Bethlehem Road - Anne Perry [7]
These thoughts had already crossed Pitt’s mind, but he was surprised that Garnet Royce was aware of the unrest in the vast slums and docklands of the East End, and the whispers of riot and revolution over the last few months. He had thought Parliament largely blind to such things. Certainly reform was hard and slow, but perhaps that was not what was desired by the agitators Royce was referring to. There was no power to be gained from a satisfied people.
“Yes sir, I am aware of the possibilities,” he replied. “All our sources of information will be tried. Thank you for your help. Now I shall return to the police station and see if anything further has been learned, before I report the matter to Mr. Drummond.”
“Is that Micah Drummond?”
“Yes sir.”
Garnet nodded. “Good man. I’d be obliged if you would keep me informed, for Lady Hamilton’s sake as well as my own. It is a very dreadful business.”
“Yes sir. Please accept my condolences.”
“Civil of you. Huggins will show you to the door.”
It was dismissal, and there was no point in trying to pursue anything further here tonight. Barclay Hamilton, white-faced and drained of all vitality, sat on the couch as if drugged, and Jasper had come downstairs again and was in the hall waiting until he could decently leave. He could prescribe sleeping drafts, tisanes for the nerves, but he could not alleviate the grief or the inevitable pain that would come with the morning when the first numbness had worn off.
Pitt thanked them and walked out into the hall, where the butler, still with his jacket a trifle crooked and his nightshirt tucked into his trousers, gave a sigh of relief and let him out with barely a word.
There were no hansoms about at this hour, and Pitt walked briskly back, turning left down Stangate Road to Westminster Bridge Road, across the bridge itself and past the statue of Queen Boadicea, the huge tower of Big Ben to his left, and the gothic mass of the Houses of Parliament. On the Embankment he found a cab to take him to the Bow Street Police Station, just off the Strand. It was a little before three o’clock in the morning.
The duty constable looked up and his face took on an added gravity.
“Any reports?” Pitt asked.
“Yes sir, but nothin’ a lot o’ use so far. Can’t find no cabby, not yet. Street girls in’t sayin’ nothin’, ’cept ’Etty Milner, an’ she can’t ’zactly take it back now. Reckon as she would if she could. Got one gent as said ’e walked over the bridge abaht ten minutes afore ’Etty yelled, and there weren’t nobody ’angin’ on the lamppost then, as’ ’e remembers. But then o’ course ’e prob’ly weren’t lookin’. ’Nother gent abaht the same time said ’e saw a drunk, but took no notice. Don’t know if it were poor ’Amilton or not. An’ o’ course Fred sellin’ ’ot pies down by the steps to the river, but ’e ’adn’t seen no one, ’cause ’e’s the wrong end o’ the bridge.”
“Nothing else?”
“No sir. We’re still lookin’.”
“Then I’ll kip down in my office for a couple of hours,” Pitt replied wearily. There was no point in going home. “Then I’ll go and see Mr. Drummond.”
“Want a cup o’ tea, sir?”
“Yes, I’m perished.”
“Yes sir. It in’t goin’ ter get no better, sir.”
“No, I know that. Bring me the tea, will you.”
“Right you are, sir. Comin’ up!”
At half past six Pitt was in another cab, and by quarter to seven he stood in a quiet street in Knightsbridge, where the spring sun was clear and sharp on the paving stones and the only sounds were those of kitchen maids beginning their breakfast preparations and footmen collecting newspapers to be ironed and presented