Bethlehem Road - Anne Perry [83]
“You know a lot about him,” said Pitt, surprised. “I thought he was found only half an hour ago.”
“But it was one of his colleagues, following him to ask him to dine, who found him. So he knew him straightaway and told us. Poor fellow’s pretty cut up. A Wallace Loughley, over there sitting on the ground by the mortuary coach. Somebody gave him a tot of brandy, but it would be a charity to see him as soon as you can and let the poor beggar go home.”
“What did the surgeon say?”
“Same as the others; at least, it seems so at first glance. A single wound, almost certainly delivered from behind. Victim doesn’t seem to have suspected anyone or offered any resistance.”
“Odd.” Pitt tried to imagine it. “If he was walking across the bridge, going home after a late sitting, he would presumably be moving at quite a good pace. Someone must have been going very briskly to overtake him. Wouldn’t you think a man alone on the bridge, especially after two other murders, would at least turn round if he heard rapid footsteps approaching him from behind? I certainly would!”
“I would too,” Drummond agreed with a deepening frown. “And I’d shout and probably run. Unless of course it was someone coming towards him, from the south side. But in any case, I certainly wouldn’t stand still and wait for someone to come close enough to strike me from either direction.” He let his breath out shakily. The air was so silent they could hear the water swirling round the piers of the bridge, and far away along the Embankment the rattle of a hansom cab. “Unless, of course,” Drummond finished, “it was someone I knew, and trusted.” He bit his lip. “Certainly not some unknown madman.”
“What about Wallace Loughley?” Pitt raised his eyebrows. “What do we know about him?”
“Nothing yet. But it won’t be hard to find out. For a start I’d better see if he is who he says he is. I suppose it would be easy enough to claim. I certainly don’t know all six hundred seventy members of Parliament by sight! I’d better not let him go home until someone has identified him, poor devil.”
“I’ll see him.” Pitt pushed his hands hard down in his pockets. He left Drummond and walked over to the mortuary carriage and the group of half a dozen men gathered round it. One was obviously the driver; he still had half his attention on the horse, although the reins were hooked to the stay. A man in early middle age, haggard, hands shaking, hair streaked across his brow, was presumably Loughley. He had been sitting on the curbside, and he stood up as Pitt approached, waiting, but he did not speak. He was very clearly suffering from shock, but there was no hysteria in him, no arrogance, no panic that Pitt could see. If he had followed Sheridan and murdered him, he had a mastery of himself to the finest detail, a brain as cold as the water of the Thames beneath them.
“Good evening, Mr. Loughley,” Pitt said quietly. “What time did you last see Mr. Sheridan alive?”
Loughley swallowed, finding his voice with difficulty. “It must have been a little after half past ten, I think. I left the House at twenty minutes past, and spoke to one or two people. I—I’m not sure for how long, but I said only a few words to each of them. I saw Sheridan and said good night to him; then after he had gone Colonel Devon said something to me about business. Then I remembered I wanted to speak to Sheridan; he’d only been gone a few minutes, so I went after him, and—and you know what I found.”
“Is Colonel Devon a Member of Parliament?”
“Yes—dear God! You don’t think—! You can check with him. He’ll remember what was said; it was about tonight’s debate.”
“Did you see anyone else on the bridge, either ahead of you or behind, Mr. Loughley?”
“No. No I didn’t. That’s the extraordinary thing: I don’t remember seeing anyone else! And yet it must have been only—” He took a deep, shaky breath. “Only minutes after ...”
There was a slight commotion at the north end of the bridge, a loud cry from some of the people