Belgrave Square - Anne Perry [46]
“What surprised me,” Drummond went on, “is that whoever murdered Weems did not take his list of names. It would seem such an obvious thing to do.”
Byam hesitated, looked down, and then up again facing Drummond.
“What did you do with his record of my payments to him? Does your man Pitt have it?” He swallowed painfully. “And the letter?”
“We didn’t find either of them,” Drummond replied, watching him closely.
Byam’s eyes darkened; it was almost imperceptible, a tightening of the muscles of the face, a stiffening of the body under the fine wool of his coat. It was too quick and too subtle to be assumed. It was fear, mastered almost as soon as it was there.
“Did he search properly?” Byam demanded. His voice was very slightly altered in pitch, just a fraction higher, as if his throat was tight. “Where else would Weems keep such things? Isn’t that where he lived? You said you found his other records there.”
“Yes we did,” Drummond agreed. “And that is where he lived. I can only presume the murderer either took them or destroyed them, although we found no evidence of anything having been burned or torn up. Or else Weems lied to you, and there never was any account of your dealings. Why should he keep a record of such things? It was not a debt.”
“Presumably to safeguard himself from my taking any action against him,” Byam said sharply. “He was not a fool. He must have been threatened with retaliation before.” He closed his eyes and leaned forward a little, dropping his head. “Dear God. If whoever murdered him took it, what will they do with it?” His hands curled on the back of the chair, his fingers white with the pressure he was exerting in his grip. His voice was husky with strain. “And the letter?”
“If it was a desperate man, like yourself,” Drummond said quietly, “he will most likely destroy them both, along with the evidence that implicates him. We found no evidence of other blackmail, just simple debts—”
“Unless the second list was blackmail,” Byam said, looking up at him, his face pale. “You said they were men of means. Why should such people borrow from a petty usurer like Weems? If I wanted extra money I wouldn’t go to the back streets of Clerkenwell, I’d go to a bank, or at worst I’d sell one of the pictures or something of that sort.”
“I don’t know,” Drummond confessed, feeling inadequate, angry with himself for such a futile answer. “Perhaps they had no possessions to sell, they may be in trust, or possibly they did not wish their families to be aware of their difficulties. Men need money for many things, not all of them they wish to have known.”
Byam’s mouth tightened; again the bleak humor was there.
“Well, falling into the hands of a usurer is no way out. Every week just digs you in the deeper. Anyone but a fool knows that.”
“It is possible he bought someone else’s debts,” Drummond said slowly.
Byam laughed, a low, gentle sound utterly without pleasure.
“You are trying to comfort me, but you are reaching for straws. It must have been whoever killed him who took both the list and Laura’s letter to me, and I can only pray it was because all Weems’s records were together and he had no time or inclination to look through them and find his own, and that he will not use it for gain.”
“If he does, he will betray himself as having killed Weems,” Drummond reasoned. “That would be a very dangerous thing to do.”
Byam took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh.
“Please God,” he said quietly.
“At least it tends to vindicate you,” Drummond pointed out, seeing something to encourage him. “Had you known the evidence implicating you had been taken away, or destroyed, you would not have called me and told me of your involvement. You had no need to say anything at all.”
Byam smiled thinly. “Something to cling to,” he agreed. “Do you think your man Pitt will see it that way?”
“Pitt is a better detective than I am,” Drummond