Belgrave Square Page 4

  “I hope not. It’s going to be very embarrassing if it is,” Pitt said with sudden vehemence. “But it’s certainly not impossible.”

  “An’ I suppose you can’t say as who it is?”

  “Not unless I have to.”

  “Thought so.” Innes was quite resigned and there was no resentment in him. He knew he had been explained to as far as Pitt was permitted, perhaps further, and he appreciated that. “Either way, some things come ter mind,” he said thoughtfully. “It were someone as ’E weren’t frit of as was ’ere, an’ ’E should ’a bin frit out of ’is skin of someone important ’E ’ad the black on.”

  Pitt grinned. “Whoever it was, he should have been frit to death!” he said wryly.

  Innes flashed him a look of bright candor. “ ’Alf o’ me ’opes we don’t catch the poor beggar. I ’ate blackmailers even more than I ’ate moneylenders. Vermin all o’ them.”

  Pitt agreed tacitly. “Where was he?”

  “In the chair be’ind the desk, like ’E were talking ter someone, or takin’ money. ’E weren’t expectin’ it, that’s fer sure. Nothin’ upset, chair weren’t knocked over—”

  Pitt stared at the scene for several moments, trying to visualize the large, complacent Weems sitting back in his chair staring at whoever it was standing roughly where Pitt was now. He had almost certainly come prepared to kill. Hardly anyone possessed a gun, let alone carried one about with them. Perhaps the meeting had been civil to begin with, then suddenly it had changed, either a quarrel, or else simply the visitor had reached the point where he no longer needed to pretend, and he had taken the gun from its concealment and fired it. Except what could conceal a gun large enough to fire that spray of shot?

  He looked around. All the drawers were closed, nothing was out of order, nothing crooked, nothing broken.

  As if reading his thoughts Innes shook his head.

  “If they searched they did it very careful,” he observed.

  “Have you looked yet?” Pitt asked.

  “Not yet. We went fer witnesses first. ’Oped someone might ’ave seen someone comin’ or goin’, but if they did they in’t sayin’.”

  “What about this errand runner—Miller?”

  “Nothin’ so far, but I’ll try again.”

  “Better keep at it, might turn up something. Meantime we’ll look. Weems’s papers might be interesting, not only for what they say, but for what they don’t.”

  “Reckon the murderer took ’is own records?” Innes said hopefully.

  “Seems a likely thing to do,” Pitt assented, opening the first drawer in the desk.

  Innes began on the cabinet nearest him and they worked systematically for over an hour. Innes found the general accounts full of names and addresses of local people, together with neatly written records of money borrowed and repayments made, with exorbitant interest, down to the last farthing, with dates and amounts all scrupulously noted, plus balance outstanding and the date on which it was due, and the ever increasing usury.

  There were also the ordinary accounts of his daily household expenses, purchases and investments, which were considerable.

  It was Pitt who found the other list of names and far larger sums written beside them, this time without dates. But there were addresses and they were not in Clerkenwell or any area like it, but Mayfair, Belgravia and Hyde Park. His eye skipped over them again for the name of Sholto Byam, but he did not see it. It was a short list, too short to make such an error.

  “Got something?” Innes was looking at him with interest.

  “Another list,” Pitt replied. “It seems our Mr. Weems had a second and quite different clientele.”

  “Nobs?” Innes said quickly.

  “Looks like it,” Pitt agreed. “I’ve heard some of these names, and the addresses are certainly nobs. Not likely their servants—wouldn’t get the chance to spend this kind of money, for a start, and no usurer in his right mind would lend more than a few shillings to a servant.”

  “Interesting.” Innes stopped what he was doing.

  “Very.” Pitt looked at the list again. “Most of the amounts had already been repaid in full. There are only three outstanding: Addison Carswell of Curzon Street, Mayfair; Samuel Urban of Whitfield Street, Bloomsbury; and Clarence Latimer of Beaufort Gardens, Knightsbridge.” He stopped with a sick jolt. The name Samuel Urban was familiar. Surely it was a coincidence? The Urban he knew was an inspector of police in his own station of Bow Street! He could not possibly be in debt to a usurer like Weems. Not for the figure here, which was in excess of two years’ salary.

  “What is it?” Innes’s face was totally innocent. Obviously the names meant nothing to him.

  “One of these people is a colleague,” Pitt said slowly. “In my own station.”

  Innes looked stricken, his sharp features touched with both confusion and pity.

  “You mean one of us? Is it for much?”

  “It would take me two years to earn it,” Pitt replied unhappily. “And he’s the same rank as I am—in uniform.”

  “Oh my Gawd!” Innes was obviously shaken. “What about the other two? D’yer know them?”

  “No—but we’ll have to look into them.”

  “Maybe that’s why you were put in,” Innes said, pulling a face. “Maybe it in’t only ter protect the nobs, mebbe we got some tidying up of our own to do.”

  “Maybe.” Pitt folded the list and put it in his pocket. “But that isn’t all.”

  “D’yer find anything about the nob on ’ose account yer came?”

  “Not yet,” Pitt said, beginning to go through the drawer below the one he had just finished. “Let me know if you find any more names on lists other than routine household accounts.”

  “Right.” And Innes also resumed his task.

  But three hours later when every piece of paper on the premises had been examined, and the office and the bedroom, the kitchen and the bathroom facilities had been searched, even the mattress turned and the carpet lifted, they had found nothing more of interest. They finished in the kitchen, staring despondently into the dead fireplace.

  “Easy to see ’ow Mrs. Cairns just made ’is breakfast in ’ere an’ seein’ the light through there”—Innes gestured towards the office—“took it as ’E was up, called out it was ready, and then left ’im to it. I gather she weren’t overfond of ’im neither. She lives local, so I suppose she knew ’is reputation.”

  Pitt debated whether to see the woman himself, but decided Innes was efficient and he would not slight him by redoing his job.

  “Yes,” he agreed absently, staring at the wooden dresser with its racks of blue-and-white plates.

  “I can’t see anything but keeping our noses to the ground, and following up these lists,” Innes went on, his eyes on Pitt’s face.

  “Nor can I, for the moment.” Pitt made as if to look through the kitchen drawers one at a time, then abandoned it. He had already done it twice.

  “Find any traces o’ your nob?” Innes asked anxiously.

  “No …” Pitt replied slowly. “No I didn’t—and that is very strange, because he was sure I would: that is why I was sent for. Weems actually told him he had records of their dealings, for his own protection.” He did not mention the letter.

  “Then whoever killed Weems took them,” Innes said, pushing his lips together grimly. “Looks bad for your nob, sir—I’m afraid.”

  “But if he took them, why did he call us?” Pitt reasoned. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Mebbe ’E wasn’t sure ’E ’ad ’em all,” Innes suggested.

  “So he called us and confessed the connection anyway?” Pitt shook his head. “He’s not a fool. He’d have ridden it out and called us only if something did come up. No, he expected us to find his name here.”

  “Mebbe he tried ter find it an’ couldn’t.” Innes was playing devil’s advocate.

  “Does the place look to you as if it has been searched?” Pitt asked.

  “No,” In
nes conceded. “Or, if anyone took anything, they knew where ter find it. It was all as neat as yer like.”

  “So either there was nothing here, or the murderer knew where it was, and took it with him.”

  “Can’t think of anything else.” Innes frowned. “But it’s curious, I’ll give yer that—very curious.”

  “We’ve a long way to go yet.” Pitt straightened up and looked towards the door. “We’d better get on with finding some of Weems’s customers.”

  “Yes sir,” Innes agreed obediently. “Poor devils.”

  2

  CHARLOTTE PITT was frantically busy. Her sister Emily, remarried less than a year after her widowhood, was now expecting a child, which was a source of great happiness both to her and to her husband, Jack. But since Jack had very recently committed himself to seeking nomination as a candidate for Parliament, her rather erratic health was something of an embarrassment. Her first pregnancy with Edward several years before had been relatively easy, but this time she was suffering moments of dizziness and nausea, and found herself unable to stand for the long hours necessary for greeting and receiving at all the sorts of functions it was required both to attend and to host, if Jack were to succeed.

  Therefore Charlotte had accepted Emily’s offer of a little financial assistance to go toward employing extra domestic help in her own home, several quite marvelous new gowns, and the loan of three or four pieces of Emily’s jewelry, her first husband having been both titled and extremely wealthy. All of which was held by Emily to be a fair exchange for Charlotte’s time, thought and endeavor to act as hostess for her, or with her, when the occasion required.

  Tonight was just such an occasion. Emily was lying in her room, feeling distinctly poorly, and this was the night of the ball she had arranged in order to meet several of the most important people in Jack’s campaign for selection. The seat for which he was hoping was a safe Liberal stronghold, and if he could obtain a nomination for the candidacy, when election time came he was sure to win, so the competition was strong. The Conservatives had not held that seat in decades.

  This function was of great importance, therefore Emily had dispatched a footman with a letter only this afternoon, and now Charlotte was pacing the floor in the hall, her heart in her mouth with nervousness, going over arrangements for the umpteenth time. She looked yet again at the banks of flowers at the top of the stairway, in the reception rooms, in the withdrawing room and on the dining room table. The table had been a source of immense anxiety, even though it was Emily’s plan and the cook’s and the kitchen staff’s execution, yet Charlotte still felt it was her final responsibility.

  All manner of fruit was arranged in with the mound of flowers so that the center of the table was covered from end to end with its gorgeous display. Around the rest of the surface were piled all the requisite delicacies: crackers, cakes and bonbons; fruit-flavored soufflés, dazzling creams, bright jellies and foaming trifles in glass dishes; oyster patties, lobster salads, veal cakes; cold salmon, game pie, and fowls of several sorts, both boiled and roasted. These last had been carefully carved before having been brought to the table, and then tied together with white satin ribbon so they needed merely a touch of the hand to enable guests to help themselves to meat. Soup was the only dish that would be hot, and that would be served in cups for ease.

  Also, naturally, there would be sherry, claret, light and sparkling wines, punch, fruit cups and gallons of champagne.

  The Hungarian band was already present, partaking of a little refreshment in the servants’ hall before tuning up ready for the evening. The footmen were in their livery, hair powdered immaculately, the pink-and-silver lights were on at the front of the house, and Chinese lanterns in gay colors were lit in the garden for those who wished to take a little air.

  She could think of nothing more to be done, and yet she could not sit down or relax in the slightest. It was a little before ten o’clock, and she could not expect even the earliest guests, those who quite pointedly felt they had somewhere better to finish the evening, to arrive for another hour.

  Jack was in his evening clothes ready to receive his guests, and had gone into his study to ponder over the information he had been given on various people’s political interests, relationships and spheres of influence. There was plenty of time for Charlotte to go upstairs again and see Emily, and assure her one more time that everyone would understand her absence, and the whole evening would be an excellent success because her foresight and planning had been so thorough.

  She went slowly up the great winding staircase, lifting her skirts so as not to trip on them, and along the balcony above, which was now decked with flowers. In another hour she would be standing there welcoming the guests and explaining herself, and Emily’s absence. Please heaven she would remember what the footman at the door had said were their names, or they would have the tact to introduce themselves again!

  Up the next flight she turned left along the landing to Emily’s room. She knocked briefly and went in. Emily was lying on top of the bed in a loose, pale-blue-and-green peignoir, her fair hair over her shoulders. Her face was unusually pale and a trifle pinched around the nose and mouth. She smiled rather wanly as Charlotte came in and sat down on the bed beside her.

  “Ah, my dear,” Charlotte said gently. “You do look wretched. I’m so sorry.”

  “It’ll pass,” Emily said with more hope than conviction. “It wasn’t nearly so bad with Edward. I felt a trifle squeamish some mornings, but it was gone by ten or eleven o’clock at the very worst. Did you feel like this with Jemima or Daniel? If you did you were very stoic. I never knew it.”

  “No I didn’t,” Charlotte admitted. “In fact for the first two or three months I felt better than ever. But you are very early yet. This might not last more than a few weeks.”

  “Weeks.” Emily’s blue eyes were full of disgust. “But I’ve so much to do! This is the beginning of the season and I must give balls, receptions, and attend the races at Ascot, the Henley Regatta, the Eton and Harrow cricket match, and endless luncheons, dinners and teas.” She slid down in the bed a little, hunching herself. “Jack won’t get the candidacy if they think his wife’s an invalid. The competition is terribly hot. Fitz Fitzherbert is highly suitable, and under all that devastating charm I think he might be quite clever.”

  “Don’t meet disaster halfway,” Charlotte said, trying to comfort her. “No doubt Mr. Fitzherbert will have his problems as well, it is simply that we do not know of them. But then it is our business to see that he does not know of ours. Let us just get this evening over successfully, and by next week you may feel much better. Everything is in good order, the table looks like a Dutch still life—it seems a shame to touch it.”

  “What about the band?” Emily said anxiously. “Are they here? Are they properly dressed, and sober?”

  “Of course they are,” Charlotte assured her. “They are immaculate, all in black with lovely blue sashes. And yes, they are perfectly sober—I think. Maybe one of the fiddlers was a touch more cheerful than is warranted so far, but quite well behaved. You have no cause for concern, I promise you.”

  “I’m very grateful. But Charlotte, please, do be sweet to everyone.” She reached out her hand and took Charlotte’s. “However fatuous they are, or condescending, or whatever objectionable opinions they express? We cannot afford to offend them if Jack is to succeed. He is so new in the political arena. And some of the oddest people are highly influential.”

  Charlotte put her hand on her heart. “I promise I will be the essence of tact and will neither express an undignified or unasked-for opinion about anything, nor laugh at anything at all except what was unquestionably meant as a joke.” She watched the tension ease out of Emily and the uncertainty change to laughter.

  “I will not mention that my husband is a policeman,” she went on. “I know that is quite socially disastrous, unless of course he is of such senior rank, and a gentleman born, like Micah Drummond. And since Thomas is neithe
r of these things, and both would be necessary, I shall lie like a horse trader.” Pitt’s father had been a gamekeeper on a country estate. Pitt came by his beautiful diction by having been educated with the only son of the big house, to keep the boy company. He was not a gentleman by birth, sympathy or inclination.

  Charlotte, who had been born to an aspiring middle-class family, considerably above those who labored for a living and yet not quite into the aristocracy, had had to learn how to cope with only one resident serving girl, and a woman who came in twice a week to do the heavy scrubbing. She had learned how to cook and how to mend clothes, to shop economically, and to manage her household with efficiency, and even some enjoyment.

  Emily, on the other hand, had learned how to oversee the workings of an enormous mansion in fashionable London, and on weekends from time to time, and longer spells out of season, of Ashworth Hall in the home counties. She had always been socially ambitious and quick to learn, enjoying the color and the subtleties, the challenge of wits and the exercise of charm. By now she had built herself a considerable reputation, which had even survived her early remarriage, and she was determined to use it to help Jack attain his newly set goal, affirmed so intensely after the revelations made during the murders at Highgate Rise.

  “I shall be the soul of tact to absolutely everyone,” Charlotte finished triumphantly. “Even if I burst my stays with the effort.”

  Emily giggled. “Be especially nice to Lord Anstiss, please? He will probably be the most important man here.” Suddenly the lightness vanished and she was utterly serious. “If anyone drives you frantic, stop before you say anything and think of that poor little woman in her wretched rooms Stephen Shaw took you to, and tens of thousands like her, sick and hungry and cold because their landlords won’t mend the roofs or the drains, and they cannot afford to leave because there’s nowhere else to go. Then you’ll be civil to the Devil himself if it will help.”