Belgrave Square Page 10

  “Heat of the moment? Spring in the air?”

  “It’s summer,” Drummond said dryly.

  “Perhaps we’re lucky. He might have been worse in spring.”

  “Get out!”

  Urban grinned.

  Drummond put the pen down and stood up. “Keep an eye on it, Urban,” he said seriously. “I’ve got more to worry about with real cases. I’ve got a very ugly murder we’ve been called in to help with.”

  Urban looked puzzled. “Called in, sir?”

  “Not on our patch. I’m going now to see someone touched by it.” He crossed over to the stand by the door and took his hat and put it on. It was far too warm for a coat above his ordinary jacket, but he straightened his tie automatically and eased his shoulders and set his lapels a little more evenly.

  Urban did not appear to notice anything unusual. Gentlemen like Micah Drummond might be expected to dress immaculately wherever they were going, not in deference to whom they visited, but because it was in their own nature.

  Outside Drummond hailed a hansom and set out for Belgravia.

  He sat back in the smooth upright interior and thought about Lord Byam, and the obligation which had drawn him into this affair. For some ten years now he had been one of an exclusive group known as the Inner Circle, a brotherhood whose membership was unknown except to each other, and even then only to the closest few to each man, and it was sworn with profound oaths to remain so. In secret they did many good works, helped those in misfortune, fought to right certain injustices, and gave generously to many charities.

  They had also covenanted to assist each other, when called upon and identified with the signs of the Circle, and to do so without questioning the matter or counting the personal cost. Sholto Byam had appealed to him under such a covenant. As a fellow member Drummond had no option but to do all he could, and without telling Pitt anything of the brotherhood in any way, even by implication. He could explain nothing. It was a situation which embarrassed him unaccountably. London was full of societies of one sort or another, some of them charitable, many of them secret. He had thought little of it at the time he joined. It was something that many of his peers had done, and it seemed both a wise and an admirable step, for friendship and for his career. It had never caused him unease until now.

  It was not that he feared Byam was guilty, or that had he been he would do anything whatever to protect him from the consequences of his act. It was simply that he could not explain his behavior to Pitt, nor tell him why he was so easily able to have him put in charge of a case which rightly belonged in Clerkenwell. There were other members of the Inner Circle he could appeal to, men in positions to have a case investigated here, or there, by whomsoever they chose, and he had but to identify himself as a brother and it was done, without explanation asked or given.

  Now he would do all that was required by honor to help Byam, and do it with the necessary grace.

  He arrived at Belgrave Square, alighted, and paid the cabby. As the horse drew away, he straightened his tie one more time. He walked up the steps under the portico and reached out his hand to pull the bell. But the footman on duty was alert, and the door opened in front of him.

  “Good morning, Mr. Drummond,” the footman said courteously, remembering his master’s eagerness to see this gentleman on his previous call. “I regret to say, sir, that Lord Byam is away from home at the moment, but if you care to see Lady Byam, I shall inform her you are here.”

  Drummond felt dismay, and a stirring of confusion half mixed with pleasure. His immediate thought was that Lady Byam might be able to give him some insight into her husband’s personality, his habits and perhaps some fact he had overlooked or forgotten which might point towards his innocence. His memory brought back the grace with which she had moved, the gentleness of her smile when he had come that first night he had been sent for.

  “Thank you,” he accepted. “That would be excellent.”

  “If you will wait in the morning room, sir.” The footman led the way and opened the door for Drummond, showing him into a room furnished in cool greens and filled with sunlight. There was a large fireplace of polished marble; Drummond guessed it to be an Adam design from the previous century, simple and unadulterated of line. The pictures on the walls to either side were seascapes, and when he turned around, behind him were Dutch pastoral scenes with cows. He had never realized before how pleasing to the mind were the awkward, gentle angles of a cow’s body. It was uniquely restful.

  The long green velvet curtains were splayed out on the floor and s wagged with braided sashes, the only thing in the room which jarred on him. He had no idea why, but he disliked the display of overlength curtains, even though he knew it was customary in houses of wealth. It was a conventional sign of plenty, that one had enough velvet to waste.

  There was a large cut-glass bowl of roses on the low mahogany table between the chairs.

  He walked over to the window and stood in the sun waiting for the footman to return.

  However when the door opened it was Lady Byam herself who came in, closing it behind her, making it apparent she intended to speak with him in this room rather than conducting him elsewhere. She was taller than he had remembered, and in this sharp, hard light he could see she was also older, perhaps within a few years of his own age. Her skin was pale and clear and there was light color in her cheeks, and he could see a few very fine lines about her eyes. It made her seem more approachable, more vulnerable, and more capable of laughter.

  “Good morning, Mr. Drummond,” she said with a faint smile. “I am afraid Lord Byam is out at the minute, but I expect he will return soon. May I offer you some refreshment until then?”

  He had no need of either food or drink, but he heard himself accepting without hesitation.

  She reached for the bell cord and pulled it. The footman appeared almost immediately and she sent him for tea and savories.

  “Forgive me, Mr. Drummond,” she said as soon as the footman was gone. “But I cannot help but ask you if you have any information regarding the death of Mr. Weems?”

  He noticed that in spite of the blackness of her hair, her eyes were not brown but dark gray.

  “Very little, ma’am,” he answered apologetically. “But I thought Lord Byam would wish to hear how we have progressed, regardless that it is so slightly, and all of it merely a matter of elimination.”

  “Elimination?” Her cool, level voice lifted with a moment of hope. “You mean reason why it was not my husband?”

  He wished he could have told her it was. “No, I am afraid not. I mean people whom we had reason to suspect, people who had borrowed money from Weems, but whom we find can account for their whereabouts at the time of his death.”

  “Is that how you do it?” Her brow was furrowed; there was anxiety in her eyes and something he thought was disappointment.

  “No,” he said quickly. “No—it is merely a way of ruling out certain possibilities so we do not waste time pursuing them. When someone like Weems is killed it is difficult to know where to begin, he had so many potential enemies. Anyone who owed him money is at least a possibility.” He found himself talking too quickly, saying too much. He was aware of doing it and yet his tongue went on. “We have to establish who had a reason for wishing him dead and then who had an opportunity to commit the crime, and would have the means at their disposal. There will not be many who had all three. When we have thus narrowed it down we will try to establish from the evidence which of those people, assuming there are more than one, actually is guilty.” He looked at her to see if she understood not only his bare words, but all the meaning behind them; if it was of any reassurance to her that they knew their profession.

  He was rewarded to see her doubt lessen, and her shoulders relax a trifle under the soft fabric of her gown, which was dark green like the room, reminding him of deep shade under trees in summer. But the anxiety was still there.

  “It sounds extremely difficult, Mr. Drummond. Surely people must
lie to you? Not only whoever is guilty, but other people as well?” Her brows furrowed. “Even if we have no part in it, and no knowledge of the murder, most of us have things we would rather were not known, albeit petty sins and uglinesses by comparison. How do you know what to believe?”

  Before he could answer, the footman returned with tea and the requested small savories. Eleanor thanked him absently and he withdrew. She invited Drummond to partake of the food, and poured tea for him and herself.

  The savories were delicious, tiny delicate pastries, merely a mouthful, and small crisp fingers of toast spread with pâté or cheeses. The tea was hot and clean in the mouth. He sat opposite her, trying to balance himself and eat at the same time, feeling clumsy compared with her grace.

  “It is difficult,” he said, taking up the conversation as if there had been no interruption. “And of course from time to time we make mistakes, and have to begin again. But Inspector Pitt is an excellent man and not easily confused.”

  She smiled fully for the first time. “Such a curious man,” she said, looking down at the roses in their exquisite bowl. “At first I wondered who in heaven’s name you had brought.” She smiled apologetically. “His pockets must have been stuffed with papers, his jacket hung at such an odd angle, and I cannot believe he has seen a good barber in months. Then I looked at his face more closely. He has the clearest eyes I have ever seen. Have you noticed?”

  Drummond was taken aback, unsure how to answer.

  She smiled at herself.

  “No, of course you haven’t,” she answered her own question. “It is not a thing a man would remark. I should feel ashamed if your Mr. Pitt caught me in an untruth. And I don’t find it hard to believe he would know. I hope he has a similar effect on other people he questions—” She stopped as she saw the doubt in his face. “You think I am fanciful? Perhaps. Or maybe I hope too much—”

  “Oh no!” he said quickly, leaning forward without realizing it until he found he had nowhere to place the cup still in his hand. He put it down on the table self-consciously. “Pitt is extremely good at his job, I assure you. I would not have assigned him to this case did I not have fall confidence in him. He has solved some remarkably difficult murders in the past. And he is a man of both compassion and discretion. He will not seek his own fame, or to cause hurt by scandal.”

  “He sounds a paragon,” she said quietly, looking not at Drummond but at her plate.

  He was aware of having overpainted it.

  “Not at all. He is perfectly human,” he said rather too quickly. “Frequently insubordinate, he detests being patronized and is the scruffiest man I know. But he is a man of both integrity and imagination, and he will find out who murdered Weems if anyone can.”

  For the first time she looked directly at him with a candid smile full of warmth. “You like him, don’t you?”

  “Yes I do,” he confessed. And it was a confession. A woman of Lady Byam’s social position would not expect a gentleman like Drummond to have personal feelings for a subordinate such as Pitt.

  She said nothing in reply to that, but he had a sharp awareness that she was pleased, although he was uncertain as to why: whether it was simply that if Pitt was liked it made the whole unpleasantness a little more bearable, and she might also trust him not to be clumsy; or whether it had anything to do with her approval of him.

  That was a rather ridiculous thought, and he dismissed it hastily. He drew in his breath to speak, but at the same moment she pushed the serving plate a fraction forward.

  “Please take another savory, Mr. Drummond?” she offered. She seemed to search for something to say, and found it in a triviality, her voice losing the low-pitched melody it had had before. “I was at a ball the evening before last, given by Mr. and Mrs. Radley. She used to be Lady Ashworth, and has recently remarried. Her husband wishes to stand for Parliament and this was in the nature of introducing his campaign. But Mrs. Radley herself was unwell, and her sister, a Mrs. Pitt, was standing in her place for the evening. You know for a moment I could not think where I had heard the name recently.” Her voice was growing higher as if it were tight in her throat. “I wonder what those people would have thought had they known that today I should be sitting in my own home discussing a police investigation and hoping to clear my husband of suspicion of the murder of a usurer. I wonder how many of them would have spoken to me so civilly and been happy to court my company.”

  A multitude of answers rose to his lips, the instinct to tell her who Charlotte was, which he dismissed reluctantly. It would be unfair to Charlotte, and possibly close an avenue of acquiring knowledge. Charlotte had certainly been acute enough in her judgment in the past. He wanted to assure Eleanor Byam that any friend who abandoned her because of such a thing was not worthy of her association, let alone her affection. Then he realized that she knew it as well as he, but she still needed the comfort of being accepted. She was afraid of scandal, of the unpleasantness of being cut, of the cruel whispers, the speculations, the unjust thoughts. Courage did not prevent the hurt, only helped one to endure it with dignity. Even the knowledge that those one had thought friends were shallow and cruel was no balm for the disillusion. She would prefer they were not put to the test. She did not want to see their faults.

  “Pitt is discreet,” he said seriously. “He is pursuing the notion that many people borrowed money from Weems, and it is probably a debtor grown desperate who killed him.”

  Her face was instantly touched with pity, and self-mockery.

  “I wish it were not necessary to learn who is guilty in order to prove that it was not Sholto,” she said earnestly. “I expect it is inexcusable of me, but I cannot entirely blame someone in desperate financial straits, if Weems threatened to foreclose, and they had nowhere else to turn.” She bit her lip. “I know murder is no answer to anything, but I cannot help imagining the poor creature’s feelings.”

  “So will Pitt,” Drummond said before he thought, and because he felt somewhat the same himself. If ever a victim was unmissed it was William Weems.

  She looked up at him again and saw his own reaction mirrored in his eyes.

  He found himself blushing.

  She looked away. “Sholto is taking it very well,” she said, forcing a lightness into her voice. “If he is afraid, he masks it with a confidence that in time you will be able to learn who is responsible. The whole tragedy of Lady Anstiss’s death was so long ago, it is ridiculous it should shadow our lives today. What a grubby thing it is to be so greedy!”

  He pulled a wry face at such an understatement.

  “Did you know her?”

  “No, not at all. It was some years before Sholto and I met.” She looked across at the window and the leaves moving in the wind and the sun. “I believe she was very beautiful, not just the usual regularity of feature and clarity of complexion which one sees very often, but a vulnerable, passionate and haunting beauty that one could not forget. I have seen a painting of her in Lord Anstiss’s home, and I admit I could not put it from my mind myself.” She turned to him with puzzlement in her gray eyes. “Not because of her tragic death, simply because her face was so individual, so full of intensity, so very unlike the traditional English lady I had expected.” She blinked. “When we speak of vulnerability I had thought to see a fragile face with fair hair, very young, very soft. She was not like that at all. She was dark, with a proud nose, high cheekbones and such a marvelous mouth. I admit, I find it dreadful to think someone who looked so alive should have taken her own life. But I had no difficulty believing she would have loved fiercely enough to die for it.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said awkwardly, acutely aware it was Eleanor’s husband for whom Laura Anstiss had felt such a passion. He admired her deeply that she could speak of it with gentleness, and without a shadow of resentment. She must be very sure that Sholto Byam now loved her, whatever his foolishness, his error of judgment or his embarrassment in the past.

  She looked down at the carpet and the pattern
s of sunlight creeping slowly across the floor.

  “I have always admired Lord Anstiss for holding no grudge against Sholto.” Her voice was very quiet and low. “It would have been so easy to descend into bitterness and blame, and no one could have held him unjust for it or failed to understand. And yet after the first shock and bewilderment, it seems he never did. He allowed his grief to be untainted by hatred. I suppose he knew how dreadfully Sholto felt, and that he would have gone to any lengths to have undone his thoughtlessness.” She sighed. “But of course it was too late when he realized how violently she felt.” She bit her lip and looked up at him. “It seems Laura had never been refused anything before. No man had failed to fall under her spell, and it seemed to her as if all her power was stripped from her. She was confused and terribly hurt. Suddenly she doubted everything.”

  She stopped for a moment, but he said nothing.

  “It must be strange to be so lovely no one can help gazing at you,” she went on, as much to herself as to him. “I had never thought before what a doubtful blessing it is. Perhaps everyone is so spellbound by your face they fail to see the person behind it, and realize you have dreams and fears just like everyone, and that you can be every bit as lonely, as unsure of yourself, of your worth or of anyone else’s love for you.” Her voice sank even lower. “Poor Laura.”

  “And poor Lord Anstiss.” Drummond meant it profoundly. “He must be a man of very great spirit to have overcome anger and bitterness and kept his friendship for Lord Byam intact. It is a quality I admire above almost any other, such a generosity of spirit, and an ability to forgive.”

  “I too,” she agreed quickly, lifting her eyes again and staring at him with intense emotion. “It is beauty far greater than that of face or form, don’t you think? It is one of the qualities that brings a sweetness to everything it touches, in men or women. As long as there are such people, we can bear the men like Weems, and whichever poor soul was driven to shoot him.”

  He was about to answer when he heard the sound of footsteps in the hall and low voices, then the door opened and Byam came in. At first he looked vigorous and in good heart, but when he crossed the bar of sunlight from the window Drummond could see the faint lines of tiredness around his eyes, and there was a tension in him, almost disguised but not quite. He showed no surprise at seeing Drummond; obviously the footman had forewarned him in the hallway.