Bethlehem Road - Anne Perry [84]
“Good evening, sir,” Pitt said clearly.
Royce came up to him, glanced at Loughley, and greeted him by name, then looked back at Pitt and at Drummond, who had rejoined him.
“This is getting very serious, man!” he said grimly. “Have you any idea how close people are to losing control? We seem to be on the very brink of anarchy. Perfectly sane and steady people are panicking, talking about conspiracies to overthrow the throne, uprisings of workers, strikes, even revolution! I know that’s absurd.” He shook his head very slightly, dismissing their hysteria rather than the ideas. “It is probably an isolated lunatic—but we’ve got to apprehend him! This must stop! For God’s sake, gentlemen, let us bend every resource we have and put an end to this horror! It is our responsibility. The weaker and less fortunate rely on us to defend them from the depredations of the lunatic underworld, and from political anarchists who would destroy the very fabric of the Empire. In God’s name, it is our duty!” He was deeply earnest; there was a fire of sincerity in his eyes neither Pitt nor Drummond could doubt. “If there is anything I can do, anything whatsoever, tell me! I have friends, colleagues, influence. What do you need?” He looked urgently from one to the other of them and back again. “Name it!”
“If I knew what would help, Sir Garnet, I would assuredly ask,” Drummond replied wearily. “But we have no idea of the motive.”
“Surely we cannot hope to understand the reasons of a madman?” Royce argued. “You’re not suggesting this is personal, are you? That there is some enemy common to all three men?” His face reflected his incredulity, and there was even a harsh gleam of humor in the brilliant eyes.
“Perhaps not common to all three,” Pitt said, watching the expression of surprise, then understanding and horror that crossed Royce’s features. “Perhaps the enemy only of one.”
“Then not a madman, but a fiend,” Royce said very quietly, his voice shaking. “How could anyone but a lunatic do such a thing to two strangers, in cold blood, to hide one intended death?”
“We don’t know,” Drummond replied quietly. “It is merely a possibility. But we are looking into every anarchist or revolutionary group we know of, and we do know of most of them. Every police informer we have has been asked.”
“A reward!” Royce said suddenly. “I am sure I could get together with other businessmen and raise a sufficient reward, so that it would be well worth the while of anyone who knew anything to come forward. I’ll do it tomorrow, as soon as this atrocity reaches the newspapers.” He pushed the heel of his hand over his brow, brushing back the sweep of hair. “I dread to think what the panic will be, and you cannot blame people. My poor sister feels bound by a sense of honor or duty to remain here until the matter is closed. I beg you, gentlemen, to do everything you can. I would take it as a favor if you would keep me informed, so that I may know if there is anything I can do. I once worked for the Home Office; I am aware of police procedures, of what you can do and what is impossible. Believe me, I have the greatest sympathy. I do not expect miracles of you.”
Drummond stared beyond him to the far end of the bridge, where a crowd was gathering, frightened, increasingly hostile, huddling together and staring at the little knot of police and the silent mortuary coach awaiting its terrible charge.
“Thank you, sir. Yes, a reward might help. Men have betrayed every cause they have known for money at one time or another, from Judas on down. I appreciate it.”
“It will be in your hands by tomorrow evening,” Royce promised. “Now I will leave you to your duty. Poor Sheridan, God help him! Oh”—he turned just as he was about to leave—“would you like me to inform his wife?”
Pitt would have liked it dearly, but it was his task, not Royce’s.
“Thank you,