Bethlehem Road - Anne Perry [85]
Royce nodded. “Understood.” He replaced his hat, and walked briskly to the south side of the bridge and up the hill on the east side of the street, towards Bethlehem Road.
Drummond stood silently for a moment or two, staring into the darkness where Royce had departed.
“He seems to have an exceptional grasp of the situation,” he said thoughtfully. “And to be deeply concerned... .” He left the sentence hanging in the air.
The same thread of an idea was stirring in Pitt’s mind, but it had no form, and he could find none for it.
“What do you know about him?” Drummond asked, facing Pitt again curiously.
“Member of Parliament for over twenty years,” Pitt answered, remembering everything he had heard, directly or indirectly. “Efficient, even gifted. As he said, he has held high office under the Home Secretary in the past. His reputation seems to be spotless, both personally and professionally. His wife died some time ago; he has remained a widower. He was Hamilton’s brother-in-law—but of course you know that.”
Drummond inclined his head. “I suppose you looked into their relationship?” he asked wryly.
Pitt smiled. “Yes. It was civil, but not close. And there was no financial involvement that we could find, except that he seems to be taking care of his sister’s affairs now she is widowed. But he is the elder brother, and that seems natural.”
“Professional rivalry with Hamilton?”
“No. They served in different areas. Allies, if anything.”
“Personal?” Drummond persisted.
“No. Nor political—not that you would cut a man’s throat because he espouses a different cause from your own. From everything I learned of Royce he is a strongly traditional family man with a deep conviction in the responsibility of the strong to care for the weak and the able to govern the masses—in their own interest.”
Drummond sighed. “Sounds like practically every other Member in the House—in fact, like most well-to-do middle-aged gentlemen in England!”
Pitt let out his breath in a little grunt, then took his leave, heading in the same direction Royce had gone, only at the end of the bridge he turned towards Baron’s Place and the home of the late Cuthbert Sheridan, M.P.
It was the same as before, standing on the steps in the dark, banging again and again to waken sleeping servants, and then the wait while they relit the gas and pulled jackets on hastily to find out who could be calling at such an hour.
There was the same look of horror, the halting request that he wait, the effort at composure, then the long silence while the awful news was broken, and once again Pitt found himself standing in a cold morning room in the gaslight facing a shocked and ashen woman who was trying hard not to weep or to faint.
Parthenope Sheridan was perhaps thirty-five or thirty-six, a small woman with a very straight back. Her face was a little too pointed to be pretty, but she had fine eyes and hair, and slightly crooked teeth which gave her an individuality which at another time might well have been charming. Now she stood hollow-eyed, staring at Pitt.
“Cuthbert?” she repeated the name as if she needed to say it again to grasp its meaning. “Cuthbert has been murdered—on Westminster Bridge? Like the others? But why? He has no connection with—with ... what? What is it about, Inspector Pitt? I don’t understand.” She reached for the chair behind her and sat down in it unsteadily, covering her face with her hands.
Pitt wished passionately that they were of the same social class, just for a few moments, so he could put his arms round her and let her weep on his shoulder, instead of sitting stiffly hunched up, unable to share her emotion, isolated because there was no one in the house but servants, children, and a policeman.
But there was nothing he could do. No pity in the world crossed the chasm between them. Familiarity would add to her burden, not decrease it. So instead he broke across the silence with formal words and the necessities of duty.
“Nor do we, ma’am, but we are working on every possibility.