Belgrave Square - Anne Perry [53]
“Thank you sir,” Pitt said enthusiastically, finding himself wishing more and more strongly that he would find Addison Carswell was not guilty of having murdered Weems.
Eventually the clerk came scurrying along to him, the tails of his gown flying, his face furrowed with agitation.
“Mr. Pitt, Mr. Carswell will see you now. I do hope you won’t keep him long, we have a great deal to get through and it would really be most inconvenient if he were to be delayed. You assured me it was urgent police business, and I have taken you at your word, sir.” His wispy eyebrows rose and he desired to reconsider that he had understood correctly and it truly justified his extraordinary intrusion.
“Indeed it is,” Pitt said, hiding a slight smile and reminding himself of Weems’s disfigured corpse in the mortuary, to force his priorities back to where his brain told him they should be. “You may be easy in your mind that I am not wasting Mr. Carswell’s time.”
“Ah—indeed. Then will you come this way, quickly now.” And so saying he turned and walked away so rapidly it was all but a trot.
Pitt strode after him and only two minutes later was shown into the chambers where Addison Carswell took short respites between one batch of cases and another. He had no time to look at it beyond noticing the walls were lined with bookshelves, presumably law tomes by their leather covers and great size. The single window overlooked a quiet courtyard and he could see the sunlight on an old stone wall at the far side. A single large desk was empty but for a silver salver with a bottle of Madeira and two glasses.
Carswell was standing with his back to the bookshelves. He was imposing now in his robes of office and with the weight of his calling so sharp in his mind. In the courtroom only a few yards away his power over his fellow beings was enormous. But stripped of these things Pitt judged he would be a very ordinary man, like thousands of others in London. He was well-to-do but not beyond the reach of anxiety; comfortable in his home and family of conforming disposition in both religion and political views; socially popular, accepted, but not a leader, still aspiring to climb considerably higher. In fact he was a man of very ordinary ambition and perhaps a few private dreams a little more individual, which would probably always remain just that: private—and only dreams.
“Yes, Mr…. Mr. Pitt?” Carswell said curiously. “What can I do for you, sir? I have but little time, as I am sure you realize.”
“Yes sir,” Pitt said immediately. “Therefore I shall not waste it with a lengthy preamble. May I be blunt?”
Carswell winced very slightly. “I suppose it would be an advantage.”
“Thank you. Can you tell me where you were between eight o’clock in the evening and midnight of Tuesday last week?”
Carswell thought for a moment, then a faint pink tinge appeared in his cheeks. “Is there some reason why I should, sir?”
“It would help to clear up a matter in which certain parties may be lying,” Pitt said, evading the issue.
Carswell bit his lip. “I was in a hansom cab, traveling from one place to another. The places need not concern you. I witnessed nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Where did you pass, sir?”
“That is a private matter.”
“Are you acquainted with a Mr. William Weems?” Pitt watched Carswell’s face closely for the smallest change of color or expression, and saw nothing but an attempt at recollection.
“Not that I think of,” Carswell said after a moment. “Was he concerned in a case I tried?”
“I don’t believe so.” Pitt had no idea whether he was completely unaware of Weems’s identity, either as a usurer or the victim of a recent murder, or whether he was a superlative liar. “He lived in Clerkenwell.”
“I do not have occasion to visit Clerkenwell, Mr. Pitt.” Carswell frowned. “If you forgive me, sir, you seem to be somewhat less direct than you intimated to me. I do not know Mr. Weems. Who or what is he, and why did you suppose I might know him?”
“He was a usurer, sir,