’t know. That is what we are going to learn in Belgravia.”
Pitt remained silent for a few moments, his mind filled with questions and uncertainties. The cab was moving at a brisk trot, threading its way up Eccleston Street and across Eaton Square to where it changed into Belgrave Place, passing carriages with matched pairs and coats of arms on the doors. This was the beginning of the high season, and everyone who was anyone was out and about.
“Is it in the newspapers yet?” Pitt asked finally.
Drummond knew what he was reaching towards and smiled with self-mocking humor.
“I doubt it will be. What is one usurer more or less? It is not a spectacular murder, simply a shooting in a back office in Clerkenwell, by person or persons unknown.” He shifted his position a trifle. “I suppose the use of a gun is unusual. Few people have them. But nothing else is worthy of comment.”
“Then how does Lord Byam come to know of it so rapidly?” Pitt had to say it.
Again Drummond stared ahead of him.
“He has friends in the police—”
“I can imagine he might in Belgravia.” Pitt could not let it go so blindly. “But in Clerkenwell?”
“Apparently.”
“And why do they suppose that he should be interested in the murder of a usurer? Why this man?”
“I don’t know,” Drummond said unhappily. “I can only assume someone knew of Byam’s connection with the man, and chose to forewarn him.”
Pitt allowed the matter to drop for the time being, and rode the few moments more in silence until the cab stopped and they alighted in the bright leafy sunshine of Belgrave Square. The houses were huge, of pale stone, and classic Georgian in style, their front doors flanked by Doric pillars, areaways bounded by wrought-iron rails, the balconies bright with boxes of potted plants.
Drummond walked slowly