Callander Square - Anne Perry [113]
Therefore it was with a feeling almost of excitement that he ran down the steps and hailed a cab to take him, post haste, back to Callander Square.
Sitting, jolting over the rough paving, he gave his mind to going over, yet again, all that he knew.
He had no doubt in his own mind that Freddie Bolsover had been killed because of his blackmailing; whether or not he had ever actually used the information that had brought about his death, the mere knowledge of it had been fatal to him, the danger of his using it too great for someone to permit. It had been a daring and urgent murder. The murderer had considered his position in imminent peril. What could Freddie have known? Some affair, some illegitimate child? Hardly. With all the other scandals in Callander Square that barely seemed a matter over which to risk murder. Had he known who was the mother, or more likely the father, of the babies buried in the gardens? Certainly not from the beginning, or he would either have used the information sooner, or been killed sooner—
Unless of course he had only just discovered it!
Or there was another possibility—that the murderer had only just discovered that Freddie knew: Freddie had either never intended to use the information, knowing it was too dangerous, or else not understood its meaning. Yes, that made sense. The murderer had killed him so precipitately before he could learn the value of what he knew!
He had arrived at Callander Square and was standing huddled in his coat, collar up, watching the cab clop away into the mist before he realized the last possibility—that it was the knowledge that Freddie had blackmailed Reggie Southeron that had woken the murderer to his own danger! That was the most promising, it gave a precise point at which he could start.
He crossed the square over the muddy gardens, past where the babies had been found, and where Freddie Bolsover had lain; his feet rang hollowly on the road again, the pavement, and up the steps to Reggie Southeron’s house.
Since it was a cold and thoroughly unpleasant day Reggie had not troubled to go to the bank, however he sent a message that he would not see the police any further, nor permit the rest of his household to do so.
Pitt replied to the footman that he had authorization from the Home Office, and if Mr. Southeron made it necessary for him to return with a warrant, then he would do so, but in view of the fact that nobody else in the square had yet behaved in such a way—true so far as it went, he had called on no one else—it might prove more embarrassing for Mr. Southeron than for him!
Ten minutes later Reggie appeared, red-faced and extremely angry.
“Who in hell do you think you are, quoting the Home Secretary at me?” he demanded, slamming the door behind him.
“Good morning, sir,” Pitt answered courteously. “There is only one thing I would appreciate knowing, and that is, who else did you confide in about Dr. Bolsover’s attempts to blackmail you?”
“No one. Hardly the sort of thing you go telling your friends!” Reggie said sharply. “Idiotic question!”
“That’s odd, Mr. Campbell told me you mentioned it to him, and asked his advice.” Pitt raised his eyebrows.
“Damned fool!” Reggie swore. “Well, daresay I did. Must have, if he says so.”
“Who else? It is rather important, sir.”
“Why? Why in hell should it matter now?”
“You seem to have forgotten, Mr. Southeron, that there is a murderer still in Callander Square. He has killed once, maybe