Belgrave Square (2 page)

Pitt felt his first really sharp misgiving. Now he could no longer put off the questions.

“Who is Lord Sholto Byam, sir, apart from being one of your acquaintances?”

Drummond looked less uncomfortable. Now he was in the realm of ordinary fact.

“The Byams are a very distinguished family, generations of service to the Board of Trade and in the Foreign Office. Money, of course. The present Lord Byam is in the Treasury, especially concerned with foreign loans and trade alliances. A brilliant man.”

“How does he come to know a petty usurer in Clerkenwell?” Pitt asked with as much tact in his voice as he could manage. The question sounded ridiculous even so.

A bleak smile flickered across Drummond’s face and died again.

“I don’t know. That is what we are going to learn in Belgravia.”

Pitt remained silent for a few moments, his mind filled with questions and uncertainties. The cab was moving at a brisk trot, threading its way up Eccleston Street and across Eaton Square to where it changed into Belgrave Place, passing carriages with matched pairs and coats of arms on the doors. This was the beginning of the high season, and everyone who was anyone was out and about.

“Is it in the newspapers yet?” Pitt asked finally.

Drummond knew what he was reaching towards and smiled with self-mocking humor.

“I doubt it will be. What is one usurer more or less? It is not a spectacular murder, simply a shooting in a back office in Clerkenwell, by person or persons unknown.” He shifted his position a trifle. “I suppose the use of a gun is unusual. Few people have them. But nothing else is worthy of comment.”

“Then how does Lord Byam come to know of it so rapidly?” Pitt had to say it.

Again Drummond stared ahead of him.

“He has friends in the police—”

“I can imagine he might in Belgravia.” Pitt could not let it go so blindly. “But in Clerkenwell?”

“Apparently.”

“And why do they suppose that he should be interested in the murder of a usurer? Why this man?”

“I don’t know,” Drummond said unhappily. “I can only assume someone knew of Byam’s connection with the man, and chose to forewarn him.”

Pitt allowed the matter to drop for the time being, and rode the few moments more in silence until the cab stopped and they alighted in the bright leafy sunshine of Belgrave Square. The houses were huge, of pale stone, and classic Georgian in style, their front doors flanked by Doric pillars, areaways bounded by wrought-iron rails, the balconies bright with boxes of potted plants.

Drummond walked slowly up the steps of number 21, shoulders stiff, head high, back straight, and Pitt followed
him two paces behind, gangling, pockets full, tie a trifle too loose and hat on crooked. Only his boots, a gift from his sister-in-law, were immaculately polished and quite beautiful.

The door was opened by the usual supercilious kind of footman in such an area. He saw Drummond and made an instant judgment, as was part of his trade. Then he saw Pitt behind him and changed his mind. His deferential half bow vanished.

“Yes sir?” he inquired dubiously.

“Micah Drummond,” Drummond said with dignity. “Lord Byam is expecting me.”

“And the other … gentleman?” The footman barely raised his eyebrows but his expression was an exquisite mixture of pained civility and distaste.

“You have it precisely,” Drummond said with a chill. “He is a gentleman who is with me. That will satisfy Lord Byam, I assure you. Please inform him of our presence.”

The footman was put in his place. “Yes sir.” He retreated before further discomfort and invited them in. The entrance hall was large and surprisingly old-fashioned in its decoration, harking back to the simplicity of the late Georgian period, quite unlike the cluttered and rather ponderous fashion of the present time. The walls were dark but very simple and the woodwork was all white. The mahogany table was of Adam design, clean legged and finely polished, and a large bowl of summer roses shone with a blaze of color, reflected in the rich wood in reds and golds. Pitt’s opinion of Lord Byam rose immediately—or perhaps of Lady Byam?

They were shown into the morning room and left there while the footman informed his master of their arrival. He returned within moments to conduct them to the library, where Lord and Lady Byam were standing in the bright sun streaming through the window. He was in the center of the room; slender, a little more than average height, dark hair graying at the temples and a sensitive, almost dreaming face lit by the most magnificent dark eyes. Only on second glance did one see an underlying determination, a weight in the jaw and a thickening of the flesh. Now he was obviously troubled, his fine hands moved nervously and the muscles of his neck were tight.

Lady Byam, standing to his right, was equally dark, and almost as tall, but the balance of her features was entirely different, less mercurial, reflective; untried as to strength or passion, or perhaps merely concealed.

“Ah, Drummond!” Byam’s face relaxed and some of the tension slipped out of him as if the mere sight of Micah Drummond had brought him relief. Then his eyes moved to Pitt and the question was implicit.

“Good afternoon, my lord, Lady Byam.” Drummond insisted on the courtesies first. It was probably a habit so deeply ingrained he did it without thinking. “I have brought Inspector Pitt with me to save having to explain the situation twice, and it is better he should hear it from you, and ask what he needs, than have to do it indirectly later on. He is the best man I know for a delicate investigation.”

Byam regarded Pitt dubiously. Pitt looked back at him with interest. Perhaps the situation and Drummond’s nervousness inclined him to prejudice, but the man in front of him was not what he had expected. There was acute intelligence in his face, and imagination and subtlety, and he thought perhaps considerable capacity for humor.

And on the other hand, Drummond refused to explain Pitt, or recommend him further, as if he were a commodity he was selling. He had said enough, and Byam could accept him on that, or look elsewhere for help.

Byam appreciated it without further words. “Then I am obliged to you for coming.” He turned to Lady Byam. “Eleanor, my dear, there is no need for you to be harrowed by having to listen yet again. But I am sensible of your kindness in remaining with me until Drummond should arrive.”

Eleanor smiled graciously and accepted her dismissal. Perhaps indeed she had already heard the story and would find it distressing to hear it again.

Drummond bowed very slightly and she inclined her head in acknowledgment, then walked gracefully from the room, closing the door behind her.

Byam invited them to be seated, which out of politeness they both accepted, but he himself seemed unable to relax. He walked slowly back and forth across the cream-and-pink Chinese carpet and without waiting to be asked, began his explanation for having sent for them.

“I learned this morning from a friend in the Clerken-well police station …” He looked down at the floor, his expression hidden from them, his fingers locked behind his back. “A man for whom I had done some small service …” He turned and began back again, still not looking at them. “That the body of one William Weems had been found dead in his rooms in Cyrus Street. He was shot, I believe; at this point they have no idea with what manner of gun, except that it was at close quarters, and some type of large-barrelled weapon.” He breathed in and out. “A sporting gun seems possible.”

Drummond opened his mouth, perhaps to ask why anyone should suppose Byam to be interested in the death of Weems, or to suggest he leave the forensic facts, which would be better expounded in Clerkenwell, and continue with his own connection. In the event Byam was standing with his back half to them, staring at the sunlight on the spines of the leather-bound, gold-tooled books on the shelf, and Drummond said nothing.

“Normally it would be a sordid crime which would have no interest to me, except to deplore it,” Byam went on with obvious effort, turning again and beginning his way back to the far table. “But in this case I am acquainted with Weems in the most unpleasant circumstances. Through a servant, with whom he had some relationship—” he stopped and touched an ornament as if straightening it “—he learned of a tragedy in the past in which I played a regrettable part, and he was blackmailing me over it.” He stood rigid, his back to them, the light so bright it shone on his hair and picked out the fabric of his jacket, making it look faintly dusty in the brilliant room.

Drummond was obviously stunned. He sat motionless in the green leather sofa, his face stiff with amazement. Pitt guessed he had been expecting a quarrel, or at worst a debt, and this both startled and embarrassed him.

“For money?” he asked quietly.

“Of course,” Byam replied, then immediately seemed to recollect himself. “I’m sorry, yes indeed for money. Thank God he did not want favors of any other kind.” He hesitated, and neither Pitt nor Drummond interrupted the prickling silence. Byam kept his back to them.

“I presume you are going to ask me what the matter was for which I was willing to pay a man like Weems to keep his silence. You have a right to know, if you are to help me.” He took a deep breath; Pitt saw his slender shoulders rise and fall. “Twenty years ago, before I was married, I spent some time at the country home of Lord Frederick Anstiss, and his wife, Laura.” His beautiful, well-modulated voice was husky. “Anstiss and I were good friends, indeed I may say we still are.” He swallowed. “But at that time we were almost as close as brothers. We had many interests in common, both in pursuits of the mind and in such physical pleasures as shooting, riding to hounds, and the raising of good horses.”

No one in the room moved. The clock on the mantel chimed the quarter hour, its intrusion making Pitt start.

“Laura, Lady Anstiss, was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,” Byam went on. “She had skin as pale as a lily, indeed an artist painting her portrait entitled it
The Moonflower.
I’ve never seen a woman move with such grace as she had.” He hesitated again, obviously finding the words with which to tear open so old and private a wound difficult. “I was very foolish. Anstiss was my friend, and my host, and I betrayed him—only in word, you understand, never deed!” His voice was urgent, as though he cared intensely that they believe him, and there was a ring of candor in it that surpassed even his present anxiety and self-conscious discomfort.

Drummond murmured something inaudible.

“I suppose I paid court to her,” Byam continued, staring out of the window at the trees and the rhododendrons beyond. “I can hardly remember now, but I must have spent more time with her than was appropriate, and certainly I told her she was beautiful—she was, quite incredibly so.” He hesitated. “Only when it was too late did I realize she returned what she thought was my feeling for her, with a passion quite out of proportion to anything I had encouraged.”

He began to speak more rapidly, his voice a little breathless. “I had been foolish, extremely foolish, and far worse than that, I was betraying my friend and my host. I was horrified by what I had done, quite thoughtlessly. I had been flattered because she liked me, what young man would not
be? I had allowed her to think I meant far more by my attentions than a slight romance, a few rather silly dreams. She was in love, and expected something dramatic to come of it.” He still had his back to them. “I told her it was not only hopeless, but quite morally wrong. I imagined she had accepted it—I suppose because I knew it so surely myself.” He stopped again, and even in the motionless aspect of his body his distress in the subject was obvious.

Pitt and Drummond glanced at each other, but it would be pointless and intrusive to interrupt. To offer sympathy now would be to misunderstand.

“She couldn’t,” Byam went on, his voice dropped very low. “She had never been denied before. Every man for whom she had had any regard, and many for whom she had not, had been clay in her hands. To her it was the uttermost rejection. We can only guess at what was in her thoughts, but it seemed to have destroyed everything she believed of herself.” He hunched his shoulders a little higher, as if withdrawing into some warmer, safer place. “I cannot believe she loved me so much. I did nothing to invite it. It was foolish, a flirtation, no more than that. No grand declarations of love, no promises … only”—he sighed—“only a liking for her company, and an enchantment with her marvelous beauty—as any man might have felt.”

This time the silence stretched for so long they could hear the sounds of footsteps across the hall and a murmur of voices as the butler spoke to one of the maids. Finally Drummond broke it.

“What happened?”

“She threw herself off the parapet,” Byam replied so softly they both strained to hear him. “She died immediately.” He put his hands up to his face and stood with his head bent, his body rigid and unmoving, his features hidden not only from them, but from the light.

“I’m sorry,” Drummond said huskily. “Really very sorry.”

Slowly Byam raised his head, but still his face was invisible to them.

“Thank you.” His words caught in his throat. “It was appalling. I would have understood it if Anstiss had thrown me out and never forgiven me as long as he lived.” He pulled
himself straighter and reasserted his control. “I had betrayed him in the worst possible way,” he went on. “Albeit through blindness and stupidity rather than any intent, but Laura was dead, and no innocence or remorse of mine could heal that.” He took a deep breath and let it out with an inaudible sigh. He continued in a tone far less emotional, as if the feeling had drained out of him. “But he made the greatest effort a man can and he forgave me. He let his grief for her be sweet and untainted by rage or hatred. He chose to view it as an accident, a simple tragedy. He gave it out that she had gone onto the balcony of her room at night, and in the dark had slipped and fallen. No one questioned it, whatever they might have guessed. Laura Anstiss was deemed to have died by mischance. She was buried in the family crypt.”

“And William Weems?” Drummond asked. There was no way to be tactful.