Long Spoon Lane - Anne Perry [5]
Pitt went over to him and knelt down. He was dead. There was even more blood on the floor. A single shot had killed him. It had gone in the back of his skull and emerged at the front, destroying the left side of his face. The right side suggested he had been handsome in life. There was no expression left but the remnants of surprise.
Pitt had investigated many murders—it was his profession—but few were as bloody as this. The only decent thing about this death was that it must have been instant. Still, he felt his stomach tighten and he swallowed to keep his gorge from rising. Please God it was not one of his bullets that had done this.
Narraway spoke softly from just behind him. Pitt had not heard his footsteps. “Try his pockets,” he said. “Something might tell us who he is.”
Pitt moved the man’s hand, which was in the way. It was slender and well-shaped, with a signet ring on the third finger, expensive, well-crafted, and almost certainly gold.
Pitt turned the ring experimentally. It came off with only a little effort. He looked at it more closely. It was hallmarked on the inside, and there was a family crest on it.
Narraway held out his hand, palm up. Pitt gave it to him, then bent to the body again and started to look through the pockets of the jacket. He found a handkerchief, a few coins, and a note addressed Dear Magnus. Most of the rest of the paper was missing, as if it had been used for a further message.
“Dear Magnus,” Pitt said aloud.
Narraway was looking at the ring, his lips pursed. In the hard morning light his face was troubled and weary. “Landsborough,” he said as if in answer.
Pitt was startled. “Do you know him?”
Narraway did not meet his eyes. “Seen him a couple of times. He was Lord Landsborough’s son—only son.” His expression was unreadable. Pitt did not know whether the heaviness in it was sorrow, anxiety for trouble to come, or simply distaste for having to break such news to the family.
“Could he have been a hostage?” Pitt asked.
“Possibly,” Narraway conceded. “One thing for certain, I don’t know how he could have been shot through the window, in the back of his head, and fallen like that.”
“He wasn’t moved,” Pitt said with certainty. “If he had been, there’d be blood all over the place. A wound like…”
“I can see that for myself!” Narraway’s voice was suddenly thick, emotion crowding through it. It could have been pity, or even sheer physical revulsion. “Of course he wasn’t moved. Why the hell would they move him? He was shot from inside the room, that’s obvious. The question is why, and by whom? Maybe you’re right, and he was a hostage.
“God Almighty, what a mess! Well, get up off the floor, man! The surgeon will come and get him, and we’ll see if he can tell us anything. We must question these two before the police muddy everything up. I hate using them but I have no choice. That’s the law!” He swung around and strode to the door. “Well, come on! Let’s see what they have at the back!”
Downstairs the sergeant on duty was defiant, as if Narraway accused him of having let the murderer past.
“We didn’t see ’im, sir. Your man came down the stairs, yellin’ after ’im, but ’e din’t go past us! You must ’ave still got ’im somewhere.”
“Which man of mine?” Narraway demanded.
“ ’Ow could we know, sir?” the sergeant asked. “ ’E just came runnin’ down the stairs shoutin’ at us ter stop ’im, but there weren’t no one ter stop!”
“We found two anarchists alive and one dead,” Narraway said grimly. “There were four men in that room, maybe five. That means at least one got away.”
The sergeant’s face set hard, his blue eyes like stone.
“If you say so, sir. But ’e din’t come past us. Maybe ’e doubled back on the ground