Belgrave Square - Anne Perry [87]
Pitt had heard the name and knew it to be one of the foremost firms of solicitors in London. They were certainly not the people an ordinary man would employ to organize a defense, it would be completely beyond his means. Pitt’s mind raced, trying to think of any reason for Urban’s seeking legal advice of such an order, before any investigation had begun, let alone charges brought.
“Do you know why?” he asked the desk sergeant, then immediately wished he had not.
The sergeant looked embarrassed.
“No sir. I ’eard tell as it were to do with perjury, and summink about someone in this station ’avin’ lied. I know Mr. Urban were very angry.”
Pitt turned towards the corridor that led to Urban’s office.
“You can’t go in there, sir!” the sergeant said hastily, moving from one foot to the other, not sure how he was going to stop Pitt, who was both senior to him and larger.
Pitt smiled sourly and sighed. “Let me know when Mr. Urban is free, will you? I need to see him, to do with an investigation.”
“Yessir.”
Pitt turned away and was about to leave, frustrated because he wanted to get the matter over with, when a slim dapper man in pin-striped trousers and a frock coat came out of the corridor. He nodded briefly to the desk sergeant, who leaped to attention, then with a flicker of irritation relaxed again. The man went out of the door into the street without looking behind him.
“You can go in and see Mr. Urban now, Mr. Pitt, sir,” the sergeant said quickly.
“Thank you,” Pitt acknowledged and moved smartly to Urban’s office door. He knocked and as soon as he heard the least sound inside, pushed it open and went in. The room was very like his own, similarly furnished but much tidier.
Urban was standing by his window with his back to the door, his hands in his pockets and his feet apart. He was a tall man, slender and fair haired and dressed in the police uniform of a senior inspector. He turned slowly as he heard the latch on the door.
“Hello, Pitt.” His voice was light and pleasing with a slight south country accent. “What are you doing here? Can we help with something?”
Pitt was surprised that Urban knew him so quickly. He would not have recognized Urban had he walked into Pitt’s office unannounced. He looked at Urban’s face for anxiety, even fear, and saw only a slowly clearing anger, now being overtaken by curiosity.
“No,” he said uncertainly. “I don’t think so.” Then realizing that that made no sense he hurried on. “Am I interrupting you?”
Urban laughed abruptly. “The solicitor? No. He’s gone. This is as good a time as any. What is it?”
There was no alternative but to go ahead with what he had planned to say before the desk sergeant had told him about the solicitor being there.
“Do you know William Weems, of Cyrus Street, Clerkenwell?”
“The usurer that was murdered?” Urban’s fair eyebrows rose. Obviously the question was one that he had not expected, but it seemed to cause him no alarm. “No. Know of him of course. Caused something of a stir, his death. Releases a lot of debts, it would seem. No heir so far. Why?”
Urban was not the sort of man upon whom to try trickery, and Pitt found himself oddly ashamed that he had thought of it.
“He had two lists of debtors,” he replied. “One the usual you would expect, ordinary people in financial difficulties. The second was very much smaller, only three names were indicated as still being in debt.” He watched Urban’s face and saw nothing in it but mild interest. There was no start of surprise, no anxiety, only the still-clinging remnants of anger.
“Oh? Someone I know, I presume, or you wouldn’t be here.”
Pitt bit his lip. “Yes—your own name is there.”
Urban was obviously astounded. He stared in complete disbelief. His wide blue eyes searched Pitt’s face as if he expected to find some horrid joke. Then gradually he grasped that Pitt was serious and the statement required a response.
“I don’t owe him any money,” he said slowly. “Or anyone else.” Then there was a flicker, a shadow in his clear