Bethlehem Road - Anne Perry [8]
Pitt climbed the steps and knocked on the door. He was tired and cold and hungry, but this news could not wait.
A startled manservant opened the door and regarded Pitt’s lanky disheveled figure, clothes askew, knitted muffler wound twice round his neck, unruly hair too long and ill-acquainted with barbers’ skill. His boots were immaculate, soft leather, highly polished, a present from his sister-in-law, but his coat was dreadful, pockets stuffed with string, a pocketknife, five shillings and sixpence, and fifteen pieces of paper.
“Yes sir?” the man said dubiously.
“Inspector Pitt from Bow Street,” Pitt told him. “I must see Mr. Drummond as soon as possible. A member of Parliament has been murdered on Westminster Bridge.”
“Oh.” The man was startled but not incredulous. His master was a senior commander of police, and alarms and excursions were not uncommon. “Oh yes, sir. If you’ll come in I’ll tell Mr. Drummond you are here.”
Micah Drummond appeared ten minutes later, washed, shaved and dressed for breakfast, albeit somewhat hastily. He was a tall, very lean man with a cadaverous face distinguished by a handsome nose and a mouth that betrayed in its lines a quick and delicate sense of humor. He was perhaps forty-eight or forty-nine, and his hair was receding a trifle. He regarded Pitt with sympathy, ignoring his clothes and seeing only the weariness in his eyes.
“Join me for breakfast.” It was as much a command as an invitation. He led the way to a small hexagonal room with parquet flooring and a French window opening onto a garden where old roses climbed a brick wall. In the center of the room a table was set for one. Drummond swept some of the condiments aside and made room for another setting. He pointed to a chair and Pitt drew it up.
“Did Cobb have it right?” Drummond sat down and Pitt did also. “Some member of Parliament has been murdered on Westminster Bridge?”
“Yes sir. Rather macabre. Cut the poor man’s throat and then tied him up to the last lamppost on the south side.”
Drummond frowned. “What do you mean, tied him up?”
“By the neck, with an evening scarf.”
“How the devil can you tie somebody to a lamppost?”
“The ones on Westminster Bridge are trident-shaped,” Pitt replied. “They have ornamental prongs, a bit like the tynes of a garden fork, and they’re the right height from the ground to be level with the neck of a man of average build. It was probably fairly simple, for a person of good physical strength.”
“Not a woman, then?” Drummond concentrated on his inner vision, his face tense.
Cobb brought in a hot chafing dish of bacon, eggs, kidneys, and potatoes and set it down without speaking. He gave each man a clean plate and then left to fetch tea and toast. Drummond helped himself and offered the server to Pitt. The steam rose deliciously, savory, rich, and piping hot. Pitt took as much as he dared consistent with any kind of good manners and then replied before he began to eat.
“Not unless she was a big woman, and unusually powerful.”
“Who was he? Anyone in a sensitive position?”
“Sir Lockwood Hamilton, Parliamentary Private Secretary to the Home Secretary.”
Drummond let out his breath slowly. He ate a little more before speaking. “I’m sorry. He was a decent chap. I suppose we have no idea yet whether it was political or personal, or just a chance robbery gone wrong?”
Pitt finished his mouthful of kidney and bacon. “Not yet, but robbery seems unlikely,” he said. “Everything of value—watch and chain, keys, silk handkerchief, cuff links, some nice onyx shirt studs—was still on him, even the money in his pockets. If someone meant to rob him, why would they tie him up to a lamppost beforehand? And then leave before anyone even raised an alarm?”
“He wouldn’t,” Drummond agreed. “How was he killed?”
“Throat cut, very cleanly, so probably a razor, but we haven’t got the surgeon’s report yet.”
“How long had he been dead when he was found? Not long, I