Bethlehem Road - Anne Perry [88]
“Political conspiracy?”
“Perhaps.” But Pitt doubted it; it would have to be a monstrous one, touched with madness.
Drummond stood up and went to the fire, rubbing his hands as if he were cold, although the room was comfortable.
“We’ve got to solve it, Pitt,” he said without condescension, turning to face him; for a moment the difference in office between them ceased to exist. “I have all the men I can spare raking through the files of every political malcontent we’ve ever heard of, every neorevolutionary, every radical socialist or activist for Irish Home Rule, or Welsh Home Rule, or any other reform that has ever had passionate supporters. You concentrate on the personal motives: greed, hatred, revenge, lust, blackmail; anything you can think of that makes one man kill another—or one woman, if you think that possible. There are enough women in the case with the money to employ someone to do what they could not or dared not do themselves.”
“I’ll have a closer look at James Carfax,” Pitt said slowly. “And I’d better look in more detail at Etheridge’s personal life. Although an outraged husband or lover doesn’t seem likely—not for all three!”
“Frankly nothing seems likely, except a remarkably cunning lunatic with a hatred of M.P.s who live on the south side of the river,” Drummond said with a twisted smile. “And we’ve doubled the police patrol of the area. All M.P.s know enough to guard themselves—I’d be very surprised if any of them choose to walk home across the bridge now.” He adjusted his necktie a little and pulled his jacket straighter on his shoulders, and his face lost even the shred of bleak humor it had shown. “I’d better go and see the Home Secretary.” He went to the door, then turned. “When we’ve dealt with this case, Pitt, you’re overdue for promotion. I’ll see that you get it; you have my word. I’d do it now, but I need you on the street until this is finished. You more than deserve it, and it will mean a considerable raise in salary.” And with that he went out of the door and closed it, leaving Pitt standing by the fire, surprised and confused.
Drummond was right, promotion was long overdue; he had forfeited it previously by his attitude towards his superiors, by insubordination not by his acts but by his manner. It would be good to have his skills recognized, to have more command, more authority. And more money would mean so much to Charlotte, less scrimping on clothes, a few luxuries for the table, a trip to the country or the sea, maybe in time even a holiday abroad. One day she might even see Paris.
But of course it would mean working behind a desk instead of on the street. He would detail other men to go out and question people, weigh the value of answers, watch faces; someone else would have the dreadful task of telling the bereaved, of examining the dead, of making the arrests. He would merely direct, make decisions, give advice, direct the investigations.
He would not like it—at times he would hate it, hate being removed from the reality of the passion and the horror and the pity of street work. His men would hear the facts and return to him; he would no longer be aware of the flesh and the spirit, the people.
But then he thought of Charlotte with Emily’s unopened letter in her pinafore pocket, waiting until he had gone because she did not want him to see her face when she read about Venice and Rome, about the glamor and romance of wherever Emily was now.
He would accept the promotion—of course he would. He must.
But first they must catch the Westminster Cutthroat, as the newspapers were calling him.
Could it possibly be James Carfax? Pitt could not see in that handsome, charming, rather shallow face the