Bethlehem Road (2 page)

Pitt went over to the other people and spoke to them, but none had seen anything, having come only when they heard Hetty’s screams. There was nothing more he could do there, and he signaled to the mortuary carriage waiting at the far end of the bridge that it could come and remove the body. He had looked carefully at the scarf: the knot was such as anyone would tie without thinking, one end over the other, and then again. The man’s weight had pulled it so tight it could not be undone. He watched them cut it with a knife and lower the corpse, then put it gently in the carriage, which drove away, a black shadow against the lights, clattering across the bridge and turning under the great statue of Boadicea in her chariot with the magnificent horses, and right along the Embankment till it disappeared. Pitt went back to the constable and the second uniformed man who had arrived.

Now came the duty that Pitt hated more than almost any other, except perhaps the final unwinding of the solution, the understanding of the passions and the pain that produced tragedy. He must go and inform the family, watch their shock and their grief and try to disentangle from their words, their gestures, the fleeting emotions on their faces any thread that might tell him something. So often it was some other pain or darkness, some other secret that had nothing to do with the crime, some ugly act or weakness that they would lie to protect.

It was not difficult to discover that Sir Lockwood Hamilton had lived at number seventeen Royal Street, about half a mile away, overlooking the garden of Lambeth Palace, the official London residence of the Archbishop of Canterbury.

It was hardly worth seeking a cab; it would be a short walk, and on a clear night very pleasant—no doubt that was what Lockwood Hamilton himself had thought when he left the House. And it would give Pitt time to think.

Ten minutes later he was standing on the step rapping with the brass knob on the fine mahogany door. He waited several moments, then rapped again. Somewhere in the attics a light came on, then one on the second floor, and finally one in the hallway. The door opened, and a sleepy butler in hastily donned jacket blinked at him, realized he was a stranger, and drew breath to be indignant.

“Inspector Thomas Pitt, of the Bow Street Station,” Pitt said quickly. “May I come in?”

The butler sensed a certain gravity, perhaps a shadow of pity either in Pitt’s face or voice, and his irritation dissolved.

“Is something wrong? Has there been an accident?”

“I’m sorry—it is more distressing than that,” Pitt replied, following him in. “Sir Lockwood Hamilton is dead. I would omit the circumstances if I could, but it will be in the morning newspapers, and it would be better if Lady Hamilton were prepared for it, and any other members of the family.”

“Oh—” The butler gulped, took a moment to gain his composure while all sorts of horrors raced through his mind, scandals and disgrace. Then he straightened himself and faced Pitt. “What happened?” he said levelly, his voice very nearly normal.

“I am afraid he was murdered. On Westminster Bridge.”

“You mean ... pushed over?” The man’s face registered disbelief, as though the idea were too ludicrous to credit.

“No.” Pitt drew a breath. “He was attacked with a razor, or a knife. I’m sorry. It will have been very quick, all over in a moment, and he will have felt very little. I think you had better have her maid call Lady Hamilton, and prepare some restorative; a tisane, or whatever you think best.”

“Yes—yes sir, of course.” The butler showed Pitt into the withdrawing room, where the embers of the fire were still glowing, and left him to turn up the gas lamps and find a seat for himself while he set about his unhappy task.

Pitt looked round the room; it would tell him something of the people who lived here and made it their home while Parliament was sitting. It was spacious, far less cluttered with furniture than was the fashion. There was less fringing on couches and chairs, fewer hanging crystals on the light fixtures, no antimacassars or samplers, no family portraits or photographs, except one rather severe sepia tint of an elderly woman in a widow’s white cap, framed in silver. It was at odds with the rest of the room, a relic of another age. If this was Lady Hamilton’s choice of decor, then the woman might be Sir Lockwood’s relative, perhaps his mother.

The pictures on the walls were cool, romantic, after the style of the Pre-Raphaelites; women with enigmatic faces and lovely hair, knights in armor, and twined flowers. On the decorative tables by the wall there were pewter ornaments of considerable age.

It was ten minutes before the door opened and Lady Hamilton came in. She was of above average height, with interesting, intelligent features which in her youth had probably had a certain loveliness. Now she was in her middle forties, and time had taken the first bloom from her skin and replaced it with marks of character which to Pitt were far more appealing. Her dark hair was coiled in the hastiest of knots at the nape of her neck, and she wore a dressing robe of royal blue.

She made an immense effort to remain dignified. “I understand you have come to tell me that my husband has been killed,” she said quietly.

“Yes, Lady Hamilton,” Pitt answered. “I am extremely sorry. I apologize for distressing you with the details, but I believe you would prefer to hear them from me, rather than from the newspapers or from other people.”

She paled so markedly he was afraid for a moment she might collapse, but she drew in her breath and let it out very slowly, managing to retain her composure.

“Perhaps you should sit down?” he suggested. He held out his hand, but she ignored it and made her way to the couch, indicating that he be seated as well. Her fists were clenched and shaking where she held them in her lap, to hide them from him, and perhaps from herself.

“Pray proceed,” she instructed him.

He felt her pain and was powerless to do anything but add to it.

“It appears that Sir Lockwood was walking home after a late sitting of the House of Commons,” he continued. “When he reached the south end of Westminster Bridge he was attacked by someone with either a knife or a razor. He sustained only one injury, in the neck, but it was fatal. If it can be of any comfort to you, he will have felt only the briefest instant’s pain. It was extremely rapid.”

“He was robbed?” She spoke only to maintain the show of composure she was fighting so hard to keep.

“No, it would appear not—unless he carried something we don’t know of. He still had his money, watch and chain, and cuff links. Of course, the thief may have been interrupted before he could take anything. But that does not seem likely.”

“Why—” Her voice broke; she swallowed. “Why not?”

Pitt hesitated.

“Why not?” she repeated.

She would have to know; if he did not tell her, someone else would, even if she refused to read the newspapers. By tomorrow it would be all over London. He did not know whether to look at her or away, but to avoid her eyes seemed cowardly.

“He was propped up against a lamppost and tied to it by his neck scarf. No one who was interrupted would have had time to do such a thing.”

She stared at him speechlessly.

He pressed on because he had no choice. “I must ask you, ma’am, if Sir Lockwood had received any threats that you were aware of. Had he any rivals in office, or business that might have wished him harm? This may have been done by a lunatic, but it’s possible that it was someone who knew him.”

“No!” The denial was instinctive, and Pitt had expected it. No one wished to think such an atrocity could be anything but random fate, an accident of mischance in time and place.

“Did he often walk home after a late sitting?”

She collected herself with difficulty. He could see from her eyes that her inner vision was on the bridge in the darkness, imagining the horrific act. “Yes—yes, if the weather was pleasant. It takes only a few minutes. It is well lit—and—”

“Yes, I know, I walked it myself. So many people might well have expected that sooner or later he would do so.”

“I suppose they might, but only a madman would ...”

“Jealousy,” Pitt said, “fear, greed can strip away the normal restraints and leave naked something that is not unlike a kind of madness.”

She made no reply.

“Is there anyone you would like me to inform?” he asked gently. “Any other relatives? If we could save you distress ...”

“No—no thank you. I have already had Huggins call my brothers.” Her face tightened, a strange, bleak, wounded look. “And Mr. Barclay Hamilton—my husband’s son by his first marriage.”

“Call ... ?”

She blinked, then realized the meaning of his question. “Yes, we have one of those telephones. I don’t care for it much myself. I think it is a little uncivil to be speaking to people when you cannot see their faces. I prefer to write if a visit is not possible. But Sir Lockwood finds—found it convenient,” she corrected herself.

“Did he keep any business papers here in the house?”

“Yes, in the library. I cannot see that they would be of any use to you. There is nothing of a confidential nature. He did not bring those home.”

“Are you certain?”

“Quite certain. He told me so on several occasions. He was Parliamentary Private Secretary to the Home Secretary, you know. He knew how to be discreet.”

At that moment there was a noise in the hallway. The front door opened and closed, and two men’s voices were plainly audible above the butler’s murmured protestations. Then the withdrawing room door swung wide and one of the men stood in the entrance, his silver hair gleaming in the lamplight, his handsome face with its powerful nose and sweeping brow now strained and bleak with shock.

“Amethyst, my dear.” He came in, ignoring Pitt, and placed his arm round his sister. “This is appalling! I cannot tell you how I grieve for you. We shall do everything we can to protect you, of course. We must avoid a lot of stupid speculations. It might be less disagreeable for you if you were to leave London for a little while. You are welcome to stay at my home in Aldeburgh if you wish. You will have privacy there. A change, a little sea air.” He swung round. “Jasper, for heaven’s sake, don’t stand there! Come in. You’ve brought your bag with you; haven’t you anything to help?”

“I don’t want anything, thank you,” Lady Hamilton replied, hunching her shoulders a little and turning away from him. “Lockwood is dead—nothing any of us do will alter that. And thank you, Garnet, but I won’t go away yet. Later perhaps.”

Garnet Royce turned finally to Pitt.

“I assume you are from the police? I am Sir Garnet Royce, Lady Hamilton’s brother. Do you require her to remain in London?”

“No sir,” Pitt said levelly. “But I imagine Lady Hamilton is anxious to assist us as much as possible in catching whoever is responsible for this tragedy.”

Garnet regarded him with cold, clear eyes. “I cannot imagine how. She is hardly likely to know anything about whatever lunatic did this. If I can persuade her to leave London, can I assume you will not make yourself objectionable?” There was a plain warning in his voice, the voice of a man used to having not only his orders but his wishes obeyed.

Pitt met his gaze without a flicker. “It is a murder inquiry, Sir Garnet. So far I have no idea at all who is responsible, or what motive there can have been. But as Sir Lockwood was a public figure of some note, it is possible someone bore him an enmity for whatever reason, real or imagined. It would be irresponsible to come to any conclusions so soon.”

Jasper came forward, a younger, less forceful version of his brother, with darker eyes and hair and with none of the magnetism. “He’s quite right, Garnet.” He put his hand on his sister’s arm. “You’d best go back to bed, my dear. Have your maid make a tisane of this.” He proffered a small packet of dried herbs. “I’ll come by again in the morning.”

She took the packet. “Thank you, but you need not neglect your usual patients. I shall be quite well. There will be much to do here: arrangements to make, people to inform, letters and other business to see to. I have no intention of leaving town now. I suppose later—afterwards—I may be glad to go to Aldeburgh. It is considerate of you, Garnet, but now, if there is nothing more ... ?” She looked questioningly at Pitt.

“Inspector Pitt, ma’am.”

“Inspector Pitt, if you would excuse me, I would prefer to retire.”

“Of course. Will you permit me to speak again to your butler tomorrow?”

“Naturally, if you feel it necessary.” She turned and was on her way out when there was another sound in the hall and another man appeared in the doorway, slender and dark, very tall, perhaps ten years younger than she. His face was pinched with shock and his eyes had the wide, white-rimmed staring look of someone under a great strain.

Amethyst Hamilton froze, swaying a little, and every vestige of color left her skin. Garnet, a step behind her, put out his arms, and she made an ineffectual brushing movement to get rid of him, but her strength failed.

The young man also stood rigid, struggling to control some deep emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. There was pain in the set of his mouth; his face had a numb, almost broken look. He tried to form some sentence appropriate to the situation and could not.

It was she who commanded herself first.

“Good evening, Barclay,” she said with a supreme effort. “No doubt Huggins has told you about your father’s death. It was considerate of you to come, especially at this hour. I am afraid there is nothing to be done tonight, but I thank you for your presence.”

“Accept my condolences,” he said stiffly. “If there is any assistance I can give, please allow me. People to inform, business affairs—”

“I shall make all the arrangements,” Garnet put in. Either he was unaware of the young man’s emotion, or he wished to ignore it. “Thank you. Naturally I shall keep you informed.”

For a long moment no one moved or spoke. Jasper looked helpless, Garnet perplexed and impatient, Amethyst close to collapse, and Barclay Hamilton so tortured by anguish that he had no idea what to say or do.

Then at last Amethyst inclined her head with a courtesy so chill, in other circumstances it would have been blatantly rude.